Crafter’s Fate 1

A LitRPG Adventure

DB King

Copyright © 2022 by DB King

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

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Contents

Series by DB King

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

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

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

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 1

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 2

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 3

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Support DB King on Patreon!

Free progression Fantasy Novel!

About the Author

Series by DB King

Apocalypse Knights

Crafter’s Fate

Dragon Magus

Dungeon of Evolution

Elemental Mastery

Kensei

The Last Magus

Mage’s Path

Shinobi Rising

The Last Magus

War Wizard

Chapter 1

Blood and dust fell from the sky.

The village of Larisa shuddered. Panicked and pained screams echoed left and right.

Alastair’s vision dimmed and hazed as he fell on his back. His heart hammered in his chest, like drums in the deep; it echoed and blasted in his ears, drowning out all other sounds, save for the faint screams and the ghastly roars that rang in the air. The ground shook, and the sky trembled. And his mind dimmed and raced with fear. The smell of blood, gore, and filth permeated the wind.

An entire street exploded into pieces. Shattered bits of wood careened into the air, alongside bloody rivulets of flesh and bone and brain matter.

People died all around him—faces, bloodied, frozen, and dead, hung by the air.

It was hell.

And he stood there, watching—paralyzed.

Run!

His hands froze, and his legs refused to budge.

Run!

He wanted to stand, to flee, to get as far away from that thing as possible, but his body refused to listen.

His body would not listen.

Titanic booms shook the ground beneath him. Several buildings—workshops, and stores that had belonged to his neighbors—were trampled and ruined, cracked and shattered in an instant, years of hard work and memories ground to dust within moments.

And then it came, the monster whose footsteps brought the very earth to a blood-curdling quake.

It came smashing out of the ruins of the alderman’s manor, a mountain of muscle and fur.

Run!

Alastair’s mouth hung open as a hairy, towering, albino behemoth strode out of the cloud of dust and debris. Gore and guts lined its bloodstained maw. Entrails and bits of bone and flesh jutted from between its crooked teeth, a ringed finger stuck between its two front incisors. Its vaguely humanoid face seemed only to accent its malice. The creature was distinctly primate in appearance, like a monstrous offshoot of a silverback ape.

Run!

It stared him down for a moment, a lumbering giant of muscle, whose white bulk was marred with blood.

The monster’s bloodshot yellow eyes stared at Alastair as though he was nothing more than dessert.

Alastair gulped. The beast took a single, lumbering step toward him, its massive forearms carving furrows on the ground. Its mouth slowly opened as it snarled, greenish fumes gassing out its nostrils.

Alastair held back a scream as the remains of his neighbor, madam Lucenia, who sold apples and berries and all sorts of fresh produce in the morning market, hung out the monster’s maw, half-eaten and mostly crushed, but he recognized what remained of her face, regardless.

She was a kind woman, who often bade him a good morning whenever he passed by her store. All his neighbors were good and honest people who simply went about their simple lives, happy and content with their lot.

And now Alastair wasn’t even sure just how many of them were left alive. There were few children. Most folk were old or middle-aged, alongside a few youths—him and Damon, included. Everyone knew each other.

They couldn’t fight back.

They had nothing to fight back with.

Against a creature of such magnitude, it was futile.

Hopeless.

Oh, how he hated that word.

This town was founded by Hunters, my boy. His father’s voice echoed in his head—a moment in the past, filled with stories and wonder. Once, long ago, his father would take him to the center of their village, where a statue of the first Fated Hunter stood over the skeletal remains of what was once a mighty dragon. Our ancestors hunted these wild beasts and carved out their horns, their scales, their teeth, their claws, their bones, and their cores. Gwyn, the first of the Hunters, was said to have built a settlement right here—the place that would become our village.

Do you understand, Alastair? The power to hunt these monsters—these creatures—sleeps within our blood. We are fated to kill them.

Somehow, Alastair found himself on his feet, a single pebble clutched in his right hand. He wasn’t sure how or when he stood up, or why, but that hardly mattered as he stared down the white-haired, gigantic monster before him. His father’s stories resonated in his mind, telling him to fight back against this creature, to defend his home and his neighbors. His forefathers hunted down these beasts. It’d be shameful for him to run and hide when he could stand and fight.

Then again, my boy, his father’s voice spoke in his mind, our ancestors culled every single monster that dwelled in this region to ensure the safety of their children. My grandfather hunted down the last of the Primal Goliaths in a cave not far from here.

Alastair let out a roar of his own. The rampaging monster halted.

The creature tilted its head as though Alastair’s actions had amused it. Puffs of warm, putrid air steamed from its flat, humanoid nostrils. A malicious glint shimmered on the surface of the monster’s yellow eyes.

Alastair’s fists tightened.

His next course of action would either be incredibly awesome or incredibly stupid—both of which might still lead to his death, but that was neither here nor there. If he was going to die right here and now, then he might as well make this foul creature pay for it, even if only a little bit.

Just as the monster seemed to lurch forward, Alastair hurled the pebble right into the creature’s bloodshot eye. The massive beast screamed and stopped and tumbled to the side. A loud crack echoed as the monster fell over a building, toppling the structure, before flattening it nearly instantly. It thrashed, roaring as it flailed its arms to the side in anger.

Alastair eyed the monster.

It was struggling to get back on its feet, kicking and screaming like an angry infant that had lost its favorite toy. Spittle, blood, and gore flew out of its mouth as it raged on, shaking the earth around it.

Alastair stumbled, but kept himself upright as he took several steps back. I can’t believe I just did that.

Breathing in, he turned and sprinted away—far away from the raging monster.

Alastair didn’t bother looking back to see if it was chasing him or not. The roars and the shaking of the ground at his feet were incentive enough not to stop running, lest he join his neighbors as bits of flesh and bone in the monster’s mouth and gullet.

Beside him, several other villagers ran frantically—a few of the not-so-bright ones decided to hide in their hovels. Alastair grimaced.

Did they not see how easily that creature brought down the buildings around it? Were they trying to die?

Breathing in, Alastair halted, before turning to one of the houses, where a mother and her child hid behind a stack of wooden boxes. This was Liv’s smokehouse, he realized, owned by the widow, Liv, who was popular among young men. Damon spoke of his exploits with her many times.

Alastair sighed.

Heroes were stupid people who risked their own lives to save others.

Then again, he wasn’t exactly the smartest person around. Well, I hope this doesn’t bite me in the ass.

The smell of smoked meats filled his nostrils as he entered. The child—pale and shivering—met his eyes for a moment before ducking back down. Alastair gritted his teeth. The roars and the gigantic thuds were getting closer with each passing moment. Why were these idiots still here?

“Hey!” he called out. “The monster’s gonna bring this whole place down!”

No response.

“You have to get out of your house before that thing gets here!” he screamed, the ground shaking underneath him.

It was getting closer with every passing moment.

The mother and her child did not budge. Instead, they retreated further into the many boxes and furniture. The child seemed to protest for a moment, before she was silenced by her mother. They were scared—terrified, even. Everyone was. But this… this was just stupid.

Fine.

“I’m wasting my time here,” Alastair growled before turning and running out of their house. If they wanted to die in there, it wasn’t his problem.

Alastair stopped right by the emptied bakery and looked over his shoulder.

It wasn’t his problem.

Right?

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Heroes were stupid.

“Drag them out of the house if you have to,” Damon’s voice broke through the chaos.

Alastair turned and saw his best friend suddenly arriving from… somewhere. Damon was ragged and tired. His clothes were torn, and a layer of dust settled over his skin and his short, curly black hair. He was panting, too, his olive-hued skin drenched in sweat, no doubt after running around playing the hero without thinking about it first. Not many things could’ve tired him out, otherwise. Damon was taller and stronger than just about everyone in Larisa, towering a whole foot over Alastair.

For all the strength of his muscles, Damon’s emerald eyes were exhausted.

“I’ve dragged as many people out of their homes as I can, but there’s still a few left,” he said. “I’ll distract that hairy piece of crap—you save Liv and her daughter.”

“What?” Alastair protested. “That’s stupid! We should get the hell out of this place, now!”

Damon smirked. “Yeah, is that why you stopped running? Come on, Alastair, we both know you want to save them. We’re the same, after all.” He looked over his shoulder as the thunderous thuds loomed ever closer. “We should try to save as many people as we can, while we still can.”

Just as Damon finished speaking, the gigantic ape-like monster burst through the bakery’s front wall, snarling, roaring, and gnashing its massive yellow teeth, debris exploding all around it. Its breath was foul—like the garbled fluids of a thousand vomits and the festering manure of a thousand bowels rolled into one awful odor.

The monster rushed toward them, its forearms raised to crush both under its great bulk.

“Hells!”

Alastair and Damon both leapt to the sides, just as the monster smashed the ground, sending chunks of earth and stone flying everywhere and causing the earth to shake and rumble. The foul creature roared in clear frustration as the debris blew upward and into its face, obscuring its vision.

Alastair landed on his face. A sharp pang of pain on his forehead, followed by a slight dizziness. Gritting his teeth, he crawled forward, hoping the smelly, giant ape hadn’t noticed him yet.

Was this thing seriously still chasing after him over one stupid pebble?

Probably.

Alastair forced himself up and wobbled, shaking his head. The monster roared behind him, smashing the ground in its rage. The fact that Alastair was still alive meant it somehow missed him. He turned over his shoulder, just in time to see Damon hurling a rock right into the giant ape’s right eye, causing the creature to roar in pain and annoyance. Alastair’s blood ran cold when it turned and focused on his best friend.

“Hey, come after me you big stupid monkey!” Damon yelled, before throwing another rock at the giant monster’s face and bolting away to the village outskirts.

The gigantic beast roared and followed after him, smashing apart hovels and stores that stood in its path. Alastair looked on as his best friend somehow evaded the monster’s rampage, leaping over fallen stalls and boxes, and keeping out of the beast’s reach each time the lumbering monster attempted to grab him. Damon reached the very edge of the village and leapt over the low palisade, before jeering again and running off.

No!

Alastair’s eyes widened as his best friend disappeared into the woods, the monster trailing closely after him in blind rage, leaving a trail of broken and shattered trees. A final roar echoed from the trees, before it trailed off into a ghastly silence.

“Damon!” Alastair absently ran forward.

He followed the trail of ruins and destruction, his eyes briefly hovering over the mangled corpses on the ground and the pools and blotches of blood that marred the soil.

Just how many people died today?

He shook his head and continued running forward.

“Someone help me!” a voice cried.

Alastair stopped. His eyes widened. “Damn it!”

A part of him wanted to chase after Damon and bring the idiot back to safety. Another part of him wished for him to stay and help as many people as he possibly could. There were many folk in need of help, and it seemed everyone who could help had already fled, every man for himself.

They were all neighbors, were they not?

Alastair’s hand shook as he closed his eyes and breathed in.

There really wasn’t much of a choice for him, was there?

He turned away from the trail of destruction and rushed toward the source of the voice.

There!

The voice came from underneath the rubble of a ruined house—one of the few stone-built houses in their village, likely belonging to Vardas, the merchant, and his household. Alastair never really liked the man. He was rich and pompous and arrogant, and so was everyone else in his damn family.

He sighed. But… that doesn’t mean they deserve to die.

He just hoped Damon knew what he was doing. That idiot almost never thought things through, unless it was to get in bed with a woman and, even then, his plans almost always went awry, unless Alastair helped him. Still, his best friend had good instincts. Maybe, just maybe, those instincts would be enough to see him through.

Alastair winced at the thought. What the hell was he doing, putting these people before his best friend? Damon was in danger! Why was he still here?

He turned again, but froze as the voice cried out once more. This time, however, it was a child’s voice. “Please! Somebody help us!”

Alastair grimaced as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, hands curling into fists.

There really wasn’t much of a choice for him, was there?

Heroes really were stupid.

“‘Damn it,” he muttered before yelling, “Hold on, I’m here!”

* * *

Alastair sighed for what was perhaps the hundredth time as he read his great-great-grandfather’s journal.

He sat on the floor of his ruined home. The monster had torn off its roof and a few walls in its rampage. Fortunately, most of it remained intact. Alastair considered himself lucky in that regard. The fortune he’d been saving up to move out to the city had somehow survived, unscathed, alongside his many possessions—even the hand drawn portrait of himself and his parents still stood unblemished save for the few bits of dust that marred its surface.

His couch was still there, dusty and dirty as it was. His kitchen was undisturbed, alongside his pantry, and the bags of grain and lumps of air-dried meat. Food remained aplenty.

Unlike most of his neighbors who lost their homes and their loved ones and just about everything else they owned, the only thing clearly missing from his life was—quite literally—the roof of his house and nothing more.

Alastair frowned at his great-great-grandfather’s notes.

The creature that attacked the village, earlier, seemed to fit the description of a Primal Goliath.

His great-great-grandfather had gone on to describe, in detail, each and every monster and magical beast he’d ever hunted in the course of his very long career as a Hunter. From reading through the notes, Alastair was reasonably certain that the white-haired, gigantic ape was a Primal Goliath. No other creature fit its description, save for a few other monsters that only barely and vaguely resembled a primate.

No, it had to be a Primal Goliath.

Except that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be true.

Those creatures were supposed to be extinct in this part of the Middle Kingdom. The last one was killed a hundred years ago by his great-great-grandfather.

Evidently, his great-great-grandfather had not killed the last one. The old man must have missed one.

He frowned and closed the book. The old man’s notes were useless to him anyway. Alastair wasn’t a Hunter, and he wasn’t blessed with their strange skills and prowess, their mutations and whatnot. He did not possess any fearsome weapon with strange and otherworldly powers.

Alastair was but a simple assistant to a blacksmith.

Approaching that monster as he was now was more than a little suicidal.

No, he couldn’t get near it, but…

Did he have to?

A long spear might just be enough. Using the Primal Goliath’s own weight against it, Alastair could simply make the monster impale itself—much like how bears were typically hunted. His great-great-grandfather spoke of its power and immense savagery, but even such a creature couldn’t survive a spear through the heart. Not even dragons could survive such a thing—if the stories of the great Hunters were to be believed. He could make a spear of some kind, something sharp and powerful enough to pierce its thick skin and fur. Weak spot or not, most creatures would die if their hearts were damaged.

That monster needed to die.

“That settles it.” Alastair tossed the book toward the floor and rushed out of his house.

He ignored his neighbors on the streets. Most of them were frozen in front of the ruins of their homes, unable to accept the reality of the devastation that had happened. Some wept openly, clutching at corpses or body parts. Others simply remained silent, staring into the sky as though questioning how the gods had allowed this to happen.

Alastair’s heart ached for them, but he couldn’t help. After all, what could he do to alleviate their despair? He was but one man in a village of a thousand. He’d already helped where he could, assisting the apothecary with small jobs until the man had told him he could do no more and that he should return home. And before that, he helped folk out of the rubble of their former homes.

Alastair ran through the ruined streets of Larisa, knowing well-enough that his village was nearing its end. Unless some gracious noble somehow offered them a thousand gold drachmas, then all this damage would remain as it is and Larisa would slowly cease to be.

And that’s precisely why I’ve been saving up money, Alastair thought. This place was bound to die off eventually.

It irked him that no one else saw this looming death, not even Damon believed him. Everyone seemed to think that their little pocket of civilization would last more than a few more years on its own, without a constant source of supplies, without a lord to provide protection.

Damon… Alastair’s eyes darkened. I hope you’re still alive.

He arrived at the ruins of his workplace, the local forge, where his teacher, old man Kaelos, taught him to work with metal and tame fire. Now, only about half of it remained, and his teacher was nowhere to be found. His teacher, who sported an injured leg, could not have run from the Primal Goliath. May your soul find its way to Elysium, old man.

Alastair sighed and entered.

He was pleasantly surprised.

Though most of the place was ruined, the forge itself had survived. Steel and iron ingots and metal implements lined the table on the side, while lumps of charcoal piled up in a small mound on the far side of the smithy. An arbalest, a relic of his teacher’s younger days, was hung beside the forge, alongside its heavy, armor-piercing bolts.

He often told me stories of his time in the Ikathian military, Alastair thought. I wonder how many people he’s killed with it.

Alastair breathed in and opened the door to the backroom, where Kaelos kept the store’s inventory, alongside other materials he might need for custom orders, such as jewelry. Alastair entered and briefly eyed all the tools and glimmering things within—pieces of raw silver and bits of gold, among other things.

The far end of the room had collapsed, covering most of his teacher’s inventory in debris.

He sighed and bent down to pick up a smoothened and straightened pole of ash wood—flexible and durable.

This’ll do quite nicely, he thought.

The only problem was the spearhead itself.

My great-great-grandfather’s notes mentioned the fact that only the greatest weapons, forged from the best materials, are able to pierce through a Primal Goliath’s tough skin. That probably means regular steel won’t work, unless I jam the damn spearhead right through its eye. Even if I manage that, there’s no guarantee it’ll work. Hunters use immensely powerful weapons, after all, with all kinds of enchantments. No, I’m gonna have to use something else—something that won’t break against its skin.

Mithril? No, a pound of that stuff costs more than the whole village and then some. And he didn’t have the time to purchase it from the nearest town. Obsidian steel? There was no way he could get his hands on that stuff, without magical shenanigans and, even then, human sacrifice was pushing it. Orichalcum? The metal was only slightly less pricey compared to mithril, which meant its worth in drachmas was still greater than the whole village.

There were probably hundreds or thousands of materials out there, and he only knew a dozen or so of them—what the blacksmith had taught him, and a few rarer materials that his father spoke of. The only other thing he knew of was Dragon Bone, eternal and everlasting. A dragon’s bones were said to be indestructible. Their teeth never dulled, and their claws were forever sharp. The creatures themselves were said to be immortal, already ancient since the dawn of the world.

Alastair’s eyes widened. There’s a whole skeleton of a Black Dragon in the middle of Larisa!

Black Dragons were some of the rarest and most powerful Magical Beasts, even among other dragons. Gwyn, the Hunter, despite his personal prowess, needed the aid of an entire contingent of Hunters to bring down a single juvenile Black Dragon.

More than half of them died. The other half retired immediately after the hunt.

The only reason it hadn’t been picked apart and sold for profit was because of the legend that said the bones were possessed by the Black Dragon, and that a Cleric had sealed them with an arcane ritual. If anyone tampered with them, even the lightest touch, then the dragon’s spirit would be released.

And so everyone steered clear of the damn thing.

Am I willing to release the spirit of a Black Dragon if it means saving my friend and bringing down a monster that could do what it’s done to Larisa to a dozen other villages?

Alastair ran to the center of the village, passing the ruined houses and mourning neighbors. He paused as soon as he arrived.

Gwyn’s statue was… gone. The only things left of it were the man’s legs. More worryingly, however, the dragon skeleton had been scattered all across the village center.

“Damn it all to—oh…”

Bits of its teeth and its claws lay on the ground, next to Alastair’s feet.

He frowned for a moment.

Weren’t dragon bones supposed to be indestructible? How’d that hairy ape do this? Primal Goliaths were Mid-Level monsters at best, and that was only due to their thick skins. Something like that shouldn’t be able to even scratch a Black Dragon’s bones.

Alastair bent down and picked up one of the teeth. Then again, the bone fragments were only loosely attached to each other with rope. It seems the bones themselves aren’t damaged, just knocked away from each other.

That probably explained it. Also, it doesn’t seem as though that legend about its spirit lingering in its bones was true at all.

Curious, Alastair picked up a large rock that may or may not have been a part of a wall and scraped the tooth over its surface.

His eyes widened. “Incredible!”

The tooth, hundreds of years old, sliced through solid rock, nearly even cutting open his palm.

Alastair nodded to himself as he bent down to pick up more of the ancient monster’s teeth and claws.

“This’ll definitely work,” he said.

Alastair returned to the smithy. First, he melted down a steel ingot and molded a frame with which to hold the Black Dragon’s teeth and claws. The process took hours. His teacher could have finished it in less than half his time, Alastair berated himself. Regardless, once the frame was done, he then attached the monster’s parts—a single column of teeth on one side and another column of claws on the other. At the tip of the spear was a singular tooth that was larger than the rest, likely one of the Black Dragon’s fangs.

The pole itself was seven feet in length. With the metal frame and its attachments, the weapon towered over him. It wasn’t properly balanced either—the dragon’s teeth and claws were far heavier than the pole, not even factoring in the frame’s additional weight. But it wasn’t too heavy as to be unwieldy. He could carry it, and that was the only thing that mattered. The whole point of the weapon was to have the Primal Goliath impale itself on the spear. All he had to do was aim the bloody thing at the monster’s heart.

Whether or not he’d actually survive the encounter was still up in the air.

“That’ll do.” Alastair stood up, brushing away the sweat and dirt on his forehead.

He then turned and eyed his teacher’s arbalest. Its bolts were supposedly capable of piercing plate armor. It may not be enough to pierce a Primal Goliath’s skin, but a shot into its eyes would certainly do the trick.

“An extra weapon wouldn’t hurt,” he said.

With that, Alastair left the ruined smithy with his newly crafted spear in his hands, his teacher’s old arbalest at his back, and a quiver of twenty bolts at his waist. It was heavy, but not impractically so, just heavy enough for him to actually notice.

He proceeded down the trail of destruction the monster left behind as it had chased after Damon.

Alastair sighed. His grip over the spear shaft tightened, his palms turning white. You better be alive, Damon.

The sun was nearing its end. It was mid-afternoon, which meant only four or five hours of daylight left, before the woods turned dark. He had to find that monster before nightfall.

He ran forward, following the trail. A few of his neighbors called out to him, but Alastair ignored them as they asked where he was going and begged him not to do anything foolish. His best friend was out there, and there was a beast that needed to be put down for good.

Alastair ran through a shattered portion of the village’s palisade, before following the trail into the nearby woods. It wasn’t hard to miss, he mused. The Primal Goliath left behind a path of broken or uprooted trees, and massive footprints. No animals lingered in the immediate vicinity—no birds or rodents, nothing. The forest felt almost empty. The only noise came from the rustling of nearby leaves and his own footsteps.

He ran for almost thirty minutes until he came upon a sight that made him pause and freeze. Alastair’s heart pumped wildly in his chest, and his blood ran cold.

Damon was right there, sleeping on the roots of a tree—unharmed!

The bastard didn’t even look ruffled!

“Hey!” Alastair rushed forward, grabbed a clump of dirt, and threw it right on Damon’s face. His best friend sputtered awake and promptly fell off the root and onto the ground.

Damon yawned as he pushed himself up onto his feet. “Oh, hey, how’s it going? Is it afternoon already? Huh, I must’ve dozed off for a while. Hey, I had this dream about a—”

Alastair raised a single eyebrow.

Damon scratched the back of his head and eyed the trail of broken trees and massive footprints. “Oh, so it wasn’t a dream. Damn, it’s even more impressive now. Nice spear, by the way. And whatever that thing is on your back.”

Alastair shook his head and sighed. Well, the idiot was alive, which meant Alastair wouldn’t be killing that monster alone. “How’d you even escape that monster?”

Damon shrugged, his lips forming a line. He really didn’t look like someone who’d just escaped certain doom. “Honestly? I’m not quite sure. That thing was definitely out for my blood. But then I had an awesome idea to grab a beehive and throw it down its gullet. Well, the damn thing started screaming, then it started coughing, then it just sorta forgot about me and ran off. I was so exhausted after all that, and I guess I just passed out.”

Alastair nodded. The Primal Goliath’s skin was unnaturally thick and durable, but neither of those things likely extended to its insides, which made it vulnerable to the bees. Damon must have hurt it a lot. If the insects stung its throat, the creature might have just died from asphyxiation, but something told him it probably wouldn’t be that easy.

“By the way,” Damon began, pointing at the spear in Alastair’s grip, “were you planning on killing that oversized gorilla?”

“Yes, I’m going to kill it. I’m not going back home, while that creature still breathes. Are you with me?” Alastair passed the spear onto Damon’s outstretched hand. It seemed lighter in his friend’s hands—far lighter.

Damon eyed the spear for a moment, before tightening his grip over its shaft. With a twirl, Damon spun and swung the spear horizontally, cleaving right through the center of the tree he’d slept on as though it were made of paper.

Alastair stared right into the perfect slice. It cracked and fell, just as Damon turned, eyes dark and face grim.

“It killed so many people,” Damon said, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by one of cold determination. “That thing has to die.”

Alastair grabbed the arbalest at his back and loaded a single bolt into its chamber. “Well then, let’s find that beast and put it down for good, shall we?”

They both set off and followed after the Primal Goliath’s trail. It led them further and further away from their village, into the very heart of the surrounding woods, where the ancient Hunters were said to have ventured in the old days.

Finally, the pair arrived at the end of the trail, a cave on the roots of Shadow Mountain, whose treacherous cliffs and thunderous bluffs were said to have taken many unwary souls to Elysium. Many stories were told of this place and the many people who ventured here and never returned. Alastair never thought he’d ever come here, hunting a monster.

“Huh, this whole situation is just like those story books we used to read when we were children, eh Alastair?” Damon said, smiling softly. His eyes wandered for a moment.

“Yeah,” Alastair agreed. “If we don’t kill this thing, it’ll destroy other villages like it did to ours. Or it might just come back.”

“We can’t let that happen, can we?”

“Not while we both draw breath.”

Alastair eyed the natural paths that were said to have led around and over the mountainside, just past the monster’s cave. He pointed toward it, catching Damon’s attention. “Where do you think those lead to?”

Damon, unsurprisingly, shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.”

“Come on,” Alastair sniffed the air and frowned. He’d recognize that smell anywhere—excrement. His eyes narrowed. “It’s inside the cave. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Let’s not bet anything just yet, yeah?” Damon smiled, tightening his hold over the spear.

They entered the mouth of the cave and both grimaced at the overpowering stench. Surprisingly, the interior was well-illuminated, the sun’s rays revealing the moss and the creeping things on the wall. On the far end was the Primal Goliath’s massive, sleeping form. It laid on its stomach, face down on the wet dirt of a section of the cave that opened up into a spacious cavern. Its breaths echoed across, like deep, reverberating trumpets.

Alastair frowned as he eyed the cave. Approaching the beast directly would be foolish. But the fact that it was asleep meant they could surprise it. However, they’d only have the chance for a single, decisive attack. Otherwise, the monster would wake up and they’d be in a difficult position.

Hmm, there has to be something that could—

There!

There was a narrow pathway that trailed upward from the cave walls, leading to a short drop that laid directly over the monster.

“Damon, look over there,” Alastair whispered and pointed at the pathway. “That should be wide enough for you to walk on. Do you see where it leads?”

Damon’s eyes followed, until he nodded. “You want me to drop down from there and stab it in the head? Does this thing even have a brain?”

Alastair frowned, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “Don’t stab its head. Shove the spear right at the center of its nape, through its spinal cord. If it survives, it’ll be paralyzed and we can just kill it right then.”

Stabbing it through either the heart or the head, might just cause the creature to spasm and accidentally kill Damon. No, severing its spinal cord was the best option.

Damon nodded. “Alright, that sounds easy enough. Wait right here.”

Alastair looked on as Damon scaled the narrow path and snuck right toward the drop point, where he stopped and pointed the spear down, aiming it right at the Primal Goliath’s nape. Damon gulped and released a breath, his chest rising and falling intensely.

The air seemed to freeze.

Alastair breathed in. It was now or never. Do it, Damon!

Damon looked toward him, and Alastair nodded in confirmation.

His friend nodded back, just before leaping and plummeting down.

The Primal Goliath stirred, and the spear pierced right through its neck and out the other side, causing a fountain of blood to come gushing out like a geyser, even as the monster awakened and let out a choking howl.

Damon leapt away from the creature’s back and landed right in front of Alastair, stumbling to a knee. “Well, that just happened. Any other ideas?”

The creature pulled the spear from its neck, tears streaming from its berserk eyes and mucus from its nose as it did. The monster hurled the bloody weapon aside, before turning toward the pair with a crazed look over its already maddened features.

“Ugh,” Damon bent down, grabbed the nearest pebble, and hurled it right into the monster’s already red eye, causing the beast to recoil.

Alastair gulped. “Right, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”

The Primal Goliath roared, shaking the cavern, blood and spit oozing out of its bloody, swollen maw as it regarded them with a crazed and murderous gaze.

“Maybe, we should run?” Damon asked, his eyes wide.

“No kidding!”

Alastair and Damon ran out the cave, right before its entrance exploded as the Primal Goliath burst through, bleeding and raging, foam oozing out its thick lips.

“Follow the mountain path!” Alastair screamed as he pulled Damon’s collar and briefly dragged him, before they both ran up the side of the mountain and followed the nearby pathway.

Behind them, the Primal Goliath roared as it gave chase. Alastair’s leg screamed and burned with each step up the steep path. After the day’s events, his body yearned for a quick rest, but the monster’s reverberating roars were incentive enough to keep moving further up.

And move up they did.

“Hey! What’s your next plan, genius?!” Damon screamed as they turned.

Alastair briefly eyed the Primal Goliath and noted its slow, deliberate movements. Its throat wound, which bled profusely, painting its chest crimson, did not aid in its endeavor to chase after them and rip them to shreds. Its eyes seemed unfocused, likely due to blood loss. It would almost stumble every few seconds or so, before reorienting itself.

The monster was afraid of falling off the mountainside, he realized. And it was weakened—greatly. It would have already caught up to them if it were at full strength.

The only thing pushing it onward was pure rage.

“I’m working on it!” Alastair pulled out the arbalest from his back, noting the single bolt that was already in its chamber.

They turned once more. The path straightened. At the end of it was a cliff. Alastair could already see much of the forest and the sun, setting in the distance. Nightfall was creeping closer and closer.

Alastair smiled as they neared the edge. “Alright, I’ve got a plan.”

“Well then, do share it!” Damon cried.

The Primal Goliath roared as it clambered after them, turning the same turn to the end of the mountain path.

“Distract it for a moment!” Alastair screamed back as they continued running forward toward the looming cliff. His eyes briefly narrowed at the roots that seemed to slither near the edges. He turned to Damon. “Just a few seconds! That’s all I need!”

“You better know what you’re doing,” Damon replied, before running off to the side. “Hey, over here you damn monkey! Yeah, it’s the guy who stabbed you in the neck!”

The Primal Goliath roared and rushed toward Damon, just as Alastair reached the edge and turned, aiming the arbalest right at the monster’s right eye and firing.

The steel bolt whistled through the air, faster than an arrow.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the bolt pierced the Primal Goliath’s right eye, bringing the creature to a halt as it screamed in pain and clutched at its bleeding wound. Despite its injury, however, it roared and slammed its forearms on the ground. It turned toward Alastair, who stood at the very edge of the cliff, smiling.

“Come on, beast,” Alastair said. “Let’s end this.”

Alastair held out his arms to the side as the Primal Goliath charged, its one uninjured eye filled with rage and bloodlust. It swung out its right forearm and sent Damon hurling and crashing into a wall, even as it sprinted forward and roared.

It leapt, its hands outstretched. Alastair turned and jumped down the cliff and—at the last moment—grabbed hold of a branch that’d jutted out the earth, the remains of a dead tree that was just barely sturdy enough to hold him in place. He swung forward and slammed against the cliff face.

Alastair wheezed upon impact. “Gah!”

A massive shadow appeared above him. And, when Alastair looked, he grinned in triumph.

The Primal Goliath screamed in both fear and shock as it plummeted down, a crimson trail of blood following its descent.

It let out a loud, ghastly wail on its way down—a sound that was both haunting and dreadful, filled with something between sorrow and rage.

It knew its death neared. It was intelligent, after all.

Their eyes met briefly, a look of resignation and contempt passing between them.

Alastair scoffed. “Die.”

There was the sound of the monster crashing through the trees before it stopped.

Alastair sighed and closed his eyes. It’s finally over….

His eyes widened when his grip lost strength and he began sliding down the branch.

Hells! he thought. I can’t pull myself up!

Just before Alastair’s grip slipped, however, Damon’s hand came over the cliff side and grabbed him by the wrist. His best friend, anchoring himself on the nearby roots, pulled him up. Gasping, Alastair grabbed hold of the cliff edge with one hand.

Damon wheezed as they both fell onto the ground. “That… was one crazy plan…”

Alastair panted, cold sweat running down the side of his face from his forehead. He nodded, his chest rising up and down intensely. “Yeah… this was… one crazy day.”

“Hey, is it just me or is the sun getting brighter?”

“What?” Alastair glanced at the sun and frowned. No, it was not getting brighter. The sky itself was lighting up with pale, golden lights. He coughed and wheezed, before pushing himself up to a seated position. “Oh… no, I don’t think that’s the sun.”

Damon grunted as he sat up. “Huh? What else could—oh…”

The sky blazed, oozing near-blinding rays of lights that swept away the creeping darkness of the sunset. It illuminated the whole of Shadow Mountain, chasing away the shadows.

Alastair averted his eyes and shielded his face with his left forearm as he turned away.

Damon did no such thing and stared right into the light. “Hey, what the hells is going on now, Alastair?”

“What makes you think I know?”

The blazing lights disappeared.

And, when Alastair lowered his forearm, he caught sight of two figures descending from the sky.

One appeared to be a giant, humanoid eagle with blue feathers, crowned with burning rubies. Its eyes blazed with purple flames. It carried with it a spear and a curved sword, and was garbed in a strange armor of twisting colors and luminous scales.

The other was a humanoid monkey with shimmering, golden fur, crowned with sparkling sapphires. The monkey’s eyes blazed with crimson flames. In its right hand was a hammer and in its left was an anvil.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. Something about these two seemed vaguely familiar. He’d never seen non-human creatures with his own eyes, of course, but maybe he’d seen them and read about them in books or paintings?

The two figures landed in front of them. And Alastair found no strength in himself to attempt resistance. So, he sat there and waited for something to happen.

“Peace be upon you, Alastair, son of Pelleos. I am Thorondros, God of Smiths and Craftsmen,” the golden monkey declared, holding out its hammer and pointing it at Alastair.

The blue eagle pointed its spear toward Damon. “Peace be upon you, Damon, son of Leonos. I am Laracles, God of Hunters and Beasts.”

Alastair’s breath hitched as he lurched forward and prostrated before one of the gods. The air around them seemed to blaze with life and vigor, warmth and energy—the presence of the divine.

A visit from the gods?

He wasn’t sure exactly what to do, so he did what he thought would leave him the least likely to be struck down by a god.

“This lowly mortal is honored by your presence, God of the Forge,” Alastair said.

Damon looked at Alastair for a few moments before fumbling to do the same. “This lowly... uh... mortal is humbled by your presence, God of the Hunt.”

Thorondros took a single step forward and laid a hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “For your creativity and ingenuity, Alastair, I grant you the Fate of the Crafter. May you forge great and awesome artifacts!”

Laracles did the same to Damon, laying a hand on his shoulder. “For your bravery and vigor, Damon, I grant you the Fate of the Hunter. May you wet the earth with the blood of savage beasts and fearsome monsters!”

“Arise, Fated!” The gods spoke in unison and, despite their exhaustion, despite their screaming muscles and aching bones, Alastair and Damon forced themselves up. The gods had reappeared a distance away, but—somehow—the pressure on their shoulders remained. “Go forth into the world and make use of your Fate!”

Alastair’s eyes widened as words and letters suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 1)

Pollentias: 0

Would you like to view your current status? Yes/No

What? The world faded into black as Alastair fell forward.

Chapter 2

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 1)

Pollentias: 0

Would you like to view your stats? Yes/No

Alastair blinked and rubbed his eyes.

The first thing he saw upon waking up was a bunch of letters, floating in front of his face. It was both there and not there at the same time. He saw it quite clearly, but it also did not impede his view of the night sky and the forest below it. It did not impede the fact that he saw, quite clearly, the cliff and the mountain side, Damon’s sleeping form on the ground, and the Primal Goliath’s rather visible footprints on the soil. He rubbed his eyes again, just to be sure.

He was either hallucinating or all of that really just happened.

Alright, I’m not hallucinating, which means Damon and I just became one of the legendary Fated! Alastair would have cheered if he had any idea what that really meant. He shook his head and focused on the floating texts. Right, what are stats and why would I want to view them? Let’s see it then. I would like to view my stats!

Status Page: Crafter (lvl 1) Costs 1,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

(Fated Crafters are unable to grow their physical attributes through the System.)

Basic Skills:

-   Weld (lvl 1)—Attaches two metallic parts together. Success and presentation of an output is dependent on skill level. Currently has 60% chance of success and a 10% chance of producing an Artifact. Cannot be used on non-metallic materials! Costs 500 Pollentias to upgrade.

-   Forge (lvl 1)—Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 90% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 7% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, and a 3% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality. Costs 500 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-   Shape (lvl 1)—Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. Cannot add or subtract mass. Costs 500 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-   Appraise (Max)—Observe the innate crafting value and potential of an object, alive or otherwise. It also allows you to interact with items in ways impossible to non-Fated. Warning: Other Fated may sense the usage of this skill when used on them.

Innate Class: Artificer (lvl 1)

(lvl 1) Artificer Skills:

-   Imbue (lvl 1)—Imbue mystical properties onto an existing item, using an ordinary item and a monster, magical, or alchemical ingredients. Results are dependent on the quality and value of the items used. You cannot use items and ingredients above uncommon quality.

Perks:

-   Chosen Through Adversity—You gained the attention of the gods through the achievement of a great and difficult challenge. In doing so, any Pollentias you receive is double the normal rate.

“Well… that’s a lot to take in,” Alastair muttered absently as he sat down, next to Damon’s unconscious, but breathing, form.

He read through all the skills and memorized each of them and their supposed functions. All of it meant that he had basically become a walking forge, able to make and mold weapons, armors, and items to his liking, without the need for a furnace or a hammer.

Well, I’m only assuming things at the moment, Alastair thought. It’ll be a much better idea to test all of this, before jumping into conclusions about myself and my place in the world.

Because, if he had truly become one of the legendary Fated, then there was absolutely no point in continuing his mundane life. No, the Fated were meant for an existence that was fit for story books and myths, whispered amongst the common folk as though they were demigods. They were meant to be great, to be mighty and strong, to stand above all others.

The Fated, though few, were revered as living legends and walking myths.

If he and Damon had become one of the Fated, then things were about to change. Their whole lives were about to change. For the better.

Alastair stood and raised his fist high in the air. The cold night air blew hard against his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in.

He had never felt so alive. “This world is ours for the taking, Damon. With our powers, we shall do great things and engrave our names on the history of the world.”

Not to mention the wealth that came with being one of the Fated. Though, Alastair was still not quite certain how that worked, but he knew for a fact that there was no such thing as an impoverished Fated.

Maybe.

Probably.

Hopefully.

He turned to Damon and frowned. His friend was still unconscious.

Right, Alastair decided. I should probably wake him up.

Sighing, Alastair crouched down and grabbed Damon’s shoulders, before vigorously shaking him. “Wake up!”

Damon’s eyes snapped open, and he nearly leapt upward. “Who-what-how… Oh…”

Alastair leaned back and looked on as Damon raised his right hand and rubbed his eyes, yawning.

“How long was I out?” Damon asked. “Also, why do I feel so strong? And what’s with all these words floating around my face?”

“It’ll make a lot more sense if you stopped asking me and just read the floating words. They’ll explain your Fate, your abilities, and other such things. Ours may not look the same, so I can’t tell you much.”

“Oh okay, wait,” Damon muttered off, seemingly staring off into the distance.

Alastair frowned. Did I look like that while I was reading? Yeah, I’m not doing that in public anytime soon.

“Holy hells!” Damon suddenly exclaimed, after five minutes of staring off into the endless void sea, where the glimmering stars swam and twinkled. He then stood up and, with a grunt, leapt nearly fifteen feet into the air, his feet leaving cracks and indentations on the ground. Damon landed with a grunt, his knees bending to catch his own fall. He smirked as he stood straight. “It seems I am now very good at running, jumping, and killing things. This is awesome!”

Name: Damon

Fate: Hunter of Monsters (lvl 1)

Pollentias: 0

Status Page: Hunter of Monsters (lvl 1) Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade

Strength: 25 (Costs 250 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Dexterity: 20 (Costs 200 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Durability: 20 (Costs 200 Pollentias to Upgrade)

(Note: The System does not affect intelligence, wisdom, luck, or charisma.)

Basic Skills:

-          Surge (lvl 1)—Temporarily doubles your dexterity for 10 Minutes or until the target monster dies. Locks out other Basic Skills while active. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-          Ravage (lvl 1)—Temporarily doubles your strength for 10 Minutes or until the target monster dies. Locks out other Basic Skills while active. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-          Deny (lvl 1)—Temporarily doubles your durability for 10 Minutes or until the target monster dies. While active, other Basic Skills can only be active for half their usual time. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-          Hunter’s Eye (lvl Max)—Spot safe zones and weak spots. Identify monsters and their attributes.

-          Hunter’s Trophy (lvl 1)—Identify a monster’s parts and how to best carve them out. Will not work on living monsters. Will not work on Uncommon Monsters and above.

Innate Class: Giant Killer (lvl 1)

(lvl 1) Giant Killer Skills:

-          Hunter’s Will (lvl 1)—When facing a monster that’s, at least, ten levels stronger than you, receive a 500% bonus to your strength and durability until the monster is utterly destroyed.

Perks:

-          Death Seeker—The closer you are to death, the stronger you become. You receive a 100% bonus to all your stats whenever you suffer a mortal wound.

Alastair rolled his eyes, but ultimately smiled and chuckled at his friend’s antics. “Come on,” he said. “We should get down and retrieve that spear I made and then try and find that Primal Goliath’s corpse. Since we’re Fated now, we might as well start chopping up monsters for their parts.”

He was also reasonably certain that Hunters, Slayers, and adventurers also did the same.

Damon nodded. “Oh yeah, I have a skill that lets me cleanly cut up monster parts, without the need to know its anatomy. It’s called the Hunter’s Trophy… and it’s at level 1. Say, did yours have any explanation as to what Pollentias is and what it’s supposed to do?”

Alastair shook his head. “All I know is that it’s needed to upgrade our skills.”

“I also need it to upgrade my physical stats,” Damon muttered.

“Come on,” Alastair said, pointing toward the cracked mountain path. “We really should start going down. The sooner we’re out of these woods, the better. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

Damon nodded. “Let’s go, then. I can’t wait to carve up that overgrown monkey.”

“I’m also wondering if we should sell its parts or just use it for ourselves. Its skin would definitely make for some decent protection, given its durability.”

Damon grunted in agreement. “A cape would be nice, I guess.”

They slowly trekked down the mountain, noting the Primal Goliath’s path of destruction in the form of cracks, furrows, and craters, where there weren’t any before. They spoke of their neighbors and of Larisa, and the grim fate that awaited it—all because a monster wandered in and nearly destroyed everything. As things stood, it may as well have destroyed everything. As they reached the end of the mountain path, Alastair and Damon vowed to save their home and their neighbors. After all, as Fated, they were bound to a life of wealth. Why shouldn’t they share that wealth with the people they grew up with? Why should their friends suffer a slow and terrible death, because of some nameless monster?

They entered the Primal Goliath’s cave first, where they had attempted to kill the monster as it slept. In hindsight, they would have found far greater success if they had been but a moment earlier—if Damon had killed it in a single stroke. Then again, if it had been easier, would they have earned their Fates?

Within the cave, Alastair spotted his spear, lying atop a bed of blue moss and glowing mushrooms. He bent down and grabbed the weapon, absently smiling as he turned and walked back to the cave entrance with his creation in hand. Holding it felt almost soothing—warm and pleasant. The weapon seemed almost alive, but it was asleep, just waiting to wake up. Alastair’s eyes narrowed.

Those were feelings that should not have been associated with a weapon. He eyed the spear. What in the hells?

Appraise!

[Spear of the Sleeping Dragon]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 70/200

Value: 100,000

This weapon, crude though it is, is surprisingly effective at what it’s supposed to do: cut and pierce things. However, due to the materials used in its construction, the weapon has gained a life of its own and seeks its awakening.

Damon stood by the entrance, leaning against the side of the cave’s mouth, arms crossed over his bulky chest. He turned and glanced at Alastair, before raising a single eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to scold that thing for not washing the dishes. What’s wrong?”

Alastair stopped and frowned, still eyeing the spear. “This… doesn’t feel normal. It feels… alive—almost. It’s as though it wants to wake up. It even says so when I use Appraise on it. There’s this tugging feeling inside me that says I should just go ahead and try and wake it.”

“Yeah, just go ahead and wake it up,” Damon said with a firm nod.

Alastair sighed. “I already regret telling you about this, but… eh, I might as well go ahead and do it.”

Would you like to awaken the infant artifact? Yes/No

Wait, what’s an infant artifact?

Infant artifacts are items with hidden attributes or features. Awakening them unlocks these hidden attributes and features and may even altogether alter the item’s physical shape.

But… I created this. How and why is it an infant artifact?

Narrowing his eyes, Alastair decided yes, he would like to awaken the infant artifact and unlock whatever features this makeshift spear apparently had.

His eyes widened as an immensely powerful pressure bore down upon him, pushing him down to his knees. Alastair grunted as he fell onto the ground, his face meeting the dirt and moss. What in the hells is going on?

Damon fared no better as he fell on his hands and knees, shaking. He gritted his teeth as he spoke, “The spear… It’s… turning red!”

Alastair let go of the weapon almost immediately as it began sizzling and smoking in his grip. It burned his palms, but he’d had worse burns from working in a smithy.

Suddenly, the spear hovered several feet above the ground and exuded a low, reverberating roar that shook their bones. It was a sound they’d never heard before—horrifying and beautiful all the same, like great and mighty horns in the depths of the earth.

And then came the beating of mighty and powerful wings, its flaps carrying the strength of cyclones and hurricanes. Black energies burst out of the flames. Scales as black as night emerged from the conflagration, coating the shaft of the spear. The claws and the teeth and the frame with which they were attached, burned and shifted, almost liquefying for a moment as it moved and swirled as though alive. They soon merged into a single spike of the deepest midnight, a single, double-edged blade that glinted with starlight and hellfire alike. At its center was a gruesome red eye that began moving as soon as it formed, looking up and then down, and then left and right as though it was seeing the world for the first time. The swirling black energies converged into the spear, before dissipating alongside the blazing flames.

+1,000 Pollentias!

Finally, the pressure subsided, disappearing.

Alastair’s head snapped upward, just as the transformed spear fell back onto the ground with a soft thud. He shook his head and stood up immediately, before taking several steps backward, eyes wide with both fear and confusion.

Damon stood up and did the same as they both took several steps back, away from… whatever that thing was.

“So… do you have any idea what in the hells just happened, Alastair?” Damon asked, his tone lacking its usual spunk. “Because I am very confused right now.”

Alastair shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I’m just as lost as you.”

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the ominous black weapon. The red eye on the blade stared back at him.

Appraise!

[The Black Dragon’s Spear]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 20,000/20,000

Value: 1,000,000

A living weapon, imbued with the soul of an ancient and powerful dragon. Its blade is capable of piercing and slicing through almost anything. Its wielder will hear the soul’s whispers and the dark knowledge it offers.

“Grab it,” Alastair muttered, pointing at the spear. “Grab it and see if it starts talking.”

“Are you for real?”

“Hey, you’re the fighter.”

“Yeah, but what part about a flying, burning, roaring, wing-flapping, spear with a literal eye on its head did you think is worth touching? The damn thing might try to bite my hand off.”

“Grab the shaft.”

Damon raised his eyebrow. “Really? You didn’t think saying it like that would be weird?”

Alastair sighed. “Just grab the damn thing.”

“That’s your creation, in case you forgot.”

“I agree, but—oh hey, I see your name written on it.”

“Alastair, I’m not falling for that anymore.”

“I’ll make you a cape from the Primal Goliath’s hide. It’ll look really awesome when you’re standing on a hill and the wind is blowing against you.” Alastair paused before adding, “I’m sure there won’t be a woman in all the Middle Kingdom who’d refuse your advances if you were wearing it.”

Damon’s lips slowly upturned into a grin. “You think so?”

“One hundred percent. You’ll be like some legendary hero.”

“Alright then.” Damon took a single, tentative step toward the black spear. “But if it bites my hand, I’m kicking you in the nuts.”

Alastair gave him a thumbs up, eyeing the spear. To be perfectly honest, nothing about its attributes hinted at the possibility of it turning on its wielder, like some crazed dog in the shape of a spear. But the fact that it was described as being a living weapon did not quite sound right to him. Weapons were weapons—living things breathed and walked and did all sorts of things that weapons were not supposed to be doing. So, why was his creation labeled as such?

Damon bent down, reaching for the spear with his left hand, while the rest of his body seemed to want to go the other direction. He closed his eyes at the last moment, before actually grabbing the spear. The moment Damon’s hand made contact, he froze, tendrils of hazy, black energies extending from the spear and wrapping around him. Damon’s head snapped up, his eyes set alight by eldritch flames.

Alastair’s eyes widened as he rushed forward. “Damon!”

A wave of power stopped him in his tracks and forced him back onto his knees.

Alastair gritted his teeth. “Damn it!”

Be still, my creator. There is no need to be afraid, a low voice spoke in his mind. I am merely testing him to see if the wielder you have chosen is worthy of carrying me into battle.

“W-who… are you?” Alastair whispered.

I am your creation—your first and greatest child.

Just as the voice finished speaking, the wave of power dissipated. Alastair blinked once and found Damon standing upright, staring into the night sky, holding the Black Dragon’s Spear in his left hand, steam trailing from his skin.

His friend released a long, throaty sigh. “I guess there’s a reason why weapons shouldn’t be talking. This thing’s voice in my head is more annoying than terrifying… but…”

Damon sliced the spear’s black blade across the ground. Alastair’s eyes widened slightly as it carved through rock and stone without resistance.

Damon smirked. “I guess, if I have a spear that can slice and stab through anything, an annoying voice in my head shouldn’t be too bad.”

“What did it say?”

“It says its birth was way too dramatic and it could’ve done without the smoke effects. I think I might actually agree.”

With that out of the way, they trekked around the mountain, to the other side, where the Primal Goliath had leapt to its doom. Their journey was slow and quiet. The woods had become deathly still and unnaturally cold. No birds chirped from the trees, no frogs croaked from the ponds. The forest became silent—with only the rustling of leaves and creaking of branches making even the slightest noise. Damon confidently walked ahead, brandishing the Black Dragon’s Spear and accidentally cutting down trees when he passed and absently set the weapon’s blade across.

“You know, if you keep this up, your Fate might just change from Hunter to Gardener in a few hours,” Alastair said.

“Shut up—this thing’s way too sharp for its own good, anyway.”

Finding the Primal Goliath’s corpse wasn’t difficult. All they had to do was follow the stench. They found the creature, impaled on a tree, at the edge of a small clearing, surrounded by a flock of vultures that pecked at its exposed entrails, courtesy of the tree that was sticking out of its gut.

“Right, do we just cut it up right here or…?” Damon began.

Alastair raised an eyebrow and glanced at Damon with an incredulous look. “Or what, drag the damn carcass all the way to the village?”

“Okay, we’re cutting it up right here!”

Chapter 3

“Do you think its penis is useful for crafting?”

Alastair closed his eyes and sighed for what was probably the twentieth time that evening. While Damon had been busy cutting apart the monster, Alastair had taken the time to study the creature from up close, having acclimated to its putrid smell by now. He eyed its broken, jagged fingernails, before shaking his head and standing up from his crouched position. Strangely, the Primal Goliath’s nails were a lot less durable than its skin. It was extremely hard and yet extremely brittle.

“Can’t you, you know, use your Appraise skill and see if it’s useful?” Damon asked. “Who knows—maybe it’ll let you craft some kind of aphrodisiac or something?”

Alastair turned and decided to humor his friend for a bit.

Appraise!

[Primal Goliath Penis]

Quality: Poor

Value: 5

Item cannot be used for crafting, but may have uses in Alchemy.

“No, Damon, I don’t think we’ll be finding much use for its penis.”

“What about its—”

“No, I also won’t be needing its testicles for crafting.”

“You could use it to make a flail. The gods know they’re big enough.”

Alastair circled the monster’s body, most of it already appeared to have been cut apart, large chunks of its skin easily flayed off its muscles through the Black Dragon’s Spear’s incredible cutting ability. Damon had begun piling the monster’s parts beside it, which included its toes, teeth, hair, hide, bones, eyes, and whatever else might have been useful, save for its flesh and blood, since neither of those things were useful in crafting. Amazingly, Damon had only started a few minutes ago. His skill, Hunter’s Trophy, truly was something else. The only thing missing from the pile was the Primal Goliath’s core.

Alastair knew of its core, the source of its power, within its chest, but he could wait until Damon was done pilfering every other part. He’d read about cores before. Many adventurers spoke of monster cores and how to use them. Cores, for non-Fated adventurers, anyway, could be used to greatly enhance their physical capabilities by granting them a tiny portion of the slain monster’s powers. For example, a core from a Zord Beast, a gigantic, frog-like monster that was said to dwell in the misty swamps to the far south of the Middle Kingdom, would greatly enhance an adventurer’s jumping ability. This was done through the use of Alchemy, melting down the core into pills, which could then be safely taken by humans.

Fated adventurers, on the other hand, could simply ingest monster cores, without issue, gaining an even greater portion of a monster’s powers than what mere pills would grant them. Although, if he recalled correctly, it was only Fated Hunters who could use them in that way. At least, that was what Alastair remembered. The simple truth was that there were only a few thousand Fated in the entirety of the Middle Kingdom, and there wasn’t much known about most of them, save for the few who were revered as living legends, the scions of gods and goddesses… or something.

For all he knew, they could ingest the Primal Goliath’s core and nothing would happen, or they might just choke on it, since cores were not exactly small.

He shook his head. His thoughts were getting nowhere. He was overthinking this. “Hey, Damon!”

“Yeah?” Damon’s head whipped up. His face was covered in blood and gore, and he hadn’t seemed to have noticed it yet. Tiny bits of what might have been entrails clung to his head, alongside a little bit of… feces?

Alastair held back a chuckle. “If you find a glowing, orb-shaped thing in its chest, tell me. It might be a Beast Core and those things are very valuable. But you might get some kind of prompt from your system. I think Fated are supposed to eat those things. Or at least Hunters.”

Damon raised an eyebrow and stared at the Primal Goliath’s body, now resembling more a giant, skinless sausage, since its arms were already taken apart. He scratched and ruffled his hair back, before cutting open the monster’s ribcage with a lazy swipe of the Black Dragon’s Spear, slicing it open from the center of the collarbone and down through its sternum. “A glowing yellow thing, huh?”

Curious, Alastair climbed over the Primal Goliath’s head and looked on from there.

Damon continued his grizzly work by slicing through the ribcage, essentially creating a giant wound, shaped vaguely like two rectangles stitched together.

“Were you planning to just rip open its rib cage and hope to see something that might vaguely resemble the object I just described?” Alastair asked.

Damon reached into the middle slice with one hand, before pulling open the rightward section of the Primal Beast’s ribcage, revealing its still heart and arteries. Even the lungs could be seen if you squinted hard enough and ignored all the blood that was currently flowing out. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was planning on doing.”

“Eh, as long as it works,” Alastair said. He reached down, drenching his fingers in warm blood as he grabbed the edge of the opened sternum, before pulling. The leftward portion of the Primal Goliath’s ribcage refused to budge. It was like trying to pull on a boulder. It was too heavy. “By the hells, how did you even lift this with just one arm?”

Damon seemed to consider the question for a moment, before shrugging. “My system tells me I’ve got a perk that’s called the Hunter’s Will, which increases my physical strength and durability by five hundred percent, whenever I’m near a monster that’s way stronger than me—dead or otherwise. This thing was definitely stronger than me before it tried flying off.”

“Well, that’s certainly helpful, but I wonder what its effective range is and how much of a monster can be taken apart, until your system no longer recognizes it as such,” Alastair muttered.

Alastair wheezed and let go of the sternum, smearing blood all over his face as his hand swung back. It didn’t smell quite as foul as the rest of the monster, strangely enough, but it was sticky and gooey, more akin to snot than normal blood. Then again, it was quite foolish to expect anything normal from this creature.

Damon’s eyes lit up. “Ah! Right, like that story about… some hero and his ship? How much of his ship could be removed and replaced, before it stops being the same ship he’d once sailed on… something like that, right?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Alastair considered his own question. Perhaps it’s the core that his system is detecting? Without the core, a monster would cease to be a monster and that perk of his would stop working—maybe.

With an almost casual ease, Damon lifted up the leftward portion of the Primal Goliath’s torso, tossing it away with a simple flick of his left arm. His eyes widened, glimmering a soft yellowish hue as sparks and lights of gold streamed out of the monster’s open ribcage. There, beside its heart, surrounded by fleshy tendrils, bulbous sinews, and bloody, pulsating growths, was the Primal Goliath’s core—a perfectly round orb with the appearance of glass with shimmering ribbons of golden starlight, just beneath its smooth surface. It radiated power, almost electrifying the very air with its presence.

Damon reached in and grabbed the core, pulling it right out of the monster’s exposed chest cavity. Blood rushed out of the Primal Goliath’s chest, crimson rivulets spraying everywhere as Damon studied the object.

“Yep,” he said, “I just got a prompt, asking me if I want to devour this thing for a permanent +20 bonus to all my physical stats.”

He turned and presented the core to Alastair, the apple-sized orb glimmering in his palm. “What do you see?”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. Appraise!

[Primal Goliath Core]

Type: Mid-Level Mutation

Quality: Unique

Value: 10,000

This Core can be used to enhance an item’s physical characteristics to unnatural levels. Doing so, however, will cause an item to mutate, changing its physical form, in accordance with the core. Warning: Can only be used on items with [Rare] quality or above. Quality of the mutation depends on the Core used.

Alastair nodded to himself. “I can use it to enhance an item’s physical properties, beyond the norm, but not much else. It’s restricted to Rare quality or above items. It also says doing so would alter said item’s shape, in accordance with the core, which probably means that if I used this on a cup, then that cup would suddenly grow hair.”

A hairy cup or a furry sword didn’t sound appealing.

Damon chuckled, juggling the core in his hand. “What do you think we should do with it?”

Alastair considered Damon’s question. On one hand, he could use it to create an incredibly powerful item, likely an armor with the properties of the Primal Goliath’s nigh-indestructible skin, but, on the other hand, a permanent upgrade to Damon’s physical stats seemed to be invaluable, though he wasn’t quite sure how Damon’s supposed ‘stats’ translated into the real world.

Finally, after a solid minute of just thinking, Alastair sighed, having made his decision. “You should consume it. Any armor or weapon I can make with the core will be something we’ll eventually outgrow, but an upgrade to your… erm… stats is an immense boon, especially for the future when we’ll be hunting more and more monsters.”

It wasn’t a particularly difficult decision if he was being honest. By adventurer standards, a Primal Goliath really wasn’t that high in the food chain. In fact, it was known to be prey in some of the more inhospitable areas that were much closer to the Charred Mountains, where the gigantic apes were hunted and killed by more fearsome monsters. Any item or armor he could make from its core would be useful at first, but would ultimately become useless as they both grew.

Damon nodded. “And here I thought you wanted to make another weapon. But, hey, boosting my stats should be plenty helpful in the future, as you said.”

As Damon turned his attention to the core, Alastair’s mind wandered elsewhere.

They were about to become adventurers. And not just adventurers—they would be Fated adventurers, and that would make all the difference. Non-Fated adventurers were known for having high death-rates for their newcomers. Many adventurers died on their first assignment, killed by some rampaging wyvern, or sent to deal with a goblin infestation in a nameless cave somewhere.

But there were other kinds of adventurers, those who would take different jobs.

Slayers, for example. They were, more or less, a bunch of cultists who venerated the God of Murder, Chaos, Malice, and Destruction, Gorgorod, and worshipped said god by killing monsters and bringing monster heads to their temples, bleached and all. People generally did not like them and they were often ostracized, due to their patron of choice—what with Gorgorod being the cause for the Great Cataclysm many centuries ago.

“That was anticlimactic,” Damon muttered, wrenching Alastair from his musing.

Damon stood there, staring at his own hand as a whirling cloud of golden dust slowly spun around his form. “I’d expected more of a flashy show of lights, maybe I’d hover over the ground for a bit, but that was… eh.” He stared at the spear and shrugged, before turning to look at Alastair. “Even the spear agrees with me on this one.”

“Did you consume it?” Alastair asked, eyeing the flowing haze of golden dust around his friend. “What happened? Do you feel any different? Do you feel stronger?”

“Well, it did exactly what my system said it would do,” Damon muttered as he reached down and grabbed a stone with his left hand. He held it in his palm, before making a fist. Damon opened his hand again, and all that remained of the stone was a handful of dust.

“Impressive,” Alastair said.

Damon smirked. “I couldn’t do that before, I’m sure. I think it definitely worked!”

“Well, that’s good.” Alastair pointed at the gathered monster parts. “Now, you can carry all of that back to the village! Since, you know, we didn’t exactly bring a pack mule. We can use your newfound strength to good use, yeah?”

Damon turned and blanched. “You mean… all that?”

Alastair smiled. “That’s right.”

As Damon groaned and started to gather what he could, Alastair approached the small mound of monster parts and picked up the smallest of them—a fragment of the Primal Goliath’s fingernail. He stared at it for a moment, without activating his Appraise ability, when a new prompt suddenly appeared.

Would you like to place this item in your Inventory? Yes/No

Alastair blinked and leaned back. The system has an inventory function?

Shrugging, Alastair thought that ‘Yes’ he would like to place this item in his Inventory.

Almost instantly, the fingernail fragment, which was about the size of a small plate, disappeared from his hand.

Item has been added to your Inventory: Primal Goliath Fingernail Fragment x1

Alastair blinked. Open Inventory!

Inventory:

- Primal Goliath Fingernail Fragment x1

“Well, that’s certainly convenient,” Alastair said, before turning to Damon. “Hey, my System has an Inventory function that can store things in it. Try using yours. Maybe we can just walk out of this forest, without having to carry anything, yeah?”

Damon nodded and picked up the Primal Goliath’s eyeball. He stared hard and long at the monster part, before shrugging and placing it back right on the pile. “It’s not working for me. I’m not sure what’s wrong. I have an Inventory function, but I can’t seem to store any of this stuff.” Damon turned toward the Black Dragon’s Spear in his hand and his eyes widened. “I can store this thing in my inventory. There’s a prompt, asking me if I want to. Should I try it?”

“Eh, go on and see what happens,” Alastair said, but was inwardly rather curious to see just what would happen if Damon inventoried the weapon. Would it disappear from view instantly, like the Primal Goliath’s Fingernail? Would it slowly fade?

Doing just that, Alastair’s eyes widened when his creation, the Black Dragon’s Spear, simply disappeared from Damon’s grip as though it was never there to begin with and he had been just hallucinating the whole thing.

Damon’s grin threatened to tear apart his face. “I did it! I can’t hear that thing’s voice anymore. Thank the gods for that!”

Alastair sighed. “Well, I think your inventory can only store weapons for some reason.”

He then turned and grinned at the sight of the monster parts. Having an inventory sure made things way easier. With a simple tug of his mind, all the monster parts disappeared and reappeared in his inventory—blood and all.

Alastair laughed under his breath. “Well, I guess we won’t be carrying anything back to the village.”

* * *

“Put it on the table, over there, beside the vest,” Alastair said, pointing at a table, filled with Kaelos’ non-funded creations, mostly things the old man did in his free time. They ranged from rings, bracers, anklets, kitchen knives, plates, and even a few gardening tools, used to plow open the earth.

Damon came over and laid down a pile of metal ingots on the table.

“All set!” he said, smiling as he took several steps back, dusting his hands all the while. “We’re lucky this place survived that monster’s attack… Well, mostly. Some of your skills won’t work without metal, right? This place is just full of it! Huh, now that I think about it, I’ve never really visited this place before. Old man Kaelos really gave me the creeps.”

Alastair nodded, humming as he approached the table and grabbed a single, metal ingot that was about a foot in length and three inches in width and diameter. “Right, I’m going to test some of my skills.”

He stared into the piece of steel. The rectangular lump of metal was likely enough to create a great sword. And so he thought of that weapon as he activated his skill.

Forge!

The ingot was suddenly engulfed in bright, crimson flames.

Alastair panicked for a moment, before he realized the flames were, in fact, cold. Sweat ran down the sides of his face as he sighed. “Well, that’s a relief.”

In the next moment, the steel ingot elongated, flattened, and took on the shape of a great sword as Alastair had imagined it. And he then discovered…

…that he had a terrible imagination.

The weapon, if it could even be called that, was blunt and bent and curved at odd angles that would have made it utterly useless. It lacked a pommel, and the handguard was too thick.

Damon chuckled. “Yeah, we could probably chuck that down a monster’s throat and hope it chokes on it and dies.”

Alastair groaned and eyed his second creation.

Appraise!

[Great Sword of Utter Failure]

Quality: Shoddy

Value: 3

Durability: 10/10

This ‘weapon’, if it could even be called that, is only vaguely useful for killing things in the sense that it could maybe be used to bludgeon someone to death, unless—of course—it doesn’t fall apart in its user’s hands first.

Alastair flinched at the item’s description. “Hey, is it just me or is the system really snarky at times?”

“No, it’s just you. Mine’s really polite.”

“Huh, well.” Alastair raised the sword to his eye-level and sighed rather heavily. “Well, I have another skill I’d like to use on this failure of a weapon.”

“Go ahead,” Damon said, turning away and walking into the stock room, where Kaelos kept a lot of… stuff. Honestly, Alastair wasn’t sure what the old man kept in that place, since he never went there.

Staring into the hunk of misshapen metal that vaguely resembled a sword, Alastair activated his next ability.

Shape!

The weapon shuddered and groaned as Alastair’s skill bent it into a somewhat usable shape. The blade straightened and tapered, gaining more mass at its center, where the metal retreated into. The handguard visibly thinned, its mass transferring to the handle, which lengthened considerably. A round, featureless pommel appeared at the end of the handle. All in all, the useless great sword had become a great sword that could probably pass for an actual weapon that, while lacking a master’s touch, could be used in combat.

Maybe.

Appraise!

[Great Sword That Used to be a Failure, But is Now So-So]

Quality: Common

Value: 10

Durability: 100/100

This sword was once a useless piece of steel that has been transformed into a somewhat ordinary blade that is just mediocre enough to be labeled as an actual weapon. It’s not great, but it’s not bad either.

“Yeah, this system’s definitely snarky,” Alastair sighed and threw the weapon away. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

Damon walked out of the stockroom, carrying a metal arbalest. Alastair’s old one had fallen off the cliff when he leapt down to avoid the Primal Goliath. To think the old man had kept another one in his stockroom.

Damon smirked.  “Hey, look at what I found!”

Alastair smiled. Ranged weapons suited Alastair best. Damon was the one who preferred to fight in melee—up close and personal.

“Put it on the table, over there,” Alastair said. “I want to use a skill on it.”

Damon nodded and placed the arbalest on the table, setting it next to the pile of ingots. It was larger than the last one by a fair bit. Its whole frame, even its arms, was made entirely of steel—dusty and grimy.

Alastair eyed the weapon.

Appraise!

[Steel Arbalest lvl 5]

Quality: Unique

Value: 5,000

Durability: 2,989/3,000

A steel arbalest, created by Kaelos the Blacksmith. You will not find many arbalests quite like this one. As the Magnum Opus of a deceased artisan, this weapon contains a sliver of its creator’s soul.

“Woah,” Alastair ran a hand across the arbalest’s surface, over its smooth metal frame to its arms, and its handle. The weapon was perfect! He then ran a quick check of his inventory and pulled out the Primal Goliath’s eyeball, setting it on the table, right beside the arbalest.

[Primal Goliath’s Eyeball]

Quality: Uncommon

Value: 3,000

The eyeball of a Primal Goliath. With it, the creature was able to see vast distances with extreme accuracy, in search of its prey. This item may be used to enchant another item.

“Let’s try this, then.” Alastair grinned, before closing his eyes. “Damon, you might want to see this.”

“Alright,” Damon muttered, walking up right beside him and looking over the table. “What are you about to do?”

“Just this….” Alastair’s voice trailed off. He wasn’t quite sure how this was supposed to work in real life and neither was he sure of what he was supposed to be expecting. But he needed to experiment.

Imbue!

The weapon and the eyeball glowed for a moment, before slamming into each other. Alastair caught sight of the arbalest as it morphed, before a ghostly, white light engulfed the weapon, setting alight the otherwise gloomy smithy.

The light dissipated after a few seconds, revealing the transformed weapon.

The arbalest looked mostly the same, save for the tufts of white hair that had appeared on its arms’ flat surface, alongside a yellow eye at the very front of the weapon that, thankfully, was not looking around as though it was sapient.

Appraise!

[The Guiding Eye of Piercing Winds]

Quality: Unique

Value: 10,000

Durability: 10,000/10,000

Any and all bolts fired from this arbalest will always fly straight, undeterred and unaffected by weather or foliage. It is, however, still affected by gravity.

Alastair grinned as he grabbed the weapon. This was exactly what he needed—a weapon to truly call his own. He had always been a terrific shot, better than everyone else in the village, at least. But, with this enchanted weapon, he’d be capable of so much more.

“Hey, Damon, are you up for a life of adventure?”

Damon grinned back. “Do you even have to ask?”

“Good,” Alastair said, pointing toward a stack of steel and iron ingots—hundreds of them, ready to be reshaped and forged into weapons of war or just armor pieces. “Now, bring those over. We’ll be here a while.”

Damon nodded and began carrying the ingots to his work table.

First, Alastair began by crafting daggers of all kinds, each with differing shapes—whatever his mind could conjure. He built hook-shaped knives, jagged-edged knives, flanged knives—anything and everything. With his skill, Weld, Alastair jammed two daggers together to form abominable things that his system didn’t even recognize as weapons, mangled monstrosities of metal as they were. The skill itself didn’t appear to be all that useful, in his opinion.

After that, he melted them all down into ingots, and that taught him something interesting. He couldn’t inventory anything that could vaguely be considered a weapon, but Damon could. Instead, he could inventory anything that could vaguely be considered a crafting material, such as ingots and tools.

After concluding his experiment with the daggers, Alastair moved on to making real weapons.

Maces and spears came first. Both were easy to shape and easy to forge, even easier to correct and perfect whatever mistakes popped up or were pointed out by either his system or Damon’s. Maces were especially easy, given that their purpose was to bludgeon and not slice or stab. All he had to do was balance them right and that was that. Spears were a little more complex, but were ultimately very simple things that only barely worked his creativity—just add a pointy bit at the end of a long stick and there you have a functional spear.

Next came the swords and daggers, the more complicated forms of weaponry. Despite the ease with which he was able to create or forge such things, Alastair knew very little about their actual creation. Kaelos, his teacher, never taught him the art of forging weapons. He could fix garden hoes, kitchen knives, iron pots and pans, and whatnot, but creating weapons—enchanted ones at that—was all new territory for him.

The real challenge began when Alastair started using his skill, Imbue, to create entirely new things—objects of wonder—and to learn how the bloody thing actually worked.

At least, that’s what he wanted.

Minutes turned to hours as the night wore on without cease. Damon helped where he could, but his friend knew next to nothing about the forge and how to operate it, and so ended up falling asleep on a nearby bench. With only the stars to keep him company, Alastair spent the long hours of the dark of the night crafting, shaping, welding, and creating… for such was his fate.

And, by the end of it, Alastair was no closer to understanding the inner workings of his most powerful skill, but had created an arsenal that could arm the whole of Larisa twice over.

Eh, it’s only the first day…

Alastair promptly fell unconscious.

Chapter 4

Alastair realized that he had nearly forgotten about the 1,000 Pollentias he’d received from awakening the Black Dragon’s Spear. He then spent an hour or so, debating to himself about where he’d like to spend it. Ultimately, Imbue was his most powerful and most versatile skill, giving him the ability to enchant and alter weapons. However, it was also something that he needn’t use a bunch of Pollentias on in order to level it up. The option just wasn’t there to begin with. In fact, he wasn’t sure just how he was supposed to upgrade the skill.

Among his basic skills, however, Alastair noted that both Forge and Shape possessed immense potential, right after Imbue, of course. The two skills complemented each other: when Forge failed, Shape could simply alter and fix any mistakes. Upgrading both would cost him all his available Pollentias, but it wasn’t as though he had many other options to choose from. Then again, he could apparently upgrade his Crafter level, which was yet another aspect of his system he didn’t fully understand. So, for now, he’d leave it alone and experiment with it when he had the Pollentias to spare. As for his other basic skill, Weld, didn’t seem all too useful—at least from his initial impression of it.

Right, I choose to upgrade Forge and Shape!

Skills, [Forge] and [Shape], have reached level 2!

Forge (lvl 2)—Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 74% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 15% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 8% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 3% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

Shape (lvl 2)—Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract 5% of its total mass; you cannot add any mass. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

Hmm, Shape still would have been immensely useful without the upgrade, he thought. So, this skill will likely be taking precedence, right after Forge, since that skill will allow me to make weapons, which I can then enchant with Imbue.

Nodding to himself, Alastair returned to his attention to the long road ahead.

Damon walked in front of him, his white cape swaying in the breeze. Trees flanked them on both sides, tall blades of grass, and the occasional shrub. The sky was open and clear, and the sun was up and about, shining its golden rays over them. It was a good day for a long walk. Considering their destination, Alastair and Damon would be up for a very long walk, indeed.

He kept his word, of course, and used Imbue to create an item that was both useful and fetching for Damon, the Cape of Primal Fortitude.

[Cape of Primal Fortitude]

Quality: Uncommon

Durability: 10,000/10,000

Value: 15,000

This cape has inherited the nigh-indestructibility of a Primal Goliath’s skin. The item is highly resistant to cutting, slashing, and piercing attacks, but does nothing to nullify blunt force. The item is also slightly flame resistant.

All in all, it was the perfect item for Damon to wear. He had taken the role of the frontline fighter and, thus, required far more protection than Alastair would ever need. Of course, that wasn’t the only thing Alastair ended up making or bringing. As Damon inventoried anything that vaguely resemble weapons or armor, Alastair had taken it upon himself to create as many weapons as he possibly could, using whatever leftover steel ingots there were in Kaelos’ smithy. They had axes, maces, daggers, and swords all stored in Damon’s inventory, while Alastair himself kept all the available crafting ingredients—coal, silver dust, and all the monster parts they still hadn’t used, including the Primal Goliath’s other eyeball. The latter had been partially destroyed when the pair had fought the monster, but it still registered as a crafting item, so Alastair had kept it in his inventory. So, if the need arose, he would be able to craft new things.

Though, Alastair still was not quite sure how his system worked in that regard. Specifically, he wasn’t sure how Imbue worked. He knew it allowed him to create powerful enchanted artifacts, but it didn’t seem as though he had any control in what kind of artifact was created.

“How far are we to Varthens?” Damon’s sudden query broke Alastair out of his musings. He stopped and briefly eyed their surroundings.

It was morning, about four hours before noon. The sun had just risen, and the grasses were wet with dew. The road itself sported a much darker hue of gray than what was normal, likely due to the brief, but powerful bout of rain that’d occurred in the night. The tall mountains they’d grown accustomed to that loomed over Larisa were nowhere to be found. Instead, what stood and towered around them was a seemingly endless expanse of fig, laurel, pine, and olive trees, among other plants Alastair didn’t recognize. Ahead of them, the road seemingly led to nowhere, the path disappearing as it rounded a shrubby hill.

They were definitely out in the middle of nowhere, but the fact that they were still following the road meant they weren’t too far out from civilization—maybe.

“We’re probably near the coast,” Alastair replied, “about ten miles or so to the west of us, which means Varthens is two or three days away?”

He was just guessing, of course. Neither of them had been outside of Larisa. They had both lived in their tiny village their whole life. Sure, Alastair was saving up money to eventually move to the nearest city for a better chance at life when Larisa eventually imploded, but he’d never been to Varthens. Although, he had heard plenty of rumors about it from the merchants who stopped in Larisa, rumors and whispers of trouble between adventuring groups and clans, of strife between the local elites, and of corruption in the city’s ruling class. He’d heard a bunch more rumors, but he ultimately knew very little about Varthens, save for whatever he had heard from strangers.

Damon hummed, raising an eyebrow as he turned. “That doesn’t fill me with confidence, because I’m pretty sure that’s what you said three days ago.”

A frog croaked on the side of the road. The wind blew and whistled as it passed over them.

Alastair groaned. “Right… Wait, let me think,” he muttered, before walking up to the nearest tree, which happened to be a fig tree, and leaning against its trunk. “I don’t think we’re lost, but I’m honestly unsure. Neither of us have been outside of Larisa and this map—”

Alastair held up the old map he found amongst his grandfather’s old trunk, filled with an assortment of things that were either rusted or falling apart. However, he did find, tucked away in his grandfather’s notebooks and charts, a map that detailed the Southwestern portion of the Middle Kingdom—a map that happened to include lonely old Larisa at the very bottom of it, nestled away in the woods and mountains, far from civilization.

“—this map may not be as accurate as I thought,” Alastair sighed.

There were three roads that diverged from Larisa. One road, according to his grandfather’s map, would lead to the city of Maris, a coastal town that grew rich and decadent after gaining control over the production and distribution of fish in the entirety of the southern regions. Another path led to Maredon, a large city that stood near the banks of the river Propontis. The final road, which they both had taken, led them to the town of Varthens, the city that was closest to Larisa, known for having many different kinds of adventurers—although Hunters and Slayers supposedly weren’t fond of this place, precisely because of this.

In hindsight, there might have been a chance that they might not have taken the right road.

Damon chuckled and sighed. “Alright, in the spirit of adventure, let’s keep going and see where it’ll lead us!”

Alastair almost protested, but held himself back at the last moment. There was some merit to Damon’s idea, the more he thought about it. They were aiming to become adventurers, were they not? The whole point of the profession was in the name itself: adventure. Besides, whatever city they happened to end up in, there would always be an Adventurer’s Guild they could sign up with.

It’s just like in father’s stories. Country boys leaving their homes and becoming adventurers, gaining fame and fortune, becoming the heroes of the people as they drive away evil and monsters.

“Ah, fine, why in the hells not?” Alastair smiled and pointed at the road. They could, after all, save Larisa, while having a lot of fun in the meantime. “Forward it is then—forward till we reach something.”

“Though…” Alastair turned and eyed the trees.

The roads themselves were safe up to a few miles around, before the woods thickened and came to life. Monsters and dark creatures lingered in the deep forests, always waiting and watching for opportune moments. They were safe for now, but there was no telling how safe they would be the more they ventured on. All they had to do to stay safe was follow the road.

“Let’s just stick to the road,” Alastair said. “We shouldn’t stray too far for any reason, alright? We’re not strong enough to deal with powerful monsters just yet, and the deep woods might just be home to things even worse than the Primal Goliath.”

Damon nodded grimly.  “I know…” His eyes were distant as he spoke. “We were lucky to get out of that one alive. Sure, we’re now a lot stronger because of it, but I’m not sure we can take on another one of those overgrown monkeys and live. We have to get stronger.”

Alastair smiled. “Let’s go forward, then.”

They continued their journey. Minutes turned to hours and hours eventually turned to days as the skies turned from blue to black and the stars appeared again and again. It was on the fourth day that Alastair’s suspicions were confirmed: they weren’t heading to Varthens. Through an approximation and plenty of guesswork with the aid of his grandfather’s outdated map, Alastair figured they were probably headed straight to Maredon, the farthest route they could have possibly taken out of the three. The city was nearly two weeks away on foot.

Four more days passed until the two decided to make camp at the base of a nearby plateau, where the grass was thin and the woods did not linger. A tributary of the river Propontis ran westward, just a few hundred yards away from their base site. While neither of them could ever call themselves rangers or woodsmen, Alastair and Damon knew enough about the outdoors to know that this was the perfect place to make camp—relatively speaking, of course.

The full moon shone brightly in the night sky as Alastair summoned some of the remaining Primal Goliath skin. This remaining portion of the monster’s skin he painstakingly tanned into leather and then shaped to become a suitable tent flap. Damon summoned the spears that would hold the monster’s skin up, forming the frame with which to pitch the tent flaps. The bed was made of skin from the Primal Goliath’s back, where the fur was softer and shorter. Still, it had to be extensively washed to get rid of the smell and then promptly doused in the juices of pressed fragrant flowers. Fortunately for them, all of that seemed to work splendidly as the fur spread no longer carried a foul smell.

Alastair sat in front of their campfire, holding up to skewers, filled with onions and salted meat, over the flames, when Damon arrived from foraging in the woods, carrying a handful of mushrooms and figs.

“Do you think a bunch of monsters might show up to attack us in the middle of the night?” Damon asked as he sat down and set the mushrooms and figs on a flat stone plate, which he handed over to Alastair, who was the better cook between the two of them. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, right? There might be some odd creatures that go bump in the night.”

“Are you talking about ghosts?” Alastair asked with a knowing grin.

Damon paled as he turned left and right, eyes wide with fright.

Alastair chuckled. “You’re seriously still afraid of ghosts, huh?”

Damon nodded profusely, still eyeing the shadows between the trees. “I swear I saw a ghost in my grandma’s old house! That thing’s haunted my mind for years! Oh hells. Do you think it might’ve followed me here?! Oh dear gods—”

Alastair threw a raw onion at Damon. “Relax, there are no ghosts here. But, as for an actual answer to your previous question, I don’t really think we’ll be approached by monsters here. We’re too close to the road, and those creatures are not dumb enough to linger near human settlements.” He stared into the night and couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was. “Hmm… honestly, the chances are low, but not zero. We’ll just have to keep an eye out, okay?”

Larisa was a perfect example of a place that should have been safe from monsters. And where’d that safety get them when a Primal Goliath wandered into town and started eating everyone? Their village had lost its fangs, forgotten its roots and heritage. Their ancestors were Hunters, the killers of monsters and dark creatures. They should have been prepared, but they were complacent, instead. And they lost many lives because of that.

Alastair and Damon wouldn’t be making the same mistake.

Damon nodded and somehow gulped down a whole onion, without much trouble. Alastair handed him a skewer, which he gladly accepted. The wind suddenly picked up, blowing past them, howling like a banshee. The trees danced and their leaves rustled. The shadows grew and crept around them. The moon shimmered in the distant sky, slightly obscured by a stream of clouds.

“Something about this place is giving me the creeps,” Damon said. “I just have this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s telling me something’s about to go wrong.”

His statement lingered in the air for a moment, before Alastair sighed and took a bite out of his skewer, wincing at the temperature of the meat as it met his tongue.

“Ah, that’s hot. Anyway, if something does happen, we’ll just have to deal with it. Come on, we’ve already dealt with a monster like that ape. Unless a dragon suddenly swoops in, we can probably fight off or kill most of the monsters we’ll encounter around here.”

Alastair absently glanced up at the sky, praying he hadn’t jinxed himself by mentioning a dragon of all things.

When nothing happened, he sighed. “Anyway, don’t worry too much, Damon. Between the two of us, there’s nothing we can’t handle—or kill, whatever works best!”

Damon nodded, before eating his meal.

Their night went on peacefully. Damon practiced his spear movements and positioning, just outside their tent, alternating between the numerous weapons in his inventory—swords and maces and the like.

Inside the tent, Alastair drew up new designs for weapons, armor, and other wondrous items. He made three maces, improving the design each time. Eventually, he began to consider more exotic weapon designs.

What would happen if I imbue a dagger with the remaining Primal Goliath’s eyeball? Alastair wondered. We still have plenty of its skin. We’ve only used up about a third of the whole thing. I could probably imbue full plate armor with it and see what happens—though, it’d probably just increase the armor’s overall durability and resistance to damage. Huh, can I imbue an ordinary item with an enchanted one? But then… that’s not what the skill says, at all. I wonder if human parts can—

Suddenly, a hoarse, feminine scream broke the silence, chilling their bones.

His ears perked up. Almost instantly, Alastair rushed out of their tent and turned toward the source of the scream. Damon stood outside, holding the Black Dragon’s Spear at the ready, waiting for a monster to come rushing out of the woods.

Alastair scanned the area. “It’s coming from the southwest, probably on the other side of this plateau.”

“Is that a person or a monster that’s pretending to be a person?” Damon asked.

Alastair had to pause at his friend’s very fair and very valid question.

His great-great-grandfather’s journals briefly touched upon strange, bird-like monsters called harpies. It was said that they bore the bodies of beautiful women, except their arms were more akin to wings, and their legs like those of eagles. And it was said that they would take men from their homes and forcefully copulate with them, before devouring their flesh and bones.

The only problem was that there shouldn’t be any harpies in this region of the Middle Kingdom. The bird-women lived in the high mountains of northwestern Molvos.

Alastair shook his head. “We should probably check. Although there are a few monsters which are capable of mimicking human voices and speech, none of them live around here, as far as I know.”

Damon snorted. “Yeah, that’s what people thought about monsters not existing anymore around Larisa, too.”

“That’s a fair point,” Alastair answered. Something about their conversation was feeling a little off. “But, what if it’s a woman who happens to be in need of help? Do you really just want to walk away?”

“No, but, hey, why are you suddenly the heroic one, now?” Damon frowned.

“Isn’t this the whole point of becoming adventurers?” Alastair said, grabbing his arbalest, the Guiding Eye of Piercing Winds, from within the tent and placing it on his back. “I seem to recall you wanting to save damsels in distress when we were younger. Why don’t we do it now?”

Damon’s frown suddenly became a grin. “You got me there. Let’s go.”

They journeyed through the forest, under a blanket of shadows and stars. The scream echoed a few more times. It never came again, though, and silence reigned in the woods as they followed the scream to its source. They ran for what felt like over an hour until they reached the site of a basecamp that seemed to have been very recently abandoned.

Alastair was out of breath, his chest heaving from the effort of running for so long. Damon, however, had barely broken a sweat.

The fire pit was still smoldering, though much of it was ashes. The tent hadn’t been disassembled and was, instead, strewn about on the soil, tattered and broken apart, as though it’d been set upon by a pack of wolves. Footprints lay scattered all over the ground, which might have indicated some kind of fight or struggle. The trees around the camp lay unbroken and undisturbed, and there was no blood anywhere.

Once Alastair had caught his breath, he crouched down and grabbed a shoe, one that clearly belonged to some noblewoman as it was studded with gold and silver.

Damon walked up right beside him, whispering, “I don’t think monsters did this.”

Alastair stood up and tossed the shoe onto the ground.

Damon was right. This was no monster attack.

Alastair frowned, unholstering his arbalest and loading a single bolt into its chamber. “Bandits did this. They must’ve tracked down and attacked a bunch of rich folk—probably merchants.”

“Should we intervene?” Damon seemed unsure.

To be honest, Alastair wasn’t quite sure about what he wanted to do, either. Fighting powerful monsters and dark creatures was one thing. Fighting and possibly killing fellow humans was something else entirely. Alastair wasn’t even sure if he was brave enough to take the life of a person, even a criminal.

People were people. Monsters were monsters.

“I…” Alastair trailed off as his eyes followed the footprints that lead deeper into the woods.

He gulped and paled.

Indecision gripped him. Should they go after them and potentially have to take the life of fellow humans? This wasn’t like the Primal Goliath. The monster was a wild beast that needed to be put down for the good of everyone—not a sapient person, who might have had a family, friends, or people who cared for them.

Sure, they were criminals, but who was he to take their lives?

“I… I don’t know what to do,” he whispered mostly to himself.

For the first time, Alastair wasn’t sure about doing the right thing.

But then… this was bound to happen, right?

As adventurers, they would have been called in to deal with bandits, right? They would eventually be forced to take someone’s life, right?

People did that all the time in the Middle Kingdom. Folk died every day, whether through sickness, murder, war, or even monster attacks. Why was this so much harder than it should be? They were bandits, weren’t they? They were the scum of the earth, hated by all. They stole and looted and robbed, and even murdered. They were criminals, who deserved the noose and the block. They deserved to die, didn’t they?

Hells, why is this so hard? His hands shook, and his breath hitched.

Would he really have to take the life of another human being?

The feminine scream echoed again.

With that sound, all his questions and moral hand-wringing fled. He knew what he had to do, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it.

Heroes really were stupid, huh?

Chapter 5

Alastair and Damon raced through the woods, following the footprints which led them closer to where they’d heard the scream. The footprints themselves seemed rather linear. Not a single attempt was made to cover up or hide anything, which meant the bandits were in a haste to scurry away. They hadn’t killed anyone, it seemed, which meant they likely wanted to kidnap their victims for ransom, which also meant said victims were probably very rich people.

Were they nobles, perhaps?

But what would a bunch of nobles be doing this far from a city?

Nobles almost never left their lands and, when they did, it was never for good reason. And, in the very unlikely chance that a noble did leave their manor, they would be accompanied by a personal army, which meant the chances of them ever getting kidnapped were practically zero.

The victims, then, probably weren’t nobles. The only other class of people who were rich enough to warrant a ransom was the merchant class. They were rich and powerful, true enough, but not to the same extent as the nobles. They didn’t have armies or massive plots of lands, and neither did they command a level of respect that warranted the attention of anyone truly high up in the food chain.

Alastair frowned as he glanced at a particularly heavy boot print. Why would anyone make camp in the middle of nowhere? They were so far from the roads that their camp was almost nearing monster territory. What were these people doing there?

A quick investigation of the ruined basecamp had revealed nothing, just a few camping materials and trinkets that were left behind in the aftermath of the attack. Damon found the broken remains of what appeared to be a tiara, but it could have been a part of some other elaborate item. Rich people had weird tastes, after all. Whatever answers or clues they were hoping to find in the remnants simply weren’t there.

Either way, Alastair had rushed to place all the items he could find into his inventory before leaving. If the merchants were still alive when they found them, then he could return them. If not… Well, he might have tried to be a good person, but he wasn’t beyond profiting from the dead—rings, bracelets, earrings, and all sorts of accessories were sent into his inventory as crafting ingredients.

And so Alastair and Damon pushed on, deeper and deeper into the forests until the shadows themselves seemed to come to life. Out of the corner of his eye, Alastair spotted a humanoid figure, wreathed in black, just standing there, before he’d turn and the figure would disappear immediately as though it was never there to begin with. Alastair shook his head, wheezing softly as Damon steadily ran in front of him.

Even before he’d been given his Fate, Damon was already athletic. He had once carried an injured donkey from one end of the village to the other and, even then, he barely broke a sweat, boasting to the village women how he could carry them from the tavern to their homes anytime they’d like.

Yeah, that’s right, Alastair thought, distract yourself with random thoughts until you forget about the horror of having to possibly kill a fellow human being. Alastair sighed and eyed his friend, wondering if Damon felt the same way.

As far as he knew, neither of them had been exposed to violence as children. Everyone in the village knew everyone else and, if they weren’t already friends, were familiar acquaintances. The other kids never raised their hands against them when they were children, and whatever quarrels they had were quickly resolved by simply talking them out.

Sure, there were a few neighbors Alastair dreamed of murdering, but he would never really kill Mr. Robins, just because his singing was atrocious and no one seemed to call him out on it. Seriously, why couldn’t his wife warn him about it, instead of encouraging him? Everyone in the village would have been able to sleep better, without good ol’ Mr. Robins’ howling in the middle of the night.

Again with trying to distract yourself, Alastair thought. Keep your mind on the present, damn it!

They reached the edge of the tree line and stopped immediately as Damon, who was more than ten feet ahead of Alastair, held up a single hand and gestured at both his eyes, before pointing at something in the clearing.

Nodding, Alastair stalked forward to the edge of the tree line. He climbed a nearby olive tree, its thick leaves preventing him from seeing much save for the very clear and very obvious campfire blazing at the center of the clearing. Surrounding it was a row of haphazard tents. Men in tattered armor lingered about, talking, eating, or even sleeping. Alastair counted around twenty of them.

At the far end of the camp was what appeared to be a wooden pen. Inside, two figures, whose faces were covered in cloth rags, were tied up to a pair of stakes. One was distinctly female, if only for her gaudy clothes and distinct… bumps on her chest, while the other appeared to be a very wealthy man, judging by his protruding belly.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he eyed the captives. They didn’t appear to be merchants, after all, but nobles—for only they were allowed to dress in purple clothes.

Who are these people?

Alastair hopped down the tree and walked toward Damon. He considered sneaking around, but the bandits didn’t appear to be patrolling and neither did they seem to be alert about their surroundings. None of them even bothered to look out at the edges of their encampment. Even if they had done, in the dead of night, it would have been nigh-impossible to spot the two Fated as they circled the camp and stuck close to the shadows between the trees.

“How many of them are there?” Damon asked.

“I counted twenty,” Alastair answered. “Given the tents and the possibility of people sleeping in them, twenty seems like a safe enough guess.” He sighed. His friend had a grim look on his face as he stared at the camp. “Damon, what are you thinking? Because I really can’t tell…”

Damon sighed. “Neither of us have ever fought other human beings, and I’m afraid I might kill them. The spear is too deadly. It’d definitely just go through whatever weapons and armor they have. But I also can’t just compromise our safety, in exchange for theirs.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. Huh, I can’t believe he’s thought that far ahead.

In any case, Damon was right, which was precisely why Alastair was stuck in a dilemma for the last hour or so.

Could they kill if they had to? Sure, they brought along whatever weapons he’d think to make, back at old man Kaelos’ smithy, but spears, axes, maces, and a bunch of swords were all deadly, even without enchantments. The whole reason he even bothered making those things was because he wanted to practice using his skills as they traveled. All of them were lethal. He made sure of it.

He could craft blunted bolts, but blunt bolts weren’t any less deadly when loaded onto an enchanted arbalest. He could also fashion a bunch of clubs from the branches of nearby trees with his skill, Shape, but in Damon’s hands, blunt weapons may as well be swords. Alastair furrowed his brow. They were lacking non-lethal options.

Alastair sighed. “Listen, Damon. Those guys are bandits. They’ve captured those two people. They are planning to do gods-know-what to them. Probably sell them off for ransom, but they could always be planning worse. That’s the kind of thing that deserves death… doesn’t it?”

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or his friend.

Damon grunted, but otherwise nodded in agreement. “It does. I’m not sure I could fight them without killing them either. If I flicked one of them on the forehead hard enough, they’d probably die.”

With Damon’s immense increase in strength, following his ingestion of the Primal Goliath’s core, a single weak punch from him should be more than enough to dent and even break steel armor. The bandits only barely covered themselves in tattered armor that didn’t even look to be made of steel. Unless Damon learned to hold himself back, which was quite unlikely, then even fighting weaponless would leave behind corpses.

“If we fight them,” Damon continued, “then we’ll end up killing more than a few of them. I don’t think we can reason with those people, either. Damn it, why can’t they be goblins or something? That way, I wouldn’t have to be so conflicted about killing them.”

Alastair ran his hand across his face as he considered a plan. He turned to look at the camp once more. So far, nothing seemed to be happening. None of the bandits were torturing or harming the two prisoners. Both prisoners did not seem to sport any injuries on their person, but that was harder to accurately determine with how far away they were.

Sighing, Alastair spoke, “Okay, I have an idea.”

Damon’s eyes lit up. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“First of all, you have a skill that lets you move faster, right?” Alastair asked.

Damon nodded. Damon’s skill, Surge, allowed him to move far faster than normal. His explanation had been that it apparently doubled his existing Dexterity, which had already doubled after he ingested the Primal Goliath’s Core. In that state, Damon said he saw the world in slow motion, his eyes even keeping up with the wings of a fly as it flapped.

“The plan is simple: you summon one of the maces I created,” Alastair said, “and then I’ll use my skill, Shape, to get rid of its hard edges. After that, you march into their camp and start attacking, without killing them. I’ll use my arbalest from afar, while aiming for their arms and legs.”

Damon nodded. He summoned one of the three maces Alastair had made, a one-handed, flanged mace, and handed it over to Alastair. “Right, I can just break a few bones without having to kill any of them.”

Alastair nodded as he used his skill, Shape, to remove the flanges on the mace, turning it into a pear-headed mace, which—in hindsight—did little to take away its lethality. But, really, this was the best they could do, save for just walking away or talking to the bandits. The latter was something neither of them were keen on doing and the former never even crossed their minds.

Alastair returned the transformed mace. “Remember, don’t hit them on the head, unless you have no other option. Aim for their arms and legs, and don’t be afraid to break their bones. I’ll be helping you from afar.”

Damon nodded as he summoned the gigantic tower shield that Alastair had forged from nearly ten steel ingots. A normal human being would have been unable to carry the behemoth, a two-inch thick board of rectangular steel. But Damon, whose strength was far beyond normal, was able to wield it without hassle, though he preferred not to, since using shields was not his preferred fighting style.

Damon sighed as he stared at the camp, releasing a slow, heavy, weary breath.

Shaking his head, Alastair laid a reassuring hand on Damon’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright, Damon. We can do this. You can do this. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be right by the trees.”

Damon nodded and huffed, before walking out of the tree line and, much to Alastair’s shock, ran straight toward the camp. Wasting no time, Alastair quickly drew his arbalest and took aim. From Damon’s vector of approach, there were at least four bandits who were in the position of meeting him, though maybe only two of them would have time to draw their weapons or even call for help before Damon broke their bodies.

Alastair aimed for a bandit, who’d just seemed to notice Damon’s arrival. He unleashed a single bolt, which surged through the air and pierced right through the bandit’s knee. Before the man could even scream, Damon slammed his mace right into his gut. The bandit slumped over and fell, conscious, but definitely incapacitated. Damon rushed forward, thrusting with his mace as though it was a spear and smashing it into the torso of another bandit, causing the man to fall forward in a heap, clutching at his stomach.

“Intruder!” a bandit screamed, right before Damon broke both his legs with a single sweep of his mace. Another bandit attempted to tackle Damon, but his efforts were for naught as the Fated Hunter simply kicked him aside, sending his face crashing down on the ground.

“Captain! We have an intruder!”

Alastair loaded another bolt into the arbalest’s chamber just as the bandit camp finally noticed Damon’s presence. The men, who had been lounging and relaxing only a few minutes ago, scampered and scattered. Some of them appeared confused and fearful, others had been awoken harshly. Their response to Damon’s attack was slow and uncoordinated. They clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone.

“Kill him!” one of the bandits yelled.

Six of them rushed Damon.

Alastair took aim and unleashed a bolt that pierced right into a rushing bandit’s shoulder. The man screamed and dropped his own weapon, a metal club, right into his own face. Now, only five of them were able-bodied enough to attack. But Damon was faster than any of them as he simply ran off and circled around the camp.

“Where did he go?!” a bandit cried.

“Where in the hells did he go?!” another yelled.

They gathered amongst themselves, shaking and quivering in their boots as they turned and glanced and screamed curses at the wind.

This was almost pathetic, Alastair mused as he loaded another bolt into his arbalest’s chamber. It went to show just how much stronger Fated were when compared with regular humans.

The fact that the bandits were unable to even notice Damon’s movements indicated the reality that these were very normal humans with no magical abilities or talents. These ruffians were horribly outmatched. There was no chance of them fighting back.

Damon seemingly reappeared on the other side of the camp, near the hostages. For a moment, Alastair wondered if Damon was going to free them and just make a run for it.

Speaking of running, several bandits were already running for the trees, screaming about monsters and demons. A few of them even wet their pants, while others had no pants on at all. Alastair chuckled as he took aim and unleashed another bolt, piercing right into the knee of a heavily armored bandit, at least, relative to everyone else.

“The captain’s down!”

“There’s someone shooting from the trees!”

“Where in the blazes are our archers! Manfredd, get your ass over here and start using that stupid bow of yours!”

Alastair loaded another bolt, just in case someone spotted him from his perch atop an old olive tree, but kept his eyes on Damon, who, with his immense physical strength, bashed apart the pen with a single strike of his mace. The bandits all turned toward him, their senses having detected the loud noise that was created as a result of Damon’s attack. With their backs turned, Alastair unleashed another bolt into another bandit’s knee, who screamed and fell onto the ground, cursing and sputtering out gibberish.

Damon charged forward, shoulder-checking a bandit and sending him flying out of the camp. Faster than the mortal men could follow, Damon’s mace swung and cracked several knees and shoulders in rapid succession, sending most of them straight into the ground. A single bandit rushed him. This one was taller and bigger than the rest, but a single kick into the man’s groin was enough to end whatever aggression he had within him. The bandit captain was already on the ground. There were only two others left standing, but neither of them appeared to be in any mindset to fight.

Alastair smirked when the remaining bandits simply dropped their weapons, raised their hands, and went to their knees. And that’s my cue to show up.

He leapt off the tree, landed on the soil, and walked up to the bandit camp. He wiped the beads of sweat running down his brow as he counted out the men on the ground, wheezing and crying in pain. Let’s see… one, two, three, four… yeah, that’s all of them. And here I thought I’d have to kill someone. Phew! In a few years, they’ll be thankful that Damon only broke their knees and shoulders and didn’t take their lives.

It’s either that or their hearts fester for revenge. Alastair shrugged as he stepped over an unconscious bandit and walked toward Damon, who stood there, waiting for him. “Well… that was a lot easier than I expected. I thought we’d end up killing more than a few of them, but… I guess I just didn’t think this was even possible.”

Tonight has reminded me of my own inexperience. I panicked and assumed the worst, and even failed to think of something as simple as this! Alastair berated himself. Keep a level head, Alastair. You’ll both need it for the path ahead. Still… we succeeded, but… no… that’s not enough! I have to be better!

“I’ll go check on the hostages,” Damon said, before gesturing toward the injured bandits, wincing as he did. “Can you check if I went too far with some of them? I heard more than one bone pop and break, and I definitely just kicked a man in the nuts.”

“Ugh, yeah, sure,” Alastair shrugged and briefly eyed the bandit captain, who’d gone limp and pretended to be dead as Damon walked ahead toward the captives, who were panicking. The bags over their heads, preventing them from seeing anything, and the bandits who were screaming about monsters and demons likely did not aid in calming them down.

Alastair glanced around and released a sigh. Damon hadn’t killed anyone, though he definitely injured them quite severely.

“Alastair!” Damon’s voice broke through the whimpers and the moans of the downed bandits.

Alastair turned and saw Damon kneeling down and removing a gag from the captive woman’s mouth.

“I think this girl might be royalty!” Damon said. “She looks a lot like women in the paintings the Alderman had in his home.”

“What?”

Chapter 6

Before Alastair could say any more, or inquire further as to Damon’s startling revelation, there came a sound from behind him.

“Graaaah!”

Time slowed down as Alastair turned over his shoulder, eyes wide at the sudden bestial roar. A bandit rushed at him, a single arm held high, bearing a bearded axe, while the other hung limply to the side, his shoulder utterly broken and crushed. The man’s eyes were crazed and deranged, spittle and phlegm foaming from his mouth as though he’d ingested some nameless poison. The bandit screamed, his voice ragged and his words gibberish, but they were filled with malice and hatred

Alastair’s eyes widened as he turned and raised his arbalest as fast as he could, while the berserk man surged forward at near-inhuman speeds, driven by his madness and bloodlust.

There was no time to aim.

Alastair pulled the trigger and unleashed a single bolt. It whizzed and whistled through the air as it flew forward, undeterred by the wind. The deranged man’s head snapped backward, his neck cracking and popping, as the bolt pierced right into his forehead, killing him instantly.

+50 Pollentias!

The man fell backward onto the ground, eyes rolling to the back of his head just before he breathed out his last breath. With a thud, the bandit died, and it was in that moment that Alastair’s eyes widened with horror.

He dropped his arbalest, fell onto his knees, and froze.

What have I done?

“Alastair!” Damon appeared beside him, having placed a hand on his shoulder, even as the muffled cries of the bandits’ captives echoed behind him.

The world shuddered and heaved, all noises suddenly drowning out and trailing off. The last thing he heard was Damon’s voice, briefly piercing through the haze. “Alastair, are you alright?”

Cold sweat ran down the side of his face as his chest heaved up and down, his breaths short and shallow. His hands shook as he stared at the corpse and the bolt that was sticking out of its forehead. It wasn’t moving. Blood dripped down its head and pooled around it. It wasn’t moving. The bandit was dead. The man’s bloodshot eyes stared emptily into the sky.

It wasn’t moving.

He did this.

He killed a person—a human being.

He took the life of someone who might have had a family, who was waiting for them back home. A father, a brother, a husband, a son, and a cousin. This man could have been all of those things and he, Alastair, killed him, shot a bolt right into the man’s head and ended any hope he had of redemption.

I did this…

Alastair heaved once more, before lurching forward and hurled his dinner, the bitter, rancid taste sticking to his tongue, the acrid smell in his nostrils as he inhaled. There was a pat upon his back that slowly became a smooth, circular caress. Alastair glanced behind him and saw Damon. The world snapped, and all the noises suddenly returned.

“You alright, Alastair?” Damon asked.

Alastair shook his head and forced himself up on his feet, ignoring the lingering sense of dread at the pit of his stomach. He turned away from the corpse and pointed at the still-screaming captives.

Alastair wiped away the bile from the sides of his lips and on his chin, before speaking. “You said she might’ve been royalty, right?”

Damon nodded.

They walked forward toward the captives and swiftly removed their gags. The woman, whose hair blazed auburn under the moonlight and whose eyes glimmered like emeralds, sputtered and coughed as Damon bent down, summoned a dagger, and cut her bindings. She wore expensive clothing that had not been unraveled and ripped to shreds, which meant these bandits, at least, had a modicum of morality about them. She also appeared to be around Alastair and Damon’s age, somewhere between eighteen and twenty. Alastair couldn’t quite tell at a glance. She might have been older or younger, however. She was beautiful in a fragile sort of way. She was almost like a glass doll.

Then again, Alastair would readily admit that he was not an expert on feminine beauty—that was Damon’s realm.

What truly caught his attention, however, was the fact that she wore purple, a color worn only by high nobility, and that she wore a necklace, studded with rubies and diamonds, with an insignia of the royal family as its pendant—two serpentine dragons, coiling around a bundle of spears.

She gasped and nearly fell forward, before Alastair caught her in his arms. Tears streamed from her emerald eyes. “Oh, thank you so much for coming to my rescue!”

“Uh,” Alastair found himself unable to mouth any words. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to talk.

Their eyes met. She’s definitely royalty, but what’s she doing all the way out here? Shouldn’t the royal family be holed up in their palace in the capital?

The woman cried. Alastair did not have the heart to drop her. And so he bore with it and hoped it’d end soon.

“I don’t know why they attacked us or who sent them!” the woman cried. “No one was supposed to know of our presence!”

“It’s going to be okay, alright?” he said as soothingly as he could, even laying a placating hand on her back and tracing small circles over her dress. It seemed to work as the woman visibly calmed down, her tears slowing, even as she seemed to suck in her breath at random intervals. He’d never done this before. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. I promise. I’ll protect you. Don’t worry.”

The woman deflated and sank into his shoulder. Alastair glanced at Damon, who nodded back at him.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to have guests on their trek to Maredon, even if said guests were probably pompous, arrogant nobles. And these ones were likely from the royal family, though the fat man was probably just a servant, which meant they were probably ten times as pompous and arrogant as the other regular nobles.

But, looking at the woman, crying in his arms, Alastair did not see an arrogant noble—just a frightened girl, who needed his help.

And help her he would.

Because that’s what heroes do.

* * *

Alastair didn’t sleep a wink.

He stood watch over the girl through the evening, watching, waiting, and thinking. His eyes darted to and fro at every shadow, and his ears perked up at every noise. He sat and waited for more bandits to come after them, for a monster to come creeping out of trees, biting and gnashing its teeth. And his mind raced to figure out just what this royal, if she was indeed that, was doing out in the middle of nowhere, without an army around her person.

The woman had fallen asleep sometime during her crying. Alastair carried her back to their camp, while Damon carried the fat man, juggling him on occasion and comparing his weight to a leaf. They passed the remnants of the royals’ tattered tent and doused campfire, before heading off to their own camp. Alastair had half-expected a clan of coyotes or a pack of wolves to be pillaging or ransacking through their things when they arrived, but—to his surprise—everything appeared serene. Their camp looked the same as when they left.

Alastair and Damon decided to sleep out amongst the elements, while the royal woman would sleep in the tent.

They left her servant sprawled, near the campfire.

As the night wore on and Damon slept, Alastair found himself thinking. Who was that girl and what was she doing out here? Well, she was definitely someone from the royal family, but that didn’t mean she was someone high up. But that didn’t explain what she was doing all the way out here on the fringes of the Middle Kingdom.

And so he stood and watched over her for the entire night, keeping himself awake by using his skill, Shape, on a bunch of rocks and pebbles, turning them into rigid squares and stacking them atop each other to form towers. He continued doing so until the sun finally came up, over the distant mountains, revealing the looming ridges and ashen crags of the Charred Mountains. He turned to Damon and shook him by the shoulder. “Damon, wake up. We should move out soon. We can’t stay here for long.”

Damon awoke immediately, nodding, despite the drowsiness in his eyes.

Alastair yawned and walked toward their tent, where the royal woman slept through the night, before walking right in.

“Good morning, we’ll need to move out soon so—”

A shadow blurred toward him, and Alastair felt himself freezing at the sudden warm softness that engulfed and pressed into his lips. The woman’s emerald eyes stared into his own, like twin jewels, glistening under the sunlight. Up close, her face seemed so much prettier than he remembered, from the moonlit hue of her skin, to the freckles underneath her eyes. Something tugged at his chest.

Alastair stood frozen, even as the woman leaned back and smiled. “Thank you for saving me, kind sir. I’m sorry for not introducing myself when we met last night. I am Cthonia, princess of the Middle Kingdom, daughter of King Lycaos, and heir to the throne.”

Alastair blinked and suddenly found himself able to move again. He didn’t even know the king had a daughter—he knew so little about the hierarchy of the Middle Kingdom, since he was very very interested in politics. Even so, this revelation made a pit form in his stomach. He pushed away the very recent memory of his first kiss and moved on to more important matters.

He breathed in, and his thoughts froze again. Her scent reminded him of the lilacs that one grew outside the village, tended to by his mother, before her passing. He loved their sweet, but subtle smell.

He shook his head and bowed his head. Although, he was not quite sure if he should be bowing or not. He did what felt right. “I am Alastair of Larisa and over there is my friend, Damon…”

He trailed off when their eyes met, his thoughts briefly drifting back to their kiss, before he shook his head. “It’s not safe for us to linger here. Bandits aside, there are far worse things that might just wander into our camp. We should move out, Your Highness.”

Cthonia nodded. Alastair extended his hand, which the princess took, smiling. Her hands were soft, the hands of someone who had never worked a hard day in their entire life. Then again, all nobles were spoiled and pompous, content to let their servants do all the work, while they lounged in their manors, eating, drinking, and doing whatever it was they did when they weren’t throwing lavish feasts.

Alastair shook his head and guided her out the tent.

Outside, Damon had just woken the princess’ companion. Cthonia took a single step forward and yelled, “Ikathos, wake up! We’re heading to Maredon. I’m not setting another foot in the woods, again. Do you understand?!”

Ikathos nodded in panic as the princess approached him. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together. Alastair raised an eyebrow when tears started streaming from the man’s eyes, his face flushed red in anguish. Damon chuckled as he walked toward the tent and began storing the spears that held it up into his inventory, causing the tent flap to fall.

Ikathos writhed and pleaded. “Forgive me, my princess! I thought no one could have possibly followed us or knew about our passing! Please, forgive me! I beg you!”

Alastair shook his head as he turned, crouched down, and inventoried the tent flap. Damon eyed him with a lecherous smirk. Alastair hardly resisted the smile that was threatening to split his face apart.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that, you lucky bastard,” Damon said.

“Well,” he said with a grin, “don’t you dare think you’re the only one who’s good with women, yeah?”

Damon laid a hand on his chest, leaning back in mock hurt. “Oh, my boy is finally a man and he’s managed to snag the princess. The thought makes me cry tears of joy.”

Alastair shook his head and stood up. Neither the princess nor her manservant appeared to have noticed the sudden disappearance of their tent and the frames that kept it upright.

Damon turned and chuckled. “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine we’d be rescuing a princess, even by accident. Do you think… this is the will of gods?”

“I don’t know.” Alastair shrugged, taking a single step forward. He glanced at the sky and wondered if his patron god, Thorondoros, was watching him. The very idea of it made his heart stir with anger. “But I do not like the idea of some immortal, all-powerful bastard, pulling strings and making puppets of us all from behind the scenes. No offense to the gods, but I prefer to be the master of my own fate.”

Damon nodded. “Agreed.”

He walked off and approached the princess, who seemed to be in the middle of either berating or thrashing her servant. Alastair paused for a moment, eyeing her. She certainly was beautiful beyond belief, but a voice in his head told him to be wary of her—for underneath her beauty was something dangerous. “My lady, we should go. We shouldn’t waste what little daylight is available to us.”

Cthonia turned, huffed, and nodded, smiling at Alastair as she absently glanced at her servant. “Ikathos, we shall journey with these heroes. You will carry the… What happened to the tent?”

The princess blinked in surprise.

Damon walked up to Alastair’s left. “We inventoried it, Your Majesty. Alastair and I are Fated. He is the chosen of Thorondoros, God of Smiths and Craftsmen, while I am the chosen of Laracles, God of Hunters and Beasts.”

The princess’ eyes widened.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed.

Ikathos seemed to shrink, despite his clear and present bulk.

Damon didn’t seem to think he did anything wrong.

Alastair mentally grimaced.

He would have preferred to keep their status a secret from nobles or just powerful folk in general. These people were always engaged in their little political schemes, and the last thing he wanted was for him and Damon to get dragged into their petty squabbles. But, with the cat out of the bag, the only thing he could do was to accept it and move on. Denying Damon’s words, in front of the princess, would be an insult to his friend’s honor and he couldn’t have that.

Sighing, Alastair nodded, forcing a smile. The memory of his first kiss lingered. “We won’t have to carry anything, save for food and water, Your Highness.”

The princess nodded wearily, even her servant seemed deep in thought. With another sigh, Alastair turned and gestured for their royal guests to follow them out of the woods. At the back of his mind, Alastair wondered and worried for their future. Getting along with a bunch of suspicious nobles, no matter how beautiful the princess might have been, was not a good idea. But they were here now and their honor demanded they see her royal highness and her servant to safety.

They walked for several days, stopping each night to accommodate their guests. Cthonia and Ikathos were, strangely enough, able to match their pace if only barely. It became rather clear on the third day that the princess was pushing herself far beyond her limits. Her feet bled and bumps and bruises marred her soles.

But there was something else about her, too.

Despite her smiles and kind words, Alastair noted the immediate shift in the princess’s behavior the moment Damon blurted out their status as Fated. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was scheming somehow, because that’s how it always was with nobles—schemes and webs and plots of intrigue. It didn’t help that her presence in the woods was supposed to be a secret and she had been betrayed somehow. All of that stank of politics and of the cloaks and daggers that was all too common among nobleborn.

And so, Alastair remained suspicious of her, always keeping a single eye out to look over the princess.

The fact that her smiling face made his stomach flutter was not making things any easier. It was… weird, a woman of her stature and beauty, looking at him with those emerald eyes, instead of Damon, who was, by all accounts, the more attractive of the two. Alastair tried, repeatedly, to push away the very distracting thoughts—but failed, repeatedly. Her voice, her lips, her touch, her warmth, and her scent haunted his mind.

After nine days, they reached the city of Maredon.

Alastair breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that he would never have to see the princess ever again, once they entered the city and parted ways. Though, another part of him wished for her to linger by his side.

Ugh, I’m not even sure about what I want when it comes to her, he thought.

“Sir Alastair,” the princess called out to him just as they neared the city walls. Alastair turned and saw Cthonia jogging up to him, her dress in tatters, covered in dirt and grime, and yet her beauty did not wither or fade, despite the lack of baths the last few days. She might have smelled musty at this point, but that hardly mattered to him.

His breath hitched as she stopped in front of him, her emerald eyes capturing his own. “I have never thought to ask, but… what reward would you like from me?”

Alastair frowned. He hadn’t considered that there would be a reward for returning the princess.

“I am the princess of the Middle Kingdom,” she continued. “Though I do not possess my father’s power and influence, I can still reward the both of you richly! If you wish, I can even elevate you both to become nobles! I can grant you your own lands and titles. You will never have to risk your lives for coin ever again.”

Damon walked up beside Alastair, a single eyebrow raised.

They eyed each other for a moment, before both shrugged at the same time.

“Well, Your Highness, since you asked.” Alastair smiled. “It would bring us great joy if you granted us our adventuring licenses.”

Damon chuckled, scratching the back of his head as Cthonia’s eyes widened. She must have thought their request too banal or too simple, but, really, lordship seemed boring when compared to the life of adventures and action. Neither of them wanted to settle down in some lonely castle in the middle of nowhere, Damon least of all.

She could also become their adventuring sponsor if she wanted. Many adventurers were backed by nobles, who sponsored their forays into ancient ruins, paying for their supplies, weapons, and armor, and representing them during clan disputes. Sponsors were, in essence, incredibly advantageous for adventurers who had them. However, the thought of having the princess sponsor them, a bunch of nameless country bumpkins from the fringes of the Middle Kingdom seemed a bit far-fetched, even if they did save her life.

And the idea of becoming aligned with a certain political party irked Alastair to no end. Because that was the one con of having a sponsor: politics. And, above all else, Alastair hated politics and petty conflicts and plots and intrigue. He hated the secrecy and the corruption. The common folk suffered because of politics.

Cthonia grinned and nodded. “If that is all you would ask of me, then I shall grant it, my saviors! In fact, I would be honored to become your sponsor! You shall have gold! You shall have a lavish abode in this city! And your names shall be known throughout the kingdom!”

Damon swooned, his eyes glazing as his mind swam into a fantasy dreamworld.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. Why is she doing this? Why would she want to be our sponsor?

“But first...” Cthonia smiled, but her eyes darkened. She turned to Alastair, all mirth having departed her face. “We must talk—you and I. There’s a lot to be discussed, seeds to be sown. I need you, Alastair.”

His breath hitched.

“Meet me in my palace in two weeks,” the princess finished.

Chapter 7

“You haven’t slept in the last two days,” Damon said.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a fact.

“I’ll sleep eventually,” Alastair said. “Once I’ve gotten stronger.”

He sighed as he turned, knelt, took aim, and fired off a bolt into a charging goblin’s forehead. The four-foot tall, green-skinned creature tumbled backward, its bulbous head snapping with its neck as the bolt tore into its skull, killing it instantly. Alastair rolled forward, loading another bolt into his arbalest as he did. He stood, turned, and fired immediately at another charging goblin. The bolt rushed and zipped through the air, piercing right into the goblin’s sternum, breaking its spine as the creature let out a soft, pained wheeze and fell backward.

His eyes flickered left and right, but he found no immediate danger.

They were in a deep, dark cave, high up in the mountain of Morthog, forty miles north of Maredon. It used to be a mine, based on all the shafts and support beams, still holding the place together, but it was clear that no one had been mining in this place for a hundred years. Bones lay scattered near the entrance, likely older than both Alastair and Damon. The interior of the mine was lit up by a series of crystalline growths that jutted out of the walls, giving off an almost eerie, bluish light that shined just enough to illuminate nearly everything, sparing only a few shadows in places far from the crystals.

The Guild had issued a quest for all adventurers, beseeching their aid in cleansing the ancient mine of the goblins that lived there. Almost no one answered their call. The lower ranked adventurers were too afraid of venturing into the place, while the higher ranked ones didn’t find the prospect of a goblin cleanup to be worth their time. And so the quest had lingered in the Guild’s quest board for several months, until Alastair and Damon came and snatched the first quest order they saw… Well, Damon did the snatching, while Alastair did the reading afterward.

It had been… interesting, to say the least.

Alastair read about goblins in his great-great-grandfather’s journal. They were a race of short, green-skinned humanoids who were deceptively powerful and maliciously cunning. Many adventurers, strong and weak, had fallen to their ambushes and surprise attacks. The creatures were not impressive when fought one-on-one. However, their true power was said to be in their ability to coordinate amongst themselves, fighting as one, like a living horde, a single, massive organism that was composed of the goblins themselves.

The goblins were terrifying and dangerous for new adventurers, and yet they were too much of a nuisance for veterans.

And so,  Alastair had little qualms about their prospects when Damon had picked the goblin cleanup as their first quest.

There were a few hurdles, of course. The Fated pair were too fresh, too green, and the only thing anyone knew about either of them was that the princess vouched for them. The fact that she was their sponsor was enough to catch the envy of several adventurers.

The other thing that irked just about everyone else was the fact that Princess Cthonia had gone ahead and given them Golden Licenses, essentially elevating them far above just about everyone else in rank.

Adventurers were supposed to start with Stone Licenses, which denoted their skill and experience. To have two complete amateurs leap ahead to Golden Licenses was a spit on many veterans’ faces. Stone adventurers were supposed to work their way up the ladder, becoming Coppers in their first two years or so, Bronzes in their fifth years, Silvers in their eighth years, and Gold in their tenth years. After those ranks were Platinum, Diamond, and Mithril. Only living legends were given such Licenses.

Cthonia didn’t care. She had enough clout and enough gold to force the local Guild into obeying her demands.

Alastair argued against her, of course, citing the need for them to prove themselves to the Guild, first and foremost, before they could ever be granted the Golden Licenses. Damon was of absolutely no help in this regard, since the oaf very much adored his shiny license. However, Cthonia would have none of it and went ahead and did what she wanted to do.

Also, she dumped a huge manor in their hands, the house of an extinct noble family, whose heirs were said to have died in the Great Cataclysm, hundreds of years ago. The whole place probably cost more than all the houses in Larisa, combined.

She had grown on Alastair, she really had. A single smile from Cthonia was enough to soothe whatever agitation there was in his heart, and that was not a good thing. She was a politician and, though the thought left a weird flutter in his stomach, Alastair could not believe he was actually kind of maybe starting to like her.

Alastair sighed again as his shoulders sagged. He straightened and turned to the right, where Damon stood over a mound of goblin corpses, more than a few of them having a bolt sticking out of them. Damon did not look the least bit tired, however, as he sported no cuts on his person, no bruises, not even a single scratch or dent on his armor—a full-body chainmail, made entirely of Volkite Steel, a type of metal that was supposedly made by the dwarves to ensure their underground cities never crumbled, even in the heat of a thousand burning rivers. Of course, it was provided by the princess.

[Volkite Steel Mail]

Quality: Rare

Durability: 30,000/30,000

Value: 25,000

Grants its wearer 90% resistance to fire, as well as 80% resistance to blunt, cut, and slice damage. This item contains a minor enchantment, making it as light as a cotton shirt.

The lone, red eye of the Black Dragon’s Spear scanned their environment, seeking out more goblins to kill.

Suddenly, its iris snapped to the north, a cavern they had yet to explore. Damon glanced behind him and lifted an eyebrow, before hoisting up the Black Dragon’s Spear onto his shoulder. “We’ve been at this for the last two days. You need to take a breather, man. Your eye bags have their own bags, and it honestly looks kind of freaky.”

“Do I look like I haven’t been sleeping?” Alastair asked, stifling a yawn as he loaded another bolt into the arbalest’s chamber. His mind had raced whenever he had tried to put his head down to sleep—evidently it was starting to show.

He jabbed a finger at Damon, his left eye drooping and threatening to close. Damon raised a brow, even as a host of goblins appeared behind him. “And what my eye bags do in their free time is none of your business!” Alastair said.

Damon shrugged. “Hey, all I’m saying is that the princess would like you a lot more than she already does if you took some time to maybe sleep a little bit. Man, my gran-gran looked younger than you, right before she died of old age.”

Alright, that one stung a little.

And the worst part was the tiny voice in his head that agreed with Damon’s statement, a tiny part of him that wanted Cthonia’s approval.

Alastair blanched at that.

There was only one person whose approval mattered to him, and that person was himself—and maybe sometimes Damon, but mostly just himself.

To think he’d actually started to care what the princess thought of him…

Alastair shuddered as he raised his arbalest, took aim, and fired. The bolt flew true and pierced right through a poor goblin’s forehead. Damon chuckled and lazily swiped the Black Dragon’s Spear across the heads of the charging goblins, decapitating six of them in an instant, while those who charged from behind paused, frozen in fear. Most of them simply tucked tail and ran, leaving only a Hobgoblin and six others. Damon eyed them for a moment, before shrugging. The creatures were too afraid to take another step.

“You know,” Damon began, “you’ve gotten pretty good at putting bolts in monsters’ foreheads. Maybe, you should try using your—”

“Not another word out of your mouth, Damon.” Alastair walked forward, loaded a bolt into his arbalest’s chamber, before firing at the Hobgoblin, who raised its forearms to shield its face. Unfortunately for the bigger-than-average goblin, Alastair wasn’t aiming for its face. The bolt zipped underneath its forearms and pierced right between its collar bones. It let out a panicked cry, before Damon rushed in, sliced both its legs off, and then split its head in half.

Its body fell, a geyser of blood spraying from its bisected head.

The remaining goblins retreated.

+1,350 Pollentias!

Quest Updated! [Goblin Extermination]

43/60 Goblins Killed!

Huh, how many goblins did we kill, just now? Alastair thought. I kind of lost count there. These things are way too easy to kill, even for me.

And that was another thing they both very recently discovered about their Fates and Systems: Quests. It appeared shortly after they were hired to perform the extermination, appearing within their systems. Alastair still wasn’t sure how it worked or why, but it seemed rather straightforward, in his opinion. Aside from the reward they’d receive as a part of the job itself, their system would also grant them a reward of their own choosing.

With that in mind, Alastair brought up the quest details.

[Goblin Extermination]

Objectives:

- Kill the 60 Goblins in Mount Morthog. Currently at 43/60

- ???

Rewards: You may only choose one

- Free Skill Upgrade

- Physical Upgrade (Overrides [Fate: Crafter] Limitation)

- Random Rare Artifact

- ???

There were two objectives and they were well on their way to finishing the first one, without breaking a sweat. It was the other objective that made the both of them more than a little wary. It was unknown. There was apparently some sort of hidden objective for them to accomplish and that… did not sit right for Alastair, though Damon was certainly fine with it, despite the possibility of literally walking to their deaths.

But, hey, a life of adventure and all that.

“Did you receive your Pollentias?” Alastair asked, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I got about 2,300 Pollentias,” Damon answered, shrugging as he crouched down and sliced open the Hobgoblin’s chest. He then frowned and turned to Alastair, pointing down at the mutilated monster’s corpse. “Shouldn’t this thing have something worth taking back with us? I don’t see a core in its chest.”

“Well, it’s just a Hobgoblin,” Alastair said, walking toward the dead creature. “They’re not really strong enough to have cores. Goblin Kings, on the other hand, have cores of their own, though their cores are really not that valuable. If we find one, you should just go ahead and eat it.”

“Come to think of it, we haven’t really faced anything powerful, after we killed that giant monkey,” Damon muttered as they followed the cavern, heading deeper and deeper into the ancient mining facility.

There were rumors, long ago, that the miners had dug too deep and awakened something that had slumbered in the bowels of the mountain. Whatever they awoke had chased them right out of the mines, and it had since laid claim to its depths. The Guild, of course, did not speak of this legend, primarily because it was just that—an old legend from an ancient age. The likely reason this place was abandoned was probably simpler than anyone thought it to be: this mine ran dry and there was nothing to mine anymore.

Though, he had to wonder why these crystals weren’t worth taking. Appraise!

[Moon Crystal]

Quality: Uncommon

Durability: 100/100

Value: 10

This crystal emits a blue light when it is not exposed to sunlight. However, it must be constantly exposed to earth and rock for it to maintain its luminous properties. Cannot be used for enchanting.

Ah, that explains it. The crystal was only useful under very specific circumstances.

Alastair paused and closed his eyes, before taking a deep breath.

He frowned and turned to Damon. “Do you smell that?”

Damon shrugged. “You mean the goblin dung and whole host of other things that I wish didn’t exist? Yeah, I can smell them quite well. Thank you for mentioning it.”

Alastair rolled his eyes and sighed. “No, I wasn’t talking about the very obvious smell of dung, you idiot. I can smell brimstone. There’s something very hot and very much on fire at the bottom of this mine. We’re probably standing on a dormant volcano.”

Damon breathed in, eyes narrowed. “Smells like rotten eggs, to be honest. The scent’s kind of hard to pick out with all the rotting things in here—”

A goblin leapt out of a cave wall orifice, only to end up sliced in half as Damon turned and lazily swept its form with the Black Dragon’s Spear. It fell on two pieces, its blood drenching the cold, stone floor.

Quest Updated! [Goblin Extermination]

44/60 Goblins Killed!

Alastair raised an eyebrow as a bit of blood got onto his clothes, another gift from Cthonia, sewn from Phoenix Cotton and Death Worm Silk, making him utterly immune to fire and acid. It was also insanely durable.

It was Alastair’s first and foremost reminder of the fact that he was not the only Crafter Fated out there.

[Blaze and Bile]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 25,000/25,000

Value: 30,000

This doublet grants absolute resistance to fire and acid. It also offers 30% resistance against cutting and slashing damage. When worn in the cold, it will keep its wearer warm and comfortable, even the midst of a blizzard.

Then again, Mages, working in tandem with Blacksmiths, were said to be capable of creating enchanted items. The process they used was just a lot longer and far more tedious when compared to his methods.

“Rude,” Damon muttered as he kicked the dead goblin’s head, sending the creature’s upper half flying. “We were talking.”

Alastair shook his head. “Come on, we should move on. There’s still that hidden objective to worry about.”

Damon’s eyes widened at the mention of the hidden objective. Even he was perturbed by its presence as they both shared the same quest. Damon nodded grimly, eyeing the tunnel that would, no doubt, lead them deeper and deeper into the ancient mines. Alastair forced a smile, yawning as he did.

“Right then,” Damon said, “let’s go.”

They walked further down. Damon sighed and reached for one of the crystalline growths on the wall. It seemed to respond to his touch, Alastair noted, watching. The crystal gave off a strange, humming sound when Damon’s fingers made contact. The sound it exuded almost reminded Alastair of an off-tune flute.

Damon smiled. “Thank the gods for these things. Otherwise, navigating this place would’ve been a bloody nightmare.”

Alastair could only agree as he turned and eyed the passage, illuminated as it was by the moon crystals.

They continued on, following the mine shaft that seemed to lead deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain. With each step forward, the smell of brimstone grew. It became almost overwhelming after a certain point, like a constant fume of unwelcome scents that just wouldn’t go away. Alastair also noted the rising temperature, though he was only able to do so by keeping a single hand on the wall as his clothes allowed him to effectively ignore the heat of his surroundings.

Damon groaned as he wiped another bead of sweat that’d dripped down from his forehead and onto his eye. “Well, this is getting annoying.”

Alastair did not fail to note the scathing look his friend sent to the spear. They were likely arguing inside Damon’s mind right about now, given his child’s penchant for snide remarks. “The cave’s getting warmer. The smell of brimstone’s getting stronger, too.”

What the hell’s going on? Alastair thought. That hidden objective was getting more and more ominous with every second that ticked by.

Finally, after ten minutes of traversing the darkened depths, Alastair and Damon came upon a large chamber, where the rest of the goblins were waiting for them, alongside their King. Alastair’s eyes narrowed.

“How dare you enter my realm and assault my subjects, humans!” the Goblin King roared, showing his sharp, misshapen teeth and gross tongue. He was much larger and much taller than his fellow goblins, standing nearly three heads above the Hobgoblin from earlier. He was almost about Damon’s height. But, what really made him stand out was the fact that he wore rusty, plated armor and carried what appeared to be an enchanted sword—if the glowing runes on the flat side of the blade were any indication.

Narrowing his eyes, Alastair activated Appraise on the Goblin King’s weapon.

[The Man Cleaver]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 15,670/20,000

Value: 20,000

This sword was once forged by an ancient goblin crafter, who sought to create a weapon to safeguard his race from humanity. He did not succeed in that endeavor. Instead, he ended up creating this sword. Does triple damage against humans. Cannot be destroyed by a human opponent.

The rusted plate armor, however, was just that.

“Kill them!” The Goblin King pointed at Alastair and Damon, his voice booming and echoing loudly in the cavern.

His subjects all gave out war cries as all fifteen of them rushed forward, like crazed zealots, drooling and foaming from their mouths. Alastair raised his arbalest and let loose a random bolt that surged forward for a moment, before piercing right through an unfortunate goblin’s chest and out the other side.

“Be careful, Damon. That big goblin over there has an enchanted weapon. Though I’m not sure how it works, I think his sword might just be able to block the Black Dragon’s Spear.”

“Right, let’s get this over with.” Damon muttered as he charged forward and swung the Black Dragon’s Spear in a wide arc in front of him, cutting down five goblins at once.

Alastair grunted as he loaded another bolt into his arbalest, before rushing to the side. Of the ten goblins still alive, four decided to chase after him.

Quickly taking aim, Alastair let loose another bolt, which then pierced right through a goblin’s forehead. It dropped dead a moment later. One down—three more to go.

The others roared and howled, intensifying their approach, but—try as they might—four-foot tall creatures with short, stubby legs could not possibly chase after him, even if he was exhausted.

Grabbing a spare knife in his belt, Alastair turned and hurled the weapon.

It spun as it rushed through the air, before slicing and cleaving half-way into one of the goblins’ shoulders. The creature gave out a pained cry as it fell on the ground, weeping and screaming. Two down, though this one’s probably still alive—only two more to go.

Alastair turned and rolled forward, loading his arbalest all the while. He then circled and took aim, releasing a shot right into a goblin’s sternum.  Blood gushed out of the creature’s crude and gruesome mouth, before it fell to its knees. And only one goblin left for me.

The last goblin, who was probably unaware of his comrades’ deaths, rushed forward with reckless abandon. Alastair drew another knife—his last one—and decided to meet the creature head on, instead of shooting at it from afar as he would have usually done.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day—”

The mine shook, and a bloodcurdling roar echoed through the tunnels, reverberating.

The earth shuddered. Tiny bits of dust and debris fell from the ceiling as everyone just stopped, even the goblins.

And then a wave of heat surged through, followed by the intense smell of brimstone. The floor smoked and steamed. And from the far tunnel, which led deeper into the bowels of the earth, came a fiery glow.

Chapter 8

Fire blazed and flashed through the narrow corridor. The cave walls burned and smoldered as the flames crept outward almost as though they bore a will of their own.

The ground shook, cracks spread throughout the floor. A deep rumble echoed, reverberating through the air, like the grumbling of some ancient titan in the deep. Time itself seemed to come to a pause as the dark, distant rumbling continued.

The moon crystals shuddered, their lights fluttering and fading.

The lesser goblins—what remained of them anyway—panicked and ran, only for a chunk of the cave’s ceiling to break off and fall on top of them. In a single instant, every other goblin, save for their king, died.

Quest Updated! [Goblin Extermination]

59/60 Goblins Killed!

The Goblin King turned and seethed, roaring at the slowly creeping flames. The cave shook more violently as a response, a deep rumbling roar that threatened to split apart the earth itself. Something very powerful had awakened in this little sojourn, and Alastair was suddenly no longer sure about his earlier opinion of the miners abandoning this place because they ran out of things to mine. Maybe—just maybe—they had fled because they really did awaken something dark and ancient, something that was far beyond them.

Quest Updated! [Goblin Extermination]

- Kill the 60 Goblins in Mount Morthog. Currently at 59/60

- Survive

“Well, that’s definitely not ominous,” Alastair groaned, frowning as a wave of searing heat passed over him. Its passing scorched rocks and melted down a few of the moon crystals into a burning puddle.

The Goblin King roared and charged right into the burning section of the caves, disappearing as a blaze of golden flames erupted around him.

Damon leapt back and landed right beside Alastair. “I’m not the only who’s feeling a little out of his depth here, right? I mean, you did see that Quest Update, right?”

Alastair nodded. “No, you’re not the only one.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…” Damon muttered, his face steaming and smoking as his sweat appeared and disappeared almost instantly. The only thing that probably kept them alive in that moment was their fire-resistant gear. In Alastair’s case, he could likely walk through a land of molten rock and smoldering rivers and be completely fine. Damon, however, could not. His armor did not offer him complete resistance to fire and this… thing, whatever it was, definitely commanded the element of fire to a great degree.

No Mid-Level monster is capable of commanding the elements on a conscious level. Alastair recalled his great-great-grandfather’s notes on monsters. High-Level monsters are capable of some limited conscious control, but the ones who can bend the elements to their whims are either Elder Monsters or…

True Dragons. Alastair gulped and hoped, for himself, for Damon, and for every other human being within a hundred miles, that this wasn’t one of the True Dragons of old and they weren’t the unluckiest fools in all of the Middle Kingdom.

“I hope we come out of this alive...” Alastair whispered.

A great roar echoed, and Alastair could only look on as the moon crystals around them began flickering out, dying, or outright melting away into smoking puddles.

He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. The only way out was barred by a massive portion of the ceiling that’d cracked and broken off.

+3,000 Pollentias!

A metal thing clanged and scraped against the floor in front of them, blazing and partially melted. Alastair peered closer and frowned. It was the Goblin King’s armor—what remained of it, at least. Though, he wasn’t even sure which part it was from, seeing as the metal was horribly burned and was still melting in front of his eyes.

The sword came next, glowing red-hot as it shot out of the corridor. It embedded itself into solid rock, bending and melting as it went.

[The Man Cleaver]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 120/20,000

Value: 70

This sword was once forged by an ancient goblin crafter, who sought to create a weapon to safeguard his race from humanity. He did not succeed in that endeavor. Instead, he ended up creating this sword. Does triple damage against humans. Cannot be destroyed by a human opponent. All that remains of this once mighty blade is its handle; it no longer counts as a weapon, until it’s fixed or otherwise altered.

Alastair grabbed its handle and immediately sent it into his inventory. “Well, at least we know that Goblin King’s quite dead, eh?”

Quest Updated! [Goblin Extermination]

- Kill the 60 Goblins in Mount Morthog. Complete!

- Survive (In progress)

Alastair gulped as the roar came again, followed by a loud rumble that was eerily reminiscent to the terror of lightning and thunder on a stormy night. There was something down there, and Alastair was absolutely certain that he never wanted to see it.

“Come on,” Damon finally said, after a short, but tense moment. “We can’t stay here forev—”

The ground exploded from underneath them, a powerful shockwave bouncing upward as the floor cracked and gave way, revealing a flowing river of molten rocks in an otherwise hellish landscape of obsidian crags and fiery jagged hills.

“Hells!” Alastair yelled as the floor gave way underneath him.

He was falling.

Everything else was falling too.

His hands searched for anything to hold on to, but there was nothing. He glanced over his shoulder, briefly eyeing the flowing river of lava and surmised that it was likely a hundred foot drop or so, give or take a few more feet that wouldn’t otherwise matter if they dived right into a literal burning river.

The burning hellscape itself appeared to be an utterly massive subterranean dome of some kind, where the mine must have accidentally led to, once the miners dug a little deeper than they should have. The fires and the magma were likely fed by the energies of a dormant volcano, which Mount Morthog might have been in ages past. The ceiling of the massive dome-shaped cavern was filled with obsidian stalactites, each glimmering with the fires that ran underneath them.

“I’d love to hear a few ideas right about now, genius!” Damon yelled as they fell. He’d already inventoried the Black Dragon’s Spear, afraid of losing it on the way down. Alastair’s first child also wouldn’t be of any help in this situation, however, as it would simply slice through any rock they’d try anchoring it on.

Alastair blanched as they plummeted down. Of course, it falls on me to find a way out of this mess!

Time slowed to a crawl as his mind raced.

“I hope this works.” Alastair summoned a piece of the Primal Goliath’s furry hide and a steel ingot. First, he used his skill, Forge, to create a big hook that was over a foot long and was two inches in diameter, ending in a wicked-looking curved spike. The hook itself was recognized by the system as an item of uncommon quality, which—considering there was only an 8% chance of that happening—was extremely lucky. Next, he used his skill, Shape, to alter the Primal Goliath’s hide into a shoddy-looking rope that was only held together by faith and prayers. Finally, he used his most powerful skill, Imbue, to combine the two items.

A surge of light burst out, engulfing both the hook and the rope. His eyes widened as he reached out and grabbed Damon’s left ankle with his left hand. Give me something that can save us!

The light faded, revealing an entirely new artifact. The metal hook remained, but its form had been altered slightly. Its body appeared thicker, while its metallic sheen had disappeared, giving it a dull, milky look. The rope itself had taken on the form of an actual rope with many individual threads, making up layers and layers, though it’d retained the Primal Goliath’s pale coloration. A single look told him that it was just about good enough to save their sorry asses if used right.

Not wanting to waste any time by using Appraise to see its effects and characteristics, Alastair gave the hooked end to Damon and screamed, “Throw it!”

Nodding frantically, Damon hurled the hook toward the stalactites, where it spun and bound itself across a bundle of sharpened rocks that quickly anchored it in place. Alastair noted its movements seemed far too smooth to be considered ordinary. It was almost as though it was trying to anchor itself.

He shook his head and grabbed onto the leathery rope as they both swung down.

Damon screamed. “Aaaaaaaaaaagh! If we die, I just want you to know that I dipped your toothbrush in garlic water this one time and your breath smelled like garlic for a whole month!”

“What?!” Alastair screamed back, his palms burning as he held onto the rope for dear life. “That was your fault?! The other kids wouldn’t talk to me back then!”

“Yeah, I know!”

“What else are you keeping from me?!”

“There was this one time when your mom baked a bunch of cookies and I ate all of them, before you could get a single one!”

“You filthy traitor!”

They screamed as the rope swung and flung them away from the burning river of lava. Alastair’s eyes widened as soon as they were right above a huge chunk of land that was neither burning nor melting. Ahead of it was the entrance to a tunnel of some sort, its sides blackened and scorched but largely undamaged by the boiling rivers of molten rock.

“Let go of the rope!” Alastair yelled. “There’s solid ground—right there!”

They both landed on solid ground, rolling and tumbling over each other as they did.

Alastair was on his feet first. He turned to Damon, just in time to see his friend rising.

Damon chuckled and patted Alastair on the shoulder. “Well, that could’ve gone much worse than it did, eh?”

“Don’t jinx it just yet, yeah?” Alastair then raised his hand and pointed toward the distant tunnel, around a hundred feet from their current position.

Damon turned to look over his shoulder and nodded.

“We’ll make a run for it,” Alastair said. “I have no idea where it leads, but I’m really hoping it’ll take us somewhere a lot safer than where we are now.”

“Yeah, it couldn’t possibly get any worse, right?” Damon muttered.

Alastair sighed. “Did you seriously have to ask that?”

“Fair.”

A loud, thunderous roar echoed from the far end of the massive cavern. Both Alastair and Damon were blown to the ground, their bodies sprawled as though they were nothing more than weightless ragdolls. The sound that filled their ears was terrible and horrifying, like the grinding of rusted metal and the cracking of thick ice sheets and the breaking rocks.

On the ground, Alastair shuddered and cringed as he raised his hands and covered his ears in an attempt to block out the noise.

It didn’t work.

He screamed, but the roar was so terribly loud he could no longer hear anything else. “Raaaaagh!”

Damon screamed with him, but neither of them could hear each other.

When the roar stopped, Alastair wasted no time wallowing in the dirt as he pushed himself onto his legs as quickly as he could, Damon trailing after him. They both stood and gaped as their eyes settled upon the towering dark figure in the distance. Alastair’s breath hitched as he could do little but stare at the tall, shadowy thing. His limbs felt stiff and powerless, even as every muscle in his body screamed at him to run and hide. His heart pounded in his chest, while his lungs burned with his breaths, quick, short, and shallow as they were.

It was almost like back then, when he first faced the Primal Goliath, when he was small and afraid.

But that hairy ape was nothing like the creature that stood in the distance.

There were only very few words with which he might describe the thing that was now crawling out of the wall. Its very presence melted everything around it into slag. Its body was vaguely humanoid in shape. It had two arms and two legs, but that was where all the similarities ended. Twin wings sprouted from its back, great leathery things, wreathed in wicked flames that burned like the sun. A single, reptilian tail slithered behind it, ending in a cruel spike covered in flames like the rest of its hideous body. Its arms were long, but powerfully built.

Grasped in each hand were blazing weapons made of hellfire and darkness—a sword and a spear. Its head resembled a dog’s, though it lacked any fur. Two, massive ram-like horns curved outward from the sides of its head. Its teeth were sharp, but utterly pristine, like pearls, wreathed in fire. A long, forked tongue escaped its lips, like a serpent that was searching for its prey.

The entity towered over them, even from a distance, as it stood well over twenty feet, even as it hunched its back. It wore a strange, crimson armor that was covered in fiery runes that hurt Alastair’s eyes when he stared at them for too long.

“What in the hells is that thing?” Damon absently muttered.

Alastair turned and glanced at his friend, who fared no better than he did.

Damon was pale and drenched in sweat. His eyes were unfocused and utterly fearful. His limbs appeared stiff and unmoving. Alastair had never seen his friend in such a state. Now, they were both stuck in the marshes of fear and desolation, cowered like dogs, before this… thing.

Alastair slowly breathed in, forcing himself to breathe slower and slower, even as his heart hammered in his chest. “I don’t know, Damon. I have no idea what that thing is… or if it’s even a monster.”

“Yeah,” Damon said. “Look at its weapons and armor. They look like something a master Fated would use. This thing’s something else…”

His breath steadied as the monstrous thing took a single step forward. “Let’s make a run for the tunnel—it’s not that far. We can reach it before that thing gets to us!”

Alastair found strength in his legs again, and, when he saw Damon’s still frozen form, his right hand absently flashed forward, slapping his childhood friend across his face. Damon’s face snapped to the side, regaining much of its former color. “We have to go now!”

Without another word, they both turned and ran.

They ran as fast their feet could carry them. Damon, despite his earlier bout of paralysis, ran ahead of Alastair, having summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear. Alastair frowned. He’d forgotten about his arbalest. The damn thing must have fallen out of his grip when they fell. There was no way he’d ever find it in this place and, frankly, he wouldn’t bother looking for it—not with that thing chasing after them.

He didn’t even know what it was.

Behind them, the fiery creature roared—the force of which nearly lifted them off their feet and sent them head-first into the ground. It did, however, send them onto their hands and knees as it pushed them forward.

Alastair gritted his teeth. “Just keep running!”

He glanced over his shoulder and blanched as the creature flapped its wings and soared up.

“Run!” Damon didn’t bother to look over his shoulder as they surged forward toward the distant tunnel. It wasn’t far, now. They could make it if they ran hard enough.

Alastair wheezed and winced as his limbs screamed for rest, his thighs burning with exhaustion as he chased after his friend, who ran ahead.

Before they could reach safety, however, the fiery, winged entity soared over them and landed right in front of the tunnel entrance. Damon skidded to a halt, and Alastair stopped right behind him. They eyed the creature, and it eyed them back, its burning eyes ablaze. Smoke and black fumes erupted from its nostrils, and its forked tongue slithered out between its sharp teeth.

“Damn it,” Damon whispered as he summoned Alastair’s arbalest and handed it to him. “You dropped it when we fell through the damn ground. I was going to surprise you with it, heh.”

Alastair smiled as he took his weapon and immediately loaded a bolt into its chamber. “Thanks. For what it’s worth, this was actually quite fun. I never thought I’d ever become an adventurer.”

Damon chuckled. “Well, our adventure only lasted about a week or so, but these were some of the best moments of my life, right after that time I lost my virginity.”

Alastair chuckled and shook his head. “Of course you’d think of something like that at a time like this.”

The burning thing took a step forward, shaking the earth with its hooved legs.

“You know,” Alastair began, smiling, “the princess might not be as bad as I thought she was. And… well, I think I might really like her—if that’s even possible.”

Damon snorted. “Well, if you live through this, you two need to go out on a date or something. It doesn’t matter if you grew up in Larisa, at the edge of the absolute nowhere, you’re Fated and that makes you far greater than any pompous noble with gold coins up their asses. Who knows, you might just luck out even further and marry her.”

Alastair’s smile turned into a grin, even as the blazing, winged creature neared, its every step bringing the ground to a rumbling shudder. Despite that, despite its towering presence, despite the flames and the shadows that danced around it, Alastair couldn’t quite bring himself to care as his mind wandered toward Cthonia’s beauty, her smile, her eyes, her skin, her voice.

He loved everything about her, even when he knew for a fact that she was also using them for her own ends. He knew that. She was a politician. It’s what every politician was supposed to do and Alastair found that he didn’t care.

He didn’t care, because—deep down—he would have done the same in her place. And Cthonia was all the more beautiful for it. Her politicking did not take away from her beauty. In fact, he loved her all the more for it. Her mind was her weapon—and what a weapon it was.

“I’ll ask her out if we make it out of here,” he said.

“You should also buy her some flowers. The ladies love that.”

“I can’t believe I’m taking advice from you, of all people.”

“Who else would you take advice from? I’m a certified lady’s man.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I can’t believe I’m taking advice from you, mister one-pump-chump.”

“Gah! How dare you call me that?!”

“Heh, I overheard a few of the girls in Larisa, talking about your… erm… deficiencies.”

“I was tired, alright?! Ugh, I fail once and that’s all everyone ever thinks about.”

“Have you tried taking a few herbal supplements?”

“Go to hell, Alastair.”

Chapter 9

In the most ancient of days, before the founding of the continents of man, there lived great and noble spirits, who gave shape and color to the world, the Vainur.

The fiery creature roared as it raised its flaming sword high, setting the air ablaze with crimson flames, before bringing it back down in a furious swing that broke sound and shattered rock. Damon and Alastair leapt to the sides, but the explosion that followed the sword’s impact sent them both flying off, tumbling in the air like ragdolls.

With their might, the Vainur forged the great mountains, tamed the seas, hewed trees from the earth, and pulled islands from the depths. The first mortals worshiped them as gods, for their power was without equal, beyond measure.

“Hells!” Alastair sputtered as he rolled over his shoulder and almost immediately pushed himself up after. Pain erupted all over his body, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t rest. He had to keep moving if he wanted to survive. Without another thought, Alastair raised his arbalest, briefly aimed at the burning titan’s face, and loosed a single bolt. He didn’t bother looking if it hit or not as he ran immediately afterward.

To his dismay, the fiery creature let out a throaty, reverberating chuckle as the bolt bounced off its face and fell to the ground with a clink.

And then came the age of heroes and legends, where mankind, elfkind, and dwarfkind flourished, under the shadow of their gods, the Vainur. With the guidance of the great and ancient spirits, the mortal races built wonders and forged mythical things—cities, palaces, and empires that would never be matched again.

The fiery titan roared as it raised its spear and, with a savage and bestial grunt, hurled it with the force of a thousand hurricanes, breaking the air with a wave of dark and terrible flames. The burning spear flew straight and true, whizzing and blazing through the air as it traveled, leaving a thin trail of embers. Alastair’s eyes widened as he stopped and leapt back before the gigantic spear of unnatural flames could skewer and burn him in a single, fell moment. What followed was a fiery explosion that sent him hurtling back, dust, soot, and embers covering his body.

“Gaaah!” Alastair screamed as pain flared all across his form. He felt his chest losing its sensations with each passing second.

All was well and peaceful, justice and equality flourished. For thousands upon thousands of years, the mortal races lived in relative harmony. And then came the first of the mages, mortals who inherited portions of the mighty powers of the gods. Their birth and arrival into the waking world heralded the end of the age of heroes, for it was they who brought the great ruin and opened the roots of the World Tree. And there, the first Cataclysm came to be.

Alastair pushed himself up onto his feet, his body numb and wobbly.

“A beast of Gorgorod.” His mouth seemed to move of its own accord as he spoke the words.

Alastair’s eyes widened as he uttered the name of the most vilified entity in all of history, the bringer of the Cataclysm, ravager of nations, and the father of demons. And he shuddered, for the fiery titan before him was greater than any monster and more terrifying than any beast. The thing that stood before him was a demon of the ancient world, a Vainur of Gorgorod, a relic of the Cataclysm.

This was beyond him, beyond anyone. This was a fallen minor god, a spirit of fire, seduced by the god of chaos, up against two country bumpkins who only very recently became Fated. The odds were not quite as even as he’d like. The Vainur were known for nearly driving the dragons to the brink of extinction—such was the extent of their power. It took other gods to destroy them. And, even then, a few gods were said to have fallen to their power and malice. Their march brought about great tidal waves and sundered entire continents.

Hells, the only reason either of them was still alive at this point and not roasted to death was because the Vainur likely enjoyed their torment. It did chuckle earlier, if whatever sound that came out of its maw could be called that. The ancient demon was toying with them. It could afford to do so, because its power dwarfed them.

Maybe, given many years and many tools, Alastair might be able to craft a weapon to take down this creature, but that time was too far away and he currently had nothing to fight it with.

The shock and the horror quickly turned into annoyance as he groaned. How in the hells are we supposed to survive this one?

Damon suddenly appeared behind the creature, having leapt straight into the air, the Black Dragon’s Spear held aloft as he screamed and swung with all his might. The demon turned, its teeth jutting out of its hideous grin. Its blazing eyes widened for a moment as Damon swung the spear and sliced off one of its wings in an instant, before falling forward and rolling over his shoulder. The demon’s wing fell off and dissipated into the air as a mass of embers and dying flames.

Damon leapt back and landed beside Alastair. The demon unleashed a terrible shriek of agony, its baleful eyes blazing with dark flames. Flames roared around it, like a whirling vortex of crimson shadows. Damon swore under his breath as the demon’s severed wing regrew from the mass of fire.

The demon’s eyes burned brighter.

“I think all I did was piss it off,” Damon said.

“You think?” Alastair eyed the demon’s spear as it dissipated and reappeared in its outstretched hand. So, its weapons are all a part of itself—a part of its fire, Alastair thought. Strange, why hasn’t it used more of its pyromancy? It should’ve been more than capable of roasting the both of us in an instant. Yet it still toys with us like playthings.

Alastair took a moment to study the blazing demon’s form, searching for any possible weakness they may exploit.

His eyes widened. Right there!

Upon the burning monster’s chest was a large gash that seemed to be a wound of some kind—a wound that did not heal as streaks of liquid fire streamed out of it, like tears from a crying eye. The demon was wounded. It was weakened, at the very least. And it could definitely feel pain, even if it was capable of regeneration. The creature of fire and darkness must have been using the bulk of its powers in trying to heal its wounds, which—given what Alastair knew of history—was likely given to it by one of the gods.

All that confirmed one very simple fact: it was a living creature, which—in turn—meant it could be killed. And, if it could be killed, then they would kill it.

Vainur my country bumpkin ass. We’re taking you down!

Alastair grinned and, when he turned to Damon, he saw his friend was also grinning.  “We still have a chance.”

Damon nodded, grinning back. All the fear and hesitation had gone from his eyes. “I know—screw surviving. We’re killing this demonic son of a bitch, even if it takes us a whole day.”

The demon reared its ugly head, liquid fire dripping from its burning maw, its blazing eyes utterly filled with murderous fury and berserk hatred. “I will enjoy feasting on your souls, mortals!”

“How about you go screw yourself with that rock, demon!” Damon screamed as he sped around it, running to the side at his top speed, likely having activated his skill, Surge, to bolster his already superhuman speed to utterly supernatural levels. Damon blurred and disappeared from Alastair’s sight, but the demon appeared to be capable of following him as it turned and swung down its burning blade.

Damon leapt high into the air as the fiery sword crashed into the ground, melting rock and stone, before exploding outward. Alastair looked on as his friend only barely avoided the blast. Damon soared, before pivoting mid-air and turning on his heels, swinging the Black Dragon’s Spear in a desperate counterattack. The demon growled and roared as he leapt up, clearly unused to having to evade mortal blows, but its eyes showed wariness, all of it aimed at Damon’s weapon.

The demon landed back down on the ground, crashing and shaking the earth beneath its feet with its shear bulk.

Damon grinned and gestured for the burning giant to come hither. “Is that all you’ve got? I’ve fought kittens more dangerous than you, demon!”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. He had no idea where Damon was hiding all this spunk all along, but it certainly was working in keeping the demon’s attention all on him. Good, keep him distracted.

The demon roared and leapt toward Damon, bringing its flaming sword down, only for Damon to evade and counter with a piercing thrust that the demon narrowly avoided by pivoting away and leaning back. Growling, Damon lunged forward with a feint, before stepping sideways, just as the demon thrust its burning spear toward him. Fueled by his momentum, Damon spun and swiped the Black Dragon’s Spear low, cleaving right through the demon’s shin.

It fell to a knee and let out a blood-curdling cry that shook the cavern.

Grinning, Damon leapt back as the demon’s wings surged and unleashed a baleful pillar of flames around it.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he smiled. “Keep it pinned down, Damon!”

“Yup!” Damon replied. His friend huffed and grinned, beads of sweat running down the side of his face as his chest slowly heaved up and down. Alastair had never seen him this tired before. “This is a lot harder than it looks!”

With their current positioning, the demon was between them, covered in pillars of flames as it spent more and more of its powers in healing the wound Damon had given it, as well as the great gash it had sported from before the pair had met it. These two wounds and the demon’s focus on healing them meant it was just about time for Alastair to unleash his most dangerous concoction—an artifact so inconceivably evil and malicious, Alastair thought to seal it away for all time.

But it would have to be used if they were to survive—nay, if they were to win.

Breathing in, Alastair summoned the one item he thought he’d never have to use—ever: the dreadful, the corrupted, the horrible, the dung of the Primal Goliath, dug straight out of its intestinal tract, because Damon got a little curious about what was down there. Its arrival into the waking world was heralded by its putrid, nearly otherworldly stench that even Damon, as far away as he was, noticed immediately. Not bothering to linger on with this devilish thing in hand, Alastair brought out his second item, explosive powder.

Imbue!

The dung and the powder, which was kept inside a small leather pouch, were engulfed in an eerie, white light, before something truly evil was born into the world: the Primal Stink Bomb.

[Primal Stink Bomb]

Quality: Rare

Durability: 10/10

Value: 5,000

This stink bomb contains the intensified essence of a Primal Goliath’s dung, itself already containing an immensely powerful wealth of… stench. When unleashed upon an opponent, this bomb will release a fume that has the power of a thousand dung heaps, enough to ruin the day of a large city. This item has a chance to cause paralysis and sensory overload.

Well, I hope this works!

As the pillar of flames surrounding the demon receded, Alastair grinned.

The Vainur stood up to its full height, the wound on its shin now gone, and roared, beating its chest all the while. Alastair’s eyes narrowed, noting that the flames that once surrounded its body had grown visibly weaker, though not by much. The outline of its true, physical body could now be seen through the tongues of fire around it, scales as black as obsidian, marred only by the streaks of liquid flames that slowly streamed from the large wound on its chest.

Damon charged forward and leapt upward just as the demon raised its sword high and brought it down low, smashing it into the ground and causing another explosion that caused tremors throughout the cavern. In the air, Damon spun and swung the spear as he soared over the demon’s head. His momentum, alongside his weapon’s direction, ended up slicing off one of the demon’s horns, which fell to the ground and rolled away, losing much of the flames that’d engulfed it.

The demon roared and turned, its eyes blazing with madness.

Now!

Alastair grinned as he hurled the bomb right into its exposed face.

The demon’s blazing eyes widened briefly as the bomb exploded into a cloud of dark green fumes that quickly engulfed its canid face. Almost immediately, the fallen minor god of fire began coughing and wheezing, having inhaled quite a good portion of the stink bomb. All this did was force him to take in more and more of it as the fumes spread. The fire around its form visibly receded as it lurched forward and back in an attempt to stay away from the stench.

“What sort of infernal weapon is this?!” the demon gasped through its coughing.

Damon chuckled as he leaned forward and aimed his spear right at the demon’s exposed chest.

“Wait!” Alastair whispered, eyes narrowed as he eyed the sputtering, coughing demon. “Wait for the right moment, when it’s at its most vulnerable—strike. Wait for my signal. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

The demon stepped out of the cloud and turned toward them. Its eyes were closed shut, however, indicating that it was still very much affected by the fumes.

Alastair grinned and screamed, pointing at the demon’s exposed chest. “Now!”

Wasting no time, Damon charged forward, blurring out of sight and leaving a trail of dust and debris in his wake. With the Black Dragon’s Spear in hand, Alastair’s first and most powerful creation, Damon speared the demon right through its already wounded chest.

The demon’s blazing eyes widened as it lurched back and sent Damon flying away with a single swipe of one of its massive arms, its flaming weapons having dissipated earlier. It screamed, coughed, and wheezed, liquid fire bursting out of its maws and chest wound as it took several steps back, weakened and visibly frightened.

“How dare you mortals wound me?!” it exclaimed. “I am Surgath, Keeper of the Shadow Flame! I will not be defeated by mere insects! Raaah!”

It coughed and spat out globules of smoldering flames, like red-hot pieces of metal, straight from the forge. The glowing orbs of fire fell on the ground, but did not sink or melt. With a bestial roar, it grabbed onto the Black Dragon’s Spear and tore the weapon right out of its chest, before tossing it aside. The spear clanged as it bounced off the scorched and blackened ground, and landed far away from either of them, near the boiling lake of molten rock.

“Gnats, the lot of you! Begone from my presence!” the demon screeched, liquid fire dripping from its mouth and nose.

Alastair noted that its flames had very visibly shrunk. And yet, it was still alive.

The demon waved a hand and a great pillar of flames arose from the ground, before converging around it. As the fires raged and intensified, the demon’s voice returned, booming as it spoke, “Begone from my realm! I wish not to look upon you!”

Alastair’s eyes widened as flames converged around him. For a moment, the Crafter thought he’d be toasted in demonic fires, but then something else happened—the world seemed to shift and move as his vision was filled with dancing tongues of shadow and flame. Alastair glanced down and saw the demon’s severed horn, right next to his feet. He had no time to use Appraise as he sent the thing straight into his inventory.

He blinked once and suddenly found himself on the edge of a cliff that overlooked Mount Morthog. Beside him, another pillar of flame erupted, and out from it came Damon, whose wide eyes seemed unfocused. Somehow, his friend had reclaimed the Black Dragon’s Spear.

“Did we… did we seriously just go through all of that?” Damon muttered, staring off into the distance. “That… wasn’t just a monster. That was a freaking demon. And we fought it off! Ha! We didn’t just survive—we defeated it!”

Damon fell on his bottom, his eyes still unfocused, gazing into the distant horizon.

Smiling, Alastair sat with him.

Damon spoke in a voice that was just above a whisper and yet it was filled with wonder and awe. “We… we fought a demon, an actual demon from the old world… and we… almost won… no, we did win. We fought a demon and won! How cool is that?!”

Alastair sighed and smiled. “Yes… we won. And it’s not just cool, it’s awesome!” While they hadn’t gained pollentias since they hadn’t killed the Vainur, they hadn’t come out empty-handed. “We even have a trophy from it.” He summoned the demon’s horn into his palm. He grunted almost immediately at its heft. The object was at least bigger than his arm, curving outward, like a ram’s horn. Its bulk seemed to be made of a series of interlocking plates, each one jutting out like spikes. It gave off an eerie warmth and, underneath its plates, was a soft glow that was not unlike the glow of molten rocks.

Damon grinned as he stretched his arms upward, having inventoried his spear. “Awesome. We beat its ass and took parts off it. This day can’t possibly get any better, can it?”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he stared right into the horn. “Though, I wonder what I can use it for.”

Appraise!

[Horn of Surgath, the Vainur]

Quality: Legendary

Value: 1,000,000

This is the horn of Surgath, one of the last Vainur, who escaped the War of the Cataclysm. Though significantly weakened, the fallen god still retains amazing power, some of which is infused in this horn. The item may be used for enchanting purposes. Warning: use of this item will result in rapid, volatile mutations of a demonic nature.

“Huh.” Alastair shoved the horn right back into his inventory. “I could probably use it to craft an awesome weapon. But I don’t think I’ll use this just yet. It’s way too powerful to waste.”

Damon shrugged and leaned back onto the ground. “You know, I think I’m just going to sleep right here.”

Alastair was about to retort when a loud crack echoed from Mount Morthog.

In the distance, the whole mountain cracked apart and slowly collapsed into a lake of molten rock, its jagged peaks and crags breaking off and falling down, shaking the earth underneath it. The mountain shook for one final time as it slowly but surely sunk into a smoldering puddle.

Alastair’s mouth hung agape. What in the hells just happened?

Quest Successful!

Chapter 10

Quest Successful! [Goblin Extermination]

-   Kill the 60 Goblins in Mount Morthog. (Complete!)

-   Survive! (Complete!) (Parameters upgraded: You have stood up to a Vainur and won! Hidden Reward has been upgraded!”

Please choose your reward from the following options:

-   Free Skill Upgrade

-   Physical Upgrade (Overrides [Fate: Crafter] Limitation)

-   Random Rare Artifact

-   Demon Magic (System Update: Innate Class Upgrade)

Alastair’s eyes narrowed and, when he turned to glance at Damon, he saw his friend sporting a focused expression. After all, the both of them likely received the same prompt, informing them of their quest success. For a moment, Alastair considered asking his friend about his reward options, but Damon seemed far too engrossed that disturbing him now would be plain disrespectful. Besides, he had his own concerns at the moment: choosing which reward he wanted to take.

The first step, of course, was to consider how each one functioned and how they’d serve to make him stronger.

A free skill upgrade was, frankly, not nearly as interesting as the others, despite its obvious boon. Sure, he could use it to upgrade his most powerful skill, Imbue, but that skill was already there and it was only a matter of time before he’d figure out how to upgrade it naturally. It would definitely be wasted on his other skills, which, given time, could be upgraded on their own. It was ultimately very useful, true enough, but it paled in comparison to the other options. It’s a good option, but not good enough.

A physical upgrade, on the other hand, was far more interesting. If he understood it right, then it would greatly enhance his physical characteristics, allowing him to go beyond what he was physically capable of, given his Crafter limitations. It was probably just a one-time thing as opposed to Damon’s system, which allowed him to increase his physical stats with Pollentias. Damon’s always looking out for me, since—between the two of us—I’m more or less on par with a regular human, while he’s out there crushing rocks with his bare hands. So, he’s never a hundred percent focused on his battles. If I choose this upgrade, I might just get strong enough that Damon won’t worry for my safety, even against a powerful monster. Still, the last two options show far greater promise. Besides, I’ve never enjoyed fighting up close as he does.

A random artifact of rare quality, however, presented an immensely useful possibility. Sure, the system would grant him one, without his own input in the matter, but artifacts of rare quality all carried with them powerful abilities that he’d be unlikely to find just about anywhere else. If the system granted him a sword, or any weapon, really, then it’d be another tool to pave the way for his and Damon’s greatness—a supremely powerful tool at that. Armor would be slightly less useful, but he’d never turn down one that held a powerful ability that might just save their asses in the future. The possibilities were, quite literally, endless and every single one of them was, at the very least, of a high enough quality that even the worst possibility would still be great. Honestly, it’s the safest possible option. It’s neither the best nor the worst, just so-so. Still, if I choose it, I’ll know it possibly couldn’t come back to bite me in the future.

The last option, however, was the absolute wildcard among all the rewards. Alastair, like any other person in the Middle Kingdom, knew of magic from history books and the few rumors and whispers of witches and wizards who lived in the deep woods, far from civilization. He knew of the sorcerer’s academy in the capital and the hundreds of students who studied magic there, under the guidance of the mages. But then, he knew nothing of what they were actually learning, just like everyone else without any aptitude for magic. Even then, only very few Fated were known to be users of magic, even in the history books. Magic, by its very nature, was a volatile thing that sought freedom, chaos, and destruction at all times. It was only by the immense will, wisdom, and knowledge of its user that it could be used for something other than blowing up stuff. But then just what in the hells is Demon Magic? For that matter, are there other kinds of magic out there? Huh, well that’s something new.

Demon magic—the very name brought up vivid images of the Vainur, one of whom very recently almost killed them if not for its one very glaring weakness. The Vanur were able to take advantage of Demon magic, if only barely. What sort of magic would Alastair wield if he chose this reward, which carries with it such an ominous name? Would he wield fire and darkness, the same as that demon? Would he be putting himself closer to the dark god, Gorgorod by doing so? There were so many possibilities to consider that thinking about all of them made his mind ache.

However, despite its name and the possible downsides he could think of, the idea of having access to powerful magic was enough of an enticement that Alastair seriously considered choosing that reward. After all, with magic by his side, he wouldn’t be limited to using only his arbalest in combat. If he could even harness a fraction of what the Vainur were said to be capable of, then his power would be nearly unmatched, even by the greatest mages in the capital.

But, again, its very name made him hesitant at choosing it.

Leaning his head back, Alastair sighed, eyeing the crimson sky as the sun slowly dipped in the distance, just beyond the shattered remains of Mount Morthog.

Damon groaned beside him. “Hah, I never thought choosing a reward would be this hard. All my choices are awesome and I can’t pick between them! Can’t I choose all of them at once?”

Alastair chuckled. “Damon, I can’t tell you how many times that line of thought has gotten you in trouble with women. Just pick one and roll with it. What’s the worst that could happen? They’re all rewards.”

Huh, he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Damon or himself.

“True, but I only get to pick one and every other option might just disappear forever afterward,” Damon reasoned, groaning as he leaned back into the dirt. “I have to be very careful and very thoughtful about this and that’s the hard part, because I can’t seem to choose which one’s good—they all are!”

Shaking his head, Alastair turned to his friend. “What options do you have, anyway?”

“Well, I had three options before that whole demon thing showed up: a flat bonus to all my stats with the equivalent of a high-level monster core, an upgrade to any skill I choose, and a new rare weapon. But after we won against that thing, I received a fourth one: demon’s blood. I don’t know what it does, but it does say here that choosing this option will drastically alter my system.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to choose. The demon’s blood thing seems kind of… ominous in a very bad way, so I’m not quite sure if I’m even going to consider that one. Anything that involves demons is bad news—I think.”

“So, you’re just going to choose one of the first three?” Alastair asked.

Damon nodded. “Yeah, just one of those three is good enough for me. But I still don’t know which one I want.”

They both sighed at the same time.

The night seemed quieter somehow as their minds worked.

A frog croaked somewhere near them. A howling gust of wind passed over them, like a banshee in the night.

In the distance, molten rock and liquid fire seeped out of the sunken ruins of what used to be Mount Morthog. Yeah, Alastair still wasn’t sure how they were supposed to explain that one to the Guild Master when they came back. Hardly anyone would be receptive to their story of demons and how they were able to just barely defeat it. The other adventurers already hate us because Cthonia gave us Gold Licenses. They think we’re just a bunch of country bumpkins who lucked their way into the patronage of a member of the royal family, which—to be perfectly fair—is actually quite accurate. They won’t believe us if we tell them the truth. Hells, they won’t believe anything we say.

“Well,” Alastair said, after a moment of contemplation, “let’s just make a start for Maredon. We can think about it on the way back.”

Damon snorted. “Yeah… we’re probably gonna end up being laughed out of the guild house when we tell them what happened. How’s anyone going to believe us when the mountain’s not exactly a mountain anymore?”

“We’re probably going to fail the quest, too. All we have is the hilt of the Goblin King’s sword, and I highly doubt anyone in the Guild’s going to accept it as proof of our success.”

“Ah, this sucks,” Damon groaned. “It’s our first quest and we fail. Cthonia’s going to be royally disappointed.”

Sighing, Alastair pushed himself up onto his feet and stretched his arms. He eyed the glowing streams of magma for a moment, before shaking his head and turning to Damon, who was already standing. “We should start walking back. It’s a long way to the city.”

“And we have no idea where we are, since that demon saw fit to send us here,” Damon turned around and hummed in thought.

Alastair walked up beside him and frowned. Ahead of them was a mess of jagged rocks and tall boulders, all leading down a very steep fall into a narrow ravine. There were no trees or shrubs, and the only things that grew around the place were peculiar blue flowers that bloomed on the ground, between the rocks. The scents that whaffed off them vaguely reminded him of Cthonia’s perfume.

Lately, almost everything pleasant reminded him of her and that was a very bad thing in his book.

“Just gotta get back to Maredon,” Alastair muttered, shrugging. His body ached quite a bit, but the path didn’t look too hard. He’d just have to weave around, over, and under a few of the gigantic rocks and boulders, but it was nothing he couldn’t do. Alastair whistled, before crouching down and picking up the closest pebble to his shoe. He then tossed it into the winding ravine of sharp, jagged rocks and boulders. The pebble’s bounce echoed for several seconds, before trailing off near the very bottom. “Well, it looks like we’re going to be climbing our way down from here.”

Damon nodded before he turned to regard Alastair with a questioning look. “Are you sure you’re physically capable of doing that, right now? I mean, you had your ass kicked by that demon. It’d be perfectly acceptable for you to take a breather. Hells, I could just carry you on my shoulder and it’d be a hundred times easier.”

Alastair huffed, wheezed, and then raised a silencing hand. “I am perfectly capable of climbing down, without you carrying me, alright? I mean, look at me, I’m the picture of hea—”

Alastair coughed and wheezed, gripping his stomach all the while as painful ebbs made themselves known in his torso, like prickling pins in his belly.

“See?” he forced out, tiny stars dancing in his vision. “I can do this! I’m more than capable of doing this!”

“Oh yeah?” Damon shook his head. “I dare you to balance on one leg for more than thirty seconds, then. If you can do that, maybe I won’t carry you all the way down.”

“Hah, watch me!” Alastair raised one leg and, three seconds later, promptly fell on his behind. “Alright, maybe I do need some rest, after all—”

An ear-piercing screech echoed through the wind. Alastair’s eyes narrowed almost immediately. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the aching of his body seemed to fade as his battle instincts quickly took over. Alastair’s eyes scanned left, right, and up, but found nothing amiss. The faint darkness of the looming night seemed to hide the source well enough.

“There’s something here—a monster,” he said.

Damon’s head snapped to the west, toward the source of the infernal sound. “Yeah, I can smell something foul in the air, like a rotting corpse, mixed with putrid garlic—it’s kind of hard to make out just what it is, but it’s close.”

Alastair grabbed his arbalest from the ground, eyes narrowed toward the west, where Damon was looking. The shrieks continued, its source getting closer and closer with every second. Damon growled under his breath as he summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear. Alastair’s first and most powerful child came into his friend’s outstretched hand with a brief flash.

“It’s headed right toward us!” Damon cried.

Alastair’s eyes widened as a great shadow flew over them, its wingspan stretching on and covering the stars above them. Its flaps kicked up terrible winds that came like hurricanes, dragging them backward. Alastair’s feet skidded over the ground as the great shadowy thing surged through the skies above them, shrieking all the while.

“What in the hells am I supposed to aim for?!” he yelled.

He spun, raised his arbalest, and took aim behind him, but found nothing, save for the distant twinkling stars. Alastair gritted his teeth as Damon walked up to his side.

The shrieking shadow appeared to disappear entirely into the night sky, like a ghost.

An eerie silence followed as though a shrieking, gigantic shadow had never appeared before them at all. True to Damon’s words, however, a strange stench followed the creature’s wake, similar to a pile of rotting fish guts and fruit pulp, whose juices and dews mingled and mixed all the while withering away into oblivion.

The smell was mildly irritating, but not at all as repugnant as the Primal Goliath’s body odor and feces.

“I think it’s afraid of engaging us head on,” Damon muttered, his eyes still scanning the skies, seeing specters where Alastair saw nothing but dark clouds and twinkling stars. “It might be one of those monsters that can gauge its opponent’s powers. Maybe, it’s—”

The gigantic shadow slammed right into the mountain side and sent both Alastair and Damon hurling into the ravine of jagged rocks and giant boulders. Alastair caught sight of an utterly massive, bat-like face, before his head hit solid ground. He felt the world twist and turn and roll as he tumbled down, pangs of pain assailing his body with every bump he encountered, each one giving him a new bruise. His muscles screamed and his bones ached, and it was all getting worse with every passing moment.

“Die, you overgrown bat!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alastair briefly caught a glance of Damon, charging up the mountain, the Black Dragon’s Spear in hand. That idiot!

And then, despite everything that seemed to rage around them, despite the death and darkness that loomed over them, his system prompt appeared.

Please choose your reward from the following options:

-   Free Skill Upgrade

-   Physical Upgrade (Overrides [Fate: Crafter] Limitation)

-   Random Rare Artifact

-   Demon Magic (System Update: Innate Class Upgrade)

“Damn it!” Alastair screamed, blood and bile leaving his throat as he spun and finally slammed into the surface of a flat rock. He coughed and sputtered, his mind reeling and spinning. The world appeared as a blur. All the stars in the sky seemed to flutter in and out of existence. From afar came the vague sounds of battle, shrieking roars, alongside Damon’s own voice, raging on as he fought the shadowy beast atop the mountain.

From the sounds of it, however, Damon wasn’t winning. His enemy was agile and elusive, unlike the monsters and creatures they’d fought thus far. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as the Vainur or the Primal Goliath, but it was fast, agile, and stealthy, and that was something they’d not yet dealt with. Whatever this creature was, it was something Damon definitely wasn’t prepared to fight.

Alastair’s arbalest was nowhere near him. He must have lost it on his little tumble down the ravine. He glanced up and saw only a whirlwind of teeth, claws, wings, and a familiar black spear, carried by Damon, as he kept up with the strange, winged creature’s attacks. Alastair’s eyes widened when he noted the fact that Damon was slowly, but surely, getting pushed to the edge of the mountain side as the winged shadow flew circles around him, swiping with its talons and biting with its fangs. All the while, Damon missed just about every attack he threw back.

The creature shrieked and, with a single, mighty flap of its massive wings, sent Damon hurling toward the edge of a cliff, where a narrow drop awaited him. Damon, however, managed to hold on by the edge of his fingers, hoisting himself up.

“Damon!” Gritting his teeth, Alastair screamed as he held out his right hand toward the living shadow. I don’t care if the power comes from the depths of Gorgorod’s fiery realm, give me the power to save my friend!

With that declaration, Alastair chose the final reward: demon magic.

Crimson flames burst out of his eyes. Pain flooded his body—pain beyond anything he’d ever felt before, like liquid fire, pouring over him, burning his skin, muscles, and bones, and yet he remained whole as the crimson fires spread across his body. Despite this, Alastair remained firm, keeping his right hand trailed over the shadow in the sky and his eyes fixed on Damon’s form as he dangled over the edge of a cliff.

The ground melted around him, pebbles and rocks and sands all melting down into a puddle of liquid flame. The pain slowly funneled into his right hand as though his very blood boiled underneath his flesh. Alastair screamed as he felt the skin, muscles, and bones of his appendage burn away, only for him to blink once and see it all intact. And then, power burst out of him and surged through the darkness of the night. A beam of crimson flames lit up the shadows, revealing the massive, chiropteran creature that hovered just above Damon.  Alastair’s flames slammed right into the creature’s chest and burnt a hole out through the other side.

“Reeeeee!” the creature’s pained scream echoed through the winds.

Alastair wheezed and coughed blood as he leaned back into the boulder at his back, stars whirling overhead. His vision dimmed. The chiropteran monster choked and gurgled on its own blood as it weakly flew away. It managed only a few feet of open air, before death claimed it. The creature fell down into the ravine, leaving a trail of blood. Its back broke against the sharp edges of a jagged rock.

+10,000 Pollentias!

Innate Class Update! Artificer has been changed to [Hell Forger (lvl 1)]

The world dimmed and blackened. The last thing Alastair saw was Damon climbing over the cliff, red veins pulsating over his face, his eyes burning with crimson flames.

Alastair rasped, “Damon… no.”

Chapter 11

“You also chose the demonic option, huh?” Damon wheezed, chuckling as he leaned back against a flat rock face, a tiny trickle of blood streaming down from his hair. He looked exhausted and weary, more so now after that gigantic bat creature attacked them. The pair trudged down the ravine, slowly following the monster’s trail of cold, black blood, in order to harvest its parts. “My Hunter’s Will didn’t activate. We probably could’ve killed that thing easily if it was morning.”

Alastair had never seen his friend look so tired. He nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t strong by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a tricky thing to deal with. I’d rather fight another Primal Goliath.”

Damon chuckled.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. A time would come when they would face such a beast again—maybe not the exact same creature, but something similar: a fast, agile, tricky, and intelligent monster that would take far more than brute force to kill. Demonic magic was, of course, not an option. He’d have to come up with something that’d let them see in the dark and maybe another device to hold down fast or flying monsters.

It was something for later, he supposed. If there was one thing he truly loved about his Fate, it was the creativity it afforded him. The possibilities were nearly endless, with regards to the artifacts he could create, the wonders he could craft, and the magic he could build.

They stopped for a moment.

“You know,” Damon said, “I somehow had the feeling that at least one of us might end with something demonic. I didn’t think we’d both end up with it.”

Alastair sighed and glanced up at the stars in the heavens and wondered if they had somehow caught the eye of the lord of demons, Gorgorod, in doing what they did. He eyed the black blood on the rock surfaces and briefly wondered if it could be used for anything. Then again, seeing as he couldn’t inventory the item or use Appraise on it, it was probably worthless.

“I was hoping for a power that could save you and… I guess that’s exactly what I got,” Damon said. “It also altered your innate class, right?”

With a thought, Alastair brought up his innate class sheet, which had been drastically altered, since he chose Demon Magic. He gained new skills and an entirely new perk that was more than a little ominous if he was being honest.

Innate Class: Hell Forger (lvl 2)

(lvl 2) Hell Forger Skills:

-   Bind (lvl 1) - Imbue mystical properties onto an existing item, using an ordinary item and a monster, magical, or alchemical ingredients. Results are dependent on the quality and value of the items used. Has a 3% chance of imbuing demonic properties into the resulting artifact. Cannot use items above rare quality, save for crossroads in one’s Fate.

-   Hell Fire—You may summon and shape the flames of Gorgorod to your will, but each use has a price. Every time you summon the demonic fires, you will pay for it with a portion of your humanity, until you are consumed by the dark powers and fully transformed into a demon. (1/666)

Perks:

-   Chosen Through Adversity—You gained the attention of the gods through the achievement of a great and difficult challenge. In doing so, any Pollentias you receive is double the normal rate.

-   Hell Walker—Hellfire cannot harm you, unless it is used by a Vainur. In such a case, it will have only 20% effectiveness. You also have limited control over mortal fire. Grants access to basic demon magic (needs grimoire to unlock).

Damon hummed and nodded as he took a single step forward, stretched his arms high and turned. He raised his right hand and balled it into a fist, staring intently at it. Soon after, crimson veins appeared across his right arm, pulsating and glowing with the intensity of magma—liquid fire flowing through his veins. “I was scared. That monster was hard to fight. I was losing. I couldn’t even hit it once, and I figured this Demon’s Blood might just give me enough of a boost to save my life.”

Sighing, Damon lowered his right hand and glanced at Alastair, the pulsating crimson veins on his right arm receding and disappearing as he did. “Yeah, you’re right. It altered my innate class. I even have a new perk that says I’m now partly demonic, though only by 3%, but it gets larger every time I use my new skill, Hell Hunter.”

Damon smiled melancholically as he spoke, raising his right arm. “The veiny, pulsating, crimson vein things… They appear each time I use that skill, pushing my physical stats to insane degrees.”

Alastair nodded, before climbing over a low rock that reached up his waist. “But the price is your humanity, right? It gives you strength, but it also slowly turns you into a demon?”

Damon nodded.

“My hellfire works the same way.” Alastair glanced down at his right hand, noting the blackened fingernails, which had significantly lengthened and visibly sharpened into gruesome points. He had absolutely no doubt about the potency of this newfound power, but the price that came with it was far too much.

Would he end up like that Vainur if he used this power too much?

Would he end up among the demonic hordes of Gorgorod if he allowed the crimson flames to consume him?

He didn’t know the answer to either question, but he certainly did not wish to find out.

Steeling himself, Alastair breathed in and turned to face Damon, whose downcast eyes hid little of his self-doubt and regret. Maybe they both carried the same eyes. Power that robbed them of their humanity was power not worth using. The cost was simply too high. No power was worth their souls.

Alastair smiled and closed his fist. “Let’s agree to never use these demonic powers ever again, no matter what. We can’t sacrifice our souls in exchange for power. Only politicians do that. You and me, we’re heroes. And, if we’re going to sacrifice our souls for anything, it’ll be for the betterment of the people.”

Damon smiled back and nodded, his face suddenly regaining color and losing pallor. “Yes, we should never use this power again for as long as we live. We’re heroes, yeah? Heroes don’t trade their souls for anything—not even for the promise of power. Besides, we don’t need it. We’re powerful enough on our own!”

“Exactly.” Alastair nodded in agreement. “We don’t need demon magic or whatever this is! We were strong before, and we’ll remain strong, no matter what.”

Despite his words, Alastair’s thoughts could not help but linger over the very simple fact that his most powerful crafting ability, Bind, previously Imbue, was now demonic in nature and, if he was right about how leveling up worked, would only continue growing down the depths of demonic power. But… if he and Damon were to become living legends, just like the Fated heroes in the history books, then Alastair found that he had little choice in the matter. I have to use it. All my other skills are mediocre at best; Bind remains my most powerful tool.

At the very least, Alastair mused, he wouldn’t be trading his soul away to craft wondrous things.

“Besides,” Damon said, smirking, “the princess wouldn’t like you very much if you were a twenty-foot tall demonic monster, right?”

“Shut up.” Alastair smiled, a strange flutter of warmth radiating in his chest. “But, yeah, I seriously doubt any relationship would work at that point.”

They continued down the ravine. Exhausted and injured as they were, it took several minutes for them to reach the end of the blood trail, where the massive corpse of the chiropteran monster awaited them. A sharp, jagged rock jutted out of the creature’s chest. Blood poured out of its fanged maw. Its wings were splayed out, tattered and broken from when it crashed hard into the ravine. Its massive talons faced them.

Damon approached it first and summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear in his hands. He stabbed the monster’s right foot several times, jets of black blood spurting out the holes in its flesh, before he turned and raised a thumbs-up. “Yep, this thing won’t be waking up any time soon, I think.”

“Good.” Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the massive corpse. Appraise!

Adult Female Night Stalker (Corpse)

So, that’s what this thing’s called, Alastair mused as he walked forward and eyed one of its midnight-black talons, each one about half as long as his arm. He then eyed the bulge in its belly and frowned. Was it pregnant? Such a thing would’ve explained its aggression when it attacked them—a mother, defending its territory from a bunch of strange intruders, bearing the smell of an ancient demon. Night Stalkers weren’t known for their aggression, especially against humans, who—relative to the monster’s size—would hardly prove to be a decent meal, unless eaten by the hundreds.

Alastair walked up the monster and pointed at its bulging belly. “Damon, cut open its stomach. I want to see what’s inside.”

“Oh… huh? Sure thing,” Damon shrugged, before walking forward. He then leapt up onto the Night Stalker’s belly and raised the Black Dragon’s Spear, bringing it down low in a quick sweeping motion that immediately sliced open the monster’s stomach. A wet, squelching sound soon followed as blood and gore streamed out the creature’s open belly, accompanied by a foul stench.

Damon sighed and shrugged. “Um, what are you expecting out of this, Alastair? All I see is blood, guts, and a bunch of crap flowing out of it.” He then pointed the spear at its thick and muscular chest. “Isn’t the core supposed to be under here? We cut open the Primal Goliath’s belly the last time and… Well, all we found were ingredients for your stink bomb. Not that it wasn’t useful, but—wait, are you looking for more poop?”

Alastair shook his head. “No, I think this thing might’ve been pregnant. I think that’s why it attacked us as soon as the sun went down.”

Damon’s face fell. “Oh… wait, I’m going to cut open a little deeper.”

Without further prompting, Damon pierced the Black Dragon’s Spear right into its gut, before swinging it sideways, fully opening up its belly.

Alastair’s eyes widened, and he found himself taking an absent step back when a miniature clone of the Night Stalker plopped out into the open, its eyes closed and likely undeveloped, just as its wings appeared emaciated and small, its talons nonexistent and its skin hairless. It was dead. Damon’s spear had sheared a path right across its chest, but Alastair was fairly certain it’d already died even before then.

“Damn, we just killed a mom,” Damon muttered. “I’m not sure if I should feel bad about this. I mean, it is a monster, after all.”

“Does it matter? This thing’s already dead, after all.” Alastair gestured at the mother Night Stalker’s gigantic corpse. He then turned his attention to the fetus. Appraise!

[Night Stalker Fetus]

Quality: Rare

Value: 30,000

The fetus of a fearsome Night Stalker, monsters with the reputation for their camouflage abilities under the cover of night. This item can be used for Crafting.

Without another thought, Alastair stepped forward and promptly sent the fetus into his inventory, where it wouldn’t succumb to the ravages of time and decay. He then turned and smiled at Damon, who seemed a little disturbed. “Well, that’s that. We should start cutting this monster up as soon as possible. I’d like to get some sleep soon.”

Damon shook his head and nodded. “Y-yeah, let’s do that. My whole damn body hurts.”

They took its talons first, each one a promising ingredient to create potent weapons. Then, they took the webbings off its wings, followed by its eyes, then its teeth, and then its ears. They ripped out the bones of its legs and arms, before slicing its head off entirely as a trophy to bring back to the Guild. Finally, they carved open its ribcage and extracted its core, the potent source of the Night Stalker’s immense physical prowess, an apple-sized, luminescent orb of a pale milky hue, making it resemble the moon somewhat.

[Night Stalker Core]

Quality: Rare

Value: 50,000

The core of a Night Stalker is the source of the creature’s ability to blend into the darkness. It is also what allows it to fly, despite its great and muscular bulk that wouldn’t otherwise be leaving the ground, unless given strength and energy by a powerful and potent core. This item can be used for Crafting.

“You won’t eat it?” Alastair asked, reaching out to Damon with the core in hand.

Damon shook his head. “Let’s keep it, for now. I think this thing would have greater use for your crafting as opposed to just me consuming it for a bonus to my stats. Besides, killing that thing gave me a ton of Pollentias to use.”

Alastair nodded and inventoried the core. His eyes briefly lingered over the Night Stalker’s remains. Shredded bones and skinless lumps of flesh, over a veritable bed of black blood, its guts splayed out for the carrion to pick apart come the morning.

He pitied it, almost. It was still a monster, at the end of the day. Its pregnancy hardly affected that. It’s just a monster. Damon and I are supposed to kill monsters so they don’t kill defenseless folk.

“We should find a place to make camp, soon,” Damon said, yawning. His eyes drooped and fluttered, and something about them screamed of a weariness that lay beyond his body. His mind was tired and… Alastair couldn’t quite fault his friend for that. It hadn’t even been three hours since they were forced to fight for their lives against a creature of Gorgorod, a demon from myth and legend. After that came an angry monster, who attacked them almost as soon as the sun settled over the horizon.

Breathing in, Alastair realized he felt much the same way. “I’m exhausted.”

Damon nodded, yawning as well. Though, unlike Damon, who possessed superhuman durability, strength, and speed, Alastair found himself riddled with pains, bruises, and maybe a few cracks in his bones that screamed and ached and throbbed. The pain had somewhat dulled with each passing moment, but it would only get worse when the morning finally came.

Eh, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

It was damn near miraculous that he still was capable of standing.

He glanced up at the stars and frowned. “Well, we’re about fifty miles from Maredon… if we’re moving back in a straight line from here, but that won’t be possible. We’ll have to trek through the mountains and that’ll be another twenty or so miles.”

Damon nodded and groaned. “I remember a tributary river that flowed through here. Let’s find it and make our camp close to it. I’m thirsty and hungry. Fish will have to do.”

They moved further down the ravine until the jagged rocks and tall boulders gradually disappeared, making way for grasses and bushes and shrubs, and tall trees in the distance. They walked into the tree line and further into the dark woods. After fighting off a Vainur and a Night Stalker on the same day, and an army of goblins, there were few things here that might have been scary to them. They found the tributary almost an hour later, a stream of cold, fresh water that flowed in from the northern reaches, where salmon and trout swam aplenty underneath the crystal clear surface.

They pitched their tent a few feet away from it, atop a bed of solid pebbles that overlooked the river, just high enough to remain dry. They slept soundly through the night, despite all the howls and the roars that echoed in the wind, the shrieks and the wails that would have otherwise kept lesser mortals awake in fear and anxiety. No creatures approached their tent. Both monsters and mundane beasts feared their scent as demons from ages past, feared by all.

A dark and terrible shadow loomed over them, eyes burning with hellfire.

* * *

Alastair’s eyes fluttered open as the first rays of sunshine met him with its calming, radiant warmth. He yawned and almost immediately winced at the sharp pain that exploded all over his chest, seemingly exacerbated with every breath. “Ah… that’s going to be a problem.”

He leaned back into the tent flap and sighed, wincing once more at the pain in his torso. And it wasn’t the only place screaming in pain—nearly every single part of his body ached.

Grunting, Alastair pushed himself onto his feet, but fell back on his bottom as his arms gave out, his shoulders lacking any strength to hold him up for more than a few seconds. He then sighed and leaned back, giving up on the prospect of standing up.

“Well, at least we weren’t attacked in our sleep.” The garments he had on—a simple white tunic and a pair of brown trousers—would not have helped in the event of an attack. The only reason he changed into such clothes in the first place, was for hygienic reasons: copious amounts of blood had seeped into his armor, Cthonia’s gift, and sleeping in it was just asking for an infection. Furthermore, Blaze and Bile, due to its heat-resistant properties, would essentially become a shirt of ice when worn at night, and Alastair had no wish to die of frostbite anytime soon. And all the other gear they had in Damon’s inventory were simply impossible to sleep in. So, despite the danger, Alastair slept in mundane clothes.

They were surprisingly comfortable.

He peeked out the tent flap, briefly eyeing the schools of salmon and trout, swimming against the river’s current. His stomach gurgled and groaned at the sight.

Damon was on watch, having relieved Alastair about four hours earlier. He nodded at his friend and yawned. “Hey, are you alright? You look like you’ve been through… You know what? That’s exactly what happened.”

Alastair sighed. He couldn’t even shrug with how much his shoulders ached. “I can’t move. Everything hurts.”

“Yeah,” Damon muttered, eyeing Alastair’s bruises and cuts. There were plenty of both. “You should rest for a few days. It’s been a while since you last slept. You only slept for… what? Four hours at most? Why are you even awake, right now? Don’t worry about relieving me. I can handle the watch.”

Alastair reached up under his eyes and winced at how puffy his face was. “Oh, whatever. I don’t need sleep.”

“Yeah, you kind of do,” Damon said with a shake of his head as he stretched and yawned. “I’m going out to get us some food and water. You stay here and get some rest.”

“I can—”

“I’m not listening to your arguments, unless you can stand.” Damon held up a hand, before promptly closing the tent flap. His head popped back inside with a grin. “Also, your eye bags with their bags and their bags having their own bags is kind of creepy to look at. Get some sleep. You look like a frightened ballsack.”

“Ugh… fine.” Alastair fell face-first onto the sheets and groaned as his body screamed in pain from the slight impact. He rolled himself onto his stomach with great difficulty, each tiny movement eliciting either a whimper or a groan, until he faced the top portion of their tent.

Chapter 12

Alastair raised an eyebrow. He would have crossed his arms over his chest if only his muscles wouldn’t scream in pain with even the slightest movement. At the very least, his face could still move and, compared to the rest of his body, sported almost no injuries save for a few barely noticeable cuts.

He spoke from behind the tent flaps, eyeing Damon as his friend stood there, drenched. “Did you seriously spend the last two hours trying to catch salmon with only your bare hands? Have you ever heard of a spear? I heard rumors that even monkeys could use them to catch fish. Oh, that’s right! You have at least four spears on you at all times!”

Damon groaned, holding up a score of only three salmon, each one plump and heavy, thrashing left and right. He set the still-living creatures on a wooden cutting board, before pinning them in place with long, metal skewers. “Hey, my mind doesn’t work right in the early morning, okay?”

“Just make sure to take their gills and organs out,” Alastair said, groaning. His eyes fluttered open and closed with every passing second and yet sleep eluded him. So, he settled for simply watching his friend.

For the most part, growing up in a remote village had prepared them for situations such as this, out in the wilderness, needing to hunt their own food. Damon, at the very least, knew what he was doing with the fishes. The only probably was that he’d seem to have forgotten how to catch them.

“Yeah, I know,” Damon replied, sighing. “I do not want to taste chum ever again.”

Alastair shuddered at that one particular memory, involving a jar full of fish guts and salt, which had been left under the sun for a month.

The smell of it still lingered in his memory.

A curious thing, since that little concoction of Damon’s was less pungent than a Primal Goliath’s body odor. Fish sauce, their neighbors called it, an unholy liquid that somehow stank to high heavens, but also tasted rather pleasant.

Huh, I recall a few of the merchants were interested in buying tons of it…

Damon set to work on cleaning the fish of their scales and guts, throwing their innards back into the river, where other creatures may feast upon them. He trimmed their fins and tails afterward, before taking all three of them back into the river for a final dip that would rid them of all their blood. With the fishes cleaned, he then set out to make a fire by flint and steel, over a bed of dried twigs and grasses. They had done this hundreds of times in the past, even before they were anointed as one of the Fated, and so it came with little surprise that Damon had a fire burning within only a few minutes of work.

With the kindling set alight, Damon went off into the woods to find bigger sources of fuel—branches from fallen trees or even pieces of their bark. Whatever worked, so long as it was dry and would remain so for  a long time. There were plenty of dead trees and withered logs in whatever direction one could take in such a thick forest.

With a flame raging on, just outside their tent, Damon then set the skewered salmon next to the roaring fire by sticking them on the ground, exposed to indirect heat, where they would slowly roast, far from the threat of actually burning.

“You know what would make this even better?” Alastair absently muttered, eyeing the fire and wondering if he could truly control it as his skill, Hellfire, seemed to imply. He shoved the thoughts far away as he spoke. The flame seemed to burn brighter. “Salt. Salt would make this better. I wish we didn’t forget to pack salt, because I’d kill for that stuff right about now.”

Damon grunted in agreement, turning the fishes so that each side received equal heating. “Yeah, I remember Old Nandy’s roast chicken and potato pie had lots of salt in it. I used to watch her prepare her dishes from outside her kitchen window. I’d drool over her food as a kid, but mom never let me into the tavern. She always said it wasn’t for kids.”

“And, when you grew up, you still couldn’t taste Old Nandy’s food, because she’d died a few years before,” Alastair finished. “Dad brought home a box of her roast chicken, once or twice on occasions. It was better than anything my mom ever cooked, but I never told her that—hehe.”

He flinched, cutting off his own chuckling as his ribs seemed to scream in pain. Alastair groaned, instead.

Damon chuckled. “Well, we don’t have salt, but these fat boys should be decently smoky, after they’re all well and cooked.”

Alastair nodded, briefly eyeing the skewered salmons, whose fats bubbled away under its skin, glistening and dripping. The aromas that drifted off them made his stomach rumble even harder than before. But, he didn’t want to rush anything, especially since Damon had a peculiar look about his face whenever he was cooking anything. A strange, almost joyful mirth would fill his eyes, even when the food he made was usually less than stellar and only vaguely edible in the sense that it probably wasn’t poisonous.

Still, if it made his friend happy, then Alastair saw little reason to disturb Damon’s moments of peace that did not involve the fairer sex.

With that in mind, he settled back into the folds of the tent floor and closed his eyes. Now would be a great time to spend those Pollentias. I’ve got ten thousand of them and a whole lot of skills to spend them on!

First, he reviewed his current stats and skills.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 1, Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Pollentias: 14,400

Alastair raised an eyebrow. Huh, I have more Pollentias than I thought. I should upgrade most of my skills, then.

Status Page: Crafter (lvl 1) Costs 1,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

(Fated Crafters are unable to grow their physical attributes through the System.)

Basic Skills:

-   Weld (lvl 1) - Attaches two metallic parts together. Success and presentation of an output is dependent on skill level. Currently has 60% chance of success and a 10% chance of producing an Artifact. Cannot be used on non-metallic materials! Costs 500 Pollentias to upgrade.

-   Forge (lvl 2) - Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 74% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 15% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 8% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 3% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-   Shape (lvl 2) - Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract 5% of its total mass; you cannot add any mass. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-   Appraise (Max) - Observe the innate crafting value and potential of an object, alive or otherwise. It also allows you to interact with items in ways impossible to non-Fated. Warning: Other Fated may sense the usage of this skill when used on them.

Innate Class: Hell Forger (lvl 2)

(lvl 2) Hell Forger Skills:

-   Bind (lvl 1) - Imbue mystical properties onto an existing item, using an ordinary item and a monster, magical, or alchemical ingredients. Results are dependent on the quality and value of the items used. Has a 3% chance of imbuing demonic properties into the resulting artifact. Cannot use items above rare quality.

-   Hell Fire—You may summon and shape the flames of Gorgorod to your will, but each use has a price. Every time you summon the demonic fires, you will pay for it with a portion of your humanity, until you are consumed by the dark powers and fully transformed into a demon.

Perks:

-   Chosen Through Adversity—You gained the attention of the gods through the achievement of a great and difficult challenge. In doing so, any Pollentias you receive is double the normal rate.

-   Hell Walker—Hellfire cannot harm you, unless it is used by a Vainur. In such a case, it will have only 20% effectiveness. You also have limited control over mortal fire. Grants access to basic demon magic (needs grimoire to unlock).

Alastair frowned as he considered his options, his eyes lingering over his innate class, Hell Forger. He gritted his teeth at the words that signified his closeness to Gorgorod, the father of demons. The heat of his Hellfire seemed to bubble in his hands, wanting to be unleashed, wanting to burn the world to ashes. Sighing, Alastair forced down the thoughts, and so did the demonic power within himself return to its slumber.

Well, obviously, Shape and Forge, both of which were at level 2, remained at the top of his most powerful skills. But then he saw the prompt that was right next to his level. What would happen if I upgraded my level? It says I’m a level 1 Crafter and I can spend 1,000 Pollentias to upgrade it, but what does that mean for me? Well, I’ve waited long enough to have enough Pollentias to waste so I may as well try.

He would have shrugged if his shoulders weren’t aching so much.

And so, with a mental shrug, Alastair spent 1,000 Pollentias to upgrade his Crafter level.

Your Fate has been upgraded! You are now a level 2 Crafter!

That’s it? What does that even mean? Alastair brought up his stats, once more.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 2, Costs 2,000 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Pollentias: 13,400

He didn’t feel any different, and none of his existing skills were affected. He wasn’t suddenly stronger or faster, and his injuries were still there. Nothing, it seemed, had changed about him, save for a very minor edit on his status page, indicating the fact that he was now a level 2 Crafter.

What?

So, what does it mean to upgrade his level as a Crafter? That part remained vague. It can’t be useless, since it’s there for a reason—same as everything else that’s a part of my system. It’s there for a reason, and I have to find out what that reason is, even if I have to waste 2,000 Pollentias!

And so, that’s exactly what he did.

This time, however, Alastair hoped for something concrete—something tangible that would aid him in his journey.

Your Fate has been upgraded! You are now a level 3 Crafter!

By reaching level 3, you may now choose a new Perk!

(Note: Available perks change depending on your life choices and circumstances! You may gain a new perk every three levels.)

Available Perks:

Demon Smith—The Demon Smiths of Gorgorod’s realm are known for their hellish and nightmarish creations that burn both soul and flesh, tormented weapons and armor, upon whose metal rages and thrashes the spirit of a tortured demon. Their artifacts were feared by all, even by the Great Gods of Order. +85% chance of creating a demonic item whenever you use Imbue.

Shield Breaker—No shield, no armor, no wall, and no protection may stand before your creations! Your swords shall slice through stone, your maces shall break down castle walls, your spears shall pierce dragonhide. All weapons you create now deal bonus damage to heavily armored targets.

Eagle-Eyed Slayer—Melee is for fools, who seek to endanger themselves and their allies. The future of warfare and battle lies in ranged combat. You have become a master of fighting from afar and, thus, your hands will never shake, your heart will never tremble, and your eye shall never waver with a ranged weapon in hand. +100% accuracy when using ranged weapons.

Ironsides—You have endured injury after injury after injury and yet you remain unbowed and unbroken. Through sheer will, grit, and determination, you have grown beyond your mortal durability. Blows and attacks that would injure mundane men will bounce off your skin, and things that would kill them will only lightly injure you. +100 Durability (Bypasses Crafter limitation)

Hydra’s Kiss—No longer shall you suffer from wounds and injuries. No longer shall you feel the pain of the sword or the sting of the arrow. Whatever injuries you receive shall heal before your very eyes! Health passively regenerates at all times.

Damn, that’s a lot of options. Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he considered each one.

Demon Smith, of course, was definitely thrown out immediately. It was only through his sheer curiosity that he even spared it a second glance, despite its very obvious and very ominous name. However, Alastair could not deny that it would be a very powerful choice if he wasn’t concerned for his soul. Gorgorod was the lord of chaos and destruction—he had no wish to be further involved with such a god more than he already was. So, without a second thought or a glance, Alastair threw that option right out the proverbial window.

Next came the options that were far less likely to damn his soul to the realm of the Gorgorod.

Shield Breaker would grant his creations a greater punching power, allowing them to deal with armor easier than they would otherwise. Damon had the Black Dragon’s Spear, which nullified most armor anyway, but there was always a chance another person joined their party, one who didn’t have access to a weapon like Damon’s.  But, right now, they didn’t have another party member, or even a potential party member, so the perk wasn’t particularly useful.

Eagle-Eyed Slayer was… an interesting option. It wouldn’t aid or advance his crafting, not by a longshot, but it would boost his ability to kill things, which meant he’d be able to help Damon more and more. Increasing his accuracy by 100% would make him twice as accurate. That wasn’t something to scoff at, all things considered. A powerful dragon still needed eyes to see, and a poisoned bolt to said eye was a good way to take it down. The same could be said for heavily armored, human opponents. Overall, it had very few downsides, aside from the fact that it wouldn’t help him as a craftsman at all. Regardless, it was a solid option that could not be easily turned down.

The next perk on the list was Ironsides. This perk, alongside the last one, Hydra’s Kiss, were the two that really caught his attention.

Ironsides would greatly help in solving one of the few problems that still plagued him: Alastair was mortal. His body, despite his status as a Fated, remained that of a normal human man, alongside all its limitations. Unlike Damon, who could shrug off blows and attacks that would otherwise kill normal humans almost twice over, Alastair did not possess a superhuman body. Ironsides, however, would grant him a level of durability that was not dissimilar to what Damon possessed—if only substantially weaker. The injuries he had now would no longer be a problem in the future. It’d take a lot more than tumble down a mountainside to injure him.

However, Ironsides really paled in comparison to Hydra’s Kiss, which—if he was reading it right—would grant him the fabled power of regeneration, the ability to passively restore his own body, mend his own flesh, close his wounds, and fix his bones far faster than a normal human could. Sure, by choosing it, he’d miss out on Ironsides, but the promise of regeneration was far greater than a simple boost to his durability. Besides, by having the ability to simply heal through his injuries, he wouldn’t need that durability. Having said that, I hope I can try and get Ironsides in the future. These two perks, working in tandem, would make me very hard to kill.

With that in mind, Alastair made his decision.

You have chosen a new Perk! (Hydra’s Kiss has been added and is now taking effect!)

Almost immediately, Alastair felt better. His scabbed cuts disappeared, his bruises losing their color, until the natural glow of his skin returned. The pains both on the inside and outside of his body gradually disappeared as well, the cracks in his bones vanishing as his regeneration activated and took hold. The exhaustion from many sleepless nights also seemed to have departed him. In just a span of five minutes, all his injuries and ailments were suddenly gone.

Grinning, Alastair stood up and walked out of the tent, stretching his arms and legs as he did and feeling no pain—not even the slightest ache. “Perfect!”

Damon turned over his shoulder to glance at Alastair’s outburst, only for his eyes to widen and his eyebrows to rise. He stood up immediately. “You look… okay. What happened? How’d your wounds and bruises disappear?”

His friend stood up, eyes still wide. “You couldn’t even stand a few moments ago!”

“I know, right?!” Alastair chuckled, holding his arms out. His skin seemed so much brighter and more colorful than it had ever been. “I got a new perk, after I upgraded my Fate to level 3. I chose something called Hydra’s Kiss. It gives me passive regeneration. That’s how my injuries disappeared.”

Damon’s eyes widened even further. “Woah! I had no idea we could even choose another perk! I was just thinking of dumping all my Pollentias on my stats and skills. I never really thought about upgrading my Fate.”

“How many Pollentias do you still have, anyway?”

“Ugh, wait… let’s see here… I have about 18,000 Pollentias left to spend,” Damon answered, scratching the back of his head, his long fingers twirling over and around his curly hair. “Defeating that demon landed me over 12,000 Pollentias. Everything else came from the goblins.”

Alastair nodded. “Try it—upgrade your Fate to level 3. It’ll give you a prompt to choose a new perk, and you have options that are supposedly based on your past choices and circumstances. So, I guess that means the perks I got to choose from probably won’t appear on your system.”

Damon nodded and… just stood there.

Alastair circled him and crouched down to check on the skewered salmon. They were coming along nicely. Damon had positioned them far enough from the fire that it was almost impossible to burn them. Their skin glistened and bubbled with their own fats, hissing and splashing away as they crisped up. Alastair reached in and turned them around, exposing the other side to indirect heat. He then sat down, glancing over to Damon for a moment, before turning away as his friend was still standing there, likely too engrossed in deciding which perk he wanted to have.

After ten minutes or so, Damon shot his fist into the air and shouted, “I got it!”

Alastair stood up. “What perk did you get?”

“I got one that’s called Animal Magnetism, and it’s freaking amazing!” Damon’s face beamed, his eyes glistening and his skin glowing.

Whatever he chose must have been something that was truly awesome to get him this excited.

Or… Alastair thought dryly. Something stupid and—

“It’s a perk that makes me more attractive to women!” Damon all but screamed out in excitement. “It’s an aura effect thing that makes me appear more attractive to members of the opposite sex! With this, I shall become a god among men!”

Alastair blinked and sighed. He shook his head, before shooting Damon with an incredulous look. “Of course… Why am I actually surprised?”

Chapter 13

“Are you absolutely sure that we’re going the right way?” Damon asked.

Alastair nodded confidently, grinning as they walked. “I am reasonably positive that we are currently proceeding in the general direction of Maredon.”

“So, you’re not sure.” Damon looked sheepishly at Alastair, who seemed far too confident in his own navigation skills when their experience had, thus far, proven otherwise.

“No,” Alastair said, still somehow confident as he nodded.

Damon frowned and shook his head, following closely behind as Alastair led from the front, walking a vaguely recognizable pathway that may or may not have been an actual path.

“Yeah, we’re definitely lost,” Damon said.

Alastair, naturally, ignored his friend’s comment and continued walking forward, despite the clear and present evidence of them going in the wrong direction. Still, getting lost was nothing if not fun, especially given their amazing abilities, setting the both of them far beyond mortal men. They were Fated. The dangers of wandering in the deep of the woods did not apply as much to them as it did others.

And, more importantly, neither of them were excited about facing the Guildmaster and explaining to him just what happened that caused a whole mountain to collapse into a burning, ruinous puddle of lava.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Damon?” Alastair said, smiling.

He had felt strangely energetic after getting the perk, Hydra’s Kiss. His mind moved faster, and his body followed. He was restless and excited and sleep no longer felt necessary.

Alastair hated it. He hated being this bouncy, but there was no stopping it now. This was, he mused, the price for such an awesome ability.

“After driving off that demon,” he said, “there’s almost nothing in these forests that can possibly threaten us.”

It wasn’t an unfair price, if he was being honest, just a tad bit disconcerting, given how a single perk so easily altered his normal mental function. He had never been this excited over anything, not even his own damn birthday, which… he’d already forgotten, since the only person who ever cared was Damon, which meant he was the only one who probably knew.

“Besides, we’ll make it somewhere eventually.” Alastair shrugged and eyed the tall trees around them. The path at their feet was slowly dwindling. It hadn’t been used for several years if it had been used at all. In fact, he wasn’t even entirely sure if what they’d been following was an actual path or just something that coincidentally looked like one. Or, maybe he was just bad at navigating.

Honestly, he was probably just really bad at navigating. Bless Damon for not complaining.

“Right,” Damon said, shrugging as he turned and glanced around their immediate surroundings. He glanced up and smiled. “Well, we have absolutely no idea where we are, but the good news is that finding food isn’t going to be hard.”

Alastair glanced up as well and nodded. Above them was the Inalos tree, whose fruits were large, round, and blue, and very much edible. The pulp was almost sickeningly sweet in flavor, but also pleasantly tangy. Its skin was not edible, however, but was useful for a variety of things, including the making of a strange blue leather that was sold for incredibly high prices in the market, since only noble born folk ever bought it.

They also ran across a herd of deer and gazelle a few miles back, near the river banks where they made camp yesterday, which meant there was plenty of red meat for them to eat if they ever got hungry.

“Anyway,” Alastair looked ahead. “Let’s see where this path leads us.”

Damon nodded as they both continued forward.

An hour of constant walking passed, and the path they’d chosen to follow quickly dwindled and gave way to the forest undergrowth and huge patches of moss and tall blades of grass. Tall trees surrounded them, but beasts and monsters, it seemed, did not linger in their presence—not even bears and wolves. The animals were afraid of them, Alastair noted. The poor creatures likely sensed the air of danger they exuded as they walked.

I haven’t even spent the rest of my Pollentias. I still have 11,400 of them. Damon and I decided to save them up for further experimentations in the future. Still, it’s not as though there’s any real reason for me not to spend them. Huh, I should probably just spend it all the next time we make camp. A whole lot of additional perks sounds amazing.

Their journey back to Maredon thus far was… kind of dull. Alastair had hoped for a monster or two to pop out of the trees and attack them, but no such thing came. They hadn’t even been Fated for a month, and now they were too powerful for lesser monsters and beasts to try and make a meal out of them. Kobolds, goblins, and gnolls were known to frequent the forests around Mount Morthog, and they’d encountered none of the creatures. There wasn’t even a hint of their presence.

“We haven’t encountered a single monster, ever since we killed the giant bat,” Alastair said.

“I know, right!” Damon replied, making his voice a lot louder than usual. Alastair wondered if his friend was actively trying to attract the attention of a powerful monster or beast. Then again, knowing Damon, he definitely was.

“I think we’re getting too strong,” Alastair said. “They’re scared of us.”

“Well, that blows,” Damon said. “Adventure sounds good and all, but it’s not any fun, without an actual—” He paused and immediately summoned his spear.

Needing no further words, Alastair simply pulled his arbalest from his back and took aim at the bushes ahead of him, where Damon was facing.

A single thought ran between them. Finally, something’s happening.

A moment passed and nothing happened, yet Alastair knew not to lower his guard as Damon, whose senses were far sharper and far more attuned than his, hadn’t done so. And so he merely kept his eyes trailed over the iron sights of his arbalest.

“Did you hear something, Damon?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Damon nodded, eyes narrowing. “Something’s headed right for us. I’m hearing a pair of footsteps—light, but quick. It’s either a humanoid monster or an actual human. Either way, it doesn’t seem to be stopping or slowing down.”

“I see.” Alastair’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure if he should just go ahead and pull the trigger of his arbalest the moment something showed up, because—chances were—this thing was probably not hostile. Then again, in perilous situations, it was probably better to simply shoot first and attempt diplomacy afterward. That way, the chances of either of them getting hurt was much lower.

But, as Damon said, whatever was headed straight for them might be human.

The rustling sounds closed in on them such that Alastair, whose senses were not above mortal measure, heard it. He breathed out slowly, blinking once as he kept a single finger over the arbalest’s trigger. Strange, I feel so serene, Alastair thought. A few weeks ago, I would’ve been shaking. Now, I just feel… nothing.

It wasn’t a lack of emotion per se, but a lack of emotional response to something that would have inspired fear or excitement in others. Sure, he was curious and a little exasperated about the prospect of a monster, headed straight for them, but that was it. After fighting the Vainur and killing the Night Stalker, Alastair doubted anything lower than a Dragon would be enough to get his blood pumping.

Or maybe, all his newfound power was just getting to his head and he was becoming arrogant?

Nah, that was unlikely.

The rustling intensified. Out of the bushes, something came rushing forward.

Alastair’s eyes widened as he lowered his arbalest and pointed it to the ground. Behind him, Damon simply inventoried the Black Dragon’s Spear as a little, black-haired boy fell on his face in front of them. His clothing was poor, dirty, and unkempt, and the musty smell about him, alongside the sorry state of the boy’s sandals, suggested he’d been running for a while. The soft rising and falling of his torso told them he was still alive, but likely exhausted and very much unconscious. Aside from a few bruises and cuts, near his ankles, however, the boy appeared unharmed, which begged the question of what he was running away from or where he was running to.

Alastair walked forward, knelt down, and looked over the boy. He sighed after a moment. They were in the middle of nowhere—he’d recognized that much. So how’d this kid end up all the way out here? He would have had to pass through a whole host of monsters, just to reach the place they were in and, even then, that wasn’t counting the mundane creatures, which were very easily capable of killing a regular human child.

Damon walked up beside Alastair and frowned. “Well, he’s not dead. Do you think we should try and take him back to his village? I have no idea what to do with a kid.”

They were adventurers. They had no time to waste on children. But they were also heroes. They were honor-bound to help this child, despite everything. There was no way they were leaving this child in the middle of a monster-ridden forest. Besides, they were getting bored, and this kid just showing up out of nowhere was exactly the thing they both craved for—some action. But that was beside the point. They were heroes, and they had a job to do.

Alastair sighed and stood up, stifling a chuckle. Heroes were stupid, but they were necessary, especially when there were kids that needed saving. “Let’s ask him where he came from as soon as he wakes up. Damon, you carry him.”

His friend merely nodded and hoisted the child up onto his left shoulder.

“We should find a clearing and make camp before sunset.” Alastair said, turning and looking ahead. Night was fast approaching, but it was still far away. They probably had around four hours of daylight left before nightfall, which meant plenty of time to find a suitable basecamp. They hadn’t seen or heard any monsters for a good while, so they found little reason to worry about camping out in the middle of the woods with a defenseless child in tow.

Damon merely nodded, then sighed and chuckled. “And here I thought we’d be wandering for days before anything happened. Then again, a child popping out of the trees is probably one of the last things I’d ever expect in a forest like this.”

Alastair chuckled as well. “Yeah, I’m not so sure if it’s a good thing to hope for, but I’m really hoping there’s something interesting going on that’s related to the kid.”

Damon hummed in agreement. “True—maybe his village was attacked by a monster and he was the only survivor?”

“Or, maybe, his village has been enthralled by an evil magician and he was the lucky escapee!” Alastair added.

“Yes! And that means it’s up to us to free his village and his people from the clutches of this great and powerful evil, like the benevolent heroes we are!”

They both chuckled in amusement as they walked forward.

An hour later, they found a suitable clearing, where the ground was dry and arid, despite the creek that flowed in from the center. The water came in from the north, a tributary, much like the river they’d made their camp in yesterday, which meant they weren’t nearly as lost as Alastair thought they were. Still, they were a long way from Maredon or any of the other cities around it. The kid was the only possible indication of a nearby settlement, but that hardly proved anything as the child might have been running for days, without cease, away from his village, which meant the nearest settlement could be miles and miles away in any direction. Not that either of them was in any hurry to return to Maredon and face the Guild’s ire. Alastair, most of all, dreaded the possibility of Cthonia becoming disappointed in him, that she would no longer look at him with eyes of wonder and warmth.

He didn’t want to fail her.

And that scared him most of all, because he shouldn’t be having such feelings for a noble who was very clearly and very obviously trying to use him and Damon for her own ends. It scared him, because he found that he didn’t care about her inner plots or plans. It scared him a lot more than it should have.

They pitched their tents a few feet away from the creek. They laid the kid inside, while they waited outside, near the campfire, where a whole deer, skinned and cleaned, slowly roasted—courtesy of Damon, who had the bright idea to chase after one. He caught one, of course, given his supernatural speed and reflexes, but only after wrestling one to the ground and snapping its neck, like an absolute barbarian.

“I wish we had some salt,” Damon muttered as he tore off a piece of meat from the deer’s back. Alastair merely nodded. Salt would have made all their food taste a thousand times better. Still, the juices from the fruit of an Inalos tree, which they poured and rubbed all over the meat, made the venison taste a lot sweeter than it should be, like sugar-cured bacon. It was almost like candy, in a way, given its extreme sweetness.

Alastair chewed on a chunk of the Inalos fruit, savoring its flavor. He stared into the fire, absently causing it to burn brighter than usual with his thoughts alone. For a moment, Alastair wondered if he truly wanted this life. A few weeks ago, he was saving up to move to a bigger city and ply a trade there as a smith. Where would he have ended up had he continued on with his plan? Truth be told, without his Fate, his crafting skills were subpar at best, and that was after ten months of constant training and apprenticing under old man Kaelos. He would have been a terrible smith. He would have had to scratch a living off whatever tools he could fix and whatever mundane things he could forge out of poor quality iron.

In a way, that Primal Goliath was a blessing in disguise, a way out for both him and Damon—a way out of a life of mediocrity and mundanity. The monster, which slaughtered his neighbors and ruined Larisa, opened the door for them to be far more than what their ordinary fates would have allowed them. A blessing in disguise, indeed…

Their heads both snapped to the right when the child stirred in the tent, wincing awake, before panicking and hyperventilating to the point where his breaths could be clearly heard through the tent flaps.

Alastair stood first, turning to Damon, who was just about ready to stand. “Let me talk to him.”

Damon nodded and sat back down, tearing off another piece of deer meat with his bare hands and munching on it. “Alright, go on ahead.”

Alastair walked right into the tent. The black-haired child shuddered as their eyes met. The kid was visibly frightened to the point of shivering, like a cold and cornered dog that was left out in the rain. But it was the child’s eyes that truly caught his attention. They were the eyes of one who had seen death up close. Alastair knew because he’d seen those eyes many times before on many people. In Larisa, after the Primal Goliath came and killed more than half the village, many of his neighbors had eyes like that. More than that, Alastair knew, because he and Damon sported the same eyes.

This kid saw and survived a great horror, and his soul was scarred because of it.

Alastair forced a smile as he reached forward in an attempt to calm the child down. “Shhhh, it’s alright, everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe and no one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

He took another step forward toward the shivering child, who shrunk away from him, despite his words.

“It’s alright,” he repeated. “It’s going to be okay, yeah? I’m not going to let anything or anyone hurt you.”

His words seemed to work as the child visibly calmed down, his breaths slowing down, the heaving of his chest no longer as visible or as frantic as it was a moment ago.

Alastair’s smile became real in that moment as he took another step forward and leaned in a few feet away from the child, giving him plenty of space. “See, that’s better, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here. I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The child nodded slowly, tears streaming from his blue-green eyes, leaving a trail across his dirt-ridden face. When he spoke, his voice was raspy and tired. “You… you promise?”

Alastair nodded and leaned forward, before holding out his right pinky finger, which he then playfully wiggled in front of the kid. “It’s a pinky promise. No one’s going to hurt you, I swear.”

The child smiled, rubbed his eyes free of tears, before leaning forward with his pinky, which he then laid next to Alastair’s. Smiling, he sat back down and coughed.

Alastair ruffled his hair. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy coughed again. “My name’s Nikalos.”

“I’m Alastair and my friend, who’s eating outside, is Damon. We’re adventurers from Maredon. Do you know where that place is?”

The child nodded, still wiping away the tears from his face.

“That’s good. Now, where are you from, Nikalos?”

“I’m… I’m from…” The boy seemed confused for a moment. “Ayran! I’m… I’m from Ayran!”

Alastair didn’t recognize that place, which meant it was probably a small village, much like Larisa. “Where are your parents, Nikalos?”

The child shook his head. “I don’t know… I haven’t seen them since… since…”

Nikalos trailed off into tears, before outright sobbing.

Alastair sat down across him, smiling as he laid both of his hands on the child’s shoulders. This seemed to work as Nikalos calmed down. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened to you and how you ended up in this forest? You fell unconscious, likely from exhaustion, yeah? You’ve been running for a while, I wager.”

The boy seemed to deflate.

Alastair continued. “Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

And, when he told his tale, horror slowly dawned on Alastair’s face. Outside, Damon shook with rage as he listened.

Chapter 14

Damon clenched his fists and ground his teeth. “What do we know about mages?”

Alastair sighed and shook his head, glancing at the boy in their tent, who’d slept soundly through the night. Nikalos’ story had shaken the both of them to their core and had roused a fire within them that was threatening to engulf their very souls with rage. Alastair had seen the horrors of death and carnage when that Primal Goliath came and ravaged Larisa, ripping apart and devouring his neighbors. But those were the actions of a monster—an animal. He couldn’t ever be truly angry at the creature. It was just a beast and beasts did what beasts did.

But… the horror of Nikalos’ story had been a man—a depraved mage, whose cruelty made Alastair question if he was human at all and not just a monster wearing a human skin.

“Not much,” he answered. And that was the bitter truth of it. “Magic’s not exactly something anyone can just learn or even read about. I know it’s volatile and destructive in its natural state. I know that one must be born with the ability to use magic, in order to become a wizard or a mage and be accepted into one of the magical academies. I know that magic-users are feared across the Middle Kingdom. After all, it was their kind who started and ended the first Cataclysm.”

Damon nodded, frowning. “We know a lot, just not enough, it seems. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about how to not get turned into a damn frog if we ever met that bastard? I can probably rush him, before he could even blink, but magic’s just… not something I’m familiar with.”

“True,” Alastair agreed. When it came to magic, what was impossible and improbable suddenly became real. There was no way they could simply underestimate a rogue mage, not even if this was a student, who dropped out of an academy. Magic was too versatile in the right hands and too volatile and destructive in the wrong ones. Either forms presented their own problems that may or may not lead to a painful end for the both of them.

The words that came out of his mouth next seemed to slither out, like tar and glue. “I suppose the best thing to do is to simply sneak in and cut off the head of the snake, before it notices either of us. If Nikalos’ memories are accurate and up to date, then that bastard mage is going to be incredibly busy. From what I understand, his troops seem to be mortal men so there’s no need to worry about them and, after what they did to those people, there’s also no need to worry about their lives. We’re killing them.”

Damon nodded grimly, but resolutely. He sighed. “After hearing the kid’s story, I’d be an idiot not to kill them.”

“Still, we can’t be sure about anything until we reach Nikalos’ village and its layout,” Alastair said. “If these marauders are as numerous as the kid made them out to be, then they’ll be encamped either within or just outside the village. We’ll adjust our plans if needed when we get there. Hopefully, that damn mage won’t notice our presence with magical shenanigans.”

Damon summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear in one hand. He inventoried it and summoned it in the other, the whole process having taken a single second. “We’re hoping for a lot of things to happen, aren’t we? This is dangerous, Alastair. We’re not dealing with monsters.”

“You’re right,” Alastair agreed, before smiling. “I guess now’s a good time to start assigning all our Pollentias, yeah? We can’t head into battle unprepared.”

Damon nodded, smiled, and stared off into the distance, likely assigning his Pollentias and reading through whatever upgrades and perks had popped up in his system. Alastair decided he’d do the same. With that in mind, he brought up his stats and looked through them.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 3, Costs 3,000 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Pollentias: 11,400

Alastair briefly considered raising his Fate level to level 6, but quickly shot down the idea. That’d be a waste of Pollentias. What he needed at the moment was to upgrade his basic skills and forge newer, more powerful artifacts to aid them on their journey. He brought up his skills page and looked each one over.

Basic Skills:

-     Weld (lvl 1) - Attaches two metallic parts together. Success and presentation of an output is dependent on skill level. Currently has a 60% chance of success and a 10% chance of producing an Artifact. Cannot be used on non-metallic materials! Costs 500 Pollentias to upgrade.

-     Forge (lvl 2) - Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 74% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 15% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 8% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 3% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-     Shape (lvl 2) - Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract 5% of its total mass; you cannot add any mass. Costs 1,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-     Appraise (Max) - Observe the innate crafting value and potential of an object, alive or otherwise. It also allows you to interact with items in ways impossible to non-Fated. Warning: Other Fated may sense the usage of this skill when used on them.

Discounting his innate class, which was now more than a little ominously demonic in nature, his most useful skills were still Forge and Shape, with the added benefit that both complimented each other well. Weld still didn’t seem all that useful, but Alastair considered dumping a bunch of Pollentias into it someday just to see if it would evolve to become something he might actually use.

For now, Weld wasn’t an important skill and would remain so for a while.

Right, I’d like to upgrade Forge and Shape, twice, which means I’ll be spending around 6,000 Pollentias, right? Eh, it costs a lot, but it’ll also help a lot. Still, the possibility of his creations becoming demonic in nature lingered in the back of his mind. Sure, the chance was a measly 3%, but that meant three out of one hundred of whatever he created with Bind could end up sprouting horns, wings, and a spiked tail. After all, despite the power afforded to him by Forge and Shape, Bind stood at the top as his most powerful ability—and now it was tainted.

Whatever, Alastair mentally shrugged. I’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes.

With that in mind, he upgraded both Forge and Shape, spending an initial total of 2,000 Pollentias, before upgrading them again and spending an additional 4,000 Pollentias. The cost was heavy, more than half of all his Pollentias, but Alastair could hardly argue with the results.

-          Forge (lvl 4) - Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 50% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 25% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 20% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 5% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-     Shape (lvl 4) - Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract up to 15% of its total mass or add a total of 5% more mass. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

And he still had around 5,400 Pollentias to spare after all that. Eh, I might as well dump it all on Weld and see what happens.

The act of doing so costed him a total of 3,500 Pollentias, bringing his skill, Weld, up to level 4, alongside Forge and Shape, the only two skills he’d ever given a damn about, aside from Bind.

-    Weld (lvl 4)—Attach two materials together with the sole requirement being that one of those materials should be made of metal. Success and presentation is dependent on skill level. Currently has a 90% chance of success and a 40% chance of producing an Artifact of Uncommon Quality. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

Huh, it’s still not as useful as I’d like, but a 40% chance of immediately producing an Uncommon Artifact sounds nice. But what truly caught his eye was the singular change that essentially turned what was once a useless basic skill into something that was vaguely reminiscent of his most powerful skill, Bind. With the aid of both Shape and Forge, he could then create Artifacts, without the slightest chance of any of them ending up demonic.

Then again, artifacts created through the use of Bind would be far more powerful than anything he could make with all three basic skills. But Alastair shrugged it off. You win some and you lose some, I guess.

Alastair turned down his system screen and turned to Damon, whose eyes were no longer staring off into the distance. His friend, this time, seemed to stare deeply into the flame. He must have finished upgrading his stats a while ago and was waiting for Alastair to finish upgrading his.

So, with nothing else to do, Alastair leaned in and bonked his friend on the head. That seemed to bring Damon out of his stupor as he shook his head and blinked several times.

“Hey, what’s on your mind?” Alastair asked.

“We’re about to kill people.” Damon said flatly.

Alastair nodded. “Yes, we’re going to be killing a lot of people—people who deserve everything that’s coming to them.”

The words felt strangely heavy, despite himself. A few days ago, Alastair would have cringed at the thought of taking another life, but he now realized how silly that kind of thinking was. The world was filled with evil men who would stop at nothing to quench their greed with the blood of the innocent. Whether they be common thugs, ruffians, bandits, mercenaries, marauders, soldiers, or even kings, all of them needed to be put down for the betterment of the innocent—for the betterment of the people who lived under the terror of their shadow.

He was a hero, but he wouldn’t be a stupid hero. He wasn’t the knight in shining armor that children would read about before bed, the knight, who brought peace to all and pulled evil men from the shadows and into the light.

“Huh, I never thought I’d hear myself saying those words,” Alastair muttered.

Damon nodded and huffed. “We’re heroes… but that doesn’t mean we can save everyone… especially not the people who’ve resigned themselves to a life of villainy. We can’t save everyone. Hell, I don’t even think we can save the kid’s family and friends.”

Alastair scowled, but agreed all the same. Nikalos had lost count of the days he’d spent running, which meant his neighbors, his friends, and his family could all be dead. “Well… we can’t save them, but we can avenge them. Evil will not go unpunished—not on our watch. We’re heroes, aren’t we?”

That seemed to spurn Damon on as he stood up and grinned. “By the gods, you’re right. The innocents we cannot save, and there will be many, we shall avenge.”

“First,” Alastair said with a frown as he took out a map, “we have to find out just where in the hells Ayran is supposed to be located.”

* * *

The village of Ayran was nestled far to the south, which would take them to the edge of civilization, to the lands of the Great Frontier, where great, sprawling jungles dotted the landscape. Strange monsters and beasts were said to roam there—hideously monstrous lizards of epic proportions, not unlike the great dragons themselves. Such a distance really begged the question of just how long Nikalos had been running and how far they really were from Maredon.

The boy hardly remembered or knew anything, of course, tired as he was from constantly running through dense forests, somehow avoiding the packs of monsters and beasts that roamed the lands, through shear dumb luck. Alastair still wasn’t sure about that part, but there was no other explanation for how the child could have possibly survived such an ordeal. Still, he kept the question at the back of his mind.

They journeyed south, taking them even further away from Maredon than they would have otherwise planned. Days turned to nights without cease as they strayed far from towns and cities, and simply went on a straight path down south, only occasionally stopping to ask for directions from fellow travelers when all the lands seemed to look identical.

On the fifth day, they passed a very familiar road, the same road Alastair and Damon had taken when they left Larisa. For a moment, the two of them seriously considered paying their home town a visit. After all, it had been almost a month since they left, and they were naturally curious about the state of things. It wouldn’t even take long, they figured, merely a few hours at best if they moved quickly. However, in their quest to save Nikalos’ village—or avenge them, Alastair thought bitterly—every second counted. Besides, it wasn’t as though they had anything important to do in their old village or that they had brought with them the sacks of gold they swore they’d bring back to help rebuild what was lost to the Primal Goliath’s attack.

And so they continued south, steering clear of the open roads and, instead, sticking close to the borders of the forests, where they were less likely to be seen by possible scouts of the marauder army. It was more than a little paranoid, but the less their enemy knew about them, the better. Nikalos somehow kept up with their pace through the whole thing. Damon had suggested leaving him in Larisa until they were finished sorting out the mess, but then they would lose their only guide to Ayran. The village wasn’t exactly noteworthy or famous, which meant it wasn’t on any map they had, so they needed a guide who actually knew where it was. Through a long and drawn-out process, Alastair had used the map to describe certain landmarks to Nikalos, which had eventually led to Alastair and Damon determining an approximate location of Ayran. Even so, they would still need an in-person guide to provide more accurate directions once they drew nearer to the village.

On the seventh day, they made camp in a clearing, somewhere in the middle of the Forest of Zork, a huge swathe of woodland that stretched near-endlessly southward, only broken up by a lone patch of road that traveled through its center and a river that flowed in from the north. Folk often avoided these woods whenever they could. They were said to be haunted by ancient specters and phantasms. An ancient magic was said to have lingered in this place—alive, sapient, and very angry.

“Why do I feel eyes staring at the back of my head when my nose and ears can’t detect anything remotely close to us?” Damon muttered as he chewed on a piece of jerky.

Alastair eyed their surroundings but saw only flickering lights and dancing shadows, courtesy of the fire that burned at the center of the clearing. However, he could not deny the fact that he felt… something was watching him. Something elusive and unseen, something that moved through the darkness of the forests, between the trees. Nikalos was sound asleep in their tent, so it couldn’t possibly be the kid being mischievous.

“Something’s definitely watching us,” Alastair said. “I can feel it.”

Damon shuddered, paling. “D-do you think it’s a g-ghost?”

His friend’s voice was just a tad bit louder and sharper than it really needed to be.

Alastair huffed with amusement, before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. Ghosts aren’t real, Damon. They’re just stories made to frighten children, which—considering your fear of them—seemed to be far too effective.”

“They’re real!” Damon said, eyes widening with a surprising amount of fear, panic, and conviction. “I swear! I saw a ghost in my grandmother’s old house! I still remember it as though it happened yesterday!”

Alastair nodded. “Alright, fine, ghosts might be real, but they’re just specters at worst, which means they really can’t hurt you, even if they tried. It’s like being afraid of the… Oh gods what in the hells is that?!”

Something moved behind Damon—something that looked disturbingly humanoid, but was also strikingly monstrous. Alastair could hardly find the words to describe it as he stood and pointed.

Damon, whose fear of ghosts far eclipsed his fear of facing down a Vainur, practically screeched and lurched forward. “Ghosts!”

“No, it’s not a damn ghost!” Alastair screamed back, stifling a chuckle as his eyes darted left and right, searching for the strange, ghastly, and horrific thing he saw just moments ago. It… probably wasn’t a monster—maybe—but something else entirely. He had a hunch as to what it might have been, but he couldn’t be sure. In the woodlands, in the dark of the night, surrounded by shadows, he could never truly be sure of anything.

“Then what in the hells is it?!”

“I have no idea!”

“It’s a ghost, isn’t it?!”

“No, I just said it wasn’t a ghost, because ghosts don’t exist!”

“Then what is it?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Will you two humans just shut up?! You’re waking up the whole forest!”

Alastair and Damon froze. A ghastly, shadowy, spectral thing appeared over them. The air grew cold around them as though the winds of winter had swept across the woods. Their campfire flickered and waned, but fought on, despite the sudden decrease in temperature.

Damon gulped, his skin paling with each passing moment.

“See?” Alastair forced a chuckle. “It’s not a ghost.”

Chapter 15

It wasn’t a ghost.

It couldn’t possibly be a ghost.

Alastair repeated the words in his head, over and over, until his thoughts ran clear of any specters. And yet, as he glanced up above his head, a canopy of shadowed leaves beneath the stars, something ghastly glanced back at him—a white phantasm, vaguely humanoid in shape, bearing a dreadfully humanoid face, whose features seemed shriveled, withered, and shrunken. He wanted to move, but a cold dread kept his body in place—that, and there was the fact that Damon was equally frozen and Nikalos was soundly asleep. He couldn’t just abandon them.

Alastair ran a shaky hand through his hair and shuddered. “Whatever you are, either leave now or come out and show yourself!”

He chose to focus on the voice, instead of allowing his mind to linger on the thing that may very well have been a ghost floating right above them, whose sheer presence seemed to curdle his blood. He didn’t like it—not one bit. And, if it had been a creature of flesh and blood, he would have pulled out his arbalest and started firing off bolts immediately. The only thing that stayed his hand was the fact that whatever it was hadn’t really displayed anything that could be remotely considered aggression. He also didn’t know what the creature would be capable of should he antagonize it. For this reason, he didn’t use Appraise.

Alastair had a feeling it was the same for Damon, who would have willed for the Black Dragon’s Spear if he truly felt the need to do so. For now, the only thing this specter was doing was hovering there…

Something shifted in Damon’s frightened demeanor as he bolted upright and summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear. Without a word, Alastair did the same and pulled his arbalest from his back. Above them, the ghastly, dreadful specter dissipated into the wind as though it was made of some powdery substance, becoming a haze of soft whites and grays that eventually disappeared as the wind picked up its pace.

“I heard at least fifteen footsteps, scurrying around us,” Damon said, his eyes scanning the woods.

Alastair nodded and kept silent as he took an absent step toward the tent, where Nikalos slept. In that moment, the kid was their weakest link, which meant they couldn’t do anything too drastic that might leave him in danger.

“Come out!” Alastair called.

The bushes rustled around them. And, this time, Alastair heard the footsteps that slowly approached them from all around. Unlike Damon, however, he couldn’t count just how many entities were approaching them. Still, from the sounds he could hear, it didn’t seem as though they were being surrounded by monsters. Then again, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. If these people were the subordinates of that mage, then Alastair would prefer an actual monster.

However, given Damon’s recent upgrades, they’d all be dead before they could even blink.

Out of the woods came a number of figures—far more than the noise they were making suggested. Alastair’s eyes narrowed at the approaching humanoids. There were over thirty of them—at a glance. Half of those numbers, the short, stocky-built folk, seemed to be the ones making the only noise with their footsteps, while their companions, tall, slender, and graceful folk, hardly made any noise, even when they stepped over dried leaves and twigs. If his eyes had been closed, he’d have never known they were even there.

The other thing that caught his attention about the strange folk were the masks they wore over their faces, fearsome masks, seemingly carved out of bone, shaped to resemble skulls. However, their horrifying shapes aside, the masks themselves appeared to be nothing more than decorative pieces that did nothing to protect their wearers—if not for the very clear runes and etchings that glowed all across its surface.

Magic, he realized.

These people were dangerous, but the fact that they hadn’t attacked just yet meant they probably could be reasoned with. Alastair wasn’t betting anything on that, though. If it came down to a fight, he needed to be ready.

Damon seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. His face explained everything quickly enough.

Alastair kept his grip tight over his arbalest. Damon did the same with his spear. Both men were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Alastair’s eyes narrowed further as a lone figure, a masked woman from among the tall and slender ones, stepped forward. He studied her for a moment.

She was tall—taller than Damon, who was the tallest person Alastair had ever seen in his life and by a good margin too. Her silver hair fluttered behind her, dancing left and right as the wind passed and gently nudged it. Despite her slender frame, her muscles were well-built.

She carried a large, recurve-bow, the frame of which was taller than Alastair, even if he stood on his toes. It was an elegant weapon with an almost ethereal quality. Instead of wood, the weapon seemed to be made entirely of some powdery, bluish substance that reflected the moonlight. Sapphires, rubies, and emeralds studded its frame, decorations that took away nothing from its functionality. The smith in him practically drooled at it. But the one thing about it that demanded his attention was the faint aura he felt from it, like a presence that tugged at his mind.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but Alastair was fairly certain the weapon was alive, just like the Black Dragon’s Spear. Is she a Crafter, like me? I could use Appraise on her, but that seems like a bad idea. If she’s Fated, then she might see it as an offense. I’d rather not start on unfavorable terms with someone powerful.

But would she feel it if he examined her weapon? He wasn’t sure, but he thought it unlikely, so he went ahead.

Appraise!

[Zur-Kazadraknum, the Bow of Infinite Creation and Destruction]

Quality: Divine

Durability: 100,000/100,000

Value: N/A

This bow was crafted by the first Fated Crafter, Kuruz Amorak, who used his gift to arm the elves against the giants. This bow was once one among many until it was broken in battle and returned to its maker, who used his considerable powers to remake the weapon into something far greater than what it was originally. Such an act caught the attention of Thorondros, who gave his blessing to the weapon, giving it power and strength. It has since been passed down through the generations, warrior after warrior. And the weapon grows ever more powerful with age.

Alastair would have balked if he lacked self-control, for the weapon in the elf’s hands was greater than any weapon he could hope to create. It was blessed by his own patron, after all, the work of a near-mythical Fated, whose name was spoken of with reverence, at least among smiths and craftsmen. Suddenly, the tall elf seemed so much taller than she was a few moments ago.

He shook his head and ignored the god-like artifact before him. Instead, he focused on the question that needed to be asked first.

“Who are you people and what do you want?” Alastair asked. It was a good question—neutral, non-threatening, and direct. Only simpletons would find it insulting, but this tall and menacing woman surely wasn’t a simpleton. Just looking at her filled him with a deep sense of unease. She was powerful, of that there was no doubt. The only question left was how long she’d last in a fight against Damon if she turned out to be hostile.

“You’re human,” the slender woman said from behind her mask. Her voice seemed strangely distorted as she spoke, causing it to reverberate. “Be silent. Your noise will awaken the woods. They do not appreciate your presence here, humans.”

“What?” Alastair asked. “What in the hells are you talking about?”

“The trees,” she said. “Do you not hear them? They are angry—they have been angry for as long as I can remember. They do not like humans, you see. They hate your species for the crimes your ancestors committed in the times of the ancients.”

Alastair had no idea what the tall woman was talking about. Regardless, he decided to humor her for now. She wasn’t hostile, and there was no cause for him to attack. Still, the fact that their weapons were at the ready meant a fight could break out at any moment. “Fine, we’ll be quiet. But who are you people?”

She tilted her head to the side. Alastair’s eyes widened when he briefly glanced at the pointed ears, hidden beneath her silvery hair. She’s an elf! I thought they were all in Albion, after the Second Cataclysm! There’re at least fifteen of them, right here!

It was said that the elves were the first to discover magic, earning them the favor of the gods.

He then turned to her much shorter companions, and his eyes widened further. And those short guys must be dwarves! What are they doing all the way out here?

Dwarves weren’t exactly a rare sight in the Middle Kingdom, alongside faeries and felinids, but their race was said to dwell beneath the earth, building great cities of rock and stone—far beyond the reach of humanity. They maintained cordial relations, of course, but only through trade and the occasional loans. The dwarves were the inventors of wondrous metals, most of which could not be copied by humans. Mithril and volkite were two examples of such metals, powerful and unyielding.

“We are the Folk of Zork,” she answered, gesturing toward the trees around them. The other figures nodded and lowered their heads at both Damon and Alastair. “We are the keepers of the forest. We protect your realm from the dangers that lurk in this place, keeping such horrors from ever escaping the confines of the woodlands.”

She didn’t seem to be lying. Hells, she had no reason to lie—as far as he was concerned, unless that mage somehow recruited elves into his army, which was rather unlikely.

Damon lowered his spear and smiled. “Well, at least you’re not ghosts.” He then smiled, stepped forward, and raised a hand toward the tall elf. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. The name’s Damon. This is Alastair.”

Damon gestured between the two of them, pointing to himself and then to Alastair. “We’re Fated. He’s the chosen of the God of Craftsmen and I’m the chosen of the God of Hunters.”

Alastair sighed and just rolled with it. He approached the tall elf and laid a hand on Damon’s left shoulder, forcing a smile as he did. “Yes… the two of us are Fated. We’re searching for the village of Ayran. We’ve been told of a tragedy that occurred there. Its villagers were conquered and enslaved by a rogue mage. We seek to free the people and end the mage’s reign of terror for good.”

The other figures retreated into the trees, seemingly uninterested in any conversation. A pity, Alastair mused. He would have loved to ask the dwarves a few questions. Their whole race pretty much invented metallurgy, after all, and who was he but a simple craftsman who got lucky when a god happened to notice his feat and rewarded him with power? The smith in him—the one who wished to work with metal without having to use any of his Fated gifts—yearned to know more.

But, watching the masked dwarves retreat into the shadows and disappear, that would have to wait.

“You seek Memnon, the Defiler,” the tall elf said from behind her mask. Her voice, distorted and reverberating as it already was, seemed to harden. There was disdain in there, a hatred that simmered beneath the surface. “We the Folk of Zork know of him. He has entered these woods a few times before, bringing his army of unwashed brigands with him. Their numbers increase each time.”

So, that monstrous mage had a name?

“What can you tell us about these brigands?” Alastair asked.

“They are a band of defilers!” She sneered. “They cut down the trees, without asking for permission, without uttering a single prayer. And every day we work harder to keep the horrors shut, because of them. You seek to destroy him and his army, yes?”

Alastair and Damon nodded, their eyes darkening.

“Then the Folk of Zork shall help you.” She took out a pouch, the contents of which appeared to glimmer a soft green glow in the darkness. She raised it and let its contents scatter into the air, a hazy, glowing cloud of sparkling emerald that seemed to move about on its own. The tall elf pointed toward it. “Follow this. It shall lead you through safe paths in the woodlands and take you to the Defiler and his army. Leave the child behind. We shall keep him safe. He need not be a burden to you.”

Alastair hesitated for a moment, wondering if this complete stranger, whose name he still did not know, could be trusted. He shook his head. But before he could say anything, Damon spoke.

“You haven’t introduced yourself, you know,” he said. “I’m not even sure if we should trust you. That giant ghost earlier sure doesn’t help things, in case you’re wondering.”

The elf tilted her head again and sighed. She reached for her mask and pulled it away from her face, revealing something that stunned both Alastair and Damon. Their mouths hung wide open as they stared in silence. Moonlight and starlight seemed to shimmer around her, like a wreath of silver that was further accented by her hair, which glowed brighter than ever before.

Beautiful could only barely begin to describe her. Alastair could not find the right words to describe her face—haunting and ethereal as it was. Her beauty was not sensual in any way and neither did it call out to his flesh as other beauties did. Alastair’s thoughts briefly lingered over Cthonia’s face.

No, this elf woman’s beauty was serene, divine—even. It was the sort of beauty that could not and should not be touched. Her skin was ashen gray, smooth and delicate, like porcelain. Her eyes burned with the light of the moon, twin orbs of white fire. Her purple lips held a strange rigidness to them as though she hadn’t spoken in a long time.

“Forgive me,” she said. Her voice still reverberated, but had lost the distortion it had earlier. Her accent also became clearer—somewhat. For a moment, Alastair wondered what sort of enchantments the mask held for it to be capable of such fine work. Off the top of his head, no monster part would ever suffice in such a task, which meant this was done through other means—means he had yet to discover. He felt giddy.

“My name is Amora,” she said. “I am one of the few elves who chose to stay behind when the rest of my people left for the shores of Albion, to the far west. Those of us who remained often live with other Fae-folk, such as dwarves or fairies.”

“There are elves still in the world,” Alastair said to himself, barely above a whisper, but it must have come across to the elf woman as a question because she answered him.

“There are still some us left, a few hundred or so, wandering the rest of this world. Including those places beyond the Charred Mountains.”

Alastair scoffed. “There’s nothing beyond the Charred Mountains. Gorgorod made sure of that when he came down and torched everything. But enough about that. You’re saying this’ll lead us to Memnon?” He pointed at the emerald cloud above them.

Amora tilted her head again. Her face was utterly at ease—neutral to the point of being almost unnerving. Despite this, a tiny voice at the back of his mind told him she could be trusted. At the very least, the hatred that laced her voice did not lie. “Yes, the Cloud of Amer-Asur shall lead you to the Defiler’s resting place. He has laid claim to a village not far from here. I believe it is the same village you seek.”

“And the kid?” Damon asked, glancing over his shoulder, eyeing the tent, where Nikalos still slept. It was amazing how much children could sleep through.

Amora tilted her head again, glancing at the tent. “He will be kept safe. You have my word.”

She followed up by raising her free hand and pointing at her left breast. She poked it, leaving a glowing imprint, which was then surrounded by glowing words and symbols that Alastair could not decipher at a glance. “I swear to keep the child safe from all harm that may befall him for as long as he stays in these woods. This spell will ensure my word. If I go against it, I will die. Is that collateral enough for you?”

“Sheesh, you didn’t have to go that far,” Damon said, sending the Black Dragon’s Spear into his inventory as he smiled. “But the gesture is appreciated.”

Alastair nodded. She really didn’t need to go that far, but who was he to judge? Still, that had been a very fascinating display of magic, especially because it showed him just how versatile it truly was. He couldn’t underestimate the mage, no matter what.

He turned to Damon. “Well then… shall we? There’s a beast that needs to be gutted. I’d rather not keep it waiting.”

The Cloud of Amer-Asur surged southward, leaving a trail of green, sparkling lights in its wake. It did not wait for them. It sped deeper into the forest, seemingly beckoning them to catch up, lest they be left behind.

Alastair and Damon wasted no time as they followed the cloud. Catching up to it wasn’t difficult. It didn’t move faster than their sprinting speeds, at least. Daylight caught up to them after a few hours of running and jumping over roots and fallen trees. They continued onward far after sunrise, moving across the woodlands at a pace that would have caused lesser men to fall with exhaustion. They reached the edge of the forest by noon. There, the emerald cloud dissipated and disappeared. What they saw when they walked out of the tree line made them pause.

Alastair felt nauseous at the sight, but he pulled out his arbalest despite the sickening sensation. Damon seethed, absently summoning the Black Dragon’s Spear as his eyes all but burned with rage.

Nikalos had spoken of the mage’s cruelty and barbarism… but this… this was something else entirely.

Crosses dotted the outskirts. Nailed onto them, bleeding, rotting, and pecked apart by carrion, were the villagers.

Chapter 16

Alastair’s heart burned with rage as he stared at an executed villager, only a child. Sparks of hellfire absently flew out of his hands. The ground beneath him seemed to rumble, blades of grass withering away into embers.

Beside him, Damon stood still with an impassive face. A closer look at his friend, however, revealed eyes that pulsated with crimson lights—blotches of demonic nature, brought about through the sheer force of their fury.

For that was the only thing these two Fated felt.

The child was just one of hundreds, their limbs nailed to the ends of a cross that forced their arms and legs to spread out. And they were all displayed on the outskirts of the village, like macabre decorations that told one all they’d need to know about who or what they were dealing with: a monster.

The ruins of the village lay further ahead, a scattered and broken collection of huts and hovels, and a wall that had once stood high around it. Ayran was crushed, its rubble all that remained. However, new things were being constructed within and around it, structures of wood and stone. The builders were ragged men and women, whose clothes were torn or barely hanging on as they worked. Their faces appeared soulless, long having passed the edge of hopelessness and fear—now, they were no longer courageous or fearful, no longer happy or unhappy with their lot in life. They were little more than husks, moving to the sound of thunderous whips, cracking behind them. Momentary pains forced their hands, for to leave them be would cause them to simply fall apart and die right then and there.

These people were already dead. What remained of them were the vestiges of their human selves, now nothing more than enslaved corpses. Nikalos’ parents might have been among them, but there was an equal chance that they had also been among those crucified and left to rot.

Alastair’s mind drifted as he eyed the workers.

It would have been a mercy to simply kill them all, but such thoughts seemed monstrous. These people, if they could still be called that, fell from the edge of hope and into the bottomless chasm of the abyss, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be brought back into the light. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be saved.

They needed heroes.

“Damon,” Alastair said, his voice grim and devoid of emotion. His rage simmered underneath his skin, ready to burst out. Despite their promise to each other, every second that ticked by was an eternity of temptation, a searing need to unleash hellfire and destruction upon everything here and burn it all to the ground. “Keeping that promise of ours might be a little hard.”

“Yeah,” Damon replied. His friend’s grip over his favored weapon further tightened. The pulsating veins underneath his skin were answer enough. Damon was just as close to losing control over his demonic side as Alastair was.

Marauders walked about, wearing equally ragged armor that seemed to be cobbled together from different parts and crudely attached to each other—glue, spit, and prayers holding it together. The weapons they carried were equally rubbish, and their movements gave away the fact that they were undertrained. The noise of their chatters, hoots, and laughter emanated from the rubble of Ayran, which they had turned into a camp of sorts. A watchtower, or the framework of one, stood at the center, tended to and worked by the soulless slaves, while the marauders lingered about near their tents or amused themselves by picking fun at slaves.

“The mage must be in there somewhere,” Damon muttered. “If we kill him, then that’ll be the end of this.”

Alastair closed his eyes and nodded. The smell of death was making him nauseous, but rage and spite pushed him through it. “It’ll be better for us if we killed off his soldiers first. Still…”

He glanced around, noting numbers. There were about a hundred marauders, and he was being generous with that count. Amora mentioned an army that grew larger with every passing day. What he saw could barely be considered an army. This was a token force at best. Which meant…

“I don’t think the mage is here,” Alastair finally said, scowling. “He must have moved on with the bulk of his forces, leaving only a few men behind to watch over his conquered territory.”

He left out the part that it was what he would have done if he was at the head of an army. Still, that begged the question of just where said army was at the moment. The southlands was a large swath of land that was sparsely populated. There were only a few villages, maybe a city or two he couldn’t name off the top of his head—and yet, the whole place was big enough to host the rest of the Middle Kingdom twice over. Much of the land was vast jungles and swamps, riddled with disease and home to vicious scythe-clawed lizards that stood taller than men.

Damon nodded. “Yeah, I kind of had a hunch that the bastard wouldn’t be here.” He raised his spear and pointed all around them. “There isn’t enough of a farm to support a large army. His troops need to eat and drink, but he’s already killed most of the farmers, which means he’ll need to move on. I’m betting the ones still here will only be here for a few more days at most. After that, they’ll move out to regroup with the main host… and we don’t know where it is.”

Well, Damon was surprisingly insightful when roused to anger.

“Still,” Alastair muttered, eyes narrowed as he stared at a marauder who slapped a young village woman, and she fell to the ground. The sparks of hellfire in his hands intensified. “That doesn’t change anything. We’re killing them all.”

Damon nodded, his eyes steeling. The pulsating red veins underneath his skin calmed down somewhat. Alastair couldn’t say the same for the sparks of hellfire on his hands.

Damon raised his spear and pointed it at the village. By now, a few of the marauders had noticed them and had armed themselves. Alastair caught the distant neighs of horses and the trampling of their hoofs. He heard the sounds of men, shouting and barking commands at each other.

“Damn right we are!” Damon said. “We’re killing every single one of those bastards!”

Alastair nodded once as Damon blinked out of view. Knowing full well just how fast Damon could be, Alastair rushed in and followed after him. He raised his arbalest and unloaded a single shot. It surged across the air in an instant, piercing into the forehead of a marauder. The man’s head snapped backward and he fell onto the ground with a thud, dead.

+100 Pollentias!

Alastair felt nothing—no remorse, no mercy. The only thing that ran through his heart was a cold sort of satisfaction that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

A scream rang out as a man fell to his knees, both his arms having been cleaved off their shoulder blades with perfect, unmarred slices. After a moment, the marauder’s head fell down from a cut that hadn’t been there a half-second ago. Damon’s work, Alastair mused, moving too fast for his enemies to even see him.

Alastair loaded another bolt into his arbalest as he entered the village proper and was met by a slew of bisected bodies. Screams echoed all around him—the panicked cries of panicked men. The slaves didn’t seem to respond to their attack, simply milling about or standing still. Their eyes were dead. Alastair ran forward, ignoring the villagers for the moment as he searched for any stragglers, any marauder Damon might have somehow missed.

Ah, there’s one. Alastair aimed at a window, where a marauder hid behind a wooden table. Damon must have missed him when he passed. Alastair released a bolt that quickly pierced the man’s neck just as he pushed himself up onto his feet.

A strangled cry echoed from the house as Alastair passed it. His eyes scanned left and right, but found only the neatly sliced cadavers of the marauders.

+100 Pollentias!

As he walked forward, checking every nook, every cranny, and every window, more and more of the slaves met him. All of them held the same dead eyes, bruises and cuts covering their skin, alongside boils and rashes.

The slaves passed him, mindless, tortured drones as they were, as he made his way to the village center, where the dead-eyed folk were hard at work, constructing a watchtower of some kind. All they had built so far was the base of it, alongside its frame. Some of them fell over from exhaustion, joining the bodies of the marauders on the ground. The others didn’t complain. They didn’t even seem to notice their fallen comrade or the fact that their masters were dead, slaughtered. They simply continued on.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed.

There was something foul in the air, a lingering darkness that had once shrouded this village. All that remained of it were its embers. Alastair frowned. This is infuriating, he thought. I can definitely sense the magic, but that’s all I can seem to do. My Fate doesn’t allow me to use magic. I’d kill for some information about Memnon, right about now.

“Tsk!” He spat on the ground, scowling as he turned away from the watchtower and followed Damon’s path of destruction. There were still a few houses he hadn’t checked, after all.

From the village center, the trail of bodies gradually led him up a hill, which was likely the alderman’s home. He eyed the houses and their windows and found Damon had been surprisingly thorough with his slaughter. Alastair’s ears perked up, and his arbalest was raised in an instant. Not thorough enough, it seems. But then again, that’s why I’m here—as support.

A shadow moved in one of the houses—an armored man who was bleeding from a deep cut on his chest. He was weakened. His movements were sluggish and pained. Alastair figured battle lust was the only thing keeping the man upright. He’d die in a few minutes if ignored, but Alastair couldn’t take any chances.

Their eyes met for a moment. The marauder’s eyes were filled with fear and confusion. He muttered something under his breath, but his voice was too low to be heard. Alastair found no mercy left in him for the man, and neither was he interested in what the barbarian was trying to say. He simply aimed his arbalest at his forehead and unleashed a bolt that sent the marauder back onto the ground. “Scum…”

+100 Pollentias!

Another movement caught his ear, a sudden rustling from under the floorboards of one of the houses. Alastair approached a well-built house, his eyes scanning all before him. The sound came from underneath the living room, heavy footsteps and rushed movements that caused the wood to echo and creak.

There.

Alastair’s eyes caught the sight of a door, noting the sounds were headed toward it. He then raised his arbalest and waited. Not a moment later, a marauder pushed the door open and received a bolt right into his left eye. The man screamed and tumbled down. Alastair briefly considered checking if the man was dying, but ultimately decided against it as that would leave him open to a counterattack. A bolt to the brain should kill him in a few minutes.

The village has quieted down. He eyed the emptiness of the streets. Well, it wasn’t exactly empty—many of the slaves still walked about aimlessly. But they were quiet—too quiet. Their silence made the village appear almost dead, haunted by ghosts and specters of the people who once lived here. What remained of them were their physical shells. For a moment, Alastair wondered if that truly was the case, that the mage had somehow drawn their spirits from their bodies and left these sorry folk behind.

+100 Pollentias!

Alastair sighed and moved on.

He followed the trail of bodies up a hill, briefly eyeing the slaves as they passed him. There was a subtle tugging in his chest, a strange lull that made him want to help them as much as he could. They were innocent people, after all, and he and Damon were heroes. They were here to save them.

How in the hells am I supposed to do that?

Their minds were broken. He could kill their torturers, free them from their chains, and even help clean up the remains of their damn village, but none of those things would aid in the restoration of their minds.

Alastair shook his head. One problem at a time, he decided. First, the mage has to die.

He finally reached the alderman’s house, where the rest of the marauders were gathered—their remains, anyway.

Damon sat on the steps of the house, brooding, the Black Dragon’s Spear at his side, unmarred by blood or flesh.

“I thought it would be harder…” Damon began.

Alastair nodded as he walked up to him. They’d gotten so strong so quickly that neither of them were fully accustomed to their newfound power.

They waited there for a moment, surrounded by the severed body parts, entrails, and organs of the marauders. He wasn’t sure how to approach the slaves. Fortunately, one of them approached the pair.

The approaching figure was a woman, tired and ragged. Her clothes were torn to shreds and only barely covered her body. Her fair skin was unmarred by sickness or injury, seemingly pristine, despite the dirt and grime that clung onto her. Her hair was of a darker shade of auburn than Cthonia’s, though hers might have simply been darkened by filth. Her face seemed hollow, her expression seemingly dead and her lips parched and cracked.

And yet a flame burned in her eyes—rage, defiance, and indignation, kept under a tight lid as to ensure her survival.

She was alive.

Alastair stood and approached her. Damon raised his head, but did not move.

“You…” the woman began, her voice hoarse and weak. She spoke just above the volume of a whisper. Her breaths were ragged and heavy. “You… you c-came… to save us… Thank you. Thank you… the mage… he… is not far. His army is… too large to cover vast distances. You can… catch up to him if… you move quickly.”

Her eyes lost focus, and she fell forward. Alastair caught her, just before she would have fallen atop a corpse that was sprawled across the muddy ground. He stared into her face and wondered what horrors she must have endured, what atrocities she must have witnessed. Alastair decided right then and there that he did not want her to die. For all she suffered, this woman deserved a second chance at life, far from all of this—safe and protected.

Alastair turned to Damon. The woman, emaciated, was incredibly light in his hands.

“Damon,” he said. His friend nodded, grabbed the Black Dragon’s Spear, stood up, and walked toward them. Alastair passed the unconscious girl over to him. Damon took her without question, only briefly eyeing the girl’s face. “You’re far faster than I could ever hope to be. Take her somewhere safe. I’ll scout ahead and trail the mage’s army. You should be fast enough to catch up to me in a few hours, right?”

Damon nodded. “Alright. I’ll come and find you when I come back. Be careful, Alastair.”

Alastair blinked once and only caught the trail Damon left behind as he ran. He huffed and smiled. “I’m always careful.”

Hellfire burst and blazed in his hand. His eyes burned crimson.

Chapter 17

The mage’s army was not nearly as large as Alastair had previously thought. They moved far slower than he’d expected too, like a sluggish monstrosity trudging through mud and slime. They carried their slaves with them, a trail of ant-like dead-eyed people, who walked in a straight line, carrying food and water.

From his spot atop a tall tree, Alastair estimated them, in total, to be around two thousand, give or take a few hundred, since there were scouts and outriders, likely running around in the woods or in the plains around the main army. He must have been around half a mile away from them, just far enough to not be noticed by any of the marauders. Besides, if any of them got too close, a quick bolt to the forehead would be enough to silence them.

Though, leaving a trail of bodies behind would be a bad idea. Not yet, he decided. If I start killing them now, the mage might take notice. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face him by myself. Hells, I probably can’t fight a few hundred of these soldiers by myself.

He eyed their movements, their formations, their equipment, and their tents.

And he found them all wanting.

The army, if it could even be called that, was only barely held together because they all feared the mage. Alastair saw no cohesion, no camaraderie, no discipline, not even an ounce of order. The marauders fought and quarreled amongst themselves over food, slaves, and sleeping quarters. They had no quartermaster, no captains, and no real organization to their ranks. This was less of an army and more a horde—a horde of unwashed ruffians, who moved only for the promise of power and wealth and for fear of their master.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he eyed the black, tattered tents at the very edge of the army’s encampment. He searched for a weakness and found plenty of them, though most of said weaknesses could only be exploited if he had an army of his own. Still, there were a few exploitable mistakes he could use to his advantage, especially the fact that their supplies were all kept in a single, massive tent, which was guarded by tall marauders whose arms and armor seemed to be of a far better quality than everyone else’s. They were the elites, Alastair mused, meant to keep their grunts from trying to steal anything. There were hundreds of them, likely making up the backbone of this little army, acting as quasi-captains and commanders, where there were none. They were just as barbaric as everyone else around them, however.

And despite its security, their supplies were dangerously exposed. And the best part was that it was within range of his arbalest.

Smirking, Alastair drew a single bolt from his pouch and took out a bag of explosive powder and some Primal Goliath lard from his inventory alongside it. He stared at the items in his hands for a moment. A part of him trembled at the thought of using his skill, Bind, which used to be called Imbue before he took demon magic as a reward and altered his system and his soul.

He shook his head. Snap out of it, Alastair. This is still your most powerful skill and you’ll end up crippling yourself if you don’t use it.

With a sharp intake of breath, he whispered out the name of the skill. “Bind…”

The items in his hands, the arbalest bolt, the explosive powder, and the Primal Goliath lard, a tiny inch-sized chunk, flashed a bright crimson, before disappearing in a haze of black and red. By the colors alone, Alastair could not help but feel worried about the outcome. This was nothing like the bright white light he’d come to associate with Bind’s previous incarnation, Imbue. This was… ominous.

When the black and crimson smoke settled a moment later, Alastair gazed upon a pulsating, ruinous thing that curdled his blood.

[Hell-Forged Infernal Bolt]

Quality: Unique

Value: 10,000

Durability: N/A

A demonic bolt that explodes with hellfire and darkness upon making contact with its target.

It only vaguely resembled the bolt it once was. The crafted item in his hand was a blackened thing, whose sharpened tip blazed and radiated hellfire. It was hot to the touch, but not uncomfortably so, though Alastair had an idea as to why it didn’t burn his hand. The worst thing about it was the fact that the crimson flames seemed strangely comforting to the touch—an almost pleasantly warm sensation that eased his mind and soothed his heart.

And he hated it.

He hated the fact that the flames of Gorgorod no longer hurt him.

Damn demons…

But he knew the best way to get rid of it—a demonic weapon for a barbaric enemy. It was almost poetic, in a way. He’d be using a fraction of the power of the Great Enemy to injure a personal enemy. Still, Alastair would have preferred an explosive bolt that did not make use of demon magic, even if it would have been marginally weaker compared to what he had now.

With a scowl, Alastair loaded the bolt into his arbalest and took aim at the marauders’ supply tent.

If he had to guess, the barbarians were probably traveling with bags of grain, barrels of beer and ale, and hundreds of pounds of cured meats. All of these were likely carried by beasts of burden, since there were a few pack mules and heavy horses here and there. What goods weren’t carried by beasts were lugged around in palanquins by their slaves. There were hundreds of them near the supply tent, carrying bags or trays of food to and fro. The elites seemed to let them be, not even bothering to look at them as they passed.

Well, Alastair mused, if at least some of them had some of their senses left in their addled minds, then they would be running soon. Like that woman they rescued in Ayran—she’d somehow regained her mind despite the trauma she’d faced in that village. She was strong-willed, more so than anyone else he knew. The courage she must have carried in her heart was immense. These people were not like her. He doubted they’d even notice if they were set aflame. On that note, do they still feel pain? Well, they do respond to the whips, but that could be more psychological than anything physical.

With a shrug, Alastair aimed for the center of the tent, where he’d be least likely to miss, given the great distance from his perch atop the tree and his target—about half a mile, give or take a few feet. Then again, with his weapon, he’d be an idiot if he missed. And so he narrowed his eyes, breathed in once, before letting loose the demonic bolt.

It let out a harrowing screech as it surged through the air, just low enough that it didn’t draw everyone’s attention, but also loud enough for it to be noticed by a few. However, the bolt flew too fast for it to matter. It pierced through the tent flap in an instant and, in the next, promptly exploded in an epic infernal blaze of crimson flames and living shadows that engulfed the whole tent and everything around it in hellfire. The elites turned to dust in an instant, unable to scream, while all the rest were blown back, suffering extreme burns that did not stop burning for even a moment. The crimson fires radiated upward and outward, briefly forming a dreadful, gigantic face that glowered at everything, before dissipating into the sky.

That didn’t mean the fires stopped spreading, however.

Chaos, fear, and confusion ran rampant in the camp as the marauders screamed and shouted at each other, many of their tents set aflame by the shrapnel, and many others set aflame themselves. Bells rung in the distance, alerting only a few who remained ignorant to the fact that their food stores no longer existed. Several hundred marauders broke off from the main body, running toward the river with buckets in hand, thinking that water might save them.

It wouldn’t.

Hellfire was nothing like mundane flames. It was power and malice, forced into the shape of fire. Water would do them no good.

But, hey, they were certainly welcome to try it.

Alastair holstered his arbalest onto his back and eyed the chaos of their camp. He was too far away to be noticed, but he had no doubt that the more intelligent ones in the army would come to the conclusion that they were attacked. After all, even he was surprised by the size and magnitude of that explosion. Alastair had been expecting a short, maybe even quick, burst that would set their supplies aflame and cause panic afterward. Well, that happened, but more than a hundred times greater in magnitude.

Well, there was no use thinking about it.

He was just glad he no longer had that demonic bolt on him.

As the marauders screamed and panicked in the distance, Alastair slowly climbed down the oak tree. Huh, now would be a great time for Damon to slip in and start killing everybody in there. With all the chaos that’s going on, no one is going to notice a few more people dying here and there, until it’s too late.

But, really, Damon was still probably on his way back from wherever he took that woman to.

When he reached the ground, Alastair turned and slowly retreated, but was met by Damon, who was just standing there, eyeing the chaos in the distance.

Alastair walked up to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree. “Where’d you leave the girl?”

Damon shrugged. “At home—that bloody hairy ape failed to trample my house, so I just dumped her on my bed and called it a day.”

“Huh,” Alastair muttered. “I thought you would’ve left her with the Folk of Zork.”

“I don’t trust them.”

He raised an eyebrow and snorted in amusement, still eyeing the distant camp. Damon spoke, finally meeting Alastair’s gaze. “You work fast.”

Alastair shrugged and turned over his shoulder. The camp was still in panic. The screams and shouts were now loud enough to be heard clearly even from the distance they both stood. “Those ruffians probably can’t spell their own damn names. Causing an army-wide panic wasn’t too hard. And now they’re not going anywhere with all their food turned to ashes. An army can’t move with just water alone, and there isn’t enough food in the surrounding woods to feed two thousand people.”

Damon nodded and summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear in his right hand. Alastair’s first and greatest creation appeared in his friend’s grasp, its lone red eye already seeking blood and death. “I’ve had some time to wonder about a few things. And I’ve arrived at a few questions I’d like some answers to, before we kill them all.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “You’re curious as to why the king, Cthonia’s dad, hasn’t sent an army to deal with this band of ruffians yet, yeah?”

It was a fair question. One that he’d already asked himself.

“Yeah,” Damon said. His voice was uncharacteristically hard and flat. “That’s exactly what I had in mind. Isn’t it the king’s job to protect his people? Isn’t it his damn job to make sure something like this doesn’t happen? Where the hell is he and why are we the only ones doing anything about this?”

At that, Alastair could only shrug. There was no correct answer to Damon’s question. Reality was not nearly as simple. But… maybe it should be. In the end, the only thing he could do was agree. “I don’t know. Kings are supposed to protect their people, true enough—that’s the whole point of their jobs. That’s the whole point of being king in the first place.”

Damon grunted in agreement and nodded. “I already hate Cthonia’s father. If he was a good king, then none of this would’ve happened. None of those people would’ve had to suffer and we would not have to clean up after his gods forsaken mess!”

Damon’s eyes blazed, crimson veins pulsating beneath his skin. His voice took on an ominous tone, dreadful and reverberating—demonic. His dormant powers were resurfacing, and his rage was palpable. Alastair understood him well enough to know just how he felt. Because, with everything that’s happened, he couldn’t help but feel the same way.

“I hate them all!” Damon growled.

“I know,” Alastair whispered. But, unlike his friend, he couldn’t hate all of them, because Cthonia was one of them and, well, he wasn’t sure if he could be angry with her.

Alastair sighed and shook his head. He loaded a single bolt into his arbalest and laid the weapon on the ground to rest. The Black Dragon’s Spear, for all its power, was not the right weapon for what they were about to do. The Spear was a tool meant for the killing of beasts, not men. He needed to create something else—something more.

“Damon,” Alastair said, “I’m going to make a weapon that will sicken me to my very core, but I believe it must be created… for the greater good. Here and now, we will both swear to use it only against evil men—never against the innocent, never against beasts or monsters. It shall be a weapon, whose sole purpose is to purge the world of the depraved, the malicious, and the black-hearted.”

Damon nodded. “I swear to wield… whatever weapon you’re planning to make, only against evil men, whose death and absence would be a service to the world—like that damn mage.”

“Eh, good enough.” Alastair took out the one item in his inventory that he was hoping to never have to use in his entire life—except maybe as a trophy on a rack, above the hearth when he retired in the future. But he figured it no longer mattered. At the end of the day, no tool, no artifact, no weapon could ever be truly evil—that was up to its wielder to decide.

[Horn of Surgath, the Vainur]

Quality: Legendary

Value: 1,000,000

This is the horn of Surgath, one of the last Vainur, who escaped the War of the Cataclysm. Though significantly weakened, the fallen god still retains amazing power, some of which is infused in this horn. The item may be used for enchanting purposes. Warning: use of this item will result in rapid, volatile mutations of a demonic nature.

It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it had been when he had first taken it out. It was a large horn, glimmering with hellfire and darkness. In it was a fraction of the power of a Vainur, a fallen god—a demon of Gorgorod. The item practically oozed power, simmering and burning just beneath its fiery surface, promising death and destruction to all who would wield its might. It felt warm and comfortable in his hand—soothing even. He wouldn’t be surprised if everything that was vaguely demonic would be comfortable to him.

Alastair raised it to his face and scowled. He wasn’t even sure if this would work. Surgath’s broken horn was far beyond the quality of Rare. But perhaps his ordinary limitations didn’t count when dealing with Legendary Quality items and materials?

Damon chuckled. “Ah, the fire chicken’s horn. You’re going to make a weapon out of it?”

He nodded. He was going to try. “What kind of weapon would you prefer?”

Damon considered the question for a moment, before answering. “I want an axe, the weapon of an executioner—for that will be the purpose of this weapon, the purging of evil from the world.”

Damon summoned a bearded axe from his inventory, a plain weapon that bore no intricate details or decorations. Alastair instantly recognized it as one of the many weapons he’d created and shoved into Damon’s inventory without a second thought. It had taken some liberal use of Shape to get the damned thing right, and it was still a tad bit unbalanced. Not that Damon would notice, since it was probably weightless to him anyway.

Damon passed the weapon over to him, and Alastair gingerly accepted it, his eyes suddenly widening at its weight in his hands. It was heavy. Damon handled it as though it was weightless. With Surgath’s Horn in one hand and the bearded axe in the other, Alastair ended up dropping both items to the ground with a grunt and a sigh. He knelt and wheezed. “Yeah, these are way too heavy to carry.”

On the ground, he laid his hands on both items and closed his eyes. This item was far above the quality of Rare, but this moment definitely counted as a crossroad in his life. I don’t know how this is supposed to work, but I need a weapon—one meant to cleanse this world of evil men, to save humanity from its own malice. I need a weapon of both justice and death, of judgment and execution… Bind!

Divine Intervention! [Shazdrak, the Goddess of Justice and Law] has answered your plight!

What?

When he opened his eyes, Alastair’s vision was swarmed by a bright, fiery light that was akin to a volcanic eruption. Fire and flame, and infernal blazes radiated out and exploded with power. Alastair leapt back and averted his eyes, shielding them with his arm as the brightness became almost blinding.

“Fear not, young Alastair, scion of Thorondoros,” a distinctly feminine ethereal voice spoke in his mind. “For I shall be with you. Reach out to the light, child, and rejoice in the warmth of your creation!”

He didn’t have the time or the inclination to argue with whoever was speaking inside his head. And so Alastair did as instructed and reached out toward the center of the crimson light. A dreadfully familiar warmth spread across his body—the warmth of hellfire and darkness, the flames of the fiery realm of Gorgorod. He hated the feeling. But, as he’d sworn earlier, this was for the greater good—for the benefit of all men, not just him. This was a necessary evil, a tool of chaos that was meant to bring peace.

“Rejoice, young Alastair,” the voice said again. “For you now understand the burden of justice, the burden of carrying the necessary evil for the greater good of all.”

“Gah!” he screamed as he leapt forward and clasped his fiery creation in hand. The moment his hand wrapped around its handle, the crimson lights disappeared into a thin trail of smoke.

“What in the hells just happened?” Damon asked.

“I don’t know.”

New Perk Received! [Seeker of Justice]

Chapter 18

Alastair gaped at his creation.

A sense of almost divine awe ran through him.

What he’d created was something otherworldly, a weapon fit for gods to wield.

His breath hitched.

He never thought he’d ever create something of the same magnitude as the Black Dragon’s Spear, the perfect weapon to kill beasts and monstrous creatures. His latest creation was not so different, he mused. It, too, was a weapon to kill monsters—the monsters that hid beneath the skin of men.

This would be his weapon against them, his weapon to purge the world of them.

[Justice of the Divine Demon]

Quality: Unique

Durability: 40,000/40,000

Value: 1,000,000

This weapon was created to purge evil from the world. It is both judge and executioner, capable of peering into the innermost depths of the hearts of its enemies, judging them for all they are worth. Those found wanting, the evil and monstrous, are cut down and burned in the searing white flames of Shazdrak, Goddess of Law and Justice, while the innocent will remain unharmed. The master of this weapon will also gain limited control over the flames of Shazdrak, able to summon and bend them to their will.

(Note: the weapon’s master need not be its bearer at the same time.)

His eyes widened at that last bit of information as he grabbed the axe and stood up, and brought it close to his eyes, examining its rather demonic features.

The bearded axe had retained most of its elements, excluding its handle which had been made of wood. The head, which had been a dull, gray from an iron ingot, turned into a matte black metal from whose center blazed crimson hellfire, surging from gill-like slits on the both sides. Alastair could only describe it as both horrifying and hauntingly beautiful. Inscribed upon the edges of the axe, which hung downward and slowly tapered to a point, were runic and otherwise unintelligible characters that Alastair could not decipher, but he felt their meaning—he felt their purpose. They were words of power, a prayer to the goddess, Shazdrak, beseeching her for aid in the judgment of the unworthy.

The rest of the weapon was equally otherworldly.

Its handle retained the shape it had before, but the material had been severely altered. What had been hardwood was now a strange, dark gray material whose powdery surface made it appear almost akin to dried bone that had been left to simmer under the heat of the sun for many years. And yet he’d seen many bones before, most of them from monsters, but this wasn’t from any animal. When he looked closer, Alastair saw its surface was decorated with swirling patterns that resembled the look of waves in a stylized painting. But there was more to it. As he looked deeper, he noticed the vague depictions of the souls in the waves, screaming and panicking, reaching out for help, but finding no such thing. He saw suffering and pain.

At the other end of the axe, which he had originally left flat and undecorated, was a silvery white root-like growth that converged into itself and formed a glimmering, pearl-colored spike. At the center of their convergence was a crimson gem that oozed and pulsated with power unlike anything he’d ever felt before. The power of demons at the head, ready to cut down the wicked, and the power of divine justice behind it, steering the demons toward a rightful path. It’s almost poetic, I think. The power of good and evil in the same vessel, acting as one, perfectly in tune with each other. Such a weapon has never existed before.

Alastair closed his eyes and reached within himself for the connection that he knew existed between him and this weapon—for was it not just another one of his children? He found that connection and grabbed it. And so he said the words that seemed most natural.

Awaken, my child!

His creation stirred to life in his hands. A deep reverberating rumbling echoed in his head, a sound only Alastair could hear through the connection he shared with the weapon. It was as though a giant had awakened after a long slumber, having found a mountain atop it. The presence he felt then seemed eerily reminiscent of the strange and otherworldly aura of Surgath, the Vainur, the demon of Gorgorod. It made sense, he mused, the catalyst to the weapon’s creation. A fraction of that foul creature’s power had made its way into his creation and gave it the breath of life it needed to truly become what it was now.

“Father,” it said, speaking in a deep, reverberating voice that shook Alastair down to his bones. Its voice was eerily similar to Surgath’s. The thought chilled him. He and Damon barely survived that encounter. Despite that, Alastair could not deny the strange kinship he felt with it—the same sensation of kinship he felt with the Black Dragon’s Spear. The difference, however, was that his latest creation, the Justice of the Divine Demon, did not need to be awakened through the system’s power. “You have awakened me, father. Do you wish to become the master of my powers or shall another wield me?”

Alastair thought back to Damon.

Damon was already powerful by himself. He didn’t need more abilities in his arsenal. Alastair, however, was a weak and feeble human, who only had the ability to regenerate from his injuries. Well, he could also create incredible weapons and armor, but that was just it—the bulk of his abilities were not offensive by nature if he discounted his ability to create and manipulate hellfire.

As things stood, Alastair needed another ability, one that would let him stand by himself whenever Damon wasn’t around to pull his ass from the fire. Demon magic was out of the question, but this—the power of his latest creation—could be the key to solving that problem. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as hellfire, but it was useful, even if he could not use it for anything other than purging the wicked from the world.

“Yes,” Alastair said firmly. “I wish to become the master of your powers, my child.”

“I have acknowledged your wish, father,” it answered. “But before I will permit you to wield my powers, a test—you, father, shall face a test. Succeed and you shall wield the White Flames of Shazdrak to rid the world of evil. Fail and my powers shall be closed to you forever.”

Alastair nodded and glanced around. He wasn’t in the forest anymore. It was funny how he failed to notice that. He was somewhere else. Alastair stood on a flat and verdant grassland that stretched out beyond the horizon, further than his eyes could see. There were no clouds that lingered above. Everything was bright and green, but the sun did not show its face. This place was… not real—at least not real in the sense that it was in the real world. He was here. His mind was here. And that made it real enough.

“What is the test you wish for me to take, my child?” Alastair asked. He was in no real hurry. Somewhere in the deepest part of his heart he knew that time did not move in this world the same way it did in the real one. And so he stood there and waited.

Nothing happened. Alastair sat down and closed his eyes. His thoughts wandered. How many of those marauders deserve death? he thought. Are all of them the same? They can’t all be evil, right? At least some of them might be against the atrocities the others committed… then again, by letting it happen… by looking on as their allies performed evil deeds, are they not mere accessories to the crimes against all that is good? They are, after all, a part of the same army. They could have voiced their concerns if they truly had any. They could have stood up for their beliefs, instead of hiding away in their cowardice.

But who am I to judge?

“And that will be your test, father,” the voice of his creation spoke once more. But gone was the reverb and the ethereal quality it once had. The voice sounded like it came from a real person. Alastair opened his eyes and beheld a young man, who seemed to be the same age as he was.

The young man’s face was plain—neither handsome nor ugly. His hair was cut short and only barely reached his ears. His right eye was a bright, hellish crimson, while his left eye was a stark silvery white. His clothes and features were nondescript to such a degree that Alastair found his eyes simply did not want to gaze at them.

And so he did not.

The young man held out his right hand and snapped his fingers.

Alastair stood as a bright light surged from three singularities, each one emanating from the young man’s outstretched hand, globules of light and fire that hovered above the air. From them came three people—two men and one woman. Each was bound by chains around their hands and ankles, and they were on their knees, naked and bald and weeping. They faced the grass on the ground and did not look up, and so Alastair could not see their features. Though, strangely enough, the woman’s skin tone was far darker than he’d seen on anyone else. Something about them made Alastair queasy, a sickening sensation of fear and contempt that seemed to radiate from their quivering forms.

The dark-skinned woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then looked away immediately, gazing upon the ground.

They were pathetic to look at, like street rats pulled from the gutter of some nameless neighborhood. He eyed each of them for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

The young man gestured at the three. “All three of them were tried and killed as criminals, each one drawn from the annals of human history. However, only one of them was ever truly guilty of committing a crime. The rest were innocent, but killed otherwise. Separate the innocent from the guilty. You may ask them questions, but their answers will be hollow and fleeting—maybe even contradictory. Their souls and their minds are fractured. They will not remember who they were in life but all of them will confess only their innocence. They will remember only their pain… their anguish. Judge them.”

Before Alastair could say anything, the young man vanished, leaving only the three people on the ground.

Alastair turned to the three. His eyes narrowed. I can ask them any question I want, but that doesn’t mean their answers will be accurate in any way. So, I can probably build a sort of general picture as to what happened to them, but that picture is never going to be entirely accurate.

He walked up to the dark-skinned woman and knelt in front of her. Alastair studied her form for a moment. She was definitely not from the Middle Kingdom. She might have come from a desert nation beyond his kingdom or maybe even an island kingdom in some distant sea.

Alastair shrugged.  “Look at me.”

The woman did as instructed and turned her head up. Their eyes met. Hers were a deep hazel color, like dried leaves in the fall.

“What is your name?” Alastair asked

Her lips quivered. “I am Motani-Ikaole, daughter of Chieftain Moro-Ikaole of the Manwetopi Tribe.”

Alastair’s mouth hung open as her words passed his ears and out the other side. Almost nothing of what she said made any kind of sense to him, aside from the fact that she was probably an important person, given the fact that she’d just introduced herself as the daughter of the leader of a tribe of men. Was she a princess? Eh, close to it.

Were her words true?

That remained to be seen.

“And why were you tried and killed as a criminal?” It was a simple question, he supposed—straight to the point. Dancing around the subject would have given her more of an avenue to lie, and that was the exact opposite of what he needed at the moment. Though, Alastair could not quite deny the fact that he was curious about her and her homeland, because not once in his whole life had he heard of such a tribe as ‘Manwetopi’ in the Middle Kingdom.

Her face twisted as though the question caused her pain. Her eyes snapped shut. “I found my father’s body in a ditch. He was killed by spears. My brother accused me of conspiracy. I was next in line for the throne. He told the council of elders that I wanted to be Chieftain and killed my father to get my way. The elders believed him, and I was put to death.”

Alastair nodded. Her story was just about what one might expect when greedy nobles were at play with each other—power grabs and power grabs and more power grabs.

“And how were you executed?” he asked her.

Her face twisted agonizingly, tears of blood streaming from her eyes, nose, and mouth as she spoke. “First, I was stripped of my titles and given over to the soldiers for two days and two nights. After that, I was tied to a rock at sea and made to endure the harshness of the waves and the heat of the sun. I died after three days when the birds came and pecked me apart.”

Alastair shuddered. Even if she wasn’t innocent, even if she was a murderer, she didn’t deserve such a fate. No one deserved such a fate. It wasn’t justice—it was vengeance. And vengeance was nothing more than another crime, evil begotten by evil. If it had been up to him, she would have been simply and swiftly executed. She would have been led to a podium, where her crime would be revealed to the public. Evidence would then be revealed, followed by the testimony of witnesses—special action would, of course, need to be taken to ensure that the witnesses themselves were credible. After that, her sentence would then be declared. For the crime of murder, her head would suffice as penance.

And off with it.

“Did you kill your father?” he asked. Again, the question was plain and direct. He couldn’t hope for her honesty, not really, but that was also why he had to keep his queries short and to the point.

“I did not kill my father!” she snapped, tears streaming from her eyes. “I had no reason to kill him! I was heir to the throne. Father was weak and dying. All I had to do was wait for him to die, and I would not have had to wait long. I am innocent!”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded anyway. “What can you tell me about your brother?”

“He is a man obsessed with power,” she answered quickly. “Our tribe had more warriors than all the other tribes. My brother, Daka-Ikaole, wished to use our forces to subjugate the other tribes and rule supreme over Mandokka as the one true Chieftain. However, only my father could command our warriors, and I was his heir.”

“And the next logical step would have been to get rid of you both,” Alastair finished for her. She nodded, and he stood up. He wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. For all he knew, she could have been tried for something else entirely, but a faint voice in his head told him that at least the details of her death bore some truth—brutal and terrible as it was. For now, he’d think over her answers and compare them to the other two.

He walked over to the next person. It was a man, thin and frail. His skin was pale and powdery, and a ghastly aura seemed to emanate from him. Like the others, he was facing the grass and nothing else. Unlike the others, however, the man appeared calm and collected, resigned even.

Alastair crouched down in front of him. “What’s your name?”

“I am Varanius Vladium Orellius of the Great House of Orellius,” the man answered, raising his head to reveal his shrunken blue eyes and parched lips. Still, he seemed relaxed and at ease with his situation, like a man who’d found his inner peace. It was… almost refreshing to see, Alastair mused. This man with too many names must have lived a good life, before his appointed time.

Alastair focused on the man’s name. He was definitely a noble, just like the dark-skinned girl, and his name was vaguely familiar. It certainly wouldn’t be out of place in the Middle Kingdom, which meant he was probably from there—if only from another time. At the very least, I wouldn’t have to think too hard about whatever customs he may have had… assuming he’s also from the Middle Kingdom.

“And why were you tried and killed as a criminal?” Alastair asked the same question he had asked the woman—plain and simple.

The man smiled. “I invented necromancy, young one, an art so horrible and so reviled even the gods called for my head when they saw the corpse I had dancing at my whims. But they could not chain me, so I fled and perfected my art. In time, I had gathered an army of corpses and used it to conquer entire nations, until I was stopped by a band of warriors, who snuck behind my army and captured me. I was tried as a heretic and was sentenced to death by boiling.”

Alastair’s eyes widened. Holy hells! This guy invented necromancy?! That’s a forbidden sect of magic that wields the powers of death and decay, capable of reanimating corpses, draining the vitality of living creatures, and creating virulent plagues.

“So, you’ve killed many?” It might have been a pointless question to ask, given the man’s confession to conquest, but Alastair figured he may as well ask the question.

Alastair was met by the man’s laughter, a genuinely hearty laugh that held no malice.

“No, young one,” Varanius said. “I rallied the people to rebel against their lords and masters. I freed the slaves and set them against their slavers. My army of the dead marched alongside the living. The little people looked to me as their savior and liberator—the nobles and the aristocrats saw me as the single greatest threat to the society they’d built.”

Varanius smiled, then continued, “I was a monster to them, you see, because I dared to stand against the order they’d built, a crumbling, decadent, and malformed order built on the backs of the people who toil and work till their bodies break. I was a monster and a criminal, because I offered freedom to those who had none.”

His words, whether or not they were true, tugged at Alastair’s heart.

At the back of his mind, Alastair saw himself in the man’s shoes and found himself agreeing.

It was a dangerous trail of thought.

No gods and no masters… Alastair found it made quite a lot of sense in his head.

“Tell me more,” he finally said, absently leaning closer. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter 19

“Your eyes are the same as mine,” Varanius Vladium Orellius barked with laughter.

Alastair wanted to disagree with him if only for morality’s sake. The man before him had seemingly been long since bereft of it, leaving only the shell of who he once was. They weren’t entirely the same, but he couldn’t exactly say they were too different either. But Alastair kept his opinion to himself.

“You hate the very idea of nobility and despise the clamor for status and fame and glory,” Varanius said. “I know that look, boy. I had that very same look when I was younger, even if I myself am from a great and noble house of lords, ladies, and masters.”

Alastair scoffed. “Isn’t that a little hypocritical of you to think that way when you yourself likely benefited from such a system?”

Varanius didn’t seem offended in any way. In fact, a strangely melancholic smile graced his lips upon hearing Alastair’s words. “I do not deny that my youth was spent in the decadent halls of my forefathers, lounging and happily enjoying the fruits of the labors of our serfs and servants. I cared little about them in those days, you see. I saw them as nothing more than extensions of my will, walking sacks of flesh that carried no name and no destiny. I believed myself above them—far above them.”

Alastair nodded. That was how most nobles looked at everyone who wasn’t of noble blood, excluding the rich merchants, who—rarely—might rise to the mantle of nobility and join the ranks of the aristocracy. The simple truth of the matter was that the nobles thought themselves much higher than they really were.

Arrogance. He hated them for it, especially when it was accompanied with stupidity.

Without prompting, Varanius continued, “But that all changed when it was discovered that I held powerful magic in my veins. My family was overjoyed at the prospect of having a mage in the family, and I was soon sent to one of the most prestigious magical academies in the Middle Kingdom, Collegia Hecatis, where I was taught to harness my powers, to channel them into something useful.”

The man’s voice turned dark and hard, his shrunken blue eyes taking on a shadowy hue as he spoke next. “There, I became obsessed with healing magic. I studied the human body and how it functioned, and then I studied how to preserve it, how to ensure its continued existence. I was hailed as a genius among my peers for it was I who created the Stasis and Cadaver Preservation spells. But that was not enough for me. I wanted to defeat death itself.”

The dark look turned melancholy. “It’s a funny thing, I think. This all began because I was afraid of losing my cat to old age. She was a pretty thing. I raised her by myself, ever since I found her as a kitten, abandoned by her mother and left to die in my family’s gardens. You see, after all that time, we had grown close. Her eyes could not see as well as they used to and her joints ached all the time. She was dying.”

“There, I questioned the meaning and the frailty of life,” Varanius continued. “What is life and what is death? What is it that separates the two? How am I any different—internally speaking—to a fresh corpse?”

Alastair had to admit it was an interesting question to ponder, a pretty little topic for some internal philosophical debates, because the gods themselves knew he couldn’t have anything like that with Damon as his friend would likely fall asleep halfway through the conversation if he hadn’t already walked off. What does it mean to be alive? What is life and death?

“I pondered that question for too long, I suppose,” the man’s voice turned sad for a moment, smiling. “My cat died before I discovered the answer, but I did not let her corpse turn to waste. I poured through the most ancient of healing spells in the most archaic of tongues and languages and found… something—an idea. Young one, do you understand what magic is, how it works?”

Alastair shook his head. “Not really. I’m Fated, but I know nothing of magic nor its functions, save for the fact that it is chaos in its rawest and most primal form.”

Varanius nodded. “In a nutshell, that would be it. But magic is so much more than just chaos and how to control it. There was a time when mages were persecuted. Did you know that? They feared us because of what we could do, because of what we represented. See, young one, the power of magic is the power of the gods, their power to bend reality to their will, to reshape the very forces of nature to suit their whims. That is magic—reality is an illusion, truth is a lie.”

“Regardless,” he continued, “it was with that revelation that an idea occurred to me: what if I used magic to force the heart to beat again? What if I used the arcane forces to replicate brain function and neural activity? After all, reality itself bent to my will. Why should I limit myself?”

“I started with my cat, my first act of reanimation.” He smiled proudly, but that smile quickly dimmed away into a sneer as he continued. “It didn’t… go as I’d hoped it would. The spell was incomplete. I had not succeeded in defeating death as I originally planned. Instead, I succeeded in making a mockery of life. I created a moving corpse that felt no pain, did not tire, and needed neither water nor food. It was… beautiful.”

Alastair saw the maddened look in the man’s eyes and was glad for their differences.

Still, he was speaking to the man who created necromancy, the most infamous branch of magic to have ever existed, probably even more reviled than demon magic.

“The others in the academy did not share my opinion, unfortunately.” Varanius chuckled. “The gods themselves were angered by what I had done, and I was called to stand trial for heresy. But I knew it was nothing more than a sham. They wanted to kill me for what I had discovered. The gods, most of all, wanted me dead. I could not be allowed to spread what I had learned. After all, we already wielded the same powers the gods did—if only on a much smaller scale—what would happen if we also managed to discover the secret to their immortality? Well, we wouldn’t need them anymore.”

“And so I chose to run away and hide,” he finished. “I couldn’t go to my family or any noble house for that matter. They’d all just turn me in, without a second thought, especially when the gods and their high-priests were involved in the hunt for my head.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you go?”

Varanius chuckled. “I ran to the people I once thought were below me. I became one of them. For the next twenty years, I became a farmer and a fisherman. I found a wife, had children, and mastered my art of necromancy in secret, using the bones of fishes and the cadavers of deer, elk, wolf, bear, and boar.”

“See, I never thought to begin my conquest—not really,” Varanius continued. “I had grown content with the life I had, hard though it was. The village I lived in was far from the clutches of poverty and food was plentiful for everyone. It was a time of great happiness and merry celebrations.” The man’s face darkened once more, his shrunken blue eyes reaching out and pulling shadows into its midst. “And then some nameless brute of an arrogant princeling arrived in my village, demanding taxes. When we paid our just dues, he saw that we had plenty more to give and so demanded more. When the alderman reasoned that what we had was because of our hard work and determination, the prince had him flogged in the village square. When he demanded more taxes again, I struck him down with a bolt of death magic that withered away his youth and turned him into a shriveled old man, then, in seconds, he became nothing more than bleached bones.”

Varanius laughed at that. “Ah, the look on his face was priceless. My neighbors became afraid of me, of course, but I rallied them and made them see reason. The prince was to blame for his own death. He was an evil tyrant, who deserved his fate for abusing his power over the people, over us. Things… kind of spiraled out of control from there.”

Alastair chuckled at that last bit.

Varanius continued. “Years and years of pent up rage against their lords and masters exploded in a single night. The villagers didn’t even think twice when I used my necromancy to reanimate the dead of the woods and the skeletons in the graveyards—humans, dogs, cats, bears, wolves, deer, anything and everything that was once alive marched with us.”

“The flames of our rebellion did not truly begin until my neighbors and I walked right up into our local lord’s manor and killed him and his family, before taking his castle and his lands for ourselves. After that, we rallied other villages to our cause. It didn’t take much to convince them to join us, not when they had suffered beneath years and years of abuse and negligence from the nobility.” The man paused and smiled wistfully before he returned his focus to Alastair. “Earlier, you asked me if I killed many…”

Alastair nodded.

“I did,” Varanius said plainly. “My rebellion led to the deaths of many people, nobles and peasants alike died in droves, their corpses joining our ranks and causing our army of the dead to swell even more. By the year’s end, a hundred villages and thousands upon thousands of villagers marched at my beck and call. We burnt down castles and palaces, and hanged counts, dukes, and lords and ladies from their own towers. We were unstoppable. It didn’t matter how many armies were sent to stop us, none of them held a candle to my reanimated hordes, and each battle only added to our numbers. The fighting reached such a low point for the side of the nobility that they finally resorted to recruiting mages and adventurers to fight for them, even calling on the aid of the high-priests to beseech the gods for their aid.”

“And?” Alastair asked, genuinely curious. “Did the gods send their aid?”

“Of course they did.” Varanius chuckled. “They sent their champions against me and my army of peasants. They sent others of your ilk, young one, the Fated.”

“But that wasn’t all that was sent to stand against us,” he continued. “The mages rallied and formed their own contingents. Imagine that… an army of mages against an army of farmers, fishermen, and craftsmen, armed only with what weapons they could build themselves or otherwise pilfer off the dead.”

“And, somehow, against all the odds arrayed against us, against the powers of the gods and the armies of our tormentors and slavers, we scored victory after victory after victory. Not a single one of their generals and tacticians knew how to fight an army of the dead, an army that requires neither rest nor resources to move and march. Sure, the peasants we had needed to eat, but that was easily solved by using the dead to hunt wild game and gather mushrooms, herbs, and other edible foodstuffs off the forests. Our enemies were outflanked, outmaneuvered, and outnumbered.”

“We were winning.” Varanius smiled. “Our rebellion was nearing its final victory. For a moment, we glimpsed a possible future, free of kings and lords and princes. We saw a society that was ruled by the people and made for the people, a society where all men were equal and justice and law were held above all—no kings, no gods, and no masters to rule over us, only ourselves and those we would allow to hold power.”

The man’s shrunken blue eyes seemed to shimmer and shine for a moment, before they darkened once more. “And then they captured and killed me, and the whole thing fell apart. Hundreds of thousands of peasants were hung by the neck until death. My wife and children were burned at the stake, but not before many hours spent in the dungeons.”

Alastair nodded once. He stood up.

Varanius’ story tugged at his heart. The man stood for something that was actually worth fighting for, a world where all men were equal, a world without gods, masters, or kings. It was a world Alastair would gladly fight for if given the chance. But as with the woman, Alastair couldn’t be sure just how much of it was true and how much of it was utter nonsense. As much as he wanted to believe in Varanius’ tale, he couldn’t. At least, he couldn’t believe in the whole thing. Then again, if I had access to some history books, I might be able to see if he was spouting truth or nonsense, but then the nobility did win and it’s quite likely they twisted their version of events, especially since literacy is often nonexistent among the peasantry.

Right, there was a question he did not yet ask. “How were you executed?”

Varanius smiled. “The gods had me tortured for an entire month, then they ordered me flayed alive and salted. I figured I must have died at some point when they removed the skin off my chest, but I don’t quite remember anymore. I was too busy kicking and screaming the whole time.”

Alastair nodded and went on to the last man. Varanius’ words left him with plenty to process. But, he still needed to listen to the third person’s story and how they came to die the way they did.

He crouched down in front of the last man and studied him briefly. He was young, much younger than both the woman and Varanius. If Alastair had to guess, the man was probably just a boy, who was even younger than both he and Damon, and that was a rather disturbing thought. He was bald, of course, like the last two people.

“What’s your name?” Alastair asked. The young man’s head snapped upward to meet his gaze, and Alastair was treated to the peculiar sight of golden eyes, glimmering like twin suns.

“I am Amhonatep, the tenth, Pharaoh of Senekt and Tamer of the Golden Dunes,” he introduced himself. Alastair could only nod dumbly as the words went past him. The only thing he figured was that this boy’s name was Amhonatep and he was probably someone important, since he had absolutely no idea what ‘Pharaoh’ meant and what Senekt was. Though, from the context clues alone, Senekt was probably a faraway land that existed some time ago, before the Cataclysm came and covered the rest of the world in ashes and dust.

“And why were you tried and killed as a criminal?” Alastair asked.

“I broke the most ancient law of our land and entered the Black Pyramid,” the young man answered in a way that made his words seem like common knowledge. Alastair understood little of it, but understood enough to know that the young man had broken some kind of taboo, which led to his death. “The hierophants accused me of breaking into the sacred place, but I did no such thing. The Black Pyramid opened up to me because I was worthy. However, the high priests were jealous and had me struck down, like some criminal, branding me a defiler and a heretic in front of the masses.”

Alastair nodded. He felt, however, that more context was needed, because—frankly—he understood quite little thus far. “What is the Black Pyramid and why is it sacred to your people?”

“The Black Pyramid was built by the gods to house artifacts of great and terrible power. A single one of those artifacts is said to be capable of changing the world. The most ancient of tales speak of a book with the power over life and death itself, written by the God of the Dead,” the young man answered. “All who knew of it wanted to claim the Black Pyramid as their own, but they knew nothing of its nature. The Black Pyramid wasn’t just some structure in the endless dunes—it was alive. It had thoughts and feelings of its own, and it chose who it would allow entry into its chambers. At some point, after countless attempts, the high-priests started thinking it couldn’t be breached and that it was a place only the gods may enter. They believed that no mortal man could ever be allowed inside, not even the Pharaoh.”

“I see.” Alastair nodded. The story, from Amhonatep’s point of view, at least, wasn’t too difficult to understand and was even rather common in the Middle Kingdom, just not on the same scale. Adventurers were often sent into ancient ruins to search for treasures and ancient troves of knowledge. However, if the adventurer was not acting on behalf of a patron or a client, then they may claim the ruins and its treasures as their own—and that was when things became problematic, usually resulting in adventurers killing each other for loot.

“The high-priests were jealous, so they decided to deal with you in the simplest way possible,” Alastair surmised.

The young man nodded.

Alastair tilted his head and looked at the man. “But if the Black Pyramid is as you said, filled to the brim with powerful artifacts, why didn’t you take anything from there and defend yourself with it? I’m certain there must have been some weapons and armor in there that could have helped you survive against a bunch of old men in robes, right?”

The young man shook his head. “The very idea of violence and warfare sickens me. I would not pick up a weapon or threaten a man, even at the cost of my own life. The high-priests judged me for a crime they believed I committed and that was that. Am I guilty? Have I killed men? How did I die? I will answer those questions, before you ask them: no, no, and through beheading.”

“Huh…” Alastair blinked, then chuckled. “You’re certainly grouchy. Is the afterlife not what you expected?”

Amhonatep gave him a blank look. “Imagine an endless darkness, nothing in sight. There is only silence and cold, with only your thoughts to keep yourself company. But, despite that, insanity is a distant thing. What remains of my mind will not break. And so I’ve had plenty of time to think about my life.”

“That sounds like an awful place to be in.” Alastair shook his head and stood up. The last conversation was by far the simplest, but that also made it harder to separate the lies from the truth. He took several steps back and eyed the three.

His task was to find the truly guilty and execute them.

“I choose…”

Chapter 20

Alastair eyed the three people keenly. Their stories had been interesting to hear. It wasn’t everyday he could talk to strangers from distant lands and distant times. Their lives were unique and beautiful in their own ways. Alastair wanted to listen to more of their tales, even if much of it was probably made up to make themselves appear innocent or heroic. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the urge to explore beyond the peaks of the Charred Mountains appeared… and its presence was a powerful one that demanded attention and contemplation.

For now, however, he had a test to finish and man or woman to execute.

The woman, Motani-Ikaole, was the victim in her story, betrayed and accused by those she called her kin for the sake of power—just another day in the game of political intrigue. Her death was brutal, far too brutal for him to even consider it as a means of death for anyone, not even his worst enemies. Did she commit a crime? Was the death of her father of her own doing? Well, according to her, she was innocent of everything. The implication of her words was that her brother was behind her father’s death and that she was accused of murder to ensure the man’s rise to the throne.

A likely story, but also just as likely to be falsified to defend her image. There were too many ways she could have lied through her teeth and the story still would have made sense.

Alastair walked up to her. “Where was your father’s body found?”

“It was found a few miles east of a village, on the bank of a river. His foot had gotten stuck to a tree and I was notified of it by a—” She clamped her mouth shut at Alastair’s knowing grin.

“Heh, poor choice of words there, princess.” Alastair chuckled as he stood up and looked down at her, before shaking his head. “Your story wasn’t nearly as well thought out as you thought it was. Maybe that’s the reason why you couldn’t lie through your little council of elders? I don’t believe you deserved the kind of death you were forced to endure—no woman, or man, should have to withstand such a thing. But, ultimately, you’re still guilty by the laws of your own people.”

Motani-Ikaole nodded once and glanced upon the grass once more. She made a single mistake that unraveled the web of lies she’d spun in some wasted attempt at tricking him. Admittedly, she would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for that lapse in her words. She had claimed that she was the one to discover her father’s body. A moment ago, however, she claimed to have been notified about it by some other person, who saw it first.

Alastair stretched out his right hand to the side and summoned the Justice of the Divine Demon in his grasp. He held the weapon over the woman’s head. He brought it down in a single fell swoop that cleaved through her skull and split it in two. No blood came out, however. The woman’s body merely disintegrated into a mass of white particles, dissipating away into a glimmering haze.

He moved on to the next person, Varanius, whose tale of rebellion and ideals of a better society tugged and burned in his heart. “Funny, you never really bothered with denying your guilt. I was told you’d try to prove your innocence, but you never really did try anything of the sort, did you? You’re proud of what you’ve done and, I think, if you could go back in time, you would do the same thing all over again.”

Varanius looked up and smiled. “Quite true. If I were given a chance to relive my life with all my memories intact, I would have done the same thing and won. Though… truth be told, I do have plenty of regrets about my rebellion, lives needlessly taken, cruelty… will you let a weary old man speak of his regrets? I have not spoken to another soul in… a very long time.”

Alastair nodded and squatted down in front of the old man. “Be my guest. Learning from the mistakes of the past, I think, is far better than repeating them myself and learning afterward.”

“There’s great wisdom in those words, young one.” Varanius smiled. “My first and greatest regret was, ironically, the prince whose life I took. His death provided the kindling that would set my rebellion alight and ignite the hearts of the people. But… if I could have done things differently, I would have spared him and taken him hostage. There was a… situation where the prince might have been a suitable trade. Instead, we were forced into a battle that nearly cost us everything. We won, but I would have preferred if we’d have avoided it in the first place. I lost a dear friend in that skirmish. He died so I could live. Without him, I would have been captured and our rebellion would have ended prematurely.”

“My second regret is… well, it’s not a singular thing, but I do regret the deaths of the smattering of nobles who were truly innocent and benevolent in their rule.” Varanius’ smile faded, replaced by a look of sadness and melancholy—an old man, burdened by his years and the many mistakes he’d made through his life. It was a rather apt description. “There were some who would have gladly helped us in our crusade to remake society and bring about an age of peace, prosperity, and equality. Their numbers were not large, but they did exist.  However, the peasants, my fellows of blood and sword, cared little for their words or for how they treated their subjects. They saw nobles as a singular people, all of them rich and decadent and arrogant and in need of killing.”

“If I had controlled them better, quelled their rage, maybe we could have succeeded. Maybe… we could have won.” Varanius huffed and sighed. “But, I suppose, there’s little point in wondering about what ifs. They died, and we paid the price in blood.”

The old man paused, then spoke again, “I often wonder what it would have been like if we’d succeeded, if both the common men and the noble men worked hand in hand to achieve such a wondrous society, where all men were equal… I suppose it’s a far away dream.”

“It isn’t,” Alastair said, standing up. “We have the same dream, and I won’t let it stay that way. I won’t let my dream die, but I’ll be doing things a lot differently from you, I think. No offense, but it seems like you’ve wasted quite a lot of opportunities that cost you your victory. I’ll be different. I promise you this, Varanius: I will win.”

The old man dipped his head low and grinned. “You’re a Fated Crafter, are you not?”

Alastair nodded.

“I’ve met a few of your ilk in the war,” Varanius continued, “but most of them never quite understood their true potential. Thorondoros was feared by his fellow gods because his realm was potentially boundless in scope. Whatever powers the other gods might have had, his creations could replicate. Swords of death, spears of life, shields of shadows, and so much more. Sadly, your predecessors did not think outside the box and relegated themselves to glorified enchanters. Do not follow in their footsteps, young one. Reach out and touch the heavens. Your potential is just as boundless as the realm of your patron.”

“I have a gift for you,” Varanius said. “If you wish to have it. In the catacombs of my family’s castle is a casket of gold and black stone. Inside is a relic of an age, before ages, from a time when the gods walked among men. It is an artifact of Valdus the Builder, the forebear of my family. Take it. It will give him great pleasure to know it was in the hands of a fellow Crafter.”

Alastair nodded, stood up, and raised the Justice of the Divine Demon over Varanius’ head.

“The House of Orellius is proud and strong, but it has seen better days in my time. I do not know how many years have passed, but I don’t believe my family has survived to your age. Find the castle—and find the gift.”

“I will.” With that, Alastair brought the axe down and cleaved Varanius in two. Like Motani-Ikaole before him, he disappeared into a cloud of white particles, before dissipating into the air.

A smile graced Alastair’s lips. “Goodbye, Varanius. You have taught me much. I won’t allow your dream to die. And, as I said to that black-haired girl over there, you were guilty by the laws of your land and of your time.”

For a moment, Alastair wondered just what sort of artifact he’d uncover in Varanius’ old family home. Anything from a fellow Crafter, one of the first ones at that, would be immensely valuable and equally powerful. He wanted it—more power was always good. More power meant less chance of dying in the wilderness and even less chance of getting eaten by a monster. One could never have too many artifacts. He was a Crafter, after all—having too many artifacts should be a given.

Alastair moved on to the last man and tilted his head. “This is strange…”

Alastair looked down at the foreign noble and frowned. The young man did not look up at him, choosing, instead, to keep his head low. “All three of you are guilty… You, like Varanius, did not bother defending yourself, which means you are also guilty by the laws of your people, but… would you say you’re guilty?” Alastair asked him.

It was a stupid question to ask someone who likely believed themselves innocent of the crime that took their lives, but, given the person in front of him, it was probably a valid question. The young man, the Pharaoh as he called himself, seemed like the kind of person who was honest and direct. There was, of course, a chance that he could be lying, but that hardly mattered.

By Alastair’s own reckoning, this little test was breaking if it wasn’t already broken.

“I am,” the young man answered plainly. “The law of the Black Pyramid was created more than a hundred years ago, before my parents were wed. Technically, I broke the law of men, but I did not break the law of the gods. Never would I break the laws of the gods. Am I guilty of breaking a law? Yes, but I am no heretic. Did I deserve death for it? I do not know.”

Alastair nodded and brought the axe down on the young man’s head. The young man dissipated into a cloud of white haze, just like the others. “All three of them were guilty by the laws of their people and their land. True justice is impartial—it just is. It does not care if Motani-Ikaole was a loving daughter to her father, only that she killed him. It does not care if Varanius was fighting for a noble cause, only that he killed people because of it. And it does not care that Amhonatep was allowed entry by the gods, only that he broke the laws of his people. Justice cares only about the act, not the circumstances that led to it.”

“But,” he added, letting go of the bearded axe and letting it dissipate, “justice, by itself, is flawed and incomplete. It must be tempered with understanding and reason. Equity, I think, is greater than justice.”

A great orb of light materialized in front of him, like a miniature sun. It spat out golden tongues of ember flames that shot outward and spread across the grasslands around them. Alastair walked toward the ball of fire and stopped just a few feet away from it. He felt no heat from the thing, only a comfortable warmth that seemed to fill his soul with contentment, but it certainly wasn’t anything like the relaxation he garnered from hellfire. A tiny, imperceptible voice called out to him, urging him to take the flame for himself and absorb its powers, the White Flames of Shazdrak.

Whatever it was, he wanted to stand in front of it forever, just basking in its warmth and light.

But he couldn’t. He had so much to do, so much to accomplish.

Alastair reached into the ball of flame, and everything turned white.

New Skill Unlocked! [Flames of Shazdrak]

When he finally came to, Alastair found himself standing in the same woods he’d been standing in before being tested by his creation. He blinked once and raised his left hand, his right hand holding onto the axe. With a simple mental command, Alastair summoned the White Flames of Shazdrak onto his palm. It appeared in a burst of silvery light that quickly engulfed the entirety of his hand. Controlling it was harder than he’d imagined. I need to train with this thing.

“Oh, you’re finally done with the test, yeah?” Damon’s voice echoed from behind him. Alastair whirled around and saw his friend walking up to him with a grin on his face. “You’ve been staring off into the distance for a good two minutes or so. I figured it was the same as that time the Black Dragon’s Spear yanked me out of my body and had me kill a Primal Goliath with my bare hands.”

Alastair closed his left hand and willed away the flames. He then handed out the axe, the Justice of the Divine Demon, to Damon. “Here, you’re the one who prefers melee. I’ll stick to my arbalest. The weapon should still work if you’re wielding it, even if I’m technically its master.”

Damon nodded, taking the axe in hand and eyeing its entirety. Alastair simply turned around and listened in on the distant chaos. The marauders were still running around like headless chickens, unaware of what they were supposed to be doing.

Did they not notice the birth of Alastair’s creation? It was rather bright, after all.

“So what’s the benefit of being the master of this weapon, huh?” Damon muttered. “The Black Dragon’s Spear gives me a skill called [Dragon’s Eye] that lets me perceive the world many times slower than it actually is. It’s particularly useful when combined with my other skills.”

Alastair breathed in and out, briefly filtering away the world, before opening his eyes and staring ahead. He then pulled his arbalest from his back and sighed. Their quest for justice was not finished. It has scarcely even begun. However, with the power of the Goddess of Law and Justice at his side, losing wasn’t an option, it was an impossibility.

“Damon… let’s go kill them all.”

“Agreed,” the Hunter answered grimly.

They walked out of the woods and were graced by the sight of a burning camp. A good number of the marauders lay dead on the ground, likely as a result of their panic, which was still ongoing.

It was utter chaos, tents aflame and men burning inside them. Dead-eyed slaves wandered about without purpose or direction, some walking into the woods and never returning. Horses galloped to and fro, trampling anyone in their way, even their own riders, who tried controlling them. Somehow, a few marauders were actively trying to kill each other with weapons. What they were fighting about, Alastair and Damon did not care to know. Several hundred of the elites were trying and failing to maintain order, but this little army of theirs had no discipline. What little cohesion they once had was held together by thin strings that had already been cut.

In essence, blowing up their supply tent was all it took to disintegrate their forces. And now, the whole camp was in tatters. It was like a wounded animal, slowly dying, unable to escape its end.

Still, they did not come all this way to watch them descend into madness and have them all kill themselves in the process. The camp was only a hundred feet or so away from them, and there were still plenty of marauders to kill and a rogue mage to purge. They were far from done.

“This shouldn’t be too hard, I think,” Damon muttered. Despite his words, his voice was dark and steely. “All we’ll be doing is killing a bunch of people that need to be killed.”

Damon disappeared from sight and reappeared over a headless corpse. Alastair resisted the urge to huff and chuckle. He sure works fast.

He took a single glance at his arbalest before setting it across his back. He wouldn’t be needing it for this battle.

Breathing in for a moment, Alastair summoned the White Flames in both of his hands and unleashed twin cones of fire that engulfed several hundreds of feet in a single moment, before reaching out even further. To his surprise, the White Flames did not burn a single blade of grass or set a single tent alight. Several slaves were also engulfed, but they were not burned. The marauders, however, were roasted to death by the unrelenting fires, cooked within their own armor, until all that was left of them were ashes and embers. In the span of ten seconds, Alastair had killed over three hundred of them.

But he was far from finished.

Walking forward, Alastair slowly spread his arms out. Twin cones of white flames followed the direction of his palms and slowly fanned out, roasting more and more of the marauders, leaving—quite literally—everything else intact. In the distance, Alastair caught the vague silhouette of Damon as he cut down scores and scores of the barbarians, ending their lives in mere moments. Some of them didn’t even realize they were dead until their heads fell from their shoulders or their torsos were suddenly a part of the ground.

Left and right, they enacted their brand of justice, continuing on in a single path forward.

And, somehow, the void in Alastair’s heart only seemed to grow.

But he ignored the emptiness and steeled himself as hundreds and hundreds died around him, burned to death within their own armor, their faces melted off or turned to ashes. He cared little for them. They sealed their fate the moment they chose to engage in such wanton malevolence. This was justice. This was the price. Equity was not needed here—justice was.

Now, where’s that mage?

Chapter 21

+30,500 Pollentias!

A berserk marauder rushed toward Alastair. The man’s crazed eyes had rolled back as spittle and blood streamed from his mouth. He was bleeding from all over, and his left arm was dangling down from a thin thread of flesh. With his right hand, he carried a massive cleaver that looked like it had seen better days. He screamed and raged and charged forward.

Alastair took one look at him and sighed. Of all the hair-brained ideas he could have come up with…

The marauder burned to ashes, before he could even get close enough for any meaningful sort of attack.

+100 Pollentias!

Screams filled Alastair’s ears, men and women alike howling in pain and panic as he stalked forward, unceasing in his use of the White Flames.

Briefly, Alastair noted a few marauders who appeared to be unharmed even after the White Flames of Shazdrak washed over them, burning only the ones next to them or those behind them. Were they innocent? Were they not evil? He supposed it hardly mattered as Damon killed them all anyway. They might not have been a part of the cruelty, the madness, and the debauchery of their neighbors, but they let it happen and that made them just as repulsive as the rest of them.

Did they deserve to die? Alastair wasn’t sure if he knew the answer to that question. But they were dead all the same. Any answer was pointless. They were already dead.

He moved forward, stalking the battlefield, while Damon darted in and out of perception, killing people faster than one could blink. Alastair was different. His flames did not kill the wicked quite as fast as Damon could slice their heads off. He made them suffer first, even if that suffering only lasted a few seconds at most.

Five marauders, all of them elites, rushed toward him with their weapons drawn, roaring as they went.

Alastair had to admit, they were an imposing sight if nothing else. Their thick black armor made them appear almost like monsters in the night, bearing cruel, jagged weapons that inflicted both fear and pain upon its victims. They weren’t like the others. These ones weren’t unwashed barbarians, who barely knew how to wield their weapons. No, they were trained and experienced warriors, whose knowledge of war and battle elevated them above their peers. They carried their own equipment, cooked their own food, and maintained their own weapons. Unlike the others, these warriors might actually be worth his time. Still, they were a part of all this, and that meant they deserved death, just like all the others.

But, though they bore the visages of monsters, they were far from the real ones. After facing down a Vainur and actually winning, these people were… a hindrance at best.

With a lazy eye, Alastair raised and pointed his hands at the five elites and unleashed the White Flames of Shazdrak at them. Four were reduced to ashes in an instant, their armor and weapons falling onto the ground as their flesh and bones turned to dust. One remained, however, completely unharmed by the fires of the Goddess of Justice and Law.

Alastair absently tilted his head to the side, blinking once before grinning. He studied the man for a moment. He was tall—that much was clear. He was probably even taller than Damon. He was also big—burly and muscular. However, all his muscles did not seem to impede his movements in the slightest. In fact, the man moved faster than most people could ever hope to move in their whole lives.

Alastair felt moderately impressed. Here was a kitten, roaring and growling at the foot of an elephant. Only this kitten actually had a chance at winning, a tiny and near-inconceivable chance, but a chance nonetheless. And that made it fun. Alright, I’ll kill you on your own terms.

He took out his arbalest just as the elite marauder roared and leapt upward, raising a great black axe over his head and bringing it down for a powerful cleave. Alastair stepped aside and looked on as the weapon crashed into the ground, burying itself deeply and to such a degree as for the axe head to completely disappear. The elite warrior followed up his attack by lashing out with his left hand, having let go of his grip over his weapon.

Alastair saw the coming attack and found two options: A, pivot to the right and shove knife into the elite’s exposed face, thus ending this little duel in an instant. B, leap back and have some more fun at the man’s expense.

Before he could act out any of his options, the elite’s head fell off his shoulders.

Damon appeared beside him. “As much as I like to play around, we still have a rogue mage to go after, and every second we’re wasting killing his little soldiers is time he could use to escape justice. We can’t let that happen.”

Damon was right. They had to finish this quickly. Still, the prospect of a fair fight seemed interesting enough. He might have to try it some other time, preferably when they weren’t in any hurry.

And so he nodded. “Have you seen the mage?”

Damon sneered. “Yes, he’s gathering the slaves to him. If I have to take a guess, it’s probably for some kind of ritual that’ll save his sorry ass from us. We can’t let that happen.”

A curious thought struck Alastair, something he hadn’t really considered before. “What does he look like?”

Damon paused and frowned. “Right, he’s a tall, thin-looking fellow in black robes with skull-shaped pauldrons on both of his shoulders. He’s also bald and ugly and that’s probably what led to this mess.”

“Eh.” Alastair shrugged. “He probably could have been a little more original with the dark lord get-up. Skulls and black clothes get kind of repetitive after the first five, all of them wearing the same outfit and having the same motif. This guy doesn’t even have a skeletal dragon!”

“Yeah, I know—it’s honestly kind of disappointing.”

“Does he have a skeletal horse, at least?”

“No, but he does have a normal horse that happens to have black fur.”

“Eh, what a loser.”

“I know, right?”

“And you know what else?”

“What?”

“He doesn’t even have a staff with a big skull at the tip!”

“Damn, why does this guy even try?”

“I know, right!”

They cut a swathe of bodies through the remains of the marauder army until they found the mage at the far end of the ruined camp. By now, the vast majority of his forces had either fled to the woods, died in the initial explosion, died in the chaos that followed, or died by either Alastair’s or Damon’s hand. The only ones surrounding the mage were the elites. There were nearly a hundred of them, fully armed and armored, utterly at ease, showing great discipline even in such a turbulent time. Alastair had to hand it to them. They really were great warriors through and through.

Which was precisely why it confused him to no end that they were working for the scum that hid behind them, behind a wall of slaves. True warriors would never have stooped so low as to bow down to someone who hides behind innocent people.

Alastair reached down, grabbed a pebble, and hurled it right at the mage’s head. None of the elites reacted fast enough to deflect it. The mage screamed in pain not a moment later, turning over his shoulder. The man’s eyes widened with petulant rage when he saw the two Fated.

Alastair could not help but find the mage’s eyes to be somewhat familiar—as though he’d seen those very same emerald eyes on someone else’s face somewhere before all this.

But, he supposed, it hardly mattered.

Damon waved at him and grinned.

Alastair tossed another pebble, but the mage deftly avoided it. The bald man pointed an accusing finger at them.

“You damn peasants know nothing of what you meddle in!” he roared. “You destroyed my army! You’ve ruined my plans! You’ve taken away my victory! For that, I shall kill—”

Alastair tossed another pebble at the mage. One of the elites attempted to catch it, but it flew right between his fingers. “You talk too much, man.”

It crashed right into the mage’s forehead, silencing and sending him into the ground as he sputtered out a litany of curses, all the while clutching at the bleeding wound on his head. He then pointed at Alastair and Damon again. “Kill them!”

The elites raised their weapons and began marching toward them.

Damon scratched his head. “This is… easier than I thought. I figured the mage would start flinging—”

A gigantic ball of flame screeched and surged through the air toward them. It crashed into them, engulfing both in a surging, blistering blaze that further exploded outward, setting everything alight. Even the elites had to stop their march as they averted their gaze from the surge of light that followed the explosion. The surrounding grasses, shrubs, and bushes were all burnt to a crisp within moments, before they were blown to ashes and sent drifting through the air.

“—fireballs. Oh, hey!” When the flames receded, Alastair and Damon were still there, just standing, apparently unburned and otherwise unharmed. “What do you know? He actually did fling a fireball at us.”

Alastair glanced down at his doublet, Blaze and Bile, and grinned. This artifact essentially made him fireproof, combined with his skill, Hellfire. At this point, the only sort of flame that could actually hurt him was, ironically, hellfire. This mage had likely thrown some kind of fire spell and, unsurprisingly, it did not work.

In Damon’s case, his armor likely absorbed and dispersed all the heat, before it could ever hurt him. After all, his Volkite Steel Mail had survived the Vainur. It probably wouldn’t even register any damage from some paltry fire spell.

Though, admittedly, if they hadn’t been wearing their equipment, that spell might have actually caused some damage.

Alastair then bent down, picked up another pebble, and tossed it right toward the mage. The man’s head snapped back as the tiny stone hit him right on the forehead—again. “Damn it! Damn you!”

The mage raised his right hand and uttered arcane words in quick succession. Damon could have killed the man right then and there, but Alastair figured his friend must have been rather curious about all this. After all, this was the first time they’d seen magic at work. And, also, it’d be stupid to just charge toward a mage, who’d already had a few minutes to prepare.

“Zaraztakuul!” the mage roared. Alastair briefly noted the elites’ movement. They had fanned out and were in the midst of encircling both him and Damon. But they did not march forward or attack. The elites simply stood there, at the ready. Alastair didn’t think much of them. At the end of the day, they were all mundane humans and the White Flames would probably kill just about all of them, save for the rare few who were apparently guiltless.

“Fascinating,” Damon muttered, watching the mage.

Alastair blinked once, before turning his attention back to their original target.

What came next was a bright blue flash, followed by incandescent runes and arcane symbols, fluttering in the air, before a wall of ice spikes, each one the size of an arm, materialized right above the mage. Alastair had a pretty good idea what the mage was planning to do with it. He turned to Damon and nodded.

Standing around, just because they had never seen magic before wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do, so it was time for action.

Damon simply vanished from view, startling everyone around them. Alastair saw numerous eyes widening in shock. They must have thought it was some kind of teleportation ability, but he knew better.

“Die!” the mage screamed and unleashed the sharpened icicles at Alastair.

The air screeched and howled as a blast of frigid winds accompanied the ice crystals. Alastair’s eyes widened as he leapt to the side. He might have had regeneration, but getting pierced all over his body would still likely end in his death. He rolled over his shoulder and jumped up as the rain of spears descended upon him, all of them crashing into the ground and shattering upon impact, creating an explosion of crystalline debris that briefly clouded everything.

“Gah!” Alastair cried out as the explosion sent him flying away, his body riddled with sharp ice stakes that dug straight through his skin—arms and legs, and pretty much every other area in his body not covered by Blaze and Bile, save for his face.

He soared through the air briefly, landing on his back on a pile of grass. His vision blurred, but his regeneration kicked in and cleared his eyes.

Alastair pushed himself up, groaning at the rapidly disappearing pangs of pain all over his body. The icicles that had pierced his limbs weren’t melting, but the cold that came from them worked in his favor, numbing the pain that would have otherwise been present.

In the distance, the mage’s little ice attack had created a misty cloud of sorts, like a smoke bomb. It obscured everyone and everything.

Time for Damon to get to work.

As the words passed his mind, the screams began. Heads and limbs flew up left and right, men becoming corpses.

Groaning, Alastair set to work on removing all the icicles still pierced into his body. He started first with his arms, grabbing and pulling each one. As he did so, he bit down on a piece of leather he summoned from his inventory. Luckily, his regeneration kept his wounds from bleeding profusely as they rapidly closed each time he plucked out an icicle and tossed it to the side, grunting.

By the time he pulled out the final ice javelin from his shins, Damon had already sliced off the head of the last of the elites. And, by then, the dust cloud of ice and debris had cleared, revealing the mage amongst a wall of dead-eyed slaves.

Alastair pulled himself up onto his feet and walked forward. He kept his eyes on the mage and, more specifically, on the runic array on the ground below him.

It was a strange thing to look at, a circular symbol of crisscrossing lines, tiny intersecting shapes, and arcane patterns that made little sense when he tried to read them. The air thrummed and pulsed with power. And Alastair quickly noted that each and every one of the slaves around the mage, which he’d noted was around fifty or so, were standing on a glowing circle.

He’s performing a ritual, Alastair realized. He hasn’t moved from his starting position, which means he’s been stalling for time, ever since this whole thing started. That hardly helped, however, because Alastair knew nothing of magic. This ritual might have been something that could kill him and he’d never know. But they were too close, too drawn in, to falter now. They had to see this through, even if they were going to be a little reckless.

Damon appeared beside him, appearing fresh and utterly at ease. “How do we do this? He’s doing some magical wacky thingy and I’m kind of scared about going into that. Are you seeing all those freaky lights? What if I step in there and get turned into a donkey or a frog?”

“I don’t think that’s how magic works,” Alastair answered, staring ahead. “Then again, if you get turned into a donkey, things wouldn’t change all that much. You’d still be the pack mule.”

“Ha ha, whatever,” Damon said. “Let’s focus on not turning into frogs for now.”

Alastair crouched down and, as he’d done before, picked up a pebble and hurled it toward the mage. This time, however, the pebble stopped before it could soar over the slaves, looking as though it had collided with an invisible wall that’d sent it hurling back toward Alastair, who caught it with the same hand he used to throw it.

“Well, charging in probably wouldn’t work, nor will it work if I use my arbalest to shoot him. He’s got some kind of shield thing going on.”

Damon hummed in thought. He summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear into his hands and charged forward, which meant he literally disappeared from Alastair’s sight. A loud clanging sound echoed, before Damon reappeared on the exact same spot he’d been standing on less than half a second ago. “Right, that didn’t work. Not even this noisy, annoying, sarcastic bastard can cut through the shield. I also tried the axe, and it didn’t work.”

Alastair nodded, eyeing the mage.

The man, whose name Alastair now remembered was Memnon, had his eyes closed, while his lips moved, no doubt muttering his magical incantations or whatever mages did whenever they wanted to do anything with their magic.

“Hey, genius, do you have any ideas?” Damon asked.

Alastair was silent for a moment.

“Have you tried bashing your head against it?” Alastair said finally.

“No.”

“Hey, it might just work. The gods know how thick your skull is.”

“You try and bash your head against it, genius… also, my skull’s not that thick—it’s just average.”

Alastair turned his attention back to the mage. Whatever the mage was doing, it was probably working. While Alastair was not gifted in the magical arts, he was Fated, and that meant he could feel the energies that lit up the air and caused the very ground to shudder ever so slightly. The colors and shapes of everything around the mage were warping and distorting. At the center of it all was Memnon, still uttering the words to whatever profane ritual he was performing.

He needs the slaves as a means of fuel, Alastair thought. They’re sacrifices for his magic. But why use only fifty of them when he had hundreds? Ah, yes, we came along and ruined everything, which means the potency of this spell is probably a lot lesser than what it should probably be.

Then again, if that’s the case, why didn’t he just start the spell sooner? Before Damon and I came along, Memnon must have had close to a thousand of these poor, dead-eyed bastards to sacrifice…

“Whatever,” Alastair muttered as he held out both his hands and unleashed the White Flames of Shazdrak, engulfing the landscape in a massive plume of fire.

Chapter 22

+5,300 Pollentias!

The flames receded and sputtered out after a full minute of continuous streaming.

But Alastair did not expect to see a burning forest or a smoldering patch of land, filled with ashes and embers and still glowing bits of trees that’d turned to coal in the onslaught.

No, these were the White Flames of Shazdrak. They could hurt and burn only the guilty. Everything else was bathed in fire, but only warmed to a comfortable degree. The Goddess of Law and Justice, after all, would never hurt the innocent and the undeserving, only the guilty—only the profane, the malevolent, the murderers, and the dark-hearted. Her flames burned only them and them alone.

When the flames receded, Alastair was not greeted by the sight of a burning forest. In fact, he wasn’t greeted by anything at all.

The mage wasn’t there anymore. The spot he’d stood on was now just a blackened stain upon the forest floor, surrounded by burnt grasses. Damon was off to the side, standing in front of a kneeling elite marauder, whose head just rolled off his shoulders and fell to the ground. The blade of the Black Dragon’s Spear was slick with blood, but Damon didn’t seem to notice that. If he did, then he didn’t care.

Damon turned and nodded, before flicking the spear and laying it on his back almost lazily.

The dead-eyed slaves lingered in place, still standing where they’d been standing a minute ago. Only, the magic circle was gone, leaving only a smoking remnant in place, a scar upon the earth that hissed and sizzled and shined an ominous orange.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed. Where’d he go?

Damon reappeared beside him, looking absolutely furious. Alastair knew his friend well enough to know where his fury might take him if Alastair did not temper his rage with a little bit of brain cells and common sense.

“The baldy tucked his tail and ran,” Damon growled. “I can’t smell him. He must have used that spell of his to get away from us—the coward!”

Alastair nodded and eyed the distant slaves. He pointed at them. “What should we do about them? There’re so many of them, just walking around the camp aimlessly.”

At that, Damon’s wrath visibly lessened. His eyes then took on a look of concern as he immediately went toward the slaves. Alastair rushed after him. He didn’t know what his friend was trying to do, but it probably wouldn’t work. All his wounds had already stitched themselves close, a miracle of his Hydra’s Kiss perk, which meant running didn’t hurt as much as it would have before.

He reached Damon just in time to see him vigorously shaking one of the slaves as though the man was terribly hungover. To his credit, the slave’s head appeared to stay in place, despite all the wobbling it sustained. Then again, given Damon’s strength, it might just fly off within the next second or so. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

Alastair walked over and bonked Damon on the head. His friend turned and gave him a sheepish look. “If it didn’t work the first time, what makes you think it’s going to work the next ten times?”

“Well,” Damon said. He wrung the man’s head one more time, then gave up. Somehow, the dead-eyed slave stayed upright through all of that and remained so afterward. It was honestly kind of amazing. “I figured the mage must have put them under some kind of spell, yeah? I mean, look at them. Don’t they seem bewitched to you? I’ll bet that baldy has done something to mess with their minds.”

Alastair peered closer, before shaking his head. This was way beyond them or their capabilities. “I don’t know what’s happened to them, but I doubt shaking them is going to do anything to help. We can try gathering them and bringing them with us. Maybe the mages at the academies can get rid of whatever spell they’re under… if they’re under a spell at all.”

“We could try bringing them to that elf,” Damon suggested.

Alastair’s eyes widened. He hadn’t exactly considered that yet. Elves were closely tied to the magic of nature and the energies of the world. And the best part was that there was a whole group of them close by. In contrast, they’d have to journey all the way to the capital city just to get these people into a Magical Academy to be healed and, even then, the mages’ aid wouldn’t be a certainty.

Alastair smiled at his friend. “That’s a great idea.” Damon had very few of those, but he did have his moments.

“You think so?”

“I do, but…” Alastair frowned. “Now, the only problem we have would be actually getting to the Forest of Zork. It’s not like you can just carry off a thousand people… some of them have probably already wandered off into the wilderness—yup, that guy you just throttled has already walked off.”

Damon turned and huffed. He then looked toward the other slaves and frowned. There must have been more than a thousand of them and those were just the ones they could see. “Oh, right… I can see why this might be a problem. If we can put them all on some kind of platform and tie them together so they don’t fall off, I might just be able to carry a good number of them on my shoulders… it’ll be very heavy, but I think I can do that with a few trips.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Alastair said with a deadpan tone. He then turned to the nearest slave, who happened to be a woman whose scarred and wounded face appeared emotionless. He shuddered at the sight of her. She might have been a mother, a sister, a wife… she could have been anyone, before the marauders got to her and destroyed her life. And here was the shell of the woman she once was—not even a shadow of her former self, but a hollow shade that was vaguely in the same shape of her.

His heart ached and burned with rage.

He had to find a way to save all these people.

They were heroes, after all.

“You,” Alastair said, pointing at the woman. Doing so made his chest suddenly feel tighter. The woman nodded and walked up to him, eyes downcast, like a well-trained dog. Looking at her now, it seemed Damon might have actually been onto something. The air around her seemed to hint at unseen energies, unnatural things that lingered in her mind. And, when Alastair peered ever closer, he saw that her eyes weren’t quite as dead as he thought they were. No, her eyes were a prison.

She was still in there, locked away, raging against the bars in her mind.

Huh, that woman in Ayran must have had immense force of will to break out of her personal prison. Come to think of it, the boy mentioned something about some kind of ritual that affected everyone in the village.

“Raise your hand and put it on your head,” he commanded the woman. Unsurprisingly, she followed his orders. The thought of such a spell made him shudder. No wonder the gods hated the mages when they first popped out of the shadows. This was the kind of power that shouldn’t exist. This was beyond cruel. It was monstrous.

Alastair turned to Damon. “You’re right. They’re under some kind of mind control spell that forces them to obey all orders. But… we could use this to our advantage.”

Damon caught on immediately. And he approved, nodding as he eyed the slaves still moving about in the distance. They were sheep without their shepherd. “You mean to command all of them to walk right into the Forest of Zork, right?”

Alastair nodded. But then he groaned and grumbled. They were playing around with a lot of what ifs and he hated it. But he hated the possibility that they couldn’t help these people more. But he also wasn’t sure of anything. Magic wasn’t exactly a topic that smallfolk knew a lot about. “Yes, but… well, there are several problems with this plan. The first and most obvious problem is that we’re assuming the elves are actually willing to help these people. And, even if they want to help, we’re also assuming that they actually can do that.”

Damon sighed, but then shrugged in resignation, while shaking his head. “That’s the whole point of trying, isn’t it? Neither of us know anything about magic. We have to try something, and those people in the Forest of Zork are the closest thing we have at the moment.”

“I know,” Alastair huffed, before looking over the ruins of the former war camp. Huh, it only took two people to utterly break an army of two thousand. Just what the heck was that mage planning to do if he was so easily defeated? Whatever the case, Alastair had a feeling they would know soon enough. A little voice in his head told him they’d be meeting that bald bastard again in the future. “Right, we should start gathering them in one place… maybe even have them do a headcount or something. I’m sure most of these people aren’t from Ayran.”

Damon nodded. His eyes turned grim and wrathful. “Right, you go ahead and get started with that. I’ll go and find the stragglers. There are bound to be more than a few hundred of those barbarians, still hiding in the woods.”

“Very well,” Alastair said, though he would have preferred if Damon did not focus on those cretins at the moment. Their army was already broken and scattered. The marauders wouldn’t be a threat to anyone for a long time. The fact that their only leader essentially abandoned them did not tip the scales in their favor. Still, in a few months, they might become a band of bandits and thieves. Far lesser than they once were, but still enough of a headache to whatever people they’d hassle and bother. So if Damon wanted to hunt them down to the last man, Alastair saw no need to stop him.

“Make sure they’re all dead,” Alastair finished.

And Damon disappeared from sight, leaving behind a trail of trampled grasses and deep gashes on the ground.

Alastair turned to the woman, and then eyed the others behind her. He frowned and sighed. He really did not want to be taking advantage of these people’s apparent enthrallment, but said enthrallment was the only way he might be able to help them out of said enthrallment. Yeah, it was a lot of mental acrobatics, but Alastair truly saw no other way to aid them, especially since he knew nothing of healing magic or any magic for that matter.

Knowing that, Alastair swallowed thickly. He addressed all the slaves closest to him. “All of you follow me!”

The slaves stirred into a sort of hazy consciousness as they all walked toward him. Shaking his head, Alastair turned away and went toward the other nearby slaves, several of whom stood in place as though they were trees, unthinking and uncaring for their own lives or safety. They followed him too. They all did. Though it took almost a whole hour of constant walking, and Damon had rejoined him after forty or so minutes, Alastair was successful in gathering all the slaves, commanding them to follow him, while they marched around as though they were moving corpses—utterly quiet and utterly subservient.

Alastair’s heart burned with rage when he saw that more than a few of these slaves were children. There was no telling what horrors those kids faced in their hands, what inhuman things they must have witnessed. That mage will pay… I swear to all the gods that mage is going to pay for everything he’s done!

His eyes turned to the sky. And he hoped that the bastard would hear his words. “I will find you! I swear I will find you and gut you! I won’t rest until you’re brought to justice!”

Perk, [Seeker of Justice], has activated!

You may now see your target on your mini-map!

System is updating… Map feature has been unlocked!

You may now view your map!

Alastair blinked. What?

Right! He almost slapped himself. I unlocked a new perk…  I must have forgotten to view it.

There was a map feature this whole time?

No, the prompt said that he unlocked the map feature, which meant it was locked for a time, until his new perk apparently unlocked it for him… weird. It would have been incredibly useful the last few days. Alastair would never admit it out loud, but he knew his navigation skills were… subpar at best and nonexistent at worst. This new feature would solve that problem in an instant!

For a moment, his mind wandered far away from the mage. Map!

In an instant, a massive rectangular map was revealed to him, detailing the surrounding woods, the slaves, Damon, and even his own position. And it was even updating in real time, which meant the map, unlike every other map he had, would never grow so old as to be out of date. Looking at his location and the very edge of the map, Alastair figured it must be showing him everything within a five mile radius. However, that edge was also moving as he moved. So, the map shows me… almost everything around me, even tracking my movements and likely updating itself each time I discover something. This is amazing!

He turned to Damon, whose solemn silence seemed rather unnatural. The man hadn’t said anything for the last five minutes, and Alastair was starting to worry. Well, they now had something to talk about, and it was rather important. Before he could speak, however, the system gave him another prompt, one that made him pause.

Would you like to link your map feature with Fated: Damon’s Map? Yes/No

That question did not need to be asked. Of course I’m going to share it with Damon. Are you dumb?

Just checking…

Damon stopped in his tracks and visibly stiffened, blinking profusely before turning to Alastair with a confused look on his face. “There’s a map feature?”

Alastair nodded. “Yeah, I got it just now, because of my new perk.”

“This’ll make things a lot easier,” Damon noted with a smile. “I mean, you’re usually the one getting the both of us lost and wandering into places we should not be wandering into. Hells, we wouldn’t be here if you didn’t get us lost.”

“Tsk, we wouldn’t have been able to save all these people if I didn’t get us lost…. Besides, it’s not my fault most of the maps we bought are horrendously out of date or just plain inaccurate, probably even both.”

“Yeah, but you gotta admit you’re not good with directions and I just follow you around, because I’m kind of the same.”

“Cry me a river, but at least we now have an actual map that isn’t out of date.”

Damon could only nod. At the very least, the chances of them getting lost now would be greatly lessened. They also knew now that their target, the mage, was somewhere north of them, but the map did not show his exact location.

It hardly mattered. At the very least, they knew what the man looked like and his general direction. And that was more than enough.

They continued onward to the Forest of Zork using the new Map Feature. With it, they found a straight and narrow path that led them directly into the outskirts of the ancient, living woodland. The forest appeared on their map as a gigantic zone of red, an area of extreme danger as marked by the system. It explained the goosebumps that immediately appeared on their skin and why the hairs at the back of their necks were suddenly erect. The place was dangerous, but they already knew that much from the beginning.

Tinged green on their map was the camp they’d left behind, symbolized by a hut-shaped icon. Nikalos was there. The boy was highlighted with a tiny human-shaped blotch that couldn’t have been anyone else but him.

They walked through the tree line. The dead-eyed slaves followed them without question or protest. They simply marched on, despite everything that happened. But, each and every time Alastair looked into their eyes, he saw the still-burning embers of their souls, trapped within a gilded cage of magic and sorcery, tortured and humiliated as though they were nothing more than animals. The rage that burned in them was akin to war drums.

It took them almost an hour of walking to reach the camp. Damon wanted to just run there, but Alastair quickly reminded him that the slaves were barely holding on as they were. If they were pushed any further, they might just fall over and die from exhaustion. They weren’t even sure if the enthralled villagers were given food and water. Most of them were probably starving and dehydrated. The ones closest to him had dry and cracked lips.

When they arrived, the elves and dwarves were waiting for them. Amora stood tall at the front of them, wearing her ominous mask that seemed to glow, even in daylight. Her silver hair swayed in the breeze. Her stance made her seem at ease, but Alastair knew it’d only take her a moment to nock, draw, and release an arrow from her divine bow, during which time her fellows would also attack. But, they weren’t attacking him now and that was good. That meant she wanted to talk.

Alastair’s eyes narrowed regardless. They couldn’t be seen on his map, and it was glaringly obvious that Damon also noticed the same thing. Hmm, I’m really gonna have to check the limitations of this thing. But I can also just not rely on it too much.

“Welcome, Alastair and Damon,” Amora said in a distorted voice. Strangely, Nikalos was still asleep in the tent. The tall elf woman tilted her head to the side, her eyes scanning the crowd of slaves at Alastair’s back. “You have returned. Have you vanquished Memnon from this world?”

Alastair shook his head and sighed. “No, the mage fled from us when we cornered him. He performed some kind of spell and disappeared. We don’t know where he is at the moment, but Damon and I will do everything in our power to find him and gut him, like the snake that he is.”

Amora nodded at the both of them. “Very well. For as long as he is kept far away from these woods, I am content.”

She then gestured at the crowd of the dead-eyed slaves behind them. “Why have you brought these humans into the forest? I have already told you before—these woods have a particular hatred for your kind… but here you have brought a thousand of them.”

Before Alastair could speak, however, Damon strode forward, his head hanging low. “We need your help.”

He then pointed at the people. “The Defiler, Memnon, has enthralled their minds with his vile magic. We… we don’t know how to help them.”

Alastair nodded and stepped forward. “We were hoping you might be able to help us free them.”

Amora tilted her head inquisitively, before speaking. “It will be difficult, but it can be done. Like yourself, the Fae-Folk detest the very idea of mind control magic. My fellows and I will do our best to free them, but….”

She gestured at the slaves. “Most of them are far beyond our skill to help. Even if their minds are unshackled, their bodies will remain broken and mutilated.”

Alastair nodded. “I understand, but the others still deserve a chance to live the rest of their lives free from that mage’s control. Please, help them.”

Sighing, Amora walked up to the slaves and nodded. “You have my word, Alastair and Damon. I will help these people as much as I can. This is my repayment for the favor you’ve earned from the Folk of Zork by ridding the southlands of that filth. Even now, the woods can no longer feel his taint.”

Damon smiled. “You’re very welcome, my lady.”

Chapter 23

They found an actual road easily enough. And not a nameless and forgotten forest path that led absolutely nowhere, but an actual road network that, according to their maps, would lead them right to Maredon—provided they actually followed it and didn’t take any detours to any of the random villages and hamlets that occasionally popped up in their maps.

In the end, Nikalos had chosen to stay with the rest of the enthralled villagers. His parents might have been among them, but it was hard to identify who was who, given their mutilations and apparent starvation. But he and the rest of the villagers would be safe under Amora’s care for a time. The elf mentioned something about the forest being happy about Memnon’s retreat and so its horrors wouldn’t be unleashed for a long time, which meant the villagers would be allowed to stay within the woods for a while, until their minds were fully healed.

Alastair had no clue as to how Amora was going to do any of that, but it was probably going to be something magical.

With that business settled, he and Damon decided to return to Maredon to rest and… finally face the repercussions of their actions in Mount Morthog. It wouldn’t be pretty, but after all they’d been through, it also wouldn’t be anything more than a proverbial slap on the wrist.

After that, Alastair would meet with Cthonia and talk to her about whatever she wanted to talk to him about. The princess had mentioned something about wishing to speak with him about something important when they first came to Maredon. So, it was probably quite important. Once that was settled, they’d simply be continuing on their journey to find that bastard mage, gut him, skin him, and then burn the rest of his body and throw the remains into the sea.

“You know….” Damon began. “Maybe this whole adventuring business just isn’t for us.”

“What makes you say that?” Alastair asked.

The road in front of them was long and narrow. They were farther away from Maredon now than they were when they had started walking from Larisa. Of course, Alastair did the numbers in his head based on their travel time when Cthonia and her servant accompanied them. Without anyone slowing them down now, they’d probably get there in far less time.

“I don’t know… it’s just….” Damon seemingly trailed off for a moment, before he continued. “It just feels weird having to report to someone higher than us. It doesn’t feel like we’re actual adventurers, you know? It just feels like we’re glorified henchmen. Wouldn’t it be better to not have to report to the Guild?”

Alastair considered Damon’s words.

The Guild, in essence, was the central authority that governed any and all official adventuring businesses. They handled the reward system, doling out the payment of adventurers, and the reception of quests, which they received from a variety of clients from all across the Middle Kingdom. They weren’t exactly needed per se, but their presence aided in the organization of an otherwise tumultuous profession. Without the Guild, adventurers would struggle to find Quests, since there was no central authority that potential clients could simply go to. The Guild, for all intents and purposes, was necessary. It existed for the betterment of adventurers.

The Guild received quests from clients and simply facilitated and managed the handling of said quest by assigning it to adventurers far and wide. This was further aided by the Ranking System, which ensured that amateurs weren’t sent on suicide missions and that savants wouldn’t be hogging all the easy quests.

It was really supposed to be a simple system—one that benefited everyone in it.

Unfortunately, all of that flew out the window when the Guild started acting like some kind of company, treating adventurers as though they were employees and not clients. Adventurers were not supposed to be tied to any entity. They were freelancers at heart. Things became even worse when the Guild started dabbling in politics. It all went downhill after that, leading to the current state of the Guild and the adventurers under its purview—a single gigantic mess that barely functioned properly. Poorer clients were left in the dust, while richer clients received all the attention. Lower ranked adventurers would be lucky to ever get an actual quest in their first year or so.

And then there was the whole mess that was the Adventurer Clans and the Patron system.

“You might be right,” Alastair said simply. Damon was right, but he was right for the wrong reasons. Adventurers were ultimately glorified henchmen, in much the same way a Hunter of Beasts might have been a glorified pest control expert. “But, as of now, we should probably avoid antagonizing the Guild. We need them if we’re going to continue with this life of adventure.”

Damon sighed, but nodded nonetheless. “Well, it’s something to think about in the future. I’d honestly prefer to just wander around and stumble into things, instead of having to pull Quests from some board, you know?”

“I know what you mean, Damon,” Alastair said. “And we’ll do just that when the time comes, but we don’t exactly have a lot of money at the moment and I think we’ll need plenty if we want to be free from the Guild’s influence. Sure, I can craft items to sell, but at my current Rank, I’m not sure anyone would think they’re all that reliable.”

Alastair’s reason for wanting to be rid of the Guild was simple, really. He didn’t want to be a part of any entity that actively included itself in the politics of the Middle Kingdom, and the Guild was definitely one of the most influential entities around, rivaling the Merchant Clan in its ability to sway the king’s court.

Someday, he hoped to be free of all that, to live his life far from the shadow of kings and nobles, but another part of him also wished to upend the whole system. After all, his promise to Varanius still stood—a promise to both the dead and the living. He would change it all someday and he would win. But that wouldn’t be happening for a long time. The simple truth of the matter was that he wasn’t strong enough to do anything on that scale—not yet, anyway.

He needed all the power he could get. Oh, that reminds me.

“Damon,” Alastair said, stopping in his tracks. “Let’s not go to Maredon just yet. There’s something we should pick up before we continue.”

Damon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing in protest. “Alright, where are we going?”

“Ever heard of Castle Orellius?” The name was vaguely familiar, but Alastair couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard about it before. At the very least, he was certain it was here in the Middle Kingdom—somewhere. It had to be.

Damon seemed to consider his query before shrugging. “It sounds kind of familiar, but I can’t remember where I’d heard of it. Why? Are we going there?”

Alastair nodded. “There’s something in their family catacombs that we can take, a relic from an ancient Fated, like me, a Crafter. There’s something there that will aid us.”

“Which is?”

At that, Alastair had no real answer. So, he just shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s definitely something powerful and ancient. I want it.”

“Where’d you even learn about this?”

“The test given to me by the Justice of the Divine Demon had me speak to three souls,” Alastair said. His thoughts lingered on Varanius and his life, his founding of necromancy and his subsequent rebellion to put the people in power, in place of the nobles and the aristocrats. Varanius was a man who tried and failed to do what was right. He was a hero to the people he helped, but a monster to his enemies—a monster to himself. “One of them was from the Middle Kingdom and told me about an artifact from an ancestor of his, a powerful Crafter.”

Damon nodded. “Huh, your test was definitely better than mine. Anyway, we could head to a nearby town and look for a cartographer. I’m sure they have something. Our map features aren’t exactly keen on showing us the whole of the Middle Kingdom… right?”

Alastair blinked and paused at that. He then brought up his map. It appeared in front of him the same way it always did, showing him a rough bird’s eye view of the surrounding area, including his current location and Damon’s—five miles of it. Can I get a view of the whole country?

Almost as though in response, the map zoomed out to far beyond just his current location, beyond even his immediate surroundings. It then showed him a very sparse map of the Middle Kingdom, highlighting only the major cities or otherwise famous locations already known to most people. It showed him the northernmost city of Hyperborea, where a race of frozen giants was said to dwell among the strange folk who live there, far from the authority or the dominion of the king. To the southernmost point of the Middle Kingdom was the dark city of Ardath Durak, home to the dreaded Plague-Lords and Pestilent-Priests, who worshiped the God of Sickness and Disease, Nug.

More importantly, the massive map showed him the general location of Castle Orellius. It wasn’t far from where they were, but it definitely wouldn’t be a short trip—not by a longshot.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news: the good news is that it’s not nearly as far as I thought it would be,” Alastair said. “It’s probably a good one hundred miles or so to the east of our current position, a good bit further north of Larisa. The bad news is that the map only gave me an approximation as to where it might be, so we’ll have to actually look for it if we’re going to find it.”

Alastair didn’t mention the fact that the map also showed him the mage’s general location, which appeared to be centered on the capital. At least he wasn’t anywhere near Maredon, where Cthonia was.

Damon nodded. “Can we stop by Maredon first, though? I’d really like to get a proper bath before we head into the woods again. Plus, it’s been a while since I ate anything that wasn’t roasted salmon.”

Alastair blinked once, before leaning down and taking a sniff of his own armpit. The smell made him freeze. His mind went blank. Had he smelled like that this entire time? What did Amora or the other Fae-Folk think of him? Hells, if he smelled like this, only the gods knew what Damon must smell like at the moment. He might just give the Primal Goliath a run for its damn money.

“Alright,” he finally said after a moment or two. “You may have a point about taking a bath.”

Damon nodded sagely. There was a hint of a green tinge on his face as though he was nauseous and close to vomiting. Alastair hadn’t caught that earlier. “Do you know the greatest curse of having such a powerful sense of smell, Alastair?”

Alastair raised an eyebrow and shook his head. There were many possible answers to that question. Besides, it seemed Damon already knew the answer to his own question. It was rhetorical. “No. What is it?”

Damon sighed. “The greatest curse is that the only thing I’ve smelled for the last two days is myself. After all, the rest of my body is closest to my nose. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I don’t know now and I never want to know. So, keep your little gift to yourself, okay?”

They reached the outskirts of Maredon after a week of constantly walking. Neither of them needed to rest. The only stops they ever made was to drink or eat, and nothing else. Alastair’s regeneration ensured the lack of sleep would never dull his mind and body, though it hardly got rid of the sensation of drowsiness that constantly assailed him. Still, it wasn’t too bad to deal with, given everything. Damon was more or less the same, save for the fact that he didn’t feel drowsy at all.

A group of peasants and traders walked past them as they neared the city gates, flanked by heavily armed guards, who definitely meant business. Having unequipped their weapons and armor, it was no surprise that the guards simply ignored both of them as they passed. After all, what harm could two innocent peasants do to a city as large as Maredon?

They went straight to their manor, Cthonia’s gift to them, and spent the rest of the day taking a long and relaxing bath. They even ended up asleep in their bathtubs, happy and content for the first time in a long time. And so they stayed there until late in the morning, undisturbed until they awoke by themselves. Alastair was the first to stand and stretch. Damon was still asleep and so he left him there to search for breakfast.

Strangely, their pantry was filled to the brim with dried foodstuffs—beef jerky, bacon, salted pork, ham, mutton, cured sausages, and even a few wheels of cheese. Alastair blinked twice, then nodded to himself and smiled. He reached in, grabbed the bacon and sausages, and then walked to the kitchen.

There, he fried the bacon and cooked the sausages in the remaining lard. The smell of it prompted Damon’s awakening. And his friend lumbered out of the baths just in time for breakfast.

“Hurry up and eat, we’ve got a busy day and I need all the energy I can get if I have to sit through the Guild Master’s rant,” Alastair said, grabbing a handful of crispy bacon and shoving it into his mouth. Damon shrugged and sat across him, before doing the same—just with sausages.

“So,” Damon said, “what are we going to tell the Guild Master? I mean, we didn’t technically fail the quest, but we also didn’t bring any proof of it. They sent us to clear the mines with the intent of using the mines again at some point in the future, but bringing down the whole mountain kind of… made the whole thing moot.”

Alastair nodded, swallowed, and sighed. “Yeah, I’m not really in the mood for thinking. Let’s just tell him there was an earthquake that caused the whole mountain to come crashing down and hope for the best. Besides, it’s not like no one noticed Mount Morthog’s not there anymore. People will tell and rumors will spread. I’m sure the Guild Master’s already aware of that fact. So, we tell him that we kind of succeeded in the sense that all the goblins are dead.”

“Eh, whatever,” Damon muttered. “It’s not like we were told not to bring down the mountain.”

They finished their breakfast and spent the rest of the morning cleaning their armors of dried blood, oil, grime, and dirt. After that, they took a quick lunch, before finally deciding to visit the local Guild.

The place was just about as large and as auspicious as it could get, without trampling on the pride of the local aristocrats. The Guildhall was mostly made of solid brick and mortar and tall marble columns that just demanded attention. Several adventurers, both higher and lower ranked, lingered outside the hall, chatting amongst themselves. Alastair listened in on their chit-chat as they approached the entrance.

“Did you hear? The princess is throwing a large ball in her honor.”

“Yeah, I heard. She’s apparently invited just about every big named person, even people from the Merchant Clan.”

“Do you think we could attend?”

“Don’t even think about it, Alexios. Adventurers like us aren’t allowed in such gatherings.”

“Right, right… Though, I hear she’s become the patron to two Golds.”

“I heard that too. She caused enough of a ruckus for everyone to hear about it, apparently bumping up two amateurs straight to Gold Licenses. Talk about disrespecting tradition, eh?”

“Right, but… I’m kind of jealous.”

Alastair and Damon walked in and were met by stares, most of which were more than a little hateful, especially those from the Gold-Ranked adventurers and above. The interior of the Guildhall was designed to look like the inside of a tavern, with large circular tables strewn about, surrounded by chairs, where the adventurers sat and lounged. There were benches on the far left side and a bar on the far right, where food and drinks were served aplenty. Ahead of them was the reception and the Quest Board.

They ignored the disdainful looks sent their way and walked right up to the receptionist, a lithe blonde girl whose name Alastair had already forgotten. Still, he forced a smile.

“Hello,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you?”

Alastair pretended to reach into his pocket to take out the Quest Missive for the Goblin Extermination quest, though he simply took it out of his inventory in reality. He then placed it on the reception table and pushed it toward the receptionist. “We’ve finished the quest, but there were certain unforeseen happenings.”

The receptionist raised a blonde brow, before taking a look at the missive. After a moment of reading, her eyes widened. “You two were there when Mount Morthog collapsed into lava. Everyone’s been talking about it, but not even the mages know what caused such a thing to occur.”

She then glanced at the two of them. “If the two of you were there, then… the Guild Master would definitely want to hear from the both of you. Everyone’s wondering about what happened there, even the College of Mages have offered a reward to anyone who can give them any information about what happened in that place.”

Alastair nodded once to the receptionist, before turning to Damon and nodding at him as well. They had only ever seen the Guild Master, once and the man hadn’t seemed keen on any sort of conversation. He was a tall, heavily built man, who exuded the presence of one who had seen many battles—an old warrior, nearing the end of his days. Damon found him scary. Alastair found him fascinating, if only because of his experience and the stories he might share over a campfire. Beyond that, Alastair had no wish to speak to the man.

But they were here now and there was no turning back. The sooner they finished putting out this fire, the sooner he could have that talk with Cthonia.

“Very well,” Alastair said the receptionist, “please lead us to the Guild Master.”

The girl nodded and led them up a nearby flight of stairs. Damon and Alastair glanced at each other for a moment, before they decided to follow.

On the way up, Alastair brought up his status screen. In the extremely unlikely event that this would end up in some sort of scuffle, he’d have to be ready.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 3, Costs 3,000 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Pollentias: 38,200

What was that new perk I got?

Perks:

-   Chosen Through Adversity—You gained the attention of the gods through the achievement of a great and difficult challenge. In doing so, any Pollentias you receive is double the normal rate.

-   Hell Walker—Hellfire cannot harm you, unless it is used by a Vainur. In such a case, it will have only 20% effectiveness. You also have limited control over mortal fire. Grants access to basic demon magic (needs grimoire to unlock).

-           Seeker of Justice—Track down the guilty and make them pay. You may lock onto a criminal, allowing you to view their general direction and location on your map. This can only be used on a single criminal at a time and cannot be used on those who have not defiled the laws of the gods and men.

Right, I should get a new perk, I think.

He then dumped 12,000 Pollentias into his Fate Level and got it up to level 6 in a single go.

Congratulations! You have reached level 6! You may now choose a new perk from the following:

Wrath Bringer—Your rage does not burn or blaze, but simply simmers low. Your rage is controlled and finely honed, a weapon to be brought out and used at your discretion. Your perception of time will slow down whenever you're angry.

Rebel Leader—No gods and no masters may command you or your fate. Mind control or mind altering effects will not work on you. Additionally, you will have an easier time convincing slaves, servants, and peasants to rise up against their lords and follow you into the heart of death itself. Your soul is yours alone and no one else’s.

Mage Hunter—Others hunt beasts, some hunt monsters, and a few hunt both. But you, you will be different. You will hunt that which is neither beast nor monster, but man. You will hunt Mages and take their power for your own. Magic is less effective on you, and any mage you kill will level up a random skill.

Fire Hearted—You have hellfire and white fire; why not add regular fire to the list? With this perk, you may control and manipulate mundane flames, but you cannot create them. You also cannot be hurt by regular fire.

Herculean—Enables the physical upgrade function.

Alastair’s eyes widened. Oh yeah…

Chapter 24

Oh dear gods, which one should I pick?! Alastair thought.

If his self-control was just a tiny bit lesser than what it was, Alastair would have salivated at the perk options, before crying at the fact that he couldn’t get all of them. Each and every single one of them was a massive leap down the path of power. Each and every single one of them was amazing. He wanted all of them at once.

But the reality of it quickly struck down the bubbling of his childish aspiration.

After a moment, however, his focus returned.

He could only choose one.

At that, Alastair contemplated on which perk would serve him best.

Wrath Bringer was, of course, immediately the weakest among them, but that hardly took away from its usefulness. The weakest perk on a list of strong ones would still be pretty strong. The ability to passively slow down his perception of time would make hand to hand combat, or any form of combat, far easier than normal. It’d allow him to react faster against faster opponents or avoid incoming projectiles—not to mention the fact that he’d have a far easier time of shooting people with his arbalest if he didn’t have to track their motions every single time he took aim. Moving targets were a nightmare to kill. But having his perception of time slow down would make that nightmare a simple dream. However, the biggest problem with this particular perk was that, well, he was rarely ever angry, which meant he wouldn’t be capable of using the perk to its full potential as opposed to someone with anger management issues.

It was an awesome perk that gave him an awesome advantage, but it was far from ideal. So, it remained firmly behind all the other perks in terms of usefulness.

Fire Hearted was a far lesser version of both Hellfire and the White Flames of Shazdrak. It was powerful—he couldn’t deny that. Hells, it was probably even more useful than Wrath Bringer in a straight up fight, since he could always bring a pack of matches or a torch and those were far more reliable than just getting angry. However, the simple truth of the matter was that he didn’t really need it. Hellfire, assuming he’d ever actually come around to using it, already had enough firepower to take out the more powerful monsters with only a single hit. The White Flames of Shazdrak would be enough to kill most humans, barring the few odd ones who weren’t genuinely evil or deserving of justice.

Again, it was a very powerful perk and Alastair would have strongly considered taking it if he didn’t already possess Hellfire and the White Flames. It simply wasn’t needed, not when he had far better alternatives.

Herculean was interesting, to say the least. As per his system, Crafters were not given access to the basic physical enhancement via Pollentias that Hunters, like Damon, possessed. It was what separated them, what made him physically inferior to his friend, since all he had to spend his Pollentias on were his skills and his Fate level and nothing else. This perk, however, would sort of update his system to match Damon’s, which meant—if he actually picked it—he’d be able to grow in physical power, which meant he wouldn’t have to rely on Damon quite as much as he did, especially when dealing with physically powerful foes. The fight against the Vainur came to mind. Without Damon to engage that demon in physical combat, he would have been literal toast.

So, it was definitely a very strong pick if he did choose it.

Things became even more interesting with Mage Hunter, an oddly specific skill that would definitely make his hunting of a certain bastard so much easier—and the subsequent killing of said bastard all the more sweeter. It was a perk that rewarded him whenever he killed a mage, which—considering everything—there weren’t really a lot of. There weren’t many mages outside of their colleges as they spent the majority of their time studying their little glowing books and arcane secrets. For all their power, the Mage Colleges rarely ever interacted with anyone, not even bothering to join the king’s court or attend it when called. They were an insular bunch, and the only real mage threat that existed was usually due to a few rogue wizards and witches who were kicked out of their academies and forced to practice their arts out in the open.

The perk was immensely powerful, but only against a certain type of enemy that he’d rarely ever face if he’d ever face it at all—the bald bastard mage was not included. If he took it, he’d be missing out on the other perks that would be more helpful in more situations—not just against mages.

Still, it was a very strong pick, and Alastair had been tempted to take the perk the moment he saw it. And he might have done so if it wasn’t for the next perk.

Rebel Leader… something about that particular perk resonated with him, a deep longing and yearning for freedom within his soul. It wasn’t nearly as powerful or as useful as the others—not really. In a world ruled purely by logic, he wouldn’t have given that perk a second glance or thought, but this wasn’t a world of pure logic. That one perk took hold of his attention more than all the others, combined. It wasn’t just the defense against mind control or mind alteration, which probably also meant he’d never ever get drunk anymore, but the promise that his soul would belong to him and him only—not to any god, not even his patron. It was the promise that only Alastair would ever control Alastair, that only he would ever be in control of his destiny.

No other perk would grant him that.

I choose Rebel Leader… Alastair mused internally, just as the receptionist led them to the door of the Guild Master’s office.

The blonde girl turned and gestured for them to go in. She wasn’t going to enter with them, it seemed. “Please, gentlemen, the Guild Master would love to listen to your accounts of what transpired at the mountain. The reward for your Quest will be waiting for you downstairs. Good day.”

Perk, [Rebel Leader], has been acquired!

You are now immune to mental effects!

Alastair reached for the doorknob. “And please… be honest,” the secretary said. “The Guild Master is not fond of lies and deceit.”

Alstair stopped when she spoke, mostly because Damon also stopped and that got his attention. Ah, it was almost laughably easy to forget about his friend’s unhealthy addiction to beautiful women. They’d probably need to talk about that at some point, else it cause them both trouble in the future.

Alastair nodded once, before turning and grabbing the brass doorknob. He twisted it and pushed the door open.

On the other side was a very plain-looking office that… was the complete opposite of what Alastair had expected from the Guild Master of the adventurers. He expected rich, gold-trimmed tapestries, velvet-lined sheets on expertly carved hardwood seats, and maybe even a marble statue here and there, handmade by some of the greatest artists in the Middle Kingdom. He expected decadence and opulence—for such was the norm of the rich and powerful, and the Guild Master was definitely both. But, what he saw on the other side was nothing like what he’d expected.

The office was plain. Bare, even. It could even be described as empty, but he wouldn’t go that far. There were four chairs in front of the Guild Master’s desk, which seemed to be made of simple hardwood—undecorated and unadorned. There were benches on both flanks of the office, resting against the wall. They were just as plain as everything else was in the office—plain, but sturdily built. Alastair may have been a rather ordinary craftsman before he received his Fate, but old man Kaelos taught him quite enough for him to see which products were decent and which products were perfect. The furniture in the office was definitely perfect, even if they didn’t look it.

His respect for the Guild Master grew by a few notches.

They walked forward and stopped just a few feet from the chairs.

The Guild Master eyed the both of them keenly. The man himself was as grizzled and as heavily built as Alastair remembered him to be. This was a veteran of many battles, a warrior. Several scars ran across his aged face, seemingly disappearing amongst his many wrinkles. The man’s green eyes seemed to flicker with an inner fire that was just begging to be released, a soul that longed for adventure and freedom, but was held back by old age.

“I remember the Goblin Extermination quest,” the Guild Master said. His voice was gruff and steely, the kind of voice Alastair would expect from old military commanders. The finely maintained military uniform that hung on the far left corner of the office confirmed his suspicions. “You were told to venture deep into the abandoned mine shafts in Mount Morthog and kill any goblin you encounter inside. That was… several days ago. And then I receive reports that the whole mountain has crashed and burned into a molten lake. No one knew what happened. And the two adventurers who were assigned to the quest had disappeared. They were presumed dead for a while—until they were seen entering the city yesterday.”

The Guild Master gestured at the seats in front of him. “You were there when the mountain collapsed, an event that has the Mage Colleges scratching their heads in confusion. And it stands to reason that the two of you are aware as to what the cause for said collapse is.”

“Take a seat, young adventurers,” he told them. Alastair and Damon complied, nodding as they sat down in front of the Guild Master’s desk. “Tell me everything that happened in that place—don’t leave anything out. And don’t bother lying—I’ll know. Don’t worry, no one’s accusing either of you of anything. The king just wants to be aware of potential threats in his kingdom and anything capable of bringing down a mountain is… a threat.”

Alastair and Damon glanced at each other, then nodded.

Alastair spoke. “We did as the quest asked of us. We exterminated all the goblins we encountered, and we killed all sixty of them, hiding in that abandoned mine. They were making a new home for themselves in that place, and we had to venture quite deep just to get all of them. They even had a king at the end of it, wielding a powerful enchanted weapon that was made to kill human beings.”

The Guild Master nodded. “Goblins Kings are rare monsters. They often appear when a host of goblins band together under a single, dominant hobgoblin. I am not surprised by the presence of one. Continue.”

Alastair nodded. “We soon discovered the reason why the mine was abandoned.”

The Guild Master raised an eyebrow. “A fanciful legend suggests the miners dug too deep and discovered an ancient evil, slumbering deep within that place. They awakened it, and the creature nearly killed all of them. The survivors fled, and the mine has been abandoned ever since.”

“Yes, that legend… well… it’s true,” At the back of his mind, Alastair heard the Vainur’s blood-curdling roar—fire, shadow, and malice, given physical form. They were lucky to have survived that place. But they were blessed to have bested that demon in single combat.

Blessed and extremely lucky that it was already on its last legs even before they fought. Otherwise, no amount of fire resistance would have saved them from its wrath.

“Indeed?” The Guild Master leaned forward, visibly intrigued by the revelation. “Was it a Dragon? There are very few creatures in our time capable of such horrific destruction. Several mages and scholars brought up the possibility of the culprit being a surviving Titan, but such massive creatures would have been witnessed by thousands from miles and miles away. I personally believe it to be a Dragon. But, humor me, young adventurers, what was the creature?”

Alastair breathed in—mostly for dramatic effect.

Damon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he held back a snicker.

Alastair spoke. “It was a Vainur, a demon of Gorgorod… One of them was apparently sleeping in that mountain for gods knows how many years. The miners must have dug straight to its lair and awakened the fallen god. Damon and I barely escaped with our lives.”

The Guild Master’s breath hitched. “A Vainur? I… I did not think of that possibility. I thought such beings were lost to myth and legend. I thought all of them were wiped out by the Gods in the Last Cataclysm… hmm… to think one of them still lived.” His eyes turned serious. “Is it still there?”

Alastair shook his head. It was a possibility, but that demon wasn’t dumb. It would have known that staying there would attract far too much attention, especially since it brought the whole mountain down in its little tantrum.

“I do not believe that to be the case, Guild Master,” Alastair answered. “The Vainur was capable of immensely powerful magic. It would have taken itself far away from that place to find some deep dark hole in the ground to lick its wounds.”

“It was wounded?”

“Yes.” Alastair resisted the urge to grin. He was proud of Damon and himself for actually fighting that thing off and not just barely surviving against it. For all intents and purposes, they had won that exchange.

“When Damon and I faced the demon, it already bore heavy wounds, likely sustained from the Gods, during the Cataclysm,” Alastair explained. The Guild Master leaned forward and rested his chin on his left hand. “I believe it spent the majority of its powers in continuing to heal itself, which left it weakened enough for me and Damon to fight back, despite its great and awesome powers.”

The Guild Master simply nodded. The man then remained quiet for the next several minutes, eyeing both Alastair and Damon with a neutral look. His eyes judged them for all they were worth.

Alastair did not shrink away from the man’s eyes and neither did Damon. There was something almost mystical going on, Alastair felt it in his blood. The receptionist told them not to lie, earlier, because the Guild Master would know. Was it a magical lie detector of some kind? Huh, how does one go about making such a thing? I can’t think of any monster ingredient that might work… eh, whatever. On that note, I should probably start messing around with accessories when we get home.

The Guild Master didn’t argue or accuse them of lying. He simply remained quiet.

Finally, after around ten minutes, the grizzled veteran spoke. “Very well, I believe your story. But, it goes without saying that your story will not sit right with other people. In fact, it’s more than likely that most people won’t believe you at all. So, keep it to yourselves. As far as anyone is concerned, the two of you were already finished with your Quest when the mountain came down. Is that clear?”

Alastair nodded. “Clear, sir.”

Damon said nothing, but he nodded nonetheless.

The Guild Master leaned back. “I’m sure you both understand the need for such secrecy. If the common people hear about a surviving Vainur, they’re all going to think Gorgorod’s just looming over the horizon, and what do you think is going to happen afterward?”

Surprisingly, it was Damon who answered that question. “Everyone starts running around like headless chickens. It’ll be chaos everywhere. A lot of people are going to think another Cataclysm is coming.”

The Guild Master nodded. “Good. Then you do understand. I expect the two of you to keep your mouths shut about this—not a single word. You weren’t there.”

They both nodded.

“Good.” The Guild Master smiled a tiny bit, the edges of his lips crimping upward ever so slightly. “In that case, I would like to congratulate you both for a quest well done. The Guild would like to extend its thanks by rewarding you both with a five thousand gold drachmas—each. You may claim your rewards at the reception. Now, get out of my office.”

They both stood rather hastily.

Damon awkwardly lowered his head. “Thank you, Guild Master.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing. Gold drachmas, huh? Somehow, everything’s proceeding in the exact opposite direction I was expecting. The Guild Master believes us for some reason, which means he probably does have some kind of lie detector artifact. Still, that went… well, I guess.

They walked out of the Guild Master’s office and closed the door behind them.

Damon was the first to speak. “We should send half of this money to Larisa. They need it a lot more than we do.”

Alastair nodded. That had been their original intent to begin with. “Yeah… still, five thousand gold coins is many times more than what that village earns in a year. It should be more than enough to get everyone back on their feet—assuming they actually spread it equally and don’t start fighting over it.”

“We should just give it to the Alderman,” Damon suggested. “I’m sure he’d know what to do and how to do it. Besides, I’ve never known the guy to be corrupt. Hells, he gave away his life savings just so we could have a new well when the old one turned green for some reason.”

“Alright,” Alastair agreed. Alderman Hector was well loved in Larisa. Everyone there knew and respected him as their leader and elder. He was what a true lord should have been—one who is beloved by his people and one who loves them himself. “We can do that.” Then he blinked. “Huh, I just realized this is the first time we’ve ever held this much money. I mean, we literally came here without a single penny to our name and now… we… we’re about to be richer than we’ve ever been.”

“I know.” Damon smiled. “Most people couldn’t even dream about having ten gold drachmas, let alone five thousand. Think of all the stuff we could buy!”

“I know, right?!” He’d always wanted to get himself a bunch of ingots that had been too expensive once upon a time.

“Yeah, and I can finally go visit that high-class—”

“Not interested!”

They walked down the stairs, quickly collected their gold at the reception, before they walked out of the Guildhall. With that finished—in a rather unexpected fashion at that—the only thing left to do was for Alastair to visit the princess.

A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him this might not be a joyous reunion. And so he resolved to offer her a gift—something of his own creation.

As Damon went off to have his fun in the more opulent part of the city, Alastair went to the nearest smithy and bought an emerald encrusted gold necklace. He then returned to their manor and brought out an item from his inventory: the right eye of the Night Stalker they had slain some nights ago. He wasn’t quite certain as to what he wanted to create with this. It wasn’t often he made items for people, other than Damon and himself. And so he closed his eyes and clasped the two items in both his hands—the necklace in the left and the eye in the right. I need something that’ll keep her safe.

Bind!

The items in his hands shined. White lights filled his vision for a moment, before dissipating. What was revealed before him was an item unlike anything he’d expected. The necklace remained in somewhat the same shape as before, but the emerald stud was gone, replaced by a ruby-red eye pendant that seemed to stare back at him as he gazed at it.

Appraise!

Eye of the Dominus Nox

Quality: Unique (Continuity Artifact)

Durability: 15,000/15,000

Value: 20,000

An artifact that was first created by the Night Lord, Caine, who used it to project  and control life-like phantoms to fool his enemies and friends alike. Allows its user to create, control, and manipulate flesh clones identical to the user.

What in the hells is a Continuity Artifact?

Chapter 25

Continuity Artifacts are artifacts that have already existed at some point in time, forged by a fellow Crafter or a Mage of great power, but have long since been lost or destroyed. Completing a whole set of Continuity Artifacts grants the user a bonus perk that lasts for as long as they’re wearing the full set.

Huh, that’s cool. Alastair pretty much had a whole Adult Nightstalker in his inventory, cut up to pieces and all. For a moment, he wondered if he should just try forging the rest of the pieces to see if it really worked, but then he remembered that he built the necklace for Cthonia and the thought ceased immediately. He could try it with some other piece of equipment in the future if he wanted to, using different monster parts—he still hadn’t gotten around to using up every piece of the Primal Goliath.

He held up the necklace to his eyes. To him, at least, the item had an ethereal and otherworldly beauty to it, like a piece of jewelry that was not meant for humans to wear and use. Alastair wasn’t sure if it could be considered pretty. Damon often spoke about how women enjoyed pretty things, like flowers, necklaces, and the like. Was it pretty? It was to Alastair, but others might have different ideas on it—ominous and horrifying might be the two words most people might use to describe his creation.

Then again, the ultimate question was whether or not Chtonia would like it. But Alastair had no idea what kind of things the princess liked. It doesn’t matter. This is my gift, made by me. If she doesn’t like it, then it’s up to her.

Alastair set the necklace down. The manor had a surprising amount of empty boxes, some were large and some were small. Alastair walked up to the manor’s attic and grabbed a small and unadorned wooden box that would be perfect for storing jewelry. After bringing it down and setting it over a nearby table, right beside the Eye of the Dominus Nox, Alastair took out a bone fragment of the Primal Goliath—a single tooth. He held it in his right hand as he grabbed the box with his left. This seems redundant, but a durable box would probably compliment it…

Alastair activated Bind and watched as the items in his hand were engulfed in a flash of white light that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. He blinked once and raised his latest creation up to his eyes. It was visibly larger than the wooden box had been, though not by much, and it had retained its featureless aesthetic—plain and unadorned. However, what was once a surface of beautifully lacquered—if only dusty—wood was then replaced by ivory-white bone, hard and dense to the touch. It was light, however, despite its heavy looks. Huh, it actually looks awesome. Though, it is a bit… bare.

Appraise!

Bone Citadel

Quality: Rare

Durability: 50,000/50,000

Value: 60,000

An amalgamation of Primal Goliath bone and the bark from a Divine Tree of Varantis, the resulting product is neither wood nor bone, but far stronger than both. Infused with the energies of the God of Protection and Fortitude, this box will not easily break, even under the pressures of immense destructive powers.

“Woah.” The first thought that came to mind was: how in the hells did the former owners of this manor get hold of such rare artifacts? Anything made from the bark of a Divine Tree of Varantis fetched prices rivaling that of mithril—or any other of the most expensive metals, really. Then again, this manor formerly belonged to a family of nobles, who disgraced themselves a few decades ago or so, leaving quite a bit of their fortunes behind. Why were the boxes just left there? Were the previous owners unaware of their value? Eh, more for me.

There were boxes large enough for him to hide in.

And then, without warning, his system lit up.

Congratulations! After continuous use, your skill [Bind] has leveled up by 1!

Alastair’s eyes widened. What?

Without another thought, Alastair brought up his status page and focused on his Innate Skills, pretty much the stuff he didn’t know how to level up.

Alastair frowned at the Hell Forger section. It was a reminder of the fact that his soul was now demonic in nature, even if only by a miniscule amount—an imprint of Gorgorod, the dark god, upon his very being. He shuddered at the thought, but quickly moved on from it.

Innate Class: Hell Forger (lvl 2)

(lvl 2) Hell Forger Skills:

-     Bind (lvl 2)—Imbue mystical properties onto an existing item, using an ordinary item and a monster, magical, or alchemical ingredients. Results are dependent on the quality and value of the items used. Has a 5% chance of imbuing demonic properties into the resulting artifact. Cannot use items above Legendary quality.

-     Hell Fire—You may summon and shape the flames of Gorgorod to your will, but each use has a price. Every time you summon the demonic fires, you will pay for it with a portion of your humanity, until you are consumed by the dark powers and fully transformed into a demon.

His eyes narrowed at the fact that the chances of his creations turning up demonic had increased to 5%, but Alastair could hardly contain his excitement over the fact that he could now craft with legendary items and the fact that he’d figured out how to level up what was arguably his most powerful skill—not including his offensive abilities, like Hellfire. Right, I’m going to be using this skill a lot more from now on.

A thought came to mind. Is it about quantity or quality? Will the Skill level up just as fast if I made a thousand shoddy artifacts as opposed to making a few legendary artifacts? I’ll have to experiment with this—and soon, preferably before Damon and I leave the city to hunt down that damn mage again.

Nodding to himself, Alastair opened the Bone Citadel and placed the Eye of the Dominus Nox inside, before closing the box shut and sending it into his inventory. Time to go see Cthonia.

He walked out of the manor and into the surrounding streets. He was still in the richer, more decadent and opulent side of town, where there were no beggars or would-be thieves on the sides of the stone-paved road. The air here didn’t stink of human waste—quite unlike the poorer parts of Maredon, where the houses were stacked atop each other and people threw their filth out onto the streets by the bucketful. It shocked him the very first time he and Damon saw it. Their neighbors in Larisa were, at least, decent enough to dig holes in the ground, whenever they needed to dispose of household waste.

Cthonia’s palace wasn’t too far from the manor, probably around ten or so blocks away, which would lead him deeper and deeper into the richer part of the city. On his way there, he passed by the area of the city where Damon was likely indulging in his interests, but Alastair did not stop—not even when the courtesans invited him in and gave him numerous compliments, most of which centered on his apparent good looks. The thought made him smile for a moment. He hadn’t received many compliments in his life, and the few he did get were either from Damon or old man Kaelos. Still, he walked past the establishment and moved on to where the royals lived. Tall and opulent manses lined the streets, each one seemingly competing with the other. Great homes built of marble stone and white mortar, tiled roofs and lush gardens, filled with exotic flowering plants, and menageries of miniature monsters from distant lands.

However, none of the manses held a candle to Cthonia’s palace. The princess’s abode dwarfed just about everything else in the city, even the Guildhall seemed small in comparison to it. It truly was befitting of royalty—grandiose to the point of redundancy, utterly unneeded, considering Cthonia was probably the only person of note who lived there, excluding the hundreds of servants who worked tirelessly to maintain the palace. Opulence… it was almost palpable in the air as Alastair took a moment to gaze at Cthonia’s home. I wonder how many villages could have received monetary aid if this castle was never built. The damn thing must have cost thousands upon thousands of gold drachmas, taken straight from the taxes of the people. It’s unfair for royalty to live in such decadence, while their subjects die of hunger and disease—forgotten.

It was a great mystery to him why very few people ever followed Varanius’ example, why only very few people ever tried to rise up against the tyrants who ruled them.

Alastair shook his head. Now’s not the time to start a rebellion. You’re gonna have to wait for the right moment. The people aren’t ready to rise up…

He walked right up to the gates, where a contingent of twenty or so heavily armed and armored guards stopped him in his tracks. They were really tall, too—the tallest among them was probably only an inch or two shorter than Damon. They raised their spears his way. Alastair eyed their weapons briefly. These guards weren’t playing around with dwarf-forged steel, it seemed.

“State your business or leave,” the tallest among them said.

“The name’s Alastair,” he said, tipping his head a little. These guardsmen were probably a lot stronger than the marauder elites. The air around them seemed akin to the Guild Master’s aura—that of veterans of many gruesome battles. He could respect their strength. If he ever fought men like this, he’d have to be really clever about how he would deal with them, because fighting them head on would be suicide if it was just him.

“I believe the princess is expecting me,” he said. “She said we had plenty to talk about.”

The tall guard tilted his head to the side, before nodding and leaning back. The others lowered their spears immediately.

Alastair breathed a sigh of relief. A part of him was expecting to be thrown back out onto the street.

“Very well, the princess has been expecting you since yesterday,” the tall guard said. “I hope you have an explanation for your tardiness…. Hmm, you don’t appear to be carrying any weapons on you, so head on in, adventurer.”

Alastair nodded and forced a smile. “Much obliged, sir.”

He walked through the gates and went straight toward the front door, not bothering to glance at the elegant garden or the fountains and the exotic pink-feathered birds that lingered there. A few servants greeted him, but Alastair ignored them as he walked through the front door. Inside, he was greeted by a familiar man.

“Ah.” Alastair caught his tongue. “You… I forgot your name, but it’s good to see you again, man!”

The man frowned and grumbled something inaudible under his breath. “My name, good sir, is Ikathos. Please remember it.”

Alastair held his arms up and smiled. “I’m sorry about that. We were never really officially introduced.”

“And yet I remember your name quite clearly, Sir Alastair,” the man replied, clearly annoyed. He then turned and gestured for him to follow. “Follow me, the princess has been expecting you since yesterday. She is waiting for you in her quarters.”

“Lead the way, Ikathos,” Alastair said.

He followed the man across the massive hallways. Alastair noted the hundreds of servants working around the house. Most of them were cleaning, scrubbing the floor or sweeping it. The rest of the servants appeared to be busy cooking. Most of the food was probably for the guards, since there was no way it was all for Cthonia. The princess didn’t eat much as far as he recalled. She wasn’t a picky eater, either.

Ikathos led him up a long flight of stairs. The rotund man was surprisingly able to climb. He was stronger and fitter than he looked. There must have been a lot of muscle underneath his extra weight. It was that or Ikathos’ apparent rotundness was just a ruse to make people think he was weak and incapable, but was—in truth—a very capable fighter, who could defend the princess when needed.

Cthonia’s quarters were at the topmost floor of the palace. Well, the topmost floor of the palace was her quarters.

Ikathos led him to the door and turned, fixing him with a glare. “I know the princess trusts you, and I believe you have a good heart. But if you even think about hurting her, then I will make you suffer. Do you understand, boy?”

He was protective of her—that was good. That meant she had more security than just the guards outside. Though, Alastair had to wonder if Ikathos had any real strength to back up his claim. Alastair was, after all, Fated.

Alastair nodded. “I understand. And don’t worry—I’d never hurt her.”

Ikathos nodded back, before turning away and walking down the stairs.

Alastair turned to the door. He paused for a moment, breathing in and sighing. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss her. Hells, the majority of his waking thoughts and dreams centered on Cthonia—the softness of her lips against his own, the scent of her skin, the feel of her hair, and the sound of her voice.

He’d never felt this way for anyone before.

But Alastair also knew that she was a politician. And, like any politician, she was partial to using people for her schemes. After Damon blurted out their status as Fated, she would have already found uses for the both of them in whatever political plans she had. Of course, he wouldn’t fault her for it. It was only natural for her to do so. However, Alastair did not want to be manipulated. He was nobody’s pawn. He’d help Cthonia with her problems as much as he could, but only within reason.

Yeah, I’m not a fool like Damon. I won’t be manipulated so easily, he resolved.

With that, Alastair breathed in one last time, before nodding to himself and sighing. He then walked forward, grabbed the handles of the massive door to her chambers, and pushed them open. He walked inside and was immediately greeted by the scent of fragrant perfumes, like flowers in a meadow—lilacs and gooseberries in the warmth of spring. He stopped in his tracks almost immediately, breathing in the extraordinary scent.

Almost on instinct, Alastair followed the smell, walking forward. Cthonia’s quarters were richly and elegantly decorated, displaying her immense wealth. The seats were lined with purple velvet. The curtains were made of white silk, filled with intricate, hand-weaved patterns and images of nature—most of them being crimson flowers and azure river lilies. He walked further inward and noted the floor was strangely soft. He hadn’t made a single sound, save for the opening of the door as he entered. It was also velvet, Alastair realized—the floor was literally covered in velvet, which muffled his footsteps.

As he pressed on, Cthonia’s chambers gradually darkened, but where the shadows lingered, scented candles burned with faint lights. He passed through an office of sorts, where the princess might have discussed private matters with people she trusted. Alastair supposed that this was where she gathered her allies and plotted with them, made devious plans that likely concerned only one thing: power. That was the one thing that all politicians and nobles seemed to crave above all things. But it didn’t seem as though anyone had been in the office for a while. It seemed unused for the most part.

Alastair continued onward. Where is she?

He did not have to walk for long, however, as he finally reached Cthonia’s bedroom.

His breath hitched. And his body froze. His eyes widened, and almost every hair on his body stood up. It was freezing and burning at the same time, chills and hot flashes running all across his form. His clothes suddenly felt a lot warmer than they were, uncomfortable, even.

Cthonia sat on the edge of her massive bed, wearing absolutely nothing. She had her back turned toward him, but a side glance confirmed the fact that she knew he was there. Alastair gulped as his eyes lingered over her creamy white skin, unblemished and smooth as porcelain. Her hair was untied, but she held it to the front, over her left shoulder.

Alastair felt a strange tingling sensation running across his body. He gulped and breathed in. A cold sweat ran down the side of his face.

Cthonia stood up and turned, and Alastair saw heaven.

She was ravishing. Everything about her was ravishing. To her twin, bountiful mounds and the perky pink spots that garnished them, down to the secret garden of luscious flowers between her thighs. Everything about her was beautiful. In that moment, Cthonia appeared almost otherworldly—ethereal, entrancing, and enchanting. The sway of her hips made his heart almost beat out of his chest, and the hunger in her eyes made his sweat evaporate.

Cthonia walked up to Alastair and smiled, before laying a gentle hand on his right cheek. “You kept me waiting for too long, my hero. You should never keep a lady waiting.”

She leaned in for a kiss and Alastair’s soul melted. Her lips were fire, her tongue coiling against his. The moment seemed to last for an eternity—an eternity of pure bliss and radiance. She leaned back and smiled seductively, her eyes glimmering. Cthonia then grabbed Alastair’s hand and slowly pulled him toward her bed. Only the embers of his consciousness allowed him to move. “I never did give you a proper reward, did I? Well then, come and claim it.”

And, for the first time in his life, Alastair’s mind ceased to function.

Chapter 26

Alastair hardly perceived or understood what was going on, only that everything he did felt right, but everything also came at a strange blur. Somehow, it was as though his own body already knew what it was supposed to do and so he let it. It felt strange… Alastair was never used to surrendering control, but between his own instincts and Cthonia’s sensuous motions, he found that it wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d expected. Nay, it was absolutely beautiful.

In fact, it was probably the best decision he’d ever made in his entire life thus far.

Alastair’s eyes opened. And there he found himself lying on Cthonia’s chest. His mind returned to him right then and there, alongside all the memories that had blurred. And he had thought Damon was a lustful fiend.

Well, that just happened…

Cthonia groaned and yawned awake, letting loose a tiny squeak as she stretched her arms up. She then glanced down and smiled at Alastair, who smiled back at her.

“Hey,” Alastair said, running his fingers across Cthonia’s bare skin.

With her flushed face, glowing skin, and glimmering eyes, Cthonia seemed like a goddess. And he realized he might have stared at her a little longer than was polite. Then, his eyes softened. They hadn’t really had an actual conversation since he arrived—not with all the other things they were doing.

“I’m sorry I was late,” he said. “Something came up in the southlands.”

Surprisingly, Cthonia nodded. Her expression shifted somewhat, but the red flush across her cheeks remained. “I know. I’ve heard reports of a supposed army moving around in that place. Father sent down several scouts, but none of them ever returned. I sent a few of my own, and they all confirmed the presence of a small army.”

Alastair blinked and Cthonia merely continued. “I was going to send an army after them, but then I heard from my scouts that two very powerful individuals broke them—two men against an army of two thousand.” She smiled. “I knew it was you the moment I heard it from them. I also knew you’d be late.”

Her smile faded, and she flicked him right on the forehead.

Alastair feigned hurt and pouted. “Ouch.”

“But that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” Cthonia finished. The glow over her face returned. “Never keep a girl waiting.”

“Of course, princess.” Alastair smiled, before leaning in for another kiss. When he finally pulled back, he asked, “I seem to recall you said there were many things we had to talk about. Should we get to that or should we go back to doing what we were doing earlier?”

Cthonia giggled and shook her head, placing a single finger on Alastair’s lips. “I’m not as durable as you might think I am, Alastair. Besides, we still have plenty to talk about.”

He then leaned back and slowly eased away from her, allowing Cthonia to push herself up onto a seated position. She barely hid anything as she did and neither did he. It was too late for any of that now.

His eyes widened with realization. “I almost forgot—I made something for you.”

Cthonia’s eyes seemed to brighten, despite the darkness of the chambers. She smiled, but there was something else in there, alongside her smile—something genuine, but also childlike. She was excited too, terribly so. Alastair noted how she held herself, but could not quite hold back the tiny dance her body did as soon as she heard his words.

Despite that, she spoke rather calmly, though there was an edge to her voice. “Really? I would love to see it.”

Smiling, Alastair took the Bone Citadel out of his inventory—an act that caused Cthonia’s eyes to widen. He held it with both hands, before handing it out toward her.

“It’s yours. I made it myself. I, uh… I hope you like it. I wasn’t sure about what you like.”

Cthonia smiled, accepted the box, and placed a placating hand on Alastair’s cheek. He could drown in her eyes, the glimmering emerald seas that they were.

“If you went through the trouble of creating something for me, then I already love it. I’ve had plenty of suitors present me with lavish gifts from all across the Middle Kingdom, pearls from the Sea of Souls, golden eggs from some ancient vault, and a whole host of other things I can’t quite remember. But none of them ever made anything for me. No one has ever created anything for me before.”

She opened the Bone Citadel, and her eyes widened as she let out an audible gasp at the item that lay inside. Alastair’s heart skipped a beat. Did she like it? Was she gasping at how ugly it was? Was this even such a good idea, anymore? Why wasn’t she saying anything? Damn it, if the item was ugly she should have just—

“It’s beautiful,” Cthonia said, her eyes practically glowing as she reached in and grabbed the necklace, letting it hang in front of her. She didn’t seem perturbed when the crimson eye moved and looked right at her. In fact, she only tilted her head to the side and giggled. “Quite a macabre design, but it’s… beautiful.”

She threw herself right at Alastair and engulfed him in a hug, pressing. Alastair returned her hug and took in her amazing scent. “Thank you!”

Cthonia leaned back, still holding Alastair’s gift in her hand. Somehow hearing Damon’s words in his head, Alastair grabbed the necklace and stood up, before walking around her. Cthonia smiled, presented her neck, and pulled her hair aside. Alastair reached in and fastened the lace around her neck, before clasping its locks. She stiffened for a moment, but, before he could ask about it, Cthonia then stood up and smiled, briefly eyeing her necklace as she absently spun in place.

It was almost easy to forget the fact they were both naked. The crimson eyed pendant hung right between her breasts. “How do I look?”

“Like a princess.” Alastair absently took a step forward and planted a kiss on her forehead. Cthonia swooned. He smiled and recalled the reason he came here in the first place. The both of them had been pleasurably sidetracked. “Shall we get dressed?”

Cthonia nodded, briefly laying a hand across Alastair’s gift, the crimson eye seemed strangely at peace with her—quite unlike  its gaze when he had first created it. It was a curious thing, but his thoughts quickly moved on as Cthonia grabbed a silk robe from a nearby rack and placed it over her shoulders. She tied a long piece of crimson cloth around her waist, securing the robe in place and returning her modesty.

“We should talk in my office,” she said.

Alastair briefly glanced at his naked state. He would have preferred to take a bath first, but that could wait until later. His eyes scanned the floor until he found his trousers and donned them immediately. The rest of his clothes were still scattered about the place, and he wasn’t about to start looking for them just yet.

He followed after her and found her sitting by her office desk, waiting for him. She smiled as their eyes met. And Alastair found himself absently smiling back.

“Please, take a seat, Alastair.”

Alastair nodded and sat down on the chair across the table. They were by themselves anyway. There was no need to be so formal, especially not after what they had just done. Still, he did not want to appear disrespectful, so he kept his back straight and his forearms off the surface of the table. “What did you wish to talk about, Cthonia?”

She smiled sadly. “First of all, you may only call me that when it’s just the two of us. When there are other people around us, please refer to me as either Your Highness or Princess Cthonia. Quite a lot of nobles would look at you with disdain or outrage if you used only my name around them. They’ll think that you believe they’re lower than you.”

Alastair shrugged. “Understandable and perfectly reasonable—the other half of power is the image that must be presented at all times.”

She nodded. “Thank you for understanding. In any case, I wished to talk to you because, well,  my life is in danger.”

That immediately caught Alastair’s attention. Anyone who was after Cthonia’s life would get a bolt to the forehead—no exceptions. He didn’t care who they were, how powerful they were, or what rank they held within the kingdom. If they wanted to kill his princess, then they were already dead. His own pattern of thought struck him immediately.

My princess? he repeated in his head. When did I start getting so possessive?

“Do you know how the line of succession works in the Middle Kingdom, Alastair?” she suddenly asked, wringing him out of the stupor he’d placed himself in. But he quickly shook his head. He knew very little about such things, but not for a lack of trying. It was just that the books he did had mentioned little about the political traditions of the Middle Kingdom.

Cthonia merely smiled. “Well, neither the eldest nor the youngest may inherit. They can but it’s not an automatic form of heredity. The King, or the Queen, chooses an heir from among their children. My father only had two: myself and my younger brother, Memnon.”

Alastair’s eyes widened. “Does your brother happen to be a mage?”

Cthonia raised an eyebrow but then shook her head. “No. Mages, if they are royalty or nobility, are not allowed to inherit anything. Memnon’s not a mage.”

She said that with finality, which meant she believed her own words. But Alastair knew better. Memnon was not a common name. He had never heard it before, nor had he read of it in any of his books. It was highly unlikely that Cthonia’s brother and the mage were two different people.

Yet Cthonia thought that her brother was no mage. It just meant that the bald bastard had somehow hidden his magical talents from his own family. Still, he made no mention of his encounter in the southlands. There was more to Cthonia’s story, and he needed to hear everything she wanted to tell him.

“My father, the King, chose me as his heir and that… ruffled quite a number of feathers. My younger brother has his fair share of supporters in the king’s court—not a lot, but some. And his supporters were outraged that I was chosen, instead of him. They cited their beliefs that women were impotent rulers, claiming my rule would bring only ruin upon the Middle Kingdom. My father silenced them, of course, but they grumbled.”

“Until the day they sent assassins after me,” she continued, eyes narrowing. “Ikathos and I fled the capital city and ventured southward in secret, with only Ikathos to accompany me. Bringing my full retinue with me would have attracted too much attention, so I ordered them to journey here, before I did. I knew, for a fact, that Memnon had no supporters here in Maredon or any of its sister cities, and so I chose to hide here for the moment. Somehow, Memnon and his supporters got wind of my plan and sent his lackeys after us. That’s how you found me, Alastair.”

“That’s horrible, but it helps fill in a lot of gaps.”

“My brother wants me dead,” Cthonia said with a flat tone that bartered no arguments. “Or, at the very least, his supporters want me dead. I’ve never known him to be interested in ruling. He’s never once even spoken of wanting to be King, after father.”

Alastair nodded. The picture Cthonia was painting was becoming clear in his head. “What about your allies? What are they doing to support you? Hells, what is the king going to do about this? I can’t imagine any parent would sit still knowing his children might be killing each other over the throne.”

At that, Cthonia chuckled. “My father chose me because I was the logical choice—not because he wanted me to be his successor. Between me and Memnon, the only one actually smart enough to run a kingdom is me. Father knew that, and he chose me because of that. But, and not a lot of people know this, it is somewhat of a tradition for siblings to start killing each other over the throne. After all, if only one is left standing, then only one gets to inherit, regardless of the previous ruler’s choice of heir.”

Alastair blinked and shook his head. “Honestly… what’s the point of having a rule of succession, then?”

Cthonia outright laughed. “I know, right? It’s stupid, and it’s one of the things I plan to change when I become queen. I have a plan, Alastair. A plan that will change the Middle Kingdom. We were great, once, and we can be great once more.”

“Honestly, I believe you could make that happen.”

“Thank you.” She looked past him, as though recalling some memory before she spoke again. “Ikathos and I, on our journey to Maredon, stopped by several villages in the countryside—most of them didn’t appear on any of my maps. They lived their lives, forgotten by the rest of the Middle Kingdom. There was only a goat path, leading from their village to one of the main roads. They had no schools, no hospitals, no warehouses. The people there were destitute, but they knew nothing else. They thought themselves living good lives.”

“Ignorance is bliss, sometimes. But you’re right—having access to those things would help them considerably.”

Cthonia smiled. “And that’s why, the moment I arrived here, I dispatched several masons, engineers, and architects to these villages. I want to make their lives better, and giving them some proper infrastructure is a step in that direction. But…”

Alastair nodded his approval. Very few nobles ever cared about the common folk. “But you could do so much more if you were queen, right?”

She nodded. “Yes. I want to help the people and better their lives.”

“Then, why not just kill your brother?” Alastair asked. Cthonia didn’t seem to have any adverse sort of reaction to his suggestion. “If he’s already trying to kill you, then wouldn’t it be better to kill him first? If he’s dead, then this whole thing stops immediately, right? You wouldn’t have to be afraid for your life anymore.”

Cthonia sighed and shook her head. It seemed as though she had already considered this, but had decided against it. “I don’t want to be remembered as the queen who killed her own brother to sit on the throne. I’d prefer to not have to kill anyone at all. I do have a plan to deal with him, but… it has to be kept a secret—from everyone, including you, Alastair.”

He understood—he really did. Some plans were never meant to be shared, lest they be altered and destroyed in the process. Cthonia was intelligent. He saw it in her eyes and in the way she moved—cunning and intelligent. She had a plan, and it was one that could not be shared with anyone. She knew what she was doing. And so he saw no reason to prod further. She was strong in her own way—powerful and willful, traits that made her all the more beautiful in his eyes.

The fact that she was willing to go out of her way to help smallfolk made him want her all the more.

Though, he did want to know one thing. “I understand, but what is to be my role in all this?”

Cthonia giggled and cast him a seductive look. “Isn’t it enough that you get to be my cute little boy-toy?”

Alastair grinned. “Oh, I don’t know, as far as I recall, I was the one doing all the playing and you were my toy.”

“Oh my, it seems my cute little toy has a rebellious streak to him,” Cthonia replied.

They stayed like that for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then, they both heaved and roared back in laughter.

Cthonia brushed away a stray tear from her left eye. She then smiled and laid a hand on Alastair’s cheek. Her touch soothed his soul. He didn’t want her hand to ever leave his face. “Stay with me, love me, protect me, and lay with me in the night. You won’t have to do anything else.”

Alastair nodded and pushed the table aside, practically slamming it into the wall as he walked up to her and kissed her deeply, passionately, and he felt her kissing back. When they pulled apart later, Alastair smiled. “I promise—I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m yours.”

Those last two words felt heavier than anything he’d ever said to anyone before. But he meant it with every fiber of his being. He would protect her, his princess, from all harm that might befall her. And she would be safe in his arms.

Cthonia smiled and buried her head into his chest, closing her eyes all the while. “And I’m yours—my savior. No matter what happens… no matter where you are in the world… and, no matter where I am, I will be yours.”

Her words were cryptic, in a way, but that hardly mattered as he drew her into his chest and felt, for the first time in his life, completely vulnerable. There was something in her voice that seemed to melt his soul and open up his heart. The way she spoke calmed him. He hadn’t been calm for a while now. His life had always been about control, about power, about surviving… and now he felt utterly at peace.

And that was terrifying.

Cthonia made him feel vulnerable.

Chapter 27

“You son of a bitch.” Damon’s grin was so wide it could have split his face in half if it was any wider. Despite that, Alastair felt himself absently grinning back. Oh, he definitely knew what Damon was going to talk about. That look was way too telling.

“What?” Alastair feigned ignorance by shrugging as he closed the door behind him. It was late in the night when he finally returned to the manor—far later than he usually would have if he and Cthonia weren’t preoccupied after their talk. He would have preferred to stay with her until the morning, but—as much as he wanted to—he couldn’t. Alastair had been lax in truly experimenting with the limits of his powers. He would have discovered how to level up his most powerful skill far earlier if he had been experimenting more. And he was going to do just that for the rest of the night.

Damon shook his head with dramatic exasperation. “My dear Alastair, do you know how strong my nose is? The smell that’s coming from you paints a pretty little picture.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Damon,” Alastair resolved to play innocent. Oh yeah, his friend wasn’t the only one gifted with the ladies anymore—well, ‘lady’, in his case. He was also aware of the fact that he hadn’t taken a bath and Cthonia’s scent was quite literally all over him, just as his scent was also probably all over her.

Damon sighed. “You slept with her... for several hours… and then some.”

“Heh,” Alastair’s grin widened. “Yes, I did—I really went from making tools in a smithy to sleeping with a princess. If this isn’t the start of an awesome fantasy story, then I don’t know what is.”

To Alastair’s dismay, his friend began crying with a proud look over his face. He sniffed once, before engulfing Alastair in a tight hug. Before he could even protest, Damon lifted him up to the air and spun him around as though he weighed the same as a tiny stuffed toy. “My boy finally became a man!”

“Let me down you big ape!” He honestly didn’t want to be anywhere near Damon when he knew for a fact where his friend had been all day.

“This is cause for a celebration!” Damon exclaimed.

“Alright, can you let me down, now? Sheesh, we both still have a lot to do!”

Damon put him down.

“What about you? Did you have fun today?” Alastair asked.

Damon grinned, and his eyes glimmered. “Of course I did! Those high-class ladies sure know what they’re doing. Though, I overheard something interesting from a few of the other patrons. Man, there’re a lot of loose lips in those kinds of establishments, let me tell you. I ended up hearing all sorts of gossip—a few, in particular, were very interesting.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. With his enhanced senses, Damon would have very easily been able to hear just about everything there with ease. It caused Alastair to shudder.

He walked over to the nearest chair and sat down. He wasn’t particularly tired, not when his regeneration was active at all times. “What did you hear?”

“The princess is planning something big,” he said with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know who said it, but that person was definitely nobility. He said she was planning something that’s going to shake the very foundations of the Middle Kingdom. There were no details, but I thought you should know. Did the princess tell you anything?”

Alastair blinked, before shaking his head. “She told me she had a plan, but refused to elaborate on just what it was. Hells, I don’t think she has actually told anyone. Whatever it is, however, it’s got something to do with the fact that Memnon is her brother.”

Damon’s eyes visibly widened, but he didn’t seem too surprised. “I gathered that in the brothel. A noble woman said, and I quote, ‘Memnon’s going to get himself and his crown supporters in trouble if he plays around too much in the southlands.’ It was… shocking to hear that. Having crown supporters meant that bald bastard plans on a bid for the crown, but the only way he could do that was if he was royalty, which meant he was probably the prince. You’re saying the princess confirmed it?”

Alastair nodded. “Yes, but she’s not aware of his magic. Based on what you heard, I think only his supporters may be aware of his status as a mage, since mages in the royal family are excluded from the line of succession.”

“So, I’m guessing Memnon’s gonna try to kill the princess? If she’s dead, then he won’t have any competition for the crown. Do you think he’ll try to come here? We might have finished off his little army, but that doesn’t mean we can underestimate the guy. He’s a mage, after all.”

“He definitely wants her dead, even if Cthonia thinks otherwise.” Alastair sighed and shook his head. “She thinks her brother doesn’t want the throne, but it’s his supporters that want him there. Well, the fact that he was running around with an army of his own tells me he wants to rule. And, if nothing else, that also tells me his rule will be terrible.”

Damon nodded. “What should we do?”

Alastair shrugged. “Cthonia has a plan and my role in it is to… do what feels right.” At Damon’s raised eyebrow, Alastair shrugged again. “Hey, I asked her straight up what I should do, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with any details. All she told me was to continue doing what I want to do: protect her and be with her. I really do hope her plan is as grand as the other nobles make it out to be. I think she’ll make a fine queen.”

“She didn’t tell you what the plan was?” Damon asked.

“She doesn’t trust anyone but herself,” Alastair replied. “She’s likely told a few nobles that she has a plan, but hasn’t really told anyone about its details.”

He had his doubts. Mages were not to be underestimated, and the princess wasn’t even aware of her brother’s magic, though Alastair also seriously doubted that. It seemed she was hiding something from him, but that hardly mattered. Cthonia was confident about her plan, however, so Alastair didn’t pry any more out of her.

“Alright,” Damon said. “What should I do, then?”

“Now that we’re involved with the princess, we’re bound to run into that bald bastard again at some point,” Alastair said. Memnon wouldn’t rest until Cthonia was dead and gone. He would send agents after her, spies and assassins, but they wouldn’t succeed. He and Damon would be there to stop them. At some point, the mage would grow frustrated and would want to put matters into his own hands. And that’s when he would personally come for her. And he would find two Fated waiting to take his head off.

Still, that was a lot easier said than done. Mages were a tricky bunch, especially since neither Alastair nor Damon knew anything about magic. And the fact that Memnon was still alive meant he was tricky indeed. We still have to find a way around that little shield spell of his. Not even Damon could penetrate it, and that’s saying a lot.

“You want me to lie in wait?” Damon asked.

Alastair shook his head. “Not quite—there will be a lot of assassins and spies coming after her. They’ll have poisons and daggers and all sorts of things to aid them. The two of us will do the same thing: protect her from them. She’ll be expecting such things, of course, but extra security won’t hurt her.”

Cthonia was definitely expecting some kind of attack against her. After all, Memnon already sent his lackeys after her, once. It didn’t help matters at all that she apparently had a traitor in her ranks. I’m gonna have to root out this traitor, as well. Her journey to Maredon was supposed to be a secret, but Memnon found out about it, anyway.

Damon nodded. “That sounds simple enough.”

“Also,” Alastair added, grinning, “there’s a ball coming up tomorrow night. We’ve both been invited. Cthonia mentioned something about having hundreds and hundreds of nobles and aristocrats in attendance, and a mountain of food, cooked by chefs from all across the Middle Kingdom.”

Damon’s eyes lit up with excitement. Such balls were only ever talked about in stories, where the hero was invited by the king to join a party, where food was served so plentifully that all the guests would be full and the dining table would still be brimming. They were children then and those were just stories, where only their young minds could digest the food in such auspicious banquets. But never in their lives did they think they would ever be invited to such a gathering.

But then Damon groaned. “I’m guessing we’ll have to wear something that isn’t armor?”

Alastair nodded. “Unfortunately, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my powers to enchant whatever suit we’ll be buying.”

Damon paused. “Are you sure you even want to attend this? I mean, I know for a fact that you hate nobles and everything they stand for. Man, you’d probably end up punching someone within the first twenty minutes or so.”

Alastair chuckled at that, but then he fell silent as he seriously considered the question. Every person attending Cthonia’s ball would be a noble, an aristocrat, or just someone else as important as the first two. Memnon probably wouldn’t be there, since Cthonia mentioned that he didn’t have any supporters in Maredon, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any threats to Cthonia’s life. The heads of the Merchant Clans would probably be there as well, alongside the most famous adventurers in Maredon and the Guild Master himself. All of these people, including the princess herself, represented the upper echelons of the very society Alastair wanted to tear apart and rebuild anew. Most of the guests there would be fat, bloated parasites, who had thrived off the backs of the smallfolk, deriving their wealth off the hard work of those they considered to be beneath them.

As much as he adored Cthonia, her sending aid to the villages that helped her wasn’t the solution to the problem that ailed the Middle Kingdom. It was merely a bandage that covered a single wound on a body that bore thousands of cuts. The way to help the people was to liberate them from the chains of their own ignorance and to bring them into the light of knowledge and wisdom, away from the shadows of nobility and monarchy.

“Yes,” Alastair finally said after a moment or two of contemplation. “I’m probably definitely going to want to punch someone within the first twenty minutes of the ball. However, I have a solution.”

Damon raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh? Does this solution involve you isolating yourself in a locked room until the whole party’s over?”

“…Yes,” Alastair huffed, then groaned. “Fine, I’ll play nice with the other kids. I do know how to act prim and proper. Mom and dad definitely beat the lesson into my head enough times for me to remember. It’s just… I don’t like them—the people who’ll be attending Cthonia’s ball. In fact, it’d be more accurate to say that I hate them.”

How could he not hate them when his goal was to bring the whole system, which they thrived in, crashing down into ashes and dust?

Damon blinked and sighed. “Right, but do make sure to keep that last bit to yourself, yeah? Cthonia’s going to be very disappointed in you if she finds out about that. Also, I’m certain we wouldn’t want to make enemies of the nobility this early.”

On that, Alastair agreed. It was too early, and he simply wasn’t ready to go against them yet. No doubt several other Fated would take notice of both him and Damon if he started punching the nobility left and right. After all, most of the Fated, whose names and appearances he knew nothing of, were very likely to be a part of the Middle Kingdom’s aristocracy. The fact that there hadn’t been a rebellion in the last three hundred years proved that fact. Such a thing wouldn’t have been a hindrance if Alastair and Damon were the strongest of the Fated, but they weren’t the strongest. Hells, they hadn’t even been Fated for very long. If they’d already come this far, then it was certain that the other Fated would be god-like in power.

He did not have the strength to tangle with any of them at the moment—not yet, at least.

“Right,” Alastair said, huffing. “Like I said: I’m going to play nice with the other kids, okay? You don’t have to worry about me punching someone. Hells, I’ll put on a happy face and mingle.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah… I mean, it’ll help a lot for me to get familiar with several prominent faces. It helps to know your future enemies, you know?”

“Well, I guess that makes sense, but not all of them have to be our enemies. Maybe some of them actually care about the smallfolk.”

“Ha, fat chance of that, but I’ll keep an open mind.”

After their conversation, Damon returned to his room and fell asleep almost immediately. Alastair, however, had different plans for the night. He proceeded directly into one of the manor’s unoccupied hallways, a spacious place that might have been used as a gathering hall at some point in the past, but had since been left to rot in the passages of time. Alastair came upon this place only once before, when Cthonia first gave them the manor and he was eager to explore just about every room and every crevice in it. This was one of the few places that would likely never be used again—not while there were only two people living in a manor meant for a staff of hundreds.

Alastair briefly eyed the place as he went in. It was dusty and unkempt and definitely hadn’t been touched for many decades. He walked around, eyeing the massive hall up and down. Chairs and small tables were strewn about the place, scattered haphazardly as though whoever had been here left in a hurry. Alastair stopped in his strides when he spotted a small key near the podium. He walked to it and picked it up. The key was a tiny thing, barely longer than his finger, but what caught his eye was the fact that the metal, though dull and rusty and withered with time, was—without a doubt—mithril.

Appraise!

Kirstein Family Key

Quality: Unique

Durability: 13,360/15,000

Value: 25,000

This key belongs to the head of the Kirstein family of nobles. It is passed down from the father to his firstborn son and so on. It opens a mithril chest that only the head of the family may open. The chest’s contents are not known to anyone, save for the family head.

Fascinating… I’ll have to look for a mithril chest later. Alastair mused. He sent the key into his inventory.

Finding nothing else in the grand hall, Alastair walked to the very center of the place and sat down. He then brought out all the nonperishable items in his inventory, meticulously arranging them by order of value. He had ingots, coals, crystals, powders, hammers, chisels, pliers, and all sorts of things one might find at a smithy, save for the more esoteric materials like monster bones, furs, teeth, and nails. Of course, he didn’t take everything out of his inventory. Aside from the perishable materials, like flesh and blood and eyes and organs, Alastair also kept the stuff he might need in a pinch, like blasting powder, explosive powder, ropes, and all sorts of emergency items that might just save his hide—almost all of which was taken from old man Kaelos’ personal inventory, which housed a surprising number of things that blacksmiths weren’t supposed to have, such as bags of blasting powders and explosive powders.

“Right,” Alastair muttered to himself. It was time to truly experiment and see just what he was capable of. The first order of business was, of course, figuring out how easy it was to level up his most powerful skill, Bind. “Time to see if quality beats quantity, or if it’s the other way around.”

After I figure out this skill, I’ll practice with my other skills.

He used Bind on a piece of bone from the Primal Goliath and a simple wooden rod, resulting in an ultra-sturdy rod that was both bone and wood, but also neither. His system did not recognize it as a weapon, but as a crafting equipment. Alastair knew, however, that if Damon used this thing to whack someone on the head, then it would be a very deadly weapon. Of course, tools can be used to build and destroy. A hammer is just as capable of building a house as it is capable of destroying it. It all depends on the wielder.

And that line of thought opened up many possibilities...

Chapter 28

Alastair grinned as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

He’d spent the last eight or so hours experimenting with his skills, using them in ways he otherwise would not have thought of at a glance. As he’d hoped, there was more to them than met the eye, and the limits he thought his skills had were imposed only by him. The whole time, Alastair discovered, he had been the one who limited himself. But that was no longer the case.

Alastair’s first limitation was what he himself considered to be an ‘item’. Indeed, weapons and tools were items—of that there was no doubt—just as chairs, boxes, rocks, and even pitchers of water were considered items by his system and, thus, fell under the influence of his skills, Shape and Weld. But then what about everything else? What about the walls and floors within houses and manors? What about the air and water all around the world? What about the very earth at his feet?

As it turned out, his system also considered all of them to be ‘items’, which meant he could use his skills on nearly everything he could touch, on every surface. Existence itself lay at the very tips of his fingers, allowing him to mold and shape everything to his whim. In time, he could be a god—not a god that towers over mountains and spits fire and craps out demons, but a true god, one whose touch encompasses all things, one whose will is imposed upon reality. That was the power he had.

Well… that was the potential, but there were limits to what he could currently do. What he truly had at his disposal, at least, for now, was boundless potential. Given time and a lot of training—a whole lot of it, if the last eight hours was anything to go by—Alastair could turn his meager powers into something far more than what they currently were.

But that didn’t mean he was weak.

On the contrary…

Closing his eyes and releasing a deep breath, Alastair reached down and laid his hands on the floor. I hope it works this time.

The massive hallway no longer looked as it had several hours ago. Tall, misshapen growths lined the floor. Winding spiny pillars of wood and stone stretched from one corner to another. Puddles of liquefied rock bubbled up in random places. Vaguely hand-shaped malformed masses seemed to have arisen all around him. The only spot in the great hall that remained untouched was a small area around Alastair. Just about everywhere else lay in eldritch shambles.

In his mind’s eye, Alastair pictured a massive hand of wood and stone, rising from the ground and grasping at the open air. The ground shook underneath his feet, which meant his skill, Shape, did as it was supposed to and reshaped the floor. The whole process was quiet, however, and brokered only a slight quake.

Huffing, Alastair opened his eyes and almost immediately frowned at what he saw. Instead of an elegant hand of human proportions, what jutted out of the floor was an abominable mass of gruesome spikes and spires, vaguely shaped like a human hand. The fingers, made of wood and stone, seemed to have warped and morphed into ugly, skeletal things that would not have looked out of place in the realm of Gorgorod.

Still, Alastair smiled. It was progress, no matter how small it might have been. “Eh, it’s good enough for now.”

He would just have to practice a lot more in the future. Shape was remarkably difficult to control when reshaping massive objects, like the ground or the wall.

Alastair glanced at the window up above. It had remained untouched by his reshaping of the great hall, but a quick glance confirmed the fact that its edges were horribly warped. The sun shined brightly through the colored glass which meant it was late in the morning, nearing lunch time. Huh, what the hells has Damon been doing this whole time? Alastair asked himself.

He shrugged. Damon would show up sooner or later, anyway. The man was probably wandering the city, looking for the perfect outfit to wear in the coming ball. Which reminds me, I should go look for one myself.

Shaking his head, Alastair walked out of the remains of the great hall—skirting around his malformed creations that jutted out of the floor as he did. For a moment, Alastair turned over his shoulder and wondered if he could actually fix the place, but then ultimately decided against it. He would end up making an even bigger mess if he tried doing that.

Though, a strange idea occurred to him.

Alastair closed the large double doors of the great hall. I can’t believe I haven’t tried this yet. I mean, I turned solid into liquid, so this shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Carved from hardwood and further reinforced with solid steel plates, the doors themselves were nearly indestructible. In the event of an enemy attack, a family might be able to hold out long enough behind it for help to arrive. It was dense, sturdy, heavy, and incredibly hard. It would take the force of a battering ram to break through. All those qualities made it the perfect test subject for what would be Alastair’s last experiment for the day. I should probably take some time to unpack everything I’ve learned and review my stats after this, he decided.

Alastair reached out and placed his right hand on the surface of the door. First, he took in its shape, its tiny ridges, its corners, the metal bars and plates that reinforced its bulk of hardwood, and the thick hinges that held everything in place. He took in everything about it and willed its shape to change. And yet he did not order the hardwood to soften, nor did his will cause the metal to warp and bend. No, Alastair’s will simply took what was one and turned it into many, turned the whole into fragments.

The double door turned to dust and scattered to the floor, like sands falling inside an hourglass. After a moment, a stray gust of wind blew in from downstairs and cast the dusted wood and metal into the great hallway.

His breath hitched, and his eyes widened. What in the hells did he just do? The edges of the doorway were similarly turned to dust, leaving deep gashes and furrows, where there had once been solid rock and stone. “Holy hells…”

And then another thought appeared in his mind’s eye—darker and more sinister than the first. What if I used this on a person?

The image of a man becoming nothing more than a puddle of blood and filth, after a single touch, caused him to shudder.

Alastair abandoned the thought—for now.

Even if he wanted to use it on a person, it would be a terrible way to kill someone, if only because of the mess it would leave behind. Then again… causing someone’s blood to turn solid would kill them just as quickly. Alastair hadn’t considered the human body to be an ‘item’, per se. But a quick glance at the contents of his inventory reminded him of the fact that most of the things he carried were, in fact, the body parts of a once living being, which meant his system didn’t really distinguish between organic and artificial items. Eh, it’s something to consider for the future…

As he descended the stairs to the manor’s first floor, Alastair brought up his stats and considered everything he’d done the last eight hours, including the extra level he’d gained in Bind. His experiment had essentially confirmed the fact that Bind leveled up after repeated use, not through the creation of high quality artifacts, which meant he could level up the skill to its maximum potential by making thousands of enchanted sticks with questionable use.

Name: Alastair

Fate: Crafter (lvl 6, Costs 6,000 Pollentias to Upgrade)

Pollentias: 26,200

I still have 26,200 Pollentias to spend, Alastair mused, walking down the stairway. The smell of burnt eggs and bacon lingered in the air, which meant Damon must have tried and failed to cook something a few hours ago. Alastair chuckled and shook his head, before returning his attention to his Pollentias and where to spend them. Almost immediately, he knew he wanted to upgrade Shape first and foremost, followed by Meld, and Forge for last. He’d seriously underestimated just how devastatingly powerful his first two skills were, compared to Forge, which was a tool to create—the first two had the potential to simply destroy. Shape, most of all, could be used to kill people directly.

-          Forge (lvl 4)—Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 50% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 25% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 20% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 5% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-     Shape (lvl 4)—Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract up to 15% of its total mass or add a total of 5% more mass. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

- Weld (lvl 4)—Attach two materials together with the sole requirement being that one of those materials should be made of metal. Success and presentation is dependent on skill level. Currently has a 90% chance of success and a 40% chance of producing an Artifact of Uncommon Quality. Costs 4,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

Alastair upgraded Shape first, just to see how it would change, costing him 4,000 Pollentias.

-   Shape (lvl 5)—Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract up to 25% of its total mass or add a total of 10% more mass. Costs 5,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

His eyes widened. The jump in power was immense, nearly doubling the mass he could subtract, while outright doubling the mass he could add—though 10% wasn’t all that much in most cases. After that, he upgraded Weld.

-   Weld (lvl 5)—Attach two materials together. Success and presentation is dependent on skill level. Currently has a 100% chance of success and a 45% chance of producing an Artifact of Rare Quality. Costs 5,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

The metal component is gone. Alastair noted. Going by what Shape is apparently capable of, does this mean I can use Weld to attach a person to the floor? Hells, I could probably fuse their skin to their clothes or fuse their muscles to their bones… huh, I wonder what that would accomplish.

Still, it wasn’t as though he could just experiment on living people. That would just be monstrous, and Alastair refused to sink that low, even if his mind was telling him to go out and look for more bad people to experiment on. It just wasn’t right. He shook away the thoughts and continued his descent. The smell of burnt bacon and eggs was alarmingly strong as he neared the living room.

Did Damon burn the whole kitchen?

It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.

Shaking his head, Alastair returned his focus to his remaining 18,200 Pollentias he still hadn’t spent.

I could upgrade Forge, but I don’t have to—not yet, anyway. It’s not nearly as strong… Alaistar smiled to himself. Woah, I can’t believe I just said that when a day ago I would have said the opposite. But, really, it’s no longer as strong as Shape or Weld, though it is definitely useful and powerful. Given the circumstances, I need to be able to stand on my own in a fight, without having to roast all my enemies to death with the White Flames of Shazdrak. After all, it doesn’t work on everyone.

After a brief moment of contemplation, Alastair decided to upgrade both Shape and Weld once more, then upgraded Forge.

-   Shape (lvl 6)—Alter the shape of an existing item. Success rate is dependent on the level and quality of the chosen item, and the skill level. You may subtract up to 35% of its total mass or add a total of 20% more mass. Costs 6,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

-   Weld (lvl 6)—Attach two materials together. Success and presentation is dependent on skill level. Currently has a 100% chance of success and a 50% chance of producing an Artifact of Rare Quality. Costs 6,000 Pollentias to upgrade.

-   Forge (lvl 5)—Create an item from a lump of raw metal or an ingot. Success rate is dependent on the complexity of the design. You have a 25% chance of creating an item of [Shoddy] quality, 25% chance of creating an item of [Common] quality, 40% chance of creating an item of [Uncommon] Quality, and 10% chance of creating an item of [Rare] Quality. Costs 5,000 Pollentias to Upgrade.

Forge, it seemed, had an utterly massive leap in power. Its level 4 was practically nothing compared to its level 5. I’m guessing a skill gets a massive upgrade every five levels or so? Still, there has to be a limit somewhere. I mean, I only have three basic skills to use my pollentias on. What happens if I reach the maximum levels? What’s the point of having pollentias then?

Information: Reaching the maximum level of your three basic skills will unlock new skills for you to spend your Pollentias on!

Huh, that’s good to know. Alastair brought up his innate skill, Bind, which still remained as his most potent ability.

-       Bind (lvl 3)—Imbue mystical properties onto any item, using an ordinary item and a monster, magical, or alchemical ingredients. Results are dependent on the quality and value of the items used. Has a 10% chance of imbuing demonic properties into the resulting artifact. Cannot use items above Legendary quality.

Its growth wasn’t incredible, like the other skills, and Alastair could not help but scowl at the increased chances of demonic interference in his creations. The thought of Gorgorod’s taint in his soul stung bitterly and deeply, like a festering wound that would never heal, simply becoming worse and worse. Well, it was a good thing he had only ever used Hellfire once and never again. Alastair did not want to end up looking like that Vainur.

Though, looking back, that Demon had looked rather awesome—but that wasn’t the point.

He sighed and walked into the living room, and then into the kitchen, where he saw the remains of what might have been bacon at some point, but had now turned into… coals. The eggs, however, browned and overcooked as they were, could still be eaten. Alastair reached in and grabbed an egg that was halfway scrambled and sunny side up, and took a small bite. Not bad, but definitely not good either. “Eh, it’s edible.”

Damon suddenly appeared beside him, looking ragged. He carried a basket, filled with freshly baked bread, salted pork, and smoked sausages.

Alastair swallowed the egg and pointed at the food. “You went out to buy this stuff?”

Damon nodded. “Yes.”

Alastair noted the bead of sweat rolling down the side of his friend’s face. “Uh-huh, and how many eggs and slabs of bacon did you have to burn, before deciding to just go out and buy food?”

“A lot,” Damon replied. “But, hey, I learned something from it: use less fire.” He laid the basket down on the dining table.

Alastair took a loaf of bread and bit down, feeling its warmth and softness on his lips, before he started chewing. The salted pork would come next. He nodded and swallowed. “It’s good. Where’d you buy this?”

Damon chuckled, taking a whole ham for himself as he sat down on an empty chair. “There’s an old restaurant not far from here. There weren’t a lot of people there, but my nose led me to that place. Apparently, they bake their own bread, cure their own hams, salt their own pork, and smoke their own sausages. Their food is so good that there are actual guards around the place.”

“That’s nice,” Alastair absently muttered as he took another bite out of the bread and grabbed a piece of salted pork with his free hand. “We should eat there sometime. The only tavern in Larisa got flattened by the Primal Goliath, I think. We haven’t been to many.”

Damon nodded and hummed in agreement. “There’s something… odd about the owner, though. I couldn’t quite understand it. His scent smelled… off—almost inhuman.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow, but didn’t think too much of it. He shrugged and put a handful of salted pork into his mouth. “Must have been one of the Fae-folk, then. There aren’t a lot of them, but there’s still a few. Like the elves and dwarves we met.”

Damon did not look convinced. But he shrugged as well. “I guess…”

They ate and chatted about random things for the next thirty minutes. After that, they each took a quick bath in the manor’s massive bathhouse, before finally exiting the place. Alastair wore a simple white, short-sleeved tunic, and a pair of brown trousers and leather boots. Damon wore a green, long-sleeved tunic, a pair of black trousers, and some sandals. They stood and stopped right outside their manor’s grounds.

Damon was the first to speak. “So, I’m guessing we’ll be looking for our suits, right?”

Alastair nodded. “Yeah, we’ll have to find a good tailor for it, though. But I don’t know this city well enough. The nobility likely have their go-to tailor, but I wouldn’t want to go there—not when I might meet some arrogant potato, who’s got his head stuck up his ass. I might end up punching someone.”

Damon laughed. “There might be a few tailors in the merchant district, who are not tailored to the nobles… eh?”

Alastair stared at his friend with a blank expression. “Nice one.” He walked off.

“Oh, come on. It was a good joke and you know it,” Damon said as he caught up.

“Your jokes are about as bad as your ability to pleasure women.”

“You take that back!”

“Should we go ask the courtesans, then? I’m sure they’d be delighted to tell the truth about your skills.”

“They will sing songs and praises of my glory!”

“Oh they’ll definitely be singing about the legendary Damon of Larisa. Although their songs are bound to last longer than you did.”

Damon stared at his friend blankly before saying, “Nice one.”

A few minutes later, they found a tiny, family-owned tailoring shop, nestled at the edges of the merchant sector. It was run by a kindly old woman, whose politeness convinced both Damon and Alastair to purchase their suits there. The ball loomed ahead, and neither Alastair nor Damon was able to control the sense of dread that loomed with it.

Something was going to happen very soon. They could feel it in their bones.

Chapter 29

“It doesn’t look too bad on you,” Alastair muttered, eyeing Damon’s outfit with a discerning eye. His friend had chosen a green doublet that he wore over an off-white, long-sleeved tunic the sleeves of which ended in gold-lined frills. Draped over his shoulders and neck, dropping down to his hips, was a long, flowing silver cape that glimmered like moonlight and starlight, its edges bedazzled with pearly white crystals that reflected the light. Underneath all that were dark blue trousers and a pair of off-white leather boots with gold filigrees, stretching outward from its heels. “That old lady did wonders. She actually made you look presentable.”

All in all, Damon looked just about ready to mingle amongst the local nobility. He might even end up in bed with some rich and pompous lady by the end of the night if he was careful with how he spoke and behaved.

Fat chance of that happening, though. Alastair knew him well enough.

Damon spun once, nodding at his own reflection from the gigantic mirror in the manor’s second floor, in a parlor room that was situated right next to the great hall that Alastair had trashed. He smiled and snapped his fingers, then winked at himself like an absolute madman.

“Yeah, I definitely look awesome in this,” Damon said. “‘Not bad’ is just underselling it. And I very heartily disagree with the implication that I wouldn’t be presentable, without Thelis’ help. That would be you.”

“Ugh, whatever, man.” Alastair rolled his eyes and stepped forward, examining himself, since he couldn’t trust Damon to give him an accurate assessment to save his own skin.

Alastair had chosen an outfit that was rather similar to the one Cthonia had gifted him when she became their patron. Like Blaze and Bile, the doublet he currently wore was a deep shade of crimson, but was tinged with a slight pink that almost gave it the appearance of red wine and blood, mixed together. Right above his jugular notch, studded onto his doublet’s cloth, was a large sapphire that was perfectly carved into the shape of an egg, held in place by a golden band, which the cloth adhered to. It was noticeably weighty, but not enough to really catch his attention. Underneath the doublet, he wore a black, long-sleeved tunic, its edges trimmed and lined with gold filigrees. Underneath all that were white trousers and chocolate-brown boots that reached up to just below his knees.

Their clothes had cost them little more than five hundred gold drachmas, give or take the few coins Damon insisted on giving the elder seamstress, Thelis, to aid her small, but bustling shop in the merchant district. Alastair had to admit, however, that the woman definitely deserved the gold she got from them. Her skill with the needle and the thread was nothing short of magical. Alastair wondered if she was Fated, just like them, a Fated Seamstress, capable of weaving incredible works of art in the shape of clothing. It had taken her less than two hours to create their outfits for them.

If such a thing wasn’t an act of godly power, then Alastair didn’t know what was.

Thelis also happened to be the kindest elderly woman he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. The grandmothers in Larisa were a gruff, grumbling sort, whose breakfasts included a good dose of criticizing the younger people for being less hardworking than their generation was.

Alastair shook the thoughts away and gave himself a final look over, before turning away from the gigantic mirror. “Alright, I think it works quite well.”

Damon shrugged. “Eh, the sapphire on your chest is kind of… over-the-top, but—yeah—it does look quite good.”

Alastair glanced at the sapphire on his chest and silently agreed that he could have gone a little more subtle. But they would be attending a party of nobles and wealthy aristocrats. The clothes they wore would probably seem shabby and cheap to a lot of the guests there. Not that he cared about what they thought of him, but Alastair did care about Cthonia’s opinion—and she was nobility. The sapphire was a great way of displaying the fact that he did have some wealth on him, but chose not to be frivolous about it.

And so he shrugged at Damon’s comment. “It’s there for a reason. I just hope it actually does what it’s supposed to do.”

Damon turned away from the mirror. “Should we just go right ahead into the princess’ palace or should we turn up fashionably late?”

Alastair chuckled and shook his head. “If we go for the latter, only one of us will arrive fashionably late, while the other one will just be plain late.”

Damon grumbled something about snarky friends as they made their way down and finally out of the manor, and into the cold of the night. It wasn’t late—not quite. The sun had only very recently set beyond the Charred Mountains, briefly illuminating the wall that kept the Middle Kingdom safe from the Plains of Gorgorod and Blasted Lands that lay further beyond. They had plenty of time to waste, just wandering around if they wanted to, before the ball would officially start. But, as they had agreed beforehand, they were doing all of this to keep Cthonia safe. They couldn’t properly do that if they wandered the city, like a bunch of tourists, which they technically were.

“I just realized we really haven’t seen much of Maredon, except for the places that are close to the manor or the Guildhall,” Damon muttered, breathing in the cool night air and instantly frowning. Large cities weren’t known for smelling like the beautiful flower meadows that grew near the countryside of Larisa, filling the air with sweet floral scents that dazzled and soothed the senses. Maredon was the exact opposite of that. The ground was filthy for the most part, and the smell of waste permeated the air.

Alastair nodded. “We should head on to Cthonia’s palace quickly. There’s no telling what might happen to her if we’re not there.”

Damon grinned. “Aww, you can’t wait to see the princess again. How romantic.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Alastair huffed. There was more to it than that. He wanted her to live. He wanted her to succeed. He wanted to see her ascend the throne and become queen, even if the chances of them becoming bitter enemies in the future were not nearly as slim as he’d like. “It’s… more than that, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

Damon nodded, smiling. There was a hint of something warm in his eyes as he spoke, “Alright, lover boy, I’ll follow your lead.”

They walked in silence, following the paved road that led them through the nobility-owned district, which further led them to what was possibly the largest and most opulent structure in the city, Cthonia’s personal palace. It towered over all, but also maintained enough elegance, grace, and splendor in its architecture that people who looked upon it would not see it for the fortress that it was. Alastair had been inside it once already, and he knew for a fact that assaulting the place would require a massive force. It wasn’t impregnable, but it also did not lack for hidden tunnels and secret doors—more than enough escape routes for Cthonia to take if her palace was ever surrounded on all sides by her enemies.

Not that such a thing would ever happen, considering Maredon had its own standing army and was the home of many adventurers.

The guards did not raise their weapons when they neared the gates. Instead, their leader merely nodded at them, before barking out orders for his underlings to step aside and let them pass. Cthonia was apparently expecting them, and the guards had been given the command to grant them unimpeded entry when they arrived. And so they passed through the gates, undisturbed.

Alastair noted the fact that the palace looked rather… sparse. It didn’t lack for decorations and fancy glowing crystals to illuminate the radiant gardens, but there was a distinct lack of guests. He would have expected at least some of the nobility to show up early, but that didn’t seem to be the case at all. Save for the guards and servants that wandered around, with the latter setting up chairs, tables, and tents in the garden, there were no guests—not a single one.

Shrugging, Alastair and Damon simply walked through the front door, briefly greeting the servant who welcomed them in, before asking said servant where the princess happened to be.

“Her Royal Highness is waiting for you in the great hall, sirs,” the servant answered, lowering his shaved head in a strange and uncomfortable show of deference—uncomfortable to Alastair, at least. He wasn’t quite sure if Damon cared enough about the gesture to find it uncomfortable. He definitely hated bowing, but no one had ever bowed to him before and that gave him all sorts of feelings. Regardless, the servant continued, “Please, sirs, follow me. I shall lead you to Her Royal Highness.”

Alastair and Damon both nodded and followed the servant down a massive hall, filled with intricate paintings that seemed to depict ancient battles and important events. The great hall was going to be a long walk away, given their current pace, and they weren’t in a hurry anyway, so Alastair passed the time by eyeing the myriad of paintings.

One artwork depicted the Battle of Mycenia, where the forces of King Therum I and King Vaeles II clashed in an epic battle that ended in the utter destruction of Mycenia, one of the many city-states that dotted the ancient land that would eventually come to be known as the Middle Kingdom after centuries of war and strife. The battle was remembered, because it showed just how much a single mage could affect the flow of the battlefield. King Vaeles, who marched with an army of ten thousand hoplites, expecting an easy victory, was significantly undermined by the efforts of Spytha, the loyal mage of King Therum. Though he won in the end, King Vaeles lost such a great number of his men that it eventually led to his downfall less than a year later, when his kingdom, Vrygia, was invaded by the Dragon-Boat people from the sea.

It was an ancient tale, borne from an age of chaos and strife, mere centuries after the gods left the earth in the culmination of the First Cataclysm.

They moved forward, and Alastair couldn’t believe just how spacious Cthonia’s palace was on the inside.

The next painting depicted the epic battle between Orion, the Hero of Thragia, holding his spear aloft, leaping from the edge of a cliff, and Baelon, the Great Red Dragon of the Blazing Mountain, its fiery maw wide open, ready to unleash death upon its enemies. It was a tale that… probably didn’t happen if Alastair was being honest, but it was one that was told all across the Middle Kingdom by mothers and fathers to their sons and daughters, just before bed. The whole thing apparently happened before the gods came into the world and gave their gifts to the first men, offering them power and knowledge. Orion was said to have been the son of an ancient king, who once sought to rule the world, but was brought down by his own hubris. Somehow, his once mighty empire was reduced to a single child—Orion.

The story was meant to inspire people to not be arrogant, to never underestimate one’s enemies. Baelon underestimated Orion’s resolve and ended up with a spear to the heart, after taking a nap during their battle, having seen the young prince as unworthy of its time and effort.

And that ended quite well for him, Alastair mused. The Great Red Dragon, of course, died in the end.

“Where did the princess get all of these?” Damon absently muttered.

Alastair briefly considered the question and found that he had no real answer. Some of the paintings looked to be older than the Middle Kingdom itself, a few likely predated the First Cataclysm, judging by their decrepit and withered textures.

“I’m curious about that, as well,” Alastair said.

“His Highness, the king, wanted to throw away these paintings when he had the royal palace in the capital city refurbished,” the servant explained, quietly glancing at the paintings themselves. The whole collection was probably a thousand times more expensive than Larisa and probably most of Maredon. “Her Highness, Princess Cthonia, had the paintings delivered here, instead.”

Alastair nodded. They were nearing the Great Hall and there were still a few dozen paintings left.

The last one that happened to catch Alastair’s eye was one that truly stood out from all the others. All the other paintings depicted scenes of ancient battles and historic moments, all of which happened in the Middle Kingdom. Alastair knew because he recognized most of them from reproductions in books back in Larisa, though their titles certainly helped in that regard, since one battle didn’t really look all that different from another, save for the differences in art styles. This one painting, however, was a depiction of a place Alastair knew nothing about. In fact, he was fairly certain it wasn’t in the Middle Kingdom, but of a place far away.

“Where is that?” Alastair absently asked, causing Damon and the servant to halt and turn at what he was staring at.

Damon tilted his head and shrugged, while the servant smiled. “I do not know what the land is called, sir, but I overheard the princess speak of it, once. She spoke of a great desert land, far to the east, filled with megaliths and monoliths that rise to the heavens, taller than any castle and larger than any fortress—pyramids, I believe she called them.”

Alastair wracked his brain for a moment, then his eyes widened. He recalled the words of a certain prince, who lived in a land of golden dunes. The Black Pyramid…

“Senekt…” he whispered, just loud enough for Damon to hear, but was quiet enough to seem inaudible to the servant, who stood a few feet from them. Damon raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Alastair spoke a little louder. “The land is called Senekt… I caught a glimpse of it in my trial. Huh, I didn’t think I’d ever actually see an actual depiction of it.”

“I wonder if it still exists,” Damon muttered. “Almost everything beyond the Charred Mountains has been burnt to a crisp. I wonder if we’ll ever get to see this Senekt place someday.”

Alastair shrugged. “With all that sand, Gorgorod’s flames must have turned the whole country into glass.”

“Still,” Damon said, “we should see if we can visit it someday. Imagine what we’ll find in a place like that…”

Alastair smiled, then turned to the servant. “Please, continue leading the way.”

The servant nodded. “Of course…”

They followed him into the great hall. It wasn’t barred by massive doors, like the one in their manor had been. Instead, it was simply a straight path from the hallway into there. The great hall alone was probably half as large as their whole manor—maybe more. Great glass sculptures hung from the ceiling, overlooking the hundreds of hardwood chairs and tables. The floor appeared to be made of the same material as the floor in Cthonia’s private quarters, crimson velvet—utterly soft, masking the sound of his every footstep.

Cthonia awaited them on the far end of the great hall. She sat on the middle seat on a long table that stretched nearly fifty feet long from one end to the other. A glistening golden cloth was placed right atop its surface, laid on it were hundreds of plates, each one made of porcelain and etched with golden filigrees. Alastair could barely imagine just how much food would be served here, tonight.

They approached Cthonia’s seat and bowed as was protocol when meeting royalty. The servant bowed as well, before excusing himself and walking the great hall.

“Well,” Cthonia said, smiling as she gestured at the both of them to sit on the chairs beside her. Alastair knew they wouldn’t be able to do that once the guests started pouring in. They weren’t famous enough in the city to warrant such a prestigious posting. “Since it’s just the three of us, we should stop being formal, yeah? It’s going to be annoying when all the other guests arrive and I’d have to act all prim and proper for them.”

“Sounds good to me,” Damon said.

“You look handsome,” Cthonia said to Alastair, flashing him a playful half-smile.

Alastair smiled and vaulted over the table, before planting a soft kiss on Cthonia’s cheek. The princess giggled and patted the seat to her right. Damon was taking the long way around for some reason, but Alastair didn’t protest as he sat down, right beside Cthonia. A comfortable warmth flooded him, and he could not help but smile as he took in her beauty.

Despite her status, Cthonia had elected to wear a simple ivory dress that covered most of her neck, down to her wrists and ankles. Other than that, she wore gold braces, studded with diamonds and rubies. What truly caught Alastair’s attention, however, was the crimson eyed artifact she wore on her neck—the Eye of the Dominus Nox.

Cthonia noticed him staring as she smiled. “Does it match the dress? My advisors tell me it doesn’t, but I want your opinion.”

Alastair studied her closely, his eyes narrowing.

Her advisors were right.

The necklace looked hideous. It clashed with her accessories. It would have worked far better if her dress was of a much darker shade, like purple or burgundy. But he didn’t want to tell her that. So, instead, Alastair opted to be flexible with the truth.

“It suits you, Cthonia. You look absolutely ravishing.”

The princess’ grin was absolutely predatory as she leaned in and whispered. She was glowing. The very air around her radiated warmth and beauty. “Oh, would you like to ravish me, then?”

“You know I do.” Alastair grinned back. And then his grin faded. “Do you think your brother or his supporters will make a move during the ball?”

Cthonia shook her head and chuckled. “I don’t think—I know. That’s why I’m not going to touch the food, even if my own servants prepared it.”

Alastair understood immediately. “I see. You think someone might have poisoned all the food. It’s crude, but effective. Even if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll definitely end up killing a lot of your supporters, which is a boon for Memnon. And it’ll affect your renown amongst the nobility, since they won’t look too kindly at a princess, whose guests were all poisoned to death.”

Cthonia nodded. “You’re quite right, my cute little toy.”

Alastair huffed at the nickname and paled at the realization that Damon had overheard and would certainly be using it against him at some point in the future. He then shook the dreadful thought away. “But why have a ball in the first place? Wouldn’t it be better for you to just stay secluded and plot against him in the shadows?”

She smiled. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going according to plan. No matter what happens, Memnon or his supporters won’t win.”

Alastair did not miss the malice in her voice.

He wasn’t sure if he should be afraid or aroused.

And then Damon sat on the seat on the opposite side of Cthonia, grinning. “So, what’d I miss?”

Chapter 30

The ball continued on as normally as Alastair might have expected it to, which meant it was absolutely boring and incredibly filthy. At some point, Cthonia politely told him and Damon to find other seats—one situated far from her. They made no protest. The guests slowly trickled in, men and women of political renown, nobles and aristocrats, who ruled entire sections of the city of Maredon, and famous adventuring teams and their patrons, even the Guild Master came, gruff and stern as he always was. And, soon enough, Cthonia’s great hall was filled with all sorts of guests.

The last to arrive were the bards. When they made their way to the far corner, stood atop a small stage, and began playing, that was when the real feast began and food was served. Hundreds of servants came pouring out of the entrance, carrying massive plates, bearing roasted suckling pork, goose, chicken, beef, and all sorts of foodstuffs that country bumpkins, like Alastair and Damon, hadn’t seen in their entire lifetime.

The bird pie, which the nobles fawned over for some reason, made Alastair feel queasy. Who in their right mind would stuff duck, pigeon, quail, and chicken in a single pot and call it a pie? It smelled horrendous and the fact that rich people actually enjoyed it made him a little doubtful for the sanity of the nobility—though, to be fair, that was already a questionable thing from the start.

As per Cthonia’s warning, he and Damon avoided the food—only adding things on their plate to make it seem as though they were eating, when, in fact, they weren’t. A number of the other nobles, Alastair noticed, were doing the same. He guessed these were people close to Cthonia whom she had also warned. It was more than a little tempting to try a few of the dishes. Alastair had never seen so much roast pork in his entire life and neither had Damon, who absolutely adored the stuff.

Damon, surprisingly enough, had a serious look on his face.

They had chosen a far off table to sit on, somewhere the nobles couldn’t and wouldn’t bother them, but still close enough to Cthonia that Damon could simply blink next to her in the span of a moment should danger truly appear in the party. The foreboding feelings they had in the pits of their stomachs only served to justify their actions. And so they ended up sharing their time with the bards, who were probably the only people here, aside from the servants, that Alastair couldn’t hate, since they sang quite well and weren’t nobles and, best of all, they were country bumpkins, like them, from the neighboring village of Imris, just some ten or so miles away from Larisa.

Alastair reclined against his seat and eyed the proceedings. There were about two hundred or so guests, give or take a few, and almost all of them were from the ruling nobility. The famous adventurers sat with the Guild Master, who seemed content to simply sit and watch, while everyone else mingled and spoke to each other. Cthonia stayed in her seat, exchanging greetings and pleasantries with those who came to greet her, many of whom bearing exotic and outlandish gifts. She had ten of her elite guards standing a few feet behind her. They were all heavily armed and armored, and their mere presence helped rein in the more boisterous of guests.

Alastair turned to Damon, who otherwise occupied his time by juggling a solid steel ball on his right hand, tossing it a foot into the air, before catching it again. It was an item that, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t be seen as a true weapon. In Damon’s hands, however, he could use it to blow holes through the thick trunks of trees and out the other side by hurling it hard and fast.

“Do you detect anything out of the ordinary?” Alastair asked, eyeing a group of young noblemen walking up to Cthonia with peculiar gifts in hand. A quick use of Appraise told him their gifts were nothing more than oddly shaped pieces of gold, silver, and some gems. Funny, nearly every gift she received thus far was made of gold and studded with fancy colored rocks. Nobles were surprisingly uncreative with their gifts, even if said gifts were lavish to the extreme.

Damon sniffed the air and shook his head. “Aside from the smell of sex, coming from a few of the private rooms, and the fact that one noble might have had diarrhea before coming here? No, not really. I can’t smell anything unusual from the food, either. It just smells like food—good food, at that.”

He did look like he wanted to eat—badly. But they both knew that they had to hold back. For all they knew, the poison could have simply been made to be odorless, completely bypassing Damon’s sense of smell. And neither of them had ever been poisoned before. They both had a form of regeneration, but they weren’t eager to test it against poison.

“I can hear some footsteps on the roof,” Damon muttered absently, his eyes roaming upward, even if the only thing immediately above them was the ceiling. “But the princess already told us about the band of assassins she hired to watch over her palace, so I’m not surprised about that. So far, nothing out of the ordinary is happening or has happened.”

Alastair’s mind drifted back to his earlier thought about the party: it was boring. But that didn’t mean it was bad. Boring was nice. Boring was good. Boring meant nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Boring was safe. If the ball remained boring, then Cthonia would come out of it unharmed. So, all in all, Alastair definitely preferred how boring the whole thing was.

“Tell me if something’s going on,” he said to Damon.

He sighed and leaned his head back, briefly eyeing the massive chandeliers on the ceiling, lit up by a series of glowing crystals and lenses that fed off each other. It was a fascinating design. Whoever came up with it must have been an accomplished architect.

He returned his gaze to the hall. With all the drinks being served and all the nobles in attendance, it was only a matter of time before someone got too drunk and started opening up old wounds and ancient grudges. Already he spotted several of the older nobles glaring at other nobles. Alastair didn’t know any of their names, but the anger they were projecting was almost palpable. Huh, what could they be fighting about?

Maredon was a large city, for sure, but it wasn’t so large as to house enemy nobles. Whatever their squabbles were, it must have been rather petty.

When the shouting finally started some ten minutes or so later, Alastair turned away, not interested in whatever grudges the nobles had with each other. Surprisingly, Cthonia just let it all happen. She was even smiling as she observed them. Her guards did nothing to stop the angry nobles from making spectacles of themselves, in front of all the other guests. The adventurers, it seemed, were amused by what they were seeing, if the snickers and laughs were anything to go by.

Damon, of course, passed the time by flirting with a female bard: a black-haired lady, who couldn’t seem to keep her hands to herself. Alastair cringed and turned away. He did not want his mind permanently impressed with the image of Damon getting sensually caressed.

He chose, instead, to keep his attention on the far window, the largest window in the great hall, where he was able to see the stars and the moon amidst floating clouds of gray and black.

But then something moved near the edge of the window, a black thing that was neither cloud nor star. Its movements were unnatural, almost bestial. Alastair turned to Damon, but his friend was already looking at the window, a sneer on his face.

“I know,” Damon said, “I saw it too. There’s something out there. It’s definitely not human. I caught a glimpse of a tail. It moved further up the roof. The assassins will meet it.”

Alastair nodded, absently glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s definitely a monster. Can a few assassins deal with it?”

Damon stood up, shrugging. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. But there’s more than one and not all of them are converging on the roof. I can smell a few of them coming from the tunnels underneath the palace.”

“What do they smell like?”

Damon frowned and sniffed. “I’m not sure… they almost smell like… wolves.”

Alastair’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing to figure out what kind of monster had that sort of profile. The Lupus Rex was one such creature that might have the smell of wolves about it. It was a gigantic wolf-like monster considered to be as dangerous as dragons, given its sheer ferocity and bullheaded will. Its fur was said to be as hard as dragon scales. But it couldn’t be a Lupus Rex outside, because the whole town would have been immediately alerted to its presence. Those monsters weren’t exactly small, and the thing he saw outside—while not small, either—was not large enough to be described as gigantic.

So what else was there?

Before he could even think of another monster, the whole of the ball was interrupted by the sound of several hundred howls coming from outside the palace, as though a legion of wolves had descended down upon them. And then all the windows exploded, sending glass shrapnel hurling everywhere, killing a few guests in an instant and injuring countless others. Screams echoed from everywhere, fear and pain and shock all mixing into some chaotic symphony. But it wasn’t over.

From the windows came a flood of black fur, claws, and teeth—massive, humanoid monsters with wolf heads came crashing. The hapless guests could only scream as the creatures tore through them. Blood and gore sprayed and filled the air as the beasts rampaged, killing indiscriminately. Cthonia hid behind her guards. She was far from any window and was safe from the beasts—for now.

Alastair stood up instantly, as did Damon, who summoned the Black Dragon’s Spear, alongside the Guiding Eye of Piercing Winds.

Damon’s voice broke through the screams. “What are these things?”

Alastair grabbed his weapon and quickly took aim, letting loose a bolt at one of the wolf-headed creatures, still climbing into the great hall. The bolt pierced right into the monster’s right eye and sent it falling backward as it howled in pain. That caught the attention of its fellows as several of the wolf-headed monsters turned and roared at them.

+150 Pollentias!

Alastair quickly reloaded. There was an awkward pause as the wolf-headed creatures eyed both him and Damon as though they were the only ones here.

“I have no idea,” he said, just as the monsters charged right for the two of them specifically, practically ignoring everyone else in the great hall.

Alastair leapt up, narrowly avoiding the jaws of a wolf… man thing. He then spun mid-air and let loose a single bolt that pierced right into the creature’s exposed ear, hopefully killing it.

+150 Pollentias!

He landed on his feet, ducked, and rolled forward as another one of them lunged at him. It was close—too close for comfort. His left hand on the floor, Alastair created a thin stone spike. It emerged faster than he could blink and pierced right through the monster’s heart, killing another one that had leapt atop it as the spike went through to the ceiling. He rolled away as the monster thrashed in its death throes.

+150 Pollentias!

Alastair spotted Damon killing two and then three and four monsters, each one dying through decapitation, their huge hairy bodies falling all around him. By now, a few of Cthonia’s guards had broken off from their formation around her and engaged several of the wolf-headed monsters, and the adventurers—all of whom managed to sneak weapons through the guards—aided them by fighting back.

Another one of the monsters leapt right at Alastair, snarling and frothing at the mouth. He would have raised his arbalest, but he hadn’t reloaded it yet. Instead, he stood aside, letting it crash on the ground. It roared and turned, but Alastair had already laid his right hand on its skin. The wolf-headed monster fell apart, like ground meat, into a pile of blood and gore.

Alastair’s eyes widened. “Huh, I can’t believe it actually works on living creatures.”

+150 Pollentias!

Damon wiped blood from his face and groaned. “And here I thought we’d be having a perfectly ordinary, if boring, evening. I hate it when you’re right about these things.”

Alastair shrugged and reloaded. Cthonia was safe. She didn’t even look afraid as she stood behind her guards, barking out orders left and right. She was calm and serene when all the other nobles were busy cowering on the ground or under the tables.  “Eh, it could have been a lot worse.”

The wolf-headed monsters could have simply rushed Cthonia the moment they came crashing in.

As it was, he and Damon would be enough to hold the beasts back. And the task of dealing with these wolf-man creatures was made even easier by the fact that the pair weren’t by themselves. There were others here, fighting back, and they were fighting back viciously.

Where did these wolf creatures even come from and what are they? Memnon sent these creatures, Alastair had no doubt about that. But if he was trying to kill Cthonia, then his effort was sloppy at best.

He raised his arbalest and loosed another bolt. It surged through the air and pierced right through the eye of a monster, blinding it, only for an adventurer to slice its head clean off its shoulders. A moment later, that very same adventurer was shredded as three of the wolf-headed monsters bore down on her. The three monsters were then cut down by the Guild Master, who seemed almost amused by the proceedings, before proceeding to kill four more.

The rest of the guests, however, did not fare well.

Damon growled as a wolf-headed monster rushed at him, only to get sliced cleanly in half from head to groin by the Black Dragon’s Spear. “I’m charging in. You go and keep close to the princess. I have a feeling these guys are meant to be a distraction.”

Damon blurred out of sight. Five of the wolf-headed monsters fell, dead, their heads rolling off their shoulders as they flopped on the floor.

And yet there were even more of them streaming in from the windows.

The screams and roars from outside indicated that a lot of the monsters were killing off the servants, which meant the lot of them would come rolling in through the damn doorway at some point. Even with Damon’s ridiculous speed, strength, and durability, there was no way they’d be able to hold them off Cthonia. She only had a few guards, and none of them were trained to fight monsters, at least from what Alastair could tell.

Alastair rushed to her side. Cthonia’s guards let him pass without issue. She didn’t seem fazed by what was going on. She had a contemplative look on her face. Alastair ignored it. “Cth—Your Majesty, we should get the hells out of here, while we still can! Those wolf things are going to flood through the main entrance, and everyone here’s going to be overwhelmed.”

She turned to him and their eyes locked briefly. She nodded. “There’s a secret exit—follow me.” Cthonia turned to her guards, who’d moved to follow us. They stopped when she practically barked at them, “The lot of you—go and help the adventurers!”

They bowed their heads and turned, before engaging the wolf-headed monsters.

Damon was still blurring across the great hall as Cthonia led him to the secret door. Somehow, none of the wolf-headed monsters bothered coming at them. She led him to the far corner, where the remains of the bards were scattered, all bloody and shredded. Alastair mourned them for a moment. They were good and honest people. Cthonia pressed her hand against a random brick. At first glance, it was the same as all the others, but then Alastair noticed that it was ever so slightly darker. The brick shuddered and moved inward. Not a moment later, a part of the wall caved in and slid open, revealing a flight of stairs on the other side. It was dimly illuminated by glowing crystals on the wall.

“Woah,” Alastair let out.

Cthonia turned over her shoulder and grinned at him. “I’m fond of secret doors and tunnels. My palace is full of them. Let’s go.”

Alastair nodded and followed her into the stairs. The secret door closed behind them right as he stepped in. Magic… that was definitely magical in nature. Otherwise, the door would have stayed open… It’s either that or Cthonia pressed something else right as we entered.

The sounds of battle faded behind them. Alastair had no doubt as to Damon’s safety. The man could probably kill all of those monsters by himself if given the chance. But Alastair did fear for everyone else—for the innocents, who did not deserve the death that was coming for them. They were nobles, and he despised their way of life, but that didn’t mean they deserved to be eaten alive by giant humanoid dogs. Damon couldn’t save everyone in there. The other adventurers might survive, but that wasn’t a given.

“What were those things?” Cthonia asked as they walked up the stairs. There appeared to be another entrance that needed to be opened on the other end of it. Alastair just hoped they wouldn’t open the secret door and be greeted by a pack of those things. He could hold them off with Shape and Weld, but he wouldn’t be able to properly fight them if he had to worry about Cthonia.

Alastair shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never read about anything like them before.”

Those monsters didn’t seem too difficult to deal with. They were strong, but most of their strength was derived from their numbers and the fact that they had the element of surprise. Against a team of amateur adventurers or hunters, they might be an actual problem. But, after facing down a Vainur, Alastair could not help but think of them as nothing more than angry puppies that needed to be put down for good.

Cthonia nodded and clutched at her chest.

They reached the end of the stairway, and Cthonia pressed another brick, causing the secret door to open, which led them straight to her room. Alastair walked in first, scanning the place for anything, but there was nothing. The wolf-headed monsters hadn’t reached this place yet. The windows hadn’t been broken through and shattered. Cthonia would be safe here.

“Come on,” he said, turning to face her. When he saw her, however, his eyes widened. “Cthonia!”

She was on the floor, pale and cold, a dart on her neck.

“No! Cthonia!” Alastair panicked as he rushed to her side and paused as he laid a hand on her corpse. Wait a minute.

It’s not her. Alastair noted immediately. His breathing slowed down, a strange sort of relief flooding him immediately. The smell of her perfume is different… cheekbones are a little higher and the lips are slightly thinner. Is it a replica of—oh, I see. She used the Eye of the Dominus Nox.

“Don’t be mad, Alastair…”

He knew that voice.

Tsk, she could have just told him.

Alastair turned and was promptly met by a shadowy figure.

Before he could do anything, Alastair felt his stomach burn. His eyes blurred, and his throat seemed to freeze. He couldn’t breathe, and everything was dimming. His senses dulled. The last thing he heard was a vaguely familiar feminine voice.

“Just play along, Alastair,” the voice said with a tone that was almost playful. “Play along…”

Alastair huffed and mustered all his strength for a brief chuckle. “Clever… very clever.”

And then his world faded to black.

Chapter 31

“Hey you,” a reverberating voice called out. “Wake up! Yes, you! Wake up!”

Alastair’s eyes snapped open.

His vision was blurry. He could barely make out the details of… wherever he was at the moment. There was a stiff and cold sort of hardness against his head, like hard stone. The scent of dampness permeated the air, like moss on a rainy day. A steady stream of droplets echoed from somewhere. And it was either very early in the morning or very late in the afternoon, judging from the faint gray light coming in through the window.

He was on the floor, just lying there with neither cot nor bed. That certainly explains the hardness.

Where am I?

“Hey, wake up!”

He didn’t recognize that voice, but it was definitely from someone about the same age as he was, maybe a bit older. It carried an odd sort of resignation that came from someone who’d accepted their lot in life, like a dying man—someone who’d already made peace with what loomed ahead of him.

Alastair shook his head, forced himself up to a seated position, and winced. His eyes snapped shut at the pain that flooded him—his ribs seemed to crack and his chest muscles groaned. But he also felt his regeneration slowly fixing them, but there was something else too: a strange energy that seemed to linger in his body, causing all the internal damage that his regeneration would then fix up in a loop of wounds and healing.

Still, it was nothing compared to the pain of having most of his body in a broken heap, after falling off a mountainside—the few moments before he took his regeneration perk. Without it, the dark energy within him might have been severely debilitating. He might not be capable of moving if he didn’t. Ah, I might as well find out where in the hells I am.

The pain stung, but Alastair forced himself through it and eventually stood up.

His vision cleared. And the first thing he saw in front of him was a door of solid steel bars. He was in a prison, it seemed. The walls and floor were made of great gray bricks. Everything appeared aged and untouched, left to rot with the withering of time if the damp moss was anything to go by. This place was old—very old. The walls themselves seemed to tell the stories of all the prisoners once held here, the guilty and the innocent alike, their screams still echoing through the mortar, between the bricks.

He shook his head and reached out, laying a hand on the bars themselves, which appeared to be in pristine condition—not a speck of rust or rot on them.

Appraise!

[Mithril Prison Bars]

Quality: Rare

Durability: 100,000/100,000

Value: 50,000

A unique metal invented by the dwarves, shaped by a skilled artisan. These bars were meant to hold the servants of Gorgorod.

It’s definitely not steel, he noted Alastair scoffed, feeling a familiar thrum of power run through him. He could break out of here easily enough. It didn’t matter what metal they were using, Shape could turn it all to dust.

Mithril, huh? Alastair thought. Whoever put me in here really doesn’t want me to get out. Still, it might do me some good to wait and see what happens. I want to know who’s responsible for putting me in here and why. And I’d like to know if Damon’s okay.

“Just play along, Alastair.” The words rung in his head—a sweet, feminine voice. It was Cthonia’s voice. She was alive. And yet, he’d still ended up… here? Where was here, exactly?

He breathed in and frowned. The air didn’t smell like human waste, which meant he wasn’t in Maredon. He had to be somewhere high up in the mountains. He smelled lavender, lilac, and gooseberries. The air reminded him of Larisa.

“Hey… Ah, you’re finally awake,” the voice called out again.

Alastair walked to the bars and glanced out. There was enough space between each metal bar to see outside his cell. Although, there wasn’t much of a view, since outside his cell were just more cells—most of them occupied by skeletons, moss growing on their bones. Still, there was one other cell that was occupied, and the voice that came from there definitely didn’t belong to Damon.

“Who’s there?” Alastair asked.

“The name’s Bris,” said the voice, who belonged to someone apparently named Bris. “And who might you be my corpse friend? Because I was quite sure you were dead when they brought you here. It’s either that or you’re just a very pale person. Then again, who in the hells would put a corpse in prison?”

“You’re a talkative one,” Alastair thought out loud, before sighing. “The name’s Alastair, friend. And no, I’m not dead. Do you know where we are?”

“We,” Bris began, “are in Karkus, the Asylum of the Fallen. Well, it used to be an asylum, but it’s little more than just a prison nowadays. And it doesn’t house any of the Fallen anymore, just a few lonely people looking to end their days behind mithril bars.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard of any such place before. He’d read many books, and none of them ever mentioned this place—not once. And what was a Fallen? The only Fallen he knew about were the Vainur, who were Fallen Gods, and this place wasn’t nearly big enough to house even one of those damn things on a good day.

This place had history—lots of it. And, in another time, Alastair would have loved to learn everything he could about it and all the stories that lingered here, and what these Fallen were. Unfortunately, he was rather pressed for time, and staying behind bars was not a good way to spend what time he still had left. Step one: escape this place. Step two: look for Damon… wherever he is at the moment. Step three: try to find out just why I’m in prison.

“Is there a warden?” Alastair asked.

What he got in response was a huge bout of laughter from Bris. It continued for several moments, before the man stopped.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “You were serious. In that case, let me laugh a little harder.”

He laughed again.

Alastair groaned. Alright, the only other person here is a madman.

“There is no warden, my corpse friend!” Bris finally said, after a minute or two of laughter. “They open the cells, throw us in, and leave us to rot. There are no guards, no wardens, nothing. None of the prisoners ever manage to escape anyway. This is where they throw the worst criminals in the Middle Kingdom… or the innocent, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The bars that hold us in place are so strong, not even a dragon can melt or break them.”

We’ll see about that. Alastair mused. If there was no one here to guard them, then there was no point in waiting for a warden to come down and explain to him just what his crime was. Though, considering his last memory, he had a good idea on what it might be. Play along, huh? Just what are you planning, Cthonia, and why am I in jail for it?

She was craftier than he had thought. And Alastair wasn’t sure if he should be more enamored with the woman or just plain annoyed with her. He would just have to talk to her about it when he saw her next.

“How long have I been here?” Alastair asked, unsure.

“Eh,” Bris began. “You’ve been here for about a week or so. I assumed you weren’t going to get up. So speaking with you now is a pleasant surprise.”

Alastair scowled. Millions of things would have occurred in the span of a single week, and he had been unconscious the whole time.

“How far away are we from Maredon?” he asked, grabbing the bars of his cell. True to what Bris told him, it would take an ungodly amount of force to break these things, which made sense since mithril was melted and given shape through magical means and not through mundane flames. The metal was powerful, durable, and incredibly expensive. Many of the most iconic and legendary artifacts throughout history were made of mithril. The metal was, without a doubt, miraculous.

But Alastair was a Crafter. He could snap his fingers and turn an ingot of mithril into a giant penis if he wanted to.

Not that he’d ever do that, but Damon might.

No, Damon definitely would if he could.

Chuckling to himself, Alastair turned the mithril bars into dust and walked out.

“How far away are we from Maredon? You ask…” Bris began, shouting from the other side of the cell block. He obviously didn’t know that Alastair had just vanished the bars of his cell and walked out.

Alastair glanced around for anything of particular use. He could actually inventory all the mithril here. And he planned on doing just that. But, first, he needed to speak to the one other person here, since he wasn’t keen on talking to skeletons.

“We’re quite far, actually,” Bris continued. “I’d say the nearest city might be Varthens, but I’m just guessing. All I know is that we’re high up in the mountains, quite close to the Charred Mountains, actually, but not too close as to attract the attention of all the things that live there.”

Close to the Charred Mountains, huh? Alastair frowned. That meant they might be anywhere from the southernmost tip of the Middle Kingdom to its northernmost tip. He then promptly bonked himself on the head for forgetting something so simple. Of course! Map!

The system’s map feature appeared in his vision, imposing itself over his field of view. Alastair then began walking forward, holding his hands out to send all the mithril bars into his inventory. In doing so, he noticed that there was something missing from his inventory: his arbalest, The Guiding Eye of Piercing Winds. Someone must have taken it from him when he had been knocked unconscious in Cthonia’s chambers. His heart ached at the loss of his weapon. Well, he could always craft another item. Maybe a maul? He wouldn’t mind getting some more experience in melee combat.

He put the thought aside for now.

Bris’ cell appeared to be at the very edge of the cellblock.

Hmm, it seems I’m not as far away from Maredon as I thought, but it’s still quite far, he mused, eyeing the map. Bris got it right—the nearest city was Varthens, and it was still quite far. Alastair would have to trek through hundreds of miles of woodlands to get there. It wouldn’t be a fun trip, but he had to get back to the city and figure out just what happened that got him put in prison. Another thing that caught his attention was the fact that he must have been out of it for several days longer than the week Bris said he had spent in the cell. After all, whoever put him in this place had to transport him here first and that must have taken a long time—time he’d apparently spent unconscious.

Just where in the hells was Damon? Knowing how strong he is, they must have put him in some other prison that’s way stronger than this one. Hells, I don’t think any prison could hold that guy in place.

Then again, mithril might just do the trick, but Damon wasn’t here, which meant he was being kept somewhere else, assuming he was arrested at all.

At the thought, Damon’s general location was revealed to be in Maredon.

Alastair breathed a sigh. Of course….

When Alastair reached Bris’ cell, he had to give the man credit for not gasping in shock. Alastair turned and eyed him. Bris was powerfully built—a warrior. He was a tad shorter than Damon, but his build was far bulkier. His body was covered in scars and glowing tattoos, likely some form of magical runic script that enhanced his body beyond normal means. He was bald, though his red eyebrows suggested that his hair might have been red. His eyes were a fiery amber, like the eyes of a wolf. And there was something just off about him, like a familiar scent or aura that Alastair could not quite place.

Still, he’d give him the benefit of the doubt.

Bris stood and walked up to him, stopping just behind the bars of his cell. “Well… this is a first. I never thought anyone could actually break out of this place. And you’re literally about to walk out of Karkus without so much as a bead of sweat on your forehead. That’s definitely a first.”

He then pointed at the other cells, whose metal bars Alastair had already removed and sent to his inventory. “Do you see those bones there? Most of them belonged to the Fallen, a bunch of angry bastards, the lot of them. They were sent here after they tried to kill the king.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow. “Who are the Fallen?”

Bris shrugged and took a step back. “They are a bunch of Slayers, who got it in their heads that they could start another bloody Cataclysm if they sacrificed the king to Gorgorod—stupid bastards the lot of them.”

Ah, Slayers, the psychotic worshippers of Gorgorod, who threw themselves at monsters and brigands, hoping to find a worthy sacrifice for their god. The only reason they hadn’t been wiped out was because they made an effective pest control. Still, they were ostracized from most cities and only grudgingly accepted in some—usually the frontier towns that needed all the help it could get against monsters. It was honestly surprising they hadn’t tried anything like this sooner. One would think that the worshippers of the god, who started the second cataclysm, would be doing their best to ruin everyone’s day.

“Why are you here?” Alastair asked. Bris looked dangerous, certainly, but that didn’t mean he was a murderer. He’d give the man the benefit of the doubt. If the man was innocent, all Alastair had to do was reach out and turn the bars of his cell into dust and that would be the end of the man’s torment. “What did you do to deserve this prison?”

Bris smiled. “The Blood Rage—it’s both a gift and a burden by our dearly beloved blasted bitch of a patron god, Gorgorod. It grants us immense power, enhances our speed, and makes us immune to harm for as long as it’s active. But we also lose ourselves to the trance. It makes us dumb brutes, who can’t tell the difference between friend and foe.” He sighed. “I never wanted the damned god’s blessing, but he gave it to me, anyway, because he’s a turd of a god. I’d rather not talk about the details, but I went into a Blood Rage… Everything went black, and I woke up here.”

Alastair scoffed internally. He wasn’t sure if he believed Bris. All the skeletons here probably said the same thing: it wasn’t their fault for ending up here. But Alastair had a way of discerning the truth, once and for all…

Bris snorted and chuckled, looking up at the window, his amber eyes piercing the clouds. “At least, if I’m here, I won’t be degraded to becoming the entertainment of a god, who’s got nothing better to do with his damned time! If I’m here, I won’t be a threat to anyone. It’s either that or die, but dying’s not an option when you’ve got regeneration, you know? It’s also why I haven’t died of starvation when I haven’t eaten for… oh, I don’t know, a few decades or so?”

Without uttering a single word, Alastair raised his right hand at Bris and unleashed the White Flames of Shazdrak right into the man’s cell.

No scream came out of the cell, just a slight yelp and a loud screech of surprise, but nothing else.

When the flames receded, Bris stood there, eyes wide. “What did you do?”

Alastair lowered his right hand. “The White Flames of Shazdrak. It can discern a person’s guilt in the eyes of the goddess and in the eyes of the law of men. And, since you’re not burnt to a crisp, it means you’re innocent. You shouldn’t be here, friend. This place is for the guilty and neither of us is guilty.”

Bris seemed to deflate. “I know… That’s why I chose to stay here. I never wanted to become a Slayer. Gorgorod forced his mark on me, because I did… something that caught his attention. And now I have to live with the fact that the God of Chaos and Murder and all the bad things has a hand on my soul. I’d rather rot away in this place than be a pawn to that creature’s schemes. It’s the one thing I can do to be in charge of my own destiny.”

Alastair tilted his head to the side and sighed. “That’s a terrible way to live, Bris. But… just in case you change your mind in the future, I’m going to do you a favor.”

He reached out and turned the bars of Bris’ cell into dust. The man’s eyes widened as he took several steps back.

Alastair sighed and turned away. “You can stay here and rot, if you want, or you can walk out of this place and be free—live your life the way you want to. Gorgorod wants chaos, so if you want to spite the bastard, be a preacher of peace, a warrior who protects, or a Slayer who does not kill. You have so many other choices, aside from sitting on your ass until you die of boredom.”

With that, Alastair walked out of the cellblock and up a flight of stairs that led him right into a desolate courtyard that, like the prisons themselves, looked as though it hadn’t seen a single human in centuries. Moss and vegetation had taken over most of the bare rock. The place might have looked like a castle at one point, what with all the battlements and the walls that stood all over the place. Ahead was the ruins of a tower that must have stood tall at some point. All that remained of it was its lower half. Was this place really meant to be a prison?

Alastair walked toward the center of the courtyard and paused. Now, where’s the exit?

Shrugging, Alastair leapt up the battlements. His eyes widened. “Where in the hells could it be?”

In front of him was the Charred Mountains, carved into the earth by the sword of Gorgorod himself. And still he saw beyond the mountains, into the Blasted Lands and the Plains of Gorgorod, a barren wasteland of noxious fumes, lakes of fire, and monsters of obsidian scales whose breath melted rock and stone. There was a gap in the Charred Mountains, a tiny gap that one could use to walk out of the Middle Kingdom if one was insane enough to actually do that.

He turned away and saw a nearly endless swathe of greenery—tall trees spreading out as far as the eye could see, a green hell, likely filled with all sorts of monsters and beasts. It would be far easier with Damon at his side, but he didn’t have that luxury now. He’d just have to get creative.

Alastair sighed.

The trip back to civilization would be a long and boring one.

“There’s a road…” Bris’ voice brought him out of his musing. Alastair turned and saw the Slayer standing on the courtyard, a grim look on his face. “There’s a safe road that’s used to transport prisoners here. It’ll lead us right into the edge of the woods. From there, you can make your way to wherever you want to go.”

He leapt up, grunting as he landed right beside Alastair. “I’ve decided to live my life, instead of hiding away. But I have a debt to you, friend. And I shall accompany you on your journey.”

Alastair smiled. “Good, I’ll need all the help I can get when I slice the prince’s head off his shoulders.”

Bris laughed. “I’m glad to see the attitude toward royalty hasn’t changed since I was locked up. I guess this will be just another day, then, eh?”

Chapter 32

“You said you were a Crafter, right?” Bris asked absently, grabbing an armored soldier’s head and sending the man face first into the ground, taking great care not to exert too much strength, lest he kill the innocent. He leaned back immediately afterward, narrowly avoiding the swing of a war hammer that would have cracked his head open if it hit. Snapping forward, Bris let loose a powerful right cross right into the offending soldier’s chin, sending the man flying back, unconscious, toward his compatriots.

“Yeah,” Alastair replied, leaping over the shoulders of a tall and burly guard, and smacking the top of his head with a mithril maul he’d created from the several tons of mithril he’d pilfered off of Karkus. The heavy man groaned and fell down, already dreaming by the time his face hit the ground. Bris, the Slayer, opted for a barehanded approach to battle, ensuring his foes would never receive mortal wounds, unless he popped their necks or broke their spines.

Alastair decided not to kill any of the soldiers that almost immediately attacked him the moment he stepped a single foot in Maredon, which was why his weapon wasn’t enchanted with anything, just a plain old mithril maul that did its job quite well. They weren’t brainwashed or enthralled, but he couldn’t look at any of them as enemies—they were fresh-faced youths, serving their lord and following orders. Sure, dying was a part of a soldier’s duty, but these very same soldiers would—one day—be fighting for Cthonia, so he saw no need to kill them. They served Memnon, for now, because they knew no better.

Dealing with them was a bit harder than if he’d just decided to start slicing off heads.

Still, the right thing to do was often harder.

Alastair ducked under a wild sword swing, the blade grazing his hair as he pivoted to the left, avoiding the tip of a spear that would have skewered his ribs if he had been a moment too late. He lashed out, knocking out the sword-wielding soldier with a quick crack to the temple, sending the man falling to the ground. Alastair then followed up by surging forward and thrusting with his maul, hitting the spearman right on the chin and sending him down. He continued onward, swinging his weapon left and right.

A soldier screamed as he flew overhead, hurled by Bris, who howled with laughter. “Is that all you’ve got?”

In response, the soldiers in front of them screamed and charged, raising their weapons high. Alastair’s eyes narrowed. These ‘soldiers’ had never been in an actual battle their whole life. They had no teamwork or coordination, and their fighting skills were subpar at best. He had no formal training of his own, and he was handling them like they were nothing more than children. Bris, however, made them look even less than children—and he was doing it without a weapon.

“Did you really have to do that?” Alastair groaned and sighed, bringing his mithril maul to bear and charging forward. Waiting for the soldiers to reach him would be stupid. He needed to keep moving. He needed to reach Cthonia’s palace. He wasn’t here to send green-faced recruits to an early retirement. He was here for his friend, for the truth, and for Memnon’s head.

Bris laughed and charged with him. He was slower than Damon—far slower. Alastair could actually see his every movement. Oh, he was faster and stronger than any ordinary human being could hope to be, especially given how easily he could lift a fully grown and fully armored man, over his shoulders, and toss said man as though he was nothing more than a ragdoll. But Alastair found him… lacking. He would have already reached Cthonia’s palace if Damon had been with him.

Still, he’d be far slower if he went by himself. Bris was a welcome help.

This is getting annoying. Alastair leapt up, grabbing some explosive powder and magnesium from his inventory. Bind, he commanded. The two clustered together, forming a new item—one which Alastair had not quite expected.

A Glimpse of the Sun

Quality: Rare

Durability: 10/10

Value: 10,000

An explosive device, capable of creating an artificial light source that’s equal in intensity to the sun. The effect lasts for half a second, temporarily blinding all, save for the user.

“Bris!” Alastair shouted, dropping the peculiar bomb on the ground. “Close your damn eyes!”

The Slayer nodded, without protest, closing his eyes, but continuing the fight, nonetheless. Even with his vision effectively nullified, Bris followed up his initial charge by grabbing a hapless soldier by the arms and used his body akin to a flail, popping his shoulder bones free as Bris swung his body left and right, hitting the other soldiers. Alastair landed on his feet, rolling forward and bringing his mithril maul up to hit another soldier on the chin, knocking the man unconscious.

Several more charged him, but that was when the Glimpse of the Sun exploded and all the colors of the world turned to gold. The flash of light that came was so freakishly bright that Alastair thought his eyes might have sizzled and burned within their sockets. Of course, he was the designated ‘user’ of the item, which meant the flash wasn’t even a temporary inconvenience for him. The screams came afterward—the screams of hundreds and hundreds of innocent soldiers, whose eyes were practically roasted into blackened stains on their faces.

Men and women in uniform writhed on the ground, unable to understand what happened.

Alastair cringed as he opened his eyes and beheld his bloody handiwork. This was not what he wanted. Most of these people would never see again. He’d made sure of that, even if only accidentally. The item’s description had said that the blindness would be temporary, but perhaps the item was accounting for monsters or Fated humans, and not regular humans like these soldiers?

“Well…” Bris said, slowly opening his eyes. “That could have gone worse.”

“How?” Alastair asked, almost exasperated as he stepped over the screaming soldiers and continued onward. Even in rage, frustration, and no small amount of regret, he needed to move forward for the sake of those he cared about.

Bris followed closely, the man keeping his word.

“How could it have been worse?” Alastair repeated.

“You could have melted their damn brains.” Bris shrugged.

Alastair briefly considered the Slayer’s words, before he found himself agreeing. “Alright, it could have been a lot worse… it’s just… I would have preferred less severe injuries.”

Bris grunted in agreement, but said nothing as they made their way through the city streets. Maredon had, surprisingly, been cleared. The once-sprawling city now seemed so eerily quiet, like a town of ghosts and specters, haunted by the echoes of those that once lived.

But Alastair knew better. The people kept to themselves, locking themselves shut inside their houses and hovels. Stores were closed and barred, busy merchant districts turned to desolate sectors, devoid of any color and any sound. It was almost sad if Alastair was being honest. This city was once so full of life and splendor. Now, because of whatever Memnon cooked up, it was reduced to this.

Then again, I can’t just discount the possibility that everything’s going according to Cthonia’s plan…. he mused, absently smiling. Despite everything, Alastair couldn’t really find it in himself to be angry at Cthonia for what she had done. After all, she was a politician, and politicians were a crafty bunch. He loved her all the same. In fact, he found that such an act only made his feelings for her grow stronger. It took a lot of guts and brains to think of something as complicated as this and meticulously carry it out to perfection.

And he would play along. By slicing Memnon’s head off. Where is that bald freak, anyway?

They continued onward and met very little in the way of actual resistance. What few soldiers dared to attack them were swiftly, but mercifully, sent into the realm of dreams… with a loose tooth or two. Memnon, it seemed, was still fond of hiding behind an army. The only difference now was that these people, who fought for his sake, did so because they believed they were fighting for the prince. Well, they weren’t wrong about that, since the bald mage was apparently Cthonia’s brother, but Alastair just couldn’t think of him as anything more than a cockroach that needed to be stepped on.

“Given we’re literally about to kill a prince, you’d think we’d have to put up with a lot more resistance than this,” Bris muttered, absently gesturing at a group of twenty or so spearmen, who were marching up toward them. They looked no less green than all the others who had crossed their paths today. These ones, at least, had enough brain cells to maintain unit cohesion.

Alastair silently agreed. He’d been half-expecting Memnon to have mustered an army of thousands. Instead, they were met by nothing more than a token force. “I don’t have time for this.”

Crouching, Alastair placed both his hands on the paved ground and used Weld to attach the soldiers’ feet to their boots, and then attached their boots to the ground, effectively preventing them from moving if they didn’t want to flay their soles. The soldiers screamed in shock, horror, and panic as Alastair and Bris easily circled them, then moved on.

“How in the bloody blazing hells did you do that?” Bris asked, mouth slightly agape as he turned over his shoulder and glanced at the screaming soldiers, all of whom had dropped their weapons and uselessly tugged at their feet. He then turned to Alastair, a single eyebrow raised. “I thought you said you were a Crafter. I’ve never heard of any Crafter doing anything like that. Are you sure you’re not a Mage?”

“I’m definitely a Crafter,” Alastair replied, smirking. He then turned and pointed at the struggling soldiers. “That was just one of the many tricks I have up my sleeves.”

Not really. Alastair wasn’t even sure if it would work when he did it.

Still, he was rather glad it actually worked, since it would have been rather awkward if it didn’t. He’d either have a bunch of people whose feet were stuck to their boots or a bunch of boots stuck on the road.

It would have been hilarious, though.

At least, Damon would have had a good laugh at his expense.

They reached Cthonia’s palace after a short walk. The entrance was no longer guarded by the princess’ elite guards. In their place was a contingent of heavily armored knights, whose breastplates glistened in the sun and whose helmets bore strange, feathered crests that almost gave them the appearance of wings. They carried long spears and round shields, and had two swords each, strapped to their waists. Alastair counted fifteen of them. And a single glance was all it took for him to know that these particular soldiers were not amateurs. The very air around them was murderous and bloodthirsty, but held back by a staunch wall of discipline.

Still not impressive, since they were just regular humans.

Bris grimaced, a flash of recognition in his eyes. His fists tightened, and his shoulders tensed. Alastair glanced at him with a questioning look. The Slayer was all too happy to explain. “Myrmidons… if things haven’t changed since I was last in the kingdom, these guys are personal attack dogs, drawn from the most bloodthirsty warriors from across the Middle Kingdom. Don’t underestimate them. They’re really good at what they do.”

“So,” Alastair said, turning to look at the Myrmidons. “They’re basically discount Slayers, without the blessing?”

“Eh, more or less,” Bris answered.

Alastair nodded. Right, I’m just going to burn them all, then. I’m not keen on wasting any more of my time fighting these guys.

The White Flames of Shazdrak ignited in his hands.

One of the Myrmidons stepped forward and raised his spear at Alastair. “His Royal Highness, Prince Memnon, has charged us with your death. Prepare yourself—”

A wave of white flames turned him to ash and then turned the other knights behind him to ash.

The weapons and armor fell on the ground, clanging.

Alastair sighed and walked forward. “That was easy.”

He then turned and found Bris just standing there, mouth agape.

Alastair smiled. “Surprised?”

He continued onward into the palace, without waiting for the Slayer to come to terms with what he had done. Almost on impulse, Alastair collected the arms and armors of the fallen Myrmidons and sent them all straight into his inventory. Now that he had learned to view anything as materials for crafting, his inventory was no longer unable to store weapons and armor. The items themselves were made from high-quality tempered steel, but nothing too rare or expensive. Still, making such things would have been beyond him without his Fate. Can I still call myself a smith? I haven’t been to an actual forge for weeks.

Alastair smiled and shook his head. The front door of the palace appeared to be open. There were no servants in sight and there were no other Myrmidons or heavily armored knights waiting for him. This feels way too easy. It’s definitely a trap. But I can’t just turn back, since my map is telling me that Damon’s in here somewhere. Memnon’s also here, and he definitely needs to die.

“Hey, wait for me!” Bris called out behind him. The Slayer jogged up to him, having gotten over his initial shock at seeing the White Flames of Shazdrak. “I promised to see you through to the end of your journey, and that’s what I plan to do, even if you’re here to kill the Prince.”

Alastair stopped and nodded. “I appreciate your help, friend. Keep your guard up, Memnon’s a mage and is not to be underestimated at any cost.”

Bris chuckled. “Funny—that’s exactly what I said to you about the Myrmidons and look how that turned out.”

“Yeah,” Alastair agreed. “But I won’t have the same luck with Memnon.”

They went in and found the palace interior to be just as desolate as the rest of the town. As expected, there were no servants or guards. The place was just… empty.

This was definitely a trap.

Memnon was probably just waiting for him in one of the rooms. Then again, that mage does have a flair for dramatics, so he’s either in Cthonia’s quarters or in the Great Hall. If I was bald and angry at my sister, where would I be waiting for my archenemy?

Alastair paused, briefly considering his options, before deciding. “We’re going to the Great Hall. Memnon’s probably waiting for me there. Don’t follow me immediately. That bald bastard probably doesn’t know you’re here, so we can use that to our advantage. Surprise him when he least expects it.”

Bris nodded swiftly. “I’ll need a weapon for this. There’s no way I’m going up against a mage with only my fists.”

Alastair pulled out a single bar of mithril from his inventory. He then altered its shape by tapering its blunt end into a sharp point with grooves that slowly spiraled down, like a screw. He then added a sharpened, arrow-shaped point at its lower end. Finally, Alastair Bound the Night Stalker’s Core into the item, causing it to shudder and take on a color as black as midnight.

[Javelin of the Dominus Nox]

Quality: Unique (Continuity Artifact)

Durability: 20,000/20,000

Value: 30,000

An artifact that was first created by the Night Lord, Caine; this weapon is imperceptible to all, save for its user. It cannot be detected by any means, unless its user freely offers it to another.

I freely offer it to Bris.

Bris stared at the weapon and discerned its purpose immediately. “You want me to throw this at him?”

Alastair nodded. “If he sees you coming at him, he might be able to come up with something. How good is your aim?”

Bris took the mithril javelin in hand and grunted. “Good enough for you to not worry about it—go on. I know my role.”

“Let’s go.”

Alastair walked down the hallway that led to the Great Hall, passing the corridor of ancient paintings. This time, he didn’t pause to admire the artworks. He simply passed them, only briefly glancing at a few that stood out in his peripheral vision. He continued onward until he reached the end of the corridor.

He sighed and shook his head, before looking up and walking into the Great Hall. “Damon, this is embarrassing.”

His friend was there, bound in a prison of light blue crystals. The only part of him that stuck out was his face. Every other part of his body was concealed and buried, which meant the material that kept him in place was so immensely durable that Damon was unable to break free by the strength of his body alone. Alastair’s eyes narrowed.

Appraise!

[Adamas Monolith]

Quality: Unique (Magical Construct)

Durability: 1,000,000/1,000,000

Value: 100,000

A solid chunk of pure diamond, further enchanted by magic to remedy its brittle nature; its sole purpose is in the thorough binding and imprisonment of whatever or whoever is unlucky enough to be trapped inside.

His narrowed eyes widened.

Though it was not enchanted with magic, the massive crystalline structure that held his best friend in place was a massive chunk of pure diamond, one of the hardest substances he could think of. The little ones were easy to break, but Alastair couldn’t even begin to imagine how freakishly thick and dense Damon’s diamond prison was.

Damon groaned. “Yeah, it is. I’ve been here for over a week and someone still hasn’t bothered getting rid of the stench! I mean, how hard could it possibly be to clean up some dog crap when you have magic?!”

Alastair sighed. “Well, I’m getting you out of there. Just stay put.”

“Oh yeah, I will definitely do my best to stay here and not move, because I would definitely have done the opposite of that if you hadn’t told me.” Damon sighed. “Your jokes suck, man.”

“Heh.” Alastair chuckled. “That was a good one, though.”

“Not really,” Damon said. “You could have gone with something better.”

“Like?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Damon said. “Ugh… you could have told me to stay grounded or something, and the punchline would have been something about being a diamond in the rough.”

“Eh, it’s been done before.”

“Alright, umm… What’s more expensive, a ladder or a diamond?” Damon said. “The answer is the latter!”

Alastair gave him a flat look. “You know what? Maybe, I’ll just leave you there. You seem fine, anyway.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to think of good jokes when I’m stuck in a giant crystal.”

“No, man, none of your jokes are ever good. Being stuck here might do you some wonders.”

“Give me one last chance!”

“Fine, you get to try one new joke and that’s it.”

“Ehem, uh, knock-knock!”

“Come in.”

“Jump off a cliff, Alastair.”

A loud clapping caught their attention.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

It was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps, one slowly banging on the floor after the other, like an ominous portent.

Alastair turned to the right, where the sound was coming from. Oh, he’s definitely dramatic.

Memnon emerged from the shadows, seemingly materializing from thin air. Alastair figured the man would have looked just a little bit more menacing if he didn’t look so ridiculous with his dark lord motif and lack of hair.

“And here is the man of the hour,” Memnon said, scowling. “You have taken my army from me—you have taken my victory. But imagine my surprise when I hear the same man has supposedly murdered my dear sister in cold blood.”

Murdered his sister? Cthonia was dead? For a moment, Alastair’s heart jumped to his throat, but then a calm washed over him. No, Cthonia wasn’t dead. This was all part of her plan. It had to be.

The bald man laughed, walking toward Damon. He carried with him an ornate wooden staff, studded with obsidian chunks and rubies. At its head was the skull of a ram, still containing both horns. “Why I had to come and see for myself, and lo and behold—the corpse of that she-devil.” Memnon’s ugly face then twisted into a sneer. “I don’t know if I should kill you or reward you for that.”

Alastair smiled, taking a single step toward the mage. “You’re confused? Well, maybe, this will help clear up your mind, you bald freak!”

He held out both hands and, without warning, unleashed a massive cone of white flames that devoured the entirety of the mage and bathed the Great Hall in the fires of Shazdrak. Damon shouted something, but his words only barely reached Alastair’s ears.

When the flames finally receded a few moments later, Memnon stood there, unharmed, holding out his right hand forward, a swirling spatial distortion in front of him.

The mage scowled and spat on the ground. “Do you think I’m a simpleton? The White Flames of Justice can’t hurt me if it doesn’t touch me, fool!”

Alastair sighed. He wasn’t surprised. The whole thing would have been far too easy if all it took was the White Flames of Shazdrak to take down Memnon. “You just had to live through that, didn’t you? Now I’m gonna have to do this the painful way.”

“Oh, my dear Crafter!” Memnon laughed, his eyes ablaze and narrowed. “I’d like to see you try.”

Chapter 33

Memnon leapt high into the air and raised his staff, the magical artifact cackling with untapped energies, before slamming it into the ground when he landed. A massive explosion of arcane lights and dazzling particles followed, eldritch forces surging outward with such force as to shatter the ground and shake the palace. Alastair’s eyes briefly widened as endless colors overwhelmed his vision; before he could react, he lost his footing and was sent hurling across the air until his back slammed into the wall. His breath came flooding out of his lungs in a single, ghastly wheeze. He slid down, leaving a sizable spider web of cracks.

Alastair fell on his knees, eyes wide, before slumping over to the side. He coughed up blood and tasted copper on his tongue. Warm liquid gushed out of his nose, and he had a feeling he’d already be dead without his regeneration. Damn… that one actually hurt me.

Memnon howled with laughter as he straightened and slowly walked up to Alastair’s downed form. “You’re weak, Crafter! For all your abilities and gifts, you’re nothing more than a glorified blacksmith!”

The pain that flooded Alastair was immense. Several of his bones had been fractured—and some were outright shattered. His organs likely suffered too, and he was fairly certain his skull had cracked. Still, after only a few seconds, his body was already knitting itself back together.

Alastair groaned and pushed himself up. Every tiny bit of movement was agony, but he could handle it. Every passing moment dulled the pain within and without him, his regeneration slowly mending his broken body back into shape.

Still, that magical attack was damn powerful.

Memnon stopped walking and frowned, looking down upon the Crafter. He stood a good ten feet away, too, far enough that Alastair couldn’t easily reach out to choke him if he was so inclined. The mage growled and slammed the butt of his staff on the floor. Alastair suddenly found himself slamming back to the ground, held down by invisible energies.

“Be careful!” Damon’s voice broke out. “He’s got a weird fetish for invisible grasping hands!”

“No, I do not have a fetish!”

“He’s going to molest you!”

“Shut up, bumpkin!”

Alastair stifled a laugh.

His already broken ribcage howled in agony at the treatment it received. And still, his regeneration persisted, forcibly mending his bones back in place, even if that meant breaking them all over again. Alastair would have screamed, but that would have just rubbed the bastard mage’s already-inflated ego.

Memnon spat. “How in the bloody hells are you still able to move after that?”

Alastair groaned, trying and failing to push himself up. His body refused to budge, and his arms were akin to boiled noodles. He gritted his teeth and laid his hands flat on the floor, closing his eyes. Fine, if I can’t get off the floor, then neither can you!

“Cat got your tongue?” Memnon mocked. “Well then, let me—what in the hells?!”

The mage’s eyes widened when he tried to take a step forward but found his feet were suddenly stuck to his boots and that his boots were now stuck to the floor. His attention wavered, and the invisible force that held Alastair in place suddenly dissipated. Memnon screamed as he grabbed his shins and pulled in an attempt to free his feet. He was unsuccessful. “What the hells is this?!”

Alastair chuckled, and Memnon’s eyes snapped toward him.

“Do you like it?” Alastair asked.

“What have you done to me?!” Without answering, Alastair used Shape. Memnon let out a high-pitched screech as the ground stretched underneath him, pulling his legs apart into a harsh split that ripped apart the cloth of his trousers, specifically the cloth that hid his family jewels, and brought his loins crashing down on the floor.

“Hah!” Damon howled with laughter. “Nice one! Sock him on the jaw, next!”

“Raaah!” The mage screamed as Alastair pushed himself up, most of his bones having already healed enough for him to stand without immediately falling back down from the pain.

“How do you like them apples, huh?” Alastair launched a right kick that struck Memnon’s face, silencing him, shattering his right cheekbones and sending him crashing on his back, legs still splayed out. The mage wheezed and spit blood and saliva. A single tooth came flying out of his mouth.

“Not exactly what I had in mind, but not bad!” Damon spoke.

Before Alastair could follow up with another attack, he was blasted away by a streak of purple lightning that emerged from Memnon’s staff, which struck him right on his chest and burnt his clothes to ashes. Alastair’s mind and vision turned all-white and blank for a moment as he flew backward and landed on his back on the floor, kicking and writhing as tiny arcs of electricity ran across his smoking form.

When his mind finally focused, only a single thought flowed. By the hells, that freaking hurt!

He wheezed and coughed blood, tiny vapor trails leaving his mouth.

Still, Alastair forced himself up. He got to his feet, shaking and wobbling as he did, but his constant regeneration eventually gave him enough strength to stand upright after only a few moments. He shook his head vigorously until his mind and his vision cleared. He groaned. The damn mage might actually be a problem. I might have underestimated this guy.

“Don’t underestimate him!”

“Yeah, I caught that, thanks!”

Memnon stood up, wincing and growling angrily as he screamed and tore his left foot right out of his boots and did the same with the other. He then turned and glared at Alastair. Blazing trails of blue flames burst and exploded around him, coating the entirety of his form.

Memnon disappeared, replaced by a humanoid fire. “That was a nice party trick, Crafter! I had no idea you were capable of magic! I shall thoroughly enjoy breaking you!”

Alastair didn’t bother coming up with a snarky one-liner as he bolted to the side and ran, keeping the mage on one side as he slowly circled him.

I’ll have to stick to ranged attacks, Alastair decided. Getting in melee range will end with me getting fried by more of his lightning blasts. Tsk, why didn’t he bother fighting us last time?

Alastair’s eyes narrowed as Memnon raised a hand and willed the shattered rocks and bricks all around them into a single, gigantic boulder, before setting it alight and hurling it his way. The fiery projectile seemed to screech as it surged through the air, burning as it went. Alastair leapt up just as the burning ball of rock and stone neared him. Its passage burned the trimmings of his trousers and set his shoes alight. With an absent thought, Alastair turned the remains of his footwear to dust just before he landed and rolled forward, over his shoulder, and took off into another run.

Memnon screamed something, but Alastair wasn’t listening. He noted the sudden drop in temperature and the sudden condensation on the walls and the floor.

He’s preparing an ice spell of some kind, Alastair realized.

“It’s an ice spell!” Damon yelled.

“Yes, thank you for the commentary, Damon!”

Gritting his teeth, Alastair took out some explosive powder from his inventory, followed by powdered mithril. With Bind, he bound the two items and created a new artifact. He grinned at its description.

Force Grenade

Quality: Rare

Durability: 10/10

Value: 5,000

This grenade, upon detonation, will create a spatial explosion, rapidly pushing away everything around it with immense force. Use with caution.

Alastair ignored the last bit and threw the grenade at Memnon, who seemed to be in the middle of chanting a spell. Before the explosive could reach him, however, Memnon reached out, and the bomb stopped in place, hovering in the air, held by an invisible force.

The mage tilted his head to the side and scoffed. “What is this little thing supposed to—”

It exploded and sent Memnon flying back, extinguishing the blue flames that coated his body.

Before the mage could slam into the wall, Alastair crouched and laid a hand on the ground and willed it into a massive fist. It took on a gargantuan shape from the stonework of the floor, before surging forward and effectively punching Memnon. The mage’s form crashed into the fist’s stone knuckles with a resounding crack that echoed across the Great Hall. Like a ragdoll, Memnon promptly flopped down on the floor, letting out a loud groan.

Alastair took a single step forward and stopped, feeling a cold pain running through his torso. He glanced down, and his eyes widened. Several javelins of ice were lodged deep in his stomach and out the other side. Blood dripped from them. He’d been too focused on the mage to even notice his injuries. He would have berated himself more if he wasn’t pressed for time. How’d those get there?

Wheezing, Alastair grabbed one and pulled. The pain that followed was greater than anything he’d ever felt before. He fell to a knee and gasped, blood leaking out of his mouth as he finished pulling out the ice javelin from his abdomen—and there were at least four more he would need to take out. The source of the pain made itself known immediately as he brought the ice construct up to his face and examined its bloody form. His eyes narrowed.

Alastair scowled. The ice javelin was jagged. The rough teeth along its length shaved flesh away when he pulled. That was why it was so painful. It was like an arrow—only about a thousand times worse, since the entirety of its form was akin to shark’s skin.

“Are you okay, man?”

Alastair breathed in sharply, before turning to Damon. “....No.”

The other ice javelins were relatively easier to discard. Alastair pushed them in and pulled them out from the other side, an act that was far less painful than pulling them out from the front, since its ‘scales’ were harmless if plunged deeper inward.

Alastair let out a wheezing sigh as he pulled out the last one and dropped it on the floor. He glanced at the mage, who was just barely pushing himself up to his feet, after all of that. The massive fist that Alastair had formed out of the ground was still there, unmoving and unnatural. Memnon was vulnerable now—Alastair could kill him. Better to be safe than sorry.

He held out his left hand and unleashed the White Flames of Shazdrak, bathing the Great Hall in its silvery light and engulfing Memnon. The mage screamed—but soon his screams were drowned out by the flames.

But the fight wasn’t over.

Alastair’s eyes briefly widened. A familiar distortion in the air appeared and sucked in the goddess’ fires.

Scowling, Alastair stopped the flames and lowered his left hand. “Almost caught you there,” he said.

Memnon was just barely standing, his scowling face half-burnt. The mage had held out his left hand and created that distortion field again that seemed to nullify the White Flames of Shazdrak. Still, Alastair had done plenty of damage with that attack, and Memnon was evidently on his last legs.

Memnon growled and spat blood, eyes blazing with blue fire. “You damned peasants should all just die!”

The distortion field disappeared as Memnon lowered his free hand. The mage then brought up his staff and aimed it at Alastair. Not a moment later, he unleashed a massive plume of blue flames that seemed to swallow up everything around it, melting the floor as it surged on.

Memnon’s magical fire barreled right toward Alastair. Running was pointless, since the flames traveled far faster than Alastair could run, which meant he had to stand his ground and survive somehow.

He brought out ten mithril bars from his inventory and tossed them into the air, followed by the hide of the Primal Goliath for extra measures. Gods, I hope this works!

“Bind!”

The mithril and the hides joined together and formed a wall in front of Alastair, just before the blue flames swept over him. Instead of reducing him to ashes, Memnon’s magical flames faltered behind the wall of mithril and monster fur and never reached him at all, diverting and fanning outward instead, burning and melting the walls behind him as they frayed. Alastair crouched low and hid behind the wall, waiting for the fires to recede.

Primal Mithril Plate

Quality: Rare

Durability: 203,569/500,000

Value: 100,000

A massive solid plate of mithril. It is enhanced by the hide of a Primal Goliath, which improves its resistance to physical damage, but not against elemental and magical attacks.

That explains the durability, then. Alastair mused, praying and hoping the damn thing didn’t melt before Memnon stopped channeling blue fire.

His prayers were definitely ignored by the gods when the massive plate of mithril began melting. Alastair’s eyes widened as he laid a hand on the smoldering metal, wincing as a mere touch caused the skin of his palm to melt off. He then fought off its gradual decay by reshaping its form again and again, forcibly hardening its melted portions and reshaping them only to absorb more and more of Memnon’s blue flames.

Alastair knew he was fighting a losing battle, however. The flames were melting off more than he could repair and the plate was becoming smaller and smaller with each passing second.

Still, he had nowhere to go and there was nothing he could do.

I’m going to die.

As quickly as that thought appeared, it passed, because there was definitely something he could do.

Wait a minute…

Alastair laid his hands on the ground. Memnon was somewhere in front of him, a direct line. The mage wasn’t moving—otherwise, the flames would have shifted direction, which meant he’d been standing in one place the whole time.

Alastair smiled as he turned a large area of the floor in front of him into liquid stone. Memnon let out a yelp as his feet sank down. In that moment of distraction, the blue magical flames receded, and Alastair bolted out of the mostly melted wall he’d created and charged the mage’s writhing form on the liquefied floor.

“Curse you, Crafter!” Memnon cried.

He rolled to the side as Memnon hurled a ball of blue flames at him, though the mage’s aim was far off. Alastair continued charging. He willed the floor to return into a solid state, which trapped Memnon in a prison of solid rock with only half of his face, a portion of his chest, his right hand, and left leg sticking out. “You... peasant! How dare you attack me?!”

Alastair scowled, the White Flames of Shazdrak burning in his hands as he neared the downed mage. Memnon must have noticed it—his eyes widened at the sight. The air began distorting in front of him as he screamed in exertion. Alastair, however, already foresaw such a response and immediately darted to the side and leapt forward, circumventing the distortion. Before Memnon could react, Alastair raised his hands and unleashed the white flames all over the mage’s form, engulfing his entirety in the fires of the Goddess of Justice and Law.

Memnon screamed and blindly lashed out with wild magic as his skin cracked and burned. Alastair grimaced when both his hands broke and bent to the side, forcibly causing the white flames to sputter out of existence as he absently took several steps back and screamed.

Bloody hells this hurts!

Alastair fell to a knee and bit down on his left wrist. He snapped it sharply to the right, forcing his bent and broken forearm back into place. Alastair stifled a scream—then he did the same with his right wrist, tears absently streaming from his eyes. He grunted when he felt his regeneration slowly doing its work, fixing his bones. But the pain was almost unbearable.

Roaring, Memnon broke himself out of the floor, likely breaking several of his own bones in the process. The mage forced himself up on his feet. Despite all his injuries, despite all the blood that was leaking out of him, Memnon began walking toward Alastair, who quickly noted the slight shimmer around the mage’s form.

“Do you know why I didn’t bother summoning the soldiers I brought with me?” Memnon said, practically growling each word. “Having them swarm you and kill you would have been far simpler… But that wouldn’t have brought me any satisfaction.”

Before Alastair could react, the mage held out his right hand and somehow locked him in place, preventing any sort of movement. Alastair struggled, but the  magic that kept him still was far stronger than his muscles.

Memnon continued speaking as he approached. “I wanted to see your face before I crushed your skull. I wanted to savor the moment of your death, and make your best friend watch me kill you!”

What held him in place became clearer when Alastair found his limbs suddenly encased in massive blocks of diamonds. So, this isis this how he contained Damon.?

“Oh, hey, that’s what he did to me!”

Alright, that confirms it!

Memnon reached out shakily and laid his right hand on Alastair’s forehead. “But, after witnessing your power and potential, I think it’ll be a waste to kill you. Don’t you think so? I think it’ll be better for you to serve me as my personal Crafter, to create my weapons and arms. I will turn your powers against my enemies. You… shall be my greatest thrall!”

Alastair absently closed his eyes and waited for something to happen.

And he continued waiting.

And he waited some more.

Finally, after a rather awkward moment with a cold, bloody, and shriveled hand on his forehead, Alastair opened his eyes and beheld Memnon’s shocked expression. He blinked several times to make sure he really wasn’t mind-controlled. He wasn’t, and the bald bastard was definitely confused by that fact.

Damon howled with laughter.

“Was something supposed to happen or were you just being super dramatic for no real reason?” Alastair said with a smile.

The shock disappeared on the mage’s face and was quickly replaced by anger and frustration. He reared back his hand and slapped Alastair’s right cheek, causing his head to snap to the side. “Y-you! How dare you resist me! How dare you resist my magic!”

“Did you seriously just slap me?”

“I think he did,” Damon commented. “Didn’t look like it hurt though.”

“It didn’t,” Alastair said.

“Be quiet!” Memnon snapped, glancing at Damon. “First, that idiot somehow resists my enthrallment and now you do the same. Tsk, this has been a waste of my time. I should just kill you and kill him and be done with this nonsense.”

“Yeah.” Alastair would have shrugged if he could. He threw an absent glance at Damon. “You should have just done that. I mean, have you heard the stuff that comes out of that guy’s mouth?”

“Hey, I can hear you!” Damon called out.

Memnon’s eyes reddened with rage as blue flames coated his hands. “Any last words before I send you to meet my sister, Crafter? I’m sure you have plenty. As king, I would hear them.”

Alastair sighed. “You really should have called on more of your troops.”

“What?” Memnon’s eyes widened as a massive spike burst out of his chest, spraying his blood everywhere. Shaking with shock, the mage glanced over his shoulder, just in time to meet Bris’ fist. The blow sent Memnon flying, the mithril javelin still impaled on his chest. Alastair grinned and turned his diamond binds to dust.

He nodded at Bris and stood.

Bris walked up to him and nodded back. “How’s my timing?”

“Impeccable,” Alastair answered, before turning toward Memnon’s downed form. The mage hadn’t moved and was bleeding all over the floor. The prince was clearly in shock.

“Who’s the new guy?!” Damon asked.

“His name’s Bris!”

“Hi Bris, my name is Damon! I’d shake your hand if I wasn’t stuck in a giant crystal!”

“Hello, Damon!”

Alastair ignored them and walked over to Memnon, whose wide eyes seemed to look everywhere at once—unfocused, in shock. “You’re weak and stupid. Your sister is smarter and stronger than you. And she’s not dead. You fell for her ruse.”

Memnon groaned as blood bubbled from his both.

“You know,” Alastair continued, “you would have won if you’d used your head a little bit more. But, I guess, I must have overestimated you, because you had so many chances to kill me.” His face darkened. “Do you have any last words? I’m not a king, but I’m sure I can spare you the time.”

Memnon’s eyes hardened. There would be no requests for forgiveness from the mage’s mouth. And every second Alastair let him live, was a second the mage could use to revive himself.

Alastair unleashed the White Flames of Shazdrak on the mage. This time, Memnon couldn’t muster the strength to create the distortion spell again and simply burned away to ashes, leaving behind his clothes and his staff.

And a strange blue book with glowing runes on its cover.

Alastair clicked his tongue and spat on the floor. “Good riddance.”

Bris said nothing and simply stood there.

Damon, however, had a very different reaction. “Thank the gods for that! Do you have any idea how much I wanted to kill him, after he trapped me?”

“He trapped you?” Alastair raised an eyebrow. “That explains how he caught you, I guess.”

He then bent down, picked up Memnon’s staff, and sent it straight into his inventory. He’d have time to appraise it later. What really caught his eye was the book. The very thing just oozed power, like a wound upon the world. It felt unnatural. But there were plenty of things that felt unnatural, and most of those things were powerful artifacts. This book could simply be one of those. What are you? Alastair wondered.

Appraise!

The Book of Fate: The Fate of the Mage

Quality: Divine

Durability: NA

Value: NA

-—Error- -

“What in the bloody hells is this thing?”

Chapter 34

Alastair placed his hands on the surface of the massive diamond that held Damon and willed the crystalline chunk to turn to dust. A sparkling cloud quickly fluttered into the air, like shimmers of starlight and moonlight.

Damon gasped and fell forward, landing on his forearms as he shuddered and slowly pushed himself up, panting all the while. Alastair helped him stand, grabbing him by his arms and pulling him up.

Damon still wore his party clothes. They were torn and ragged and had clearly seen better days. “Boy, you have no idea how long I’ve had pins and needles all over my damn limbs and it is killing me!”

“Damon,” Alastair said, ignoring Damon’s quip. In the distance, Bris busied himself with studying the melted and deformed remains of Alastair’s Primal Mithril Plate, apparently finding it fascinating. “What happened after the party? Why was I arrested?”

He already knew the answer to the latter question, but Damon might have had a different answer.

Damon shook his head, brushed away the dust on his clothes, and sighed. “A lot of things happened, I guess. I’ll start from the beginning. After those wolf-headed monsters were all dead, there were only very few people left—some adventurers, a few of the princess’ elite guards, and the freaking Guild Master, who somehow killed more than me. Then, there was screaming and… well… there was a lot of screaming.”

Damon exhaled and sat down on the floor. Shrugging, Alastair sat down with him. His body wasn’t tired, but the last few weeks, starting from the day they became Fated, had been exhausting. Every single day had been exhausting for his mind and soul.

Damon continued, “Someone came rushing out, the princess’ man servant, and accused you of killing her. I rushed ahead of everyone else. Imagine my surprise when I find you on the ground, holding a knife, and the princess dead only a few feet away from you, a knife wound on her chest.” Damon shook his head and chuckled. “And then I started thinking a little harder. I figured this didn’t make sense, since you were all lovesick around her. So I checked the princess to make sure if she was really dead and there I found that it wasn’t a real corpse.”

Alastair nodded. He’d figured that one too. The corpse wasn’t even identical to Cthonia.

“You were unconscious, but otherwise unhurt,” Damon continued. “It got confusing. Were you up to something, and I was supposed to play along? Were you not up to anything and about to be accused of something you didn’t do? I seriously considered just throwing you over my shoulder and bolting out of there, but I hesitated. You were always the one with all the plans and the ideas, and I thought maybe this was just another one of your plans.”

Alastair chuckled and hung his head back, his eyes on the ceiling. “No, it wasn’t my plan, but I decided to play along, anyway. It was Cthonia’s plan, but I only realized that later.”

Where was she, anyway? He’d half-expected her to just pop out of the shadows after he burned Memnon to dust. She must have planned for everything, after all.

Damon nodded and huffed. “Well, I had a hunch that there was some stupidly complicated scheme involved, so I stayed back and did nothing as they arrested you, placed chains on your wrists, and dragged you out of the city.”

“How kind of you,” Alastair said.

“Like I said, I thought it was all part of your plan. Well, I walked out of the palace, very confused, but I figured you must have had a plan, so I wasn’t worried about you at all.” Damon smiled, but then his face darkened and he let out a heavy sigh. “Not a moment later, I saw the baldy’s location shift on the map. He literally appeared outside the walls of Maredon, like he was taunting me. I ran out of the city to face him. I wanted to rip his head off his shoulders and play kick-ball with it till it broke, but the bastard was waiting for me. And he was prepared.”

Alastair nodded. “You did mention that you were trapped.”

Damon scowled and lowered his head. “It was embarrassing. When I charged Memnon, I got caught in this weird time loop thing that kept me in place, while he started chucking a bunch of diamonds at me, which was how I ended up in that thing in the first place. After that… well… you can guess what happened. I spent several days doing absolutely nothing, bored out of my damn mind.”

“I woke up in a prison in the mountains.” Alastair chuckled and laid down on the ground, breathing out a long sigh. Damon flopped down beside him, too. “That wasn’t too fun. I had no idea where I was. Busting myself and our new friend out of there wasn’t too hard, though. All I had to do was touch the mithril bars and turn them to dust.”

“Huh,” Damon muttered. “I did notice that new trick you pulled when the wolf-headed monsters attacked. How does it work? I saw you reshape the ground to make stone spikes or something, and I also saw you turn one of the monsters into freaking red goop. That last bit was honestly horrifying.”

“It’s a skill I’ve had for a while,” Alastair admitted. It was honestly quite the miracle he hadn’t discovered its true potential much earlier on. He wouldn’t have had to rely so much on Damon if he had. “Shape—it allows me to alter the shape of anything I touch. I can even add or subtract a tiny amount of mass.”

“Is that how you were able to turn the diamond to dust?”

Alastair nodded.

“Huh,” Damon muttered. “That’s neat. Now I won’t have to save your scrawny ass every single time you’re surrounded.”

“Hey, I can fight well enough on my own, thank you very much.” Alastair huffed. “Not everyone’s gifted with the very useful ability of hoisting donkeys on their shoulders.”

“That happened one time,” Damon groaned. “Why do you keep bringing it up?”

“Because even I cringed for your stupid ass…”

“That’s fair.”

After that, Damon let out a long and heavy sigh. He then asked the one question Alastair wasn’t sure he could answer. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Alastair admitted, closing his eyes. “This wasn’t the life I’d planned or even imagined for us. So much has happened in so little time that I can hardly believe any of it happened. But they did happen. And I’m still in disbelief.”

“Well, we can agree on that one.” Damon snickered. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Do you remember when we were kids? We used to dream about going on grand adventures around the world, spreading our fame and glory, saving damsels, fighting monsters, and having a jolly good time at the expense of all that was evil.”

Alastair smiled. He remembered those days quite clearly—the days when life seemed so carefree and all he had to worry about was his mother’s ire, because he refused to sleep early. “I remember… we’d play with sticks and pretend they were swords.”

“Well…” Damon said. “We can still do that.”

Alastair raised a single brow, his eyes still shut. “Do what?”

“Travel the world… make our own legend, spread our own glories, and fight for no one but ourselves,” Damon said almost dreamily. “We could be kings, we could be gods, we could be wandering mercenaries… We could be anything we want to be and more. We don’t have to stay in the Middle Kingdom. There has to be something beyond the Blasted Lands, beyond Gorgorod’s scar upon the world. There has to be more.”

Alastair smiled. “That doesn’t sound too bad. In Cthonia’s hallway of artworks, there was a painting of a nation far from ours, a kingdom beyond the horizon, a land of deserts and oases. I wonder if it’s still there. I wonder what we’ll learn from the people there. I wonder what sort of books we’ll get to read—what sort of trinkets I’ll get to craft…”

“And what sort of women they have,” Damon added, chuckling.

Somehow, Alastair found no strength to protest and chuckled alongside his friend. “Alright, we’ll get to meet new people—which includes the women, yes.”

They basked in laughter for a time, forgetting the world around them, the distant sounds of marching footsteps, the clanging of arms and armors, and the barking of orders. Nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.

“When I broke out of the prison, I stood upon the battlements and saw a gap in the Charred Mountains,” Alastair said. “I saw a way into the Plains of Gorgorod and the Blasted Lands that lay further beyond. It seemed to stretch endlessly, but… I’d like to believe there’s more to it… that there’s more to life out there.”

He sighed and opened his eyes. His ears perked up at the sound of soldiers rushing into the palace. “I’m tired of this place. I’m tired of all the politics and all the drama. You’re right—let’s get the hell out of here.”

Damon nodded and grinned. “And be real adventurers, like we always dreamt of as kids!”

Bris chose that time to walk up to them. He carried the mithril javelin in his hands as though it was his child. “Ugh… Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems the prince’s soldiers have surrounded the palace. Are we going to fight our way out of here or what?”

Damon pushed himself up onto his feet and stretched his arms. “We could… but I don’t want to kill these people. They’re just doing their jobs, after all.”

Alastair nodded and stood up. “We could fight them off and only lightly injure them, then escape into the woods.”

Memnon was dead and Cthonia had run off somewhere, likely plotting her next course, like the brilliant and seductive princess that she was. There was nothing for them here—not anymore. They could stay until Cthonia eventually came out of hiding and freed them, but Alastair was tired of being involved in politics, even if it was for her, even if he loved her. His dream was different, and his life was his own.

He was hers—but he was also his.

Bris nodded absently, accustomed to combat as he was. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied, but the rest of him was free of any injuries. “Whatever the case, we need to move fast, before they start swarming us.”

The Slayer then turned to Alastair and then eyed the wall behind them. “I don’t suppose you can use your fancy Crafter magic to make a new doorway for us?”

Damon nodded, chuckling as he turned over his shoulder and eyed the portion of the wall Bris had referred to. “Yeah, you should definitely do that. Whoever’s outside is going to be in for a surprise when the damn walls start turning into doors.”

Alastair shrugged. It wasn’t outside the scope of his abilities. “Eh, I could do that, yeah. It wouldn’t even be hard.”

He turned, Damon and Bris following him, and walked up to the wall and laid his hand on it. Alastair was ready to turn a whole section to dust. But a familiar presence stopped him. He smiled and glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t think we’d see each other again—not so soon, at least.”

A figure in black stood there, her feminine frame wrapped in dark clothes that seemed to meld into the shadows. Her face was concealed by a mask of black that hid her features. Even her eyes couldn’t be seen. She was like a faceless mannequin, eerie and unnatural. The figure took a single step forward, grabbing the outer edges of her mask and pulling it off her face, revealing a very familiar set of emerald eyes and crimson hair.

Damon gasped. Bris didn’t react.

“Cthonia.” Alastair smiled, taking a step toward her. “The one thing I don’t understand is why you had to go through all this trouble of faking your own death when we could have just lopped Memnon’s head off for you and called it a day.”

“I know.” Cthonia smiled. “But if he was killed while I was alive, the people would blame me. Even if we got rid of all the evidence, the people and the nobility would still look at me as the main culprit, which—to be fair—I’d be. I needed him to die, while everyone believed me dead. That way, I won’t ascend the throne as the queen who killed her brother.”

Alastair blinked and Cthonia was suddenly in front of him. She’s fast.

Before he could react, she laid a hand on his cheek and gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry for keeping this from you, my love, but I have my own goals as you have yours. I belong to you, but I belong to me, too.”

Alastair smiled. He’d had the same thought—about himself. They each belonged to each other—and to themselves. Alastair and Cthonia were aligned on that.

But it seemed they had even more in common. That speed… Alastair thought. It’s unnatural. Inhuman… No, it’s divine.

“Are you Fated, too?”

“Yes—the Fate of the Assassin,” Cthonia admitted swiftly. “But that’s a story for another time.”

Alastair smirked. “One I’d love to hear—”

She leaned in for a quick kiss before Alastair could say anything. It was brief but passionate.

When it ended, Alastair sighed with disappointment. The taste of her lips lingered on his mouth.

“And you will hear it,” Cthonia said. “Soon. I promise. When things are settled here and I can slip away, I’ll come find you.” She gazed deeply into his eyes. “I’ll always find you, Alastair. Always.”

Alastair nodded. He believed her. This would not be the last time he’d see Princess Cthonia, who carried the Fate of the Assassin. Far from it. Alastair smiled.

“Your eyes… That look… It’s the look of a man who sees what he wants, who knows how to take it.” Cthonia smiled. “Did you look at the view from Karkus with the same look in your eyes?”

Alastair smiled back, but his mind raced at her implication. “So, that’s why I was sent there. How’d you know I’d be able to break out?”

Cthonia snorted and absently glanced at the remains of her brother’s clothes. “Unlike some, I read and study a lot. And, though their glories remain overshadowed by the glories of others, the Crafters of old were said to be capable of reshaping the world as they saw fit. And I did not fall in love with a fool who couldn’t figure out his own abilities. I knew you’d break out of that place.”

He chuckled. Gods, he loved this woman. “What now? Will you reveal yourself and take your rightful place as heir of the throne? I’m sure your father’s going to be very confused about everything that’s happened. I’m sure everyone will be.”

At that, Cthonia openly laughed, a dark gleam flashing through her emerald eyes. “Don’t worry about my Father. He doesn’t care about his children’s plots and backstabbing; he only ever cares about wine, women, gold, and food. He’s only a king in name, not actions; he doesn’t deserve the crown.”

Damon walked up to them, both his eyebrows raised. “Are you going to kill the king, Your Highness?”

Bris followed after Damon, but chose to stay out of the conversation.

“No,” she answered. “I need him alive—for now. But the simple truth is that I don’t care about my father. He’s weak and feeble. His rule is and will be marked by his decadence and neglect. No one’s going to miss him.”

And then she smiled. “But, in time, he will have to die. There are many things I must secure, before I can rise to the throne—things that may require a discreet hand and several daggers in the shadows.”

“What now?” Alastair asked, eyes narrowing. The soldiers outside were slowly filtering into the palace. It wouldn’t be long before all four of them were swarmed and arrested and possibly executed. Well, the soldiers would try, anyway.

“Now…” Cthonia snapped her fingers, and Alastair felt the floor give way beneath him. His eyes widened, just as he fell into an opening that led him right into a secret chamber that was underneath the Great Hall. He landed on his feet. The fall wasn’t high, but it was high enough that the hole he’d fallen through seemed rather tiny.

Damon and Bris landed with him. They were in a tunnel of sorts, with only a single direction to follow, the path dimly illuminated by the same blue crystals Cthonia had in that hidden stairway of hers.

“This tunnel will take you outside the city!” Cthonia shouted from above. “You’ll find yourself in the northeastern woods! Best of luck to you, my love! And don’t worry about Larisa! I’ll personally ensure that village’s survival!”

Alastair smiled and glanced up at her, shouting back. “You better get this place under control and become queen quickly so you can come find us!”

“I will!” Cthonia shouted back, her voice fading as the open sections of the floor above them closed shut.

“Well, that’s convenient,” Damon muttered, shaking his head and summoning the Black Dragon’s Spear in his hand. With the other, he summoned Alastair’s favored weapon, The Guiding Eye of Piercing Winds, which he then handed to Alastair’s outstretched hand. “I took it from your corpse when I found you, figured you’d want it back at some point.”

Alastair grinned, eyeing his arbalest. He briefly wondered how many lives he’d taken with it. “Thanks, I thought I’d lost this weapon for good.”

“We should hurry up, before more things start happening,” Bris said.

They moved forward, walking deep into the tunnel in front of them. They followed the lights in a relatively straight and narrow path. An hour passed before they finally reached the edge, a wall of solid stone.

“Great,” Damon huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “A dead end. Is this another one of the princess-slash-assassin’s many tricks?”

Alastair shook his head and walked toward the wall. The whole thing seemed featureless, save for the bricks that made up its bulk. “Cthonia’s fond of secret doors and hidden tunnels. There’s a contraption here that’s going to open it.”

He eyed the individual bricks until he found one that stood out from the others, a brick whose top-left corner was sheared flat. Alastair reached for it and pressed. It shuddered and shifted in with a slight hiss.

The wall shook. The individual bricks moved away from the center, shifting to form a doorway. On the other side was grass and tall trees, the smell of earth and dew and flowers—not the smell of human waste that permeated Maredon.

The tunnel entrance closed behind them as they walked out, the wall of bricks submerged in a sea of grass and moss that made it seem as though it was a part of the landscape.

They walked to the edge of the tree line.

This was it, the end of their journey—for now.

But it was the start of a new one.

Bris turned to them. “This is where we part ways, friends. There is… something I wish to do, and I cannot do it if I follow you two. Good luck, friends.”

Damon nodded and smiled. “Same to you, Bris.”

Alastair nodded. “Indeed, good luck, Bris.” He put up a hand. “But you owe me a debt, Bris. A debt I won’t soon forget.”

Bris lowered his head solemnly. “Nor shall I, Alastair. Thank you for freeing me. For more than that, actually. You gave me purpose, a reason to live. A reason to fight.” The Slayer smiled. “When my task is done, I will find you. And I’ll settle our debt, on my honor.”

Alastair nodded firmly. “Then this isn’t goodbye. This is ‘see you soon’, Bris.”

He turned away from them and started walking south. “See you soon, both of you.”

Alastair breathed in the cold air of the forest, then breathed it all out and smiled. He and Damon stood, soaking in the silence. The forest smelled of wet leaves and pine.

Damon broke the silence. “Where do we go now?”

Alastair smiled. “There’s an artifact that we’ll be pilfering off a grave in a ruined castle that’s not too far from here. After that, we’ll be heading off to Karkus and… finally leaving this damn kingdom.”

“Lead the way, then.”

And lead he did. Alastair couldn’t help but smile as he wondered about the weeks to come—about the exotic lands they’d travel, and the new items he’d craft. Before long, they’d be in the ruins of Castle Orellius, plundering the forgotten treasures that lay within. And then they’d pass through the gap in the Charred Mountains, walk the treacherous Plains of Gorgorod, and brave the waking doom of the Blasted Lands.

Soon, if Senekt still existed, they’d find themselves gazing at the golden dunes of Senekt—and in the shadow of the Black Pyramid.

Ever since he’d learned about it, the Pyramid felt like it was tugging at him—calling him toward it, into it. It was like his Fate knew of the powerful artifacts within the Pyramid—and it wanted, needed, him to get them.

And Alastair would certainly oblige. It was his Fate, after all. And he was sure Damon felt something similar, judging by the gusto in his step as they marched to new lands, filled with new enemies, and new, exciting loot…

And new gods.

End of Book 1

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Keep reading for a sample of Summoner’s Shadow 1

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 1

Bran wiped sweat off his brow.

Mucking the stables was a far cry from being a spearman in the Kalaran Royal Army, but it was good, honest work.

Good, honest, backbreaking work.

Bran stretched out his back, then leaned against the alley wall at the stable’s entrance. He wasn’t supposed to be working that evening. He’d cleared it with the boss weeks ago. He had plans to meet with some of his squad mates—the ones who had made it back—at one of the less reputable taverns in the lower district, but Mr Lettrige wasn’t one to care about other people’s plans. An important guest was on their way to the Wayward Inn, and that took priority. It always did.

But Bran was only working here until the next war broke out and he was called back into service. Nights like this, he felt a pang of guilt at hoping a war would break out.

No soldier hopes for war, but Bran didn’t fancy being a stable hand forever.

He let out a sigh and straightened, ready to get back to it, when he noticed the crowd on the street off one side of the alley parting, a few youths pointing at something. Bran frowned. Mr Lettrige wouldn’t fault him for being away from the stables for an extra minute, would he? He wouldn’t even know—he never sets foot in them.

Bran shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the edge of the alley, peering out at whatever the crowd was looking at, figuring he knew what it probably was.

And he was right.

A tall beast of a man strode down the main street. He wore full-plate armor. Enchanted full-plate. It covered every inch of him, though he carried his helm by his side. The armor glowed a bright blue, illuminating the street better than the hanging lanterns outside the inn. He had a sword strapped to his back. Normally, having a sword sheathed on one’s back wasn’t the best place. They weren’t the easiest things to draw over the shoulder—not that Bran was much for wielding swords. His hands were made for holding a spear. At least, that’s what his sergeant had told him.

But this sword looked far too big to be strapped to the hip. The damned thing looked as tall as the man wearing it, and was thicker than any sword had a right to be.

Bran would have trouble lifting that thing, let alone wielding it in battle. And Bran was no slouch.

Bran’s gaze went to the man’s bandoleer, strapped around his midsection like a belt, knowing what he would find there. The bandoleer held four glowing crystals of varying colors. Bran knew the colors denoted something about the monsters within the crystals, though he wasn’t sure what.

The man was a summoner, and a high-ranking one at that, going by the look of him.

Bran let out a breath. He couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen a summoner before.

It was that he’d seen them in action.

They were legends on the battlefield. Gods among mere mortals.

Bran was a good soldier. A good fighter. But he was nothing compared to a summoner. When they entered the battle, the very ground shook with their power. Bran shut his eyes, and memories of the Battle of Heathland, the last he’d fought in, assailed his mind.

Summoners were supposed to fight other summoners. When they were let loose on normal soldiers? It was a massacre. A damned bloodbath.

But the Morkoth Empire didn’t much care for such things as battlefield etiquette.

The man had ridden on the back of a manticore. His hair had been jet-black, black as his eyes. The manticore’s tail had whipped out, running Jed through. The beast had caught Wilson in its powerful jaws, clamping down—

“Bran!”

Bran snapped his eyes open. He turned to see Mr Lettrige staring at him from the inn’s front. His hands were on his hips, his prodigious gut threatening to spill out below his apron, deep lines cutting into his brow.

“Stop daydreaming and get back to work!” Mr Lettrige jutted his chin toward the alley.

Bran stared back at the man with a steely gaze. Any other day, he would have just bowed his head and gotten back to it.

But he wasn’t supposed to be working tonight. He was missing the anniversary of the Battle of Heathland.

Sorry Jed, Wilson…

Mr Lettrige seemed to deflate at Bran’s steadfast gaze. Was he staring at the scars on the stable hand’s face, wondering how he’d gotten them? Looking at the broadness of his shoulders, remembering he wasn’t just a stable hand, but a soldier?

After a moment, the proprietor of the Wayward Inn huffed. “No dallying,” he said, pointing a thick finger at Bran, then at the alley, before turning back to enter the inn.

Nothing about Mr Lettrige was intimidating, especially to a man like Bran, but Bran probably shouldn’t have stared the proprietor down like that. The job might not be a glamorous one, but he needed it.

Bran glanced down the street, the summoner’s glowing armor standing out like a beacon among the city’s evening crowds, then headed back to the stables.

The animals, at least, were quiet tonight.

Bran finished mucking out the rest of the stalls, checking in on the steeds. The stables were mostly home to horses, the most common mount and work animal to those not of the summoner persuasion—which was most everyone. But there was another steed in the stable tonight.

A raptor.

Bran whistled quietly, low enough not to disturb the animals. He glanced at the end of the stables, at the closed-off section. Hopefully his whistle didn’t disturb anything in there.

A moment passed, and Bran wondered if he’d see his friend tonight. Then the shadows in one corner of the stables began to darken. “There you are.” Bran smiled.

Something formed within the shadows, becoming almost solid. The dark mass drifted out from the corner and headed toward Bran. It looked like a black cloud, hovering above the straw-strewn ground.

“An ominous entry as always, Shade,” Bran said to the drifting shadow with a low chuckle. He raised a hand. Shade hovered toward it, increasing its speed. Bran couldn’t tell if the shadow was male or female, or if genders even mattered to the creature. Shade nuzzled his hand, becoming solid as he did so. Bran took a cube of sugar and offered it to the creature. A gaping maw formed in the amorphous shadow. Bran tossed the sugar into it and heard a crunch as the shadow chomped down on the cube.

Bran patted Shade’s head, or where he thought a head might be, and once again wondered what the shadow was. But he was getting distracted. He nodded toward the raptor. “Ever seen one of those, Shade?”

Shade floated to the top of the raptor’s stable door. It tilted to the side a bit. Bran always took that as curiosity.

The raptor was a monster, same as the things lurking behind the closed-off section of the stables. But this one was low-level. It would have to be, for a normal human to have it as their mount.

Must have belonged to a rich merchant.

Summoners were born, not made. Only a few were lucky enough to be granted the talent of taming a monster. But those who weren’t were still fascinated by beasts. Bran didn’t blame them. He was the same. He’d wanted to be a summoner since he was a kid.

Even more so now, after he’d seen what they were capable of.

His squad had been decimated by a single man and their manticore.

But the rest of them had been saved by another summoner, one on the side of the Kalaran Royal Army.

A silver haired woman who could summon flames in her hands and control a flight of four dragons. She’d been old enough to be Bran’s grandmother, yet she wielded such ferocious power.

If not for her, Bran and the rest of his squad wouldn’t have made it out of the Battle of Heathland alive.

Curious, Bran strolled over to his satchel stashed near the stable’s entrance and pulled his old scanner out. The thing had seen better days. Annie, the monster medic who worked on the other side of the stables, where summoners’ monsters were kept when they guested at the inn, had only given it to him because it was an older model she had no need of anymore.

The kindly, middle-aged woman was the main reason Bran hadn’t tried to find a job elsewhere. She knew how strong his interest in monsters was—knew he’d tried to become a summoner himself, when he was younger and had deluded himself into thinking he’d had the talent for it. He’d almost gotten himself killed, venturing into a Beast Realm…

Bran shook his head, dusting off the scanner’s crystal. He tapped it lightly, and the dim glow returned to it. The scanner was nothing more than an enchanted crystal at the end of a furled scroll.

Bran walked back to the raptor, which was sleeping standing up in its stall. “Let’s see what level you’re at.” He leaned over the stall, pointing the crystal at the beast, careful not to wake it.

The beast standing was actually slightly shorter than Bran’s six foot two. It had a long, sinuous tail that took up almost the entire stall. At the end of its arms were sickle-like claws with three vicious looking talons.

It was almost strange, seeing a saddle on a beast like that.

After a moment, a bright glow emanated from the crystal. It moved up and down the raptor in a line. Then the crystal flashed green.

Bran unfurled the scroll and examined the raptors stats.

Raptor

Level: 0

Evolution Stage: Novice

Affinity: None

Strength: 2

Toughness: 2

Agility: 5

Magic Power: 2

Personality: Eager

Summoner Bond: N/A

Future Evolutions:

[Mountain Raptor]

[Glade Raptor]

[Ember Raptor]

Level 0.

That’s about what Bran had suspected, given the monster belonged to a non-summoner. There was no way the beast would remain docile, otherwise. It also explained the beast’s smaller size.

Bran rolled the scroll back up, then, not for the first time, faced the scanner toward Shade, knowing it would be futile.

???

Level: ???

Evolution Stage: ???

Affinity: ???

Strength: ???

Toughness: ???

Agility: ???

Magic Power: ???

Personality: ???

Summoner Bond: ???

Future Evolutions: ???

Bran sighed. Ever since he’d found Shade, alone in the corner of the stables one night, he’d wondered what the creature was. He’d assumed it had belonged to a patron at the inn and had escaped from the closed-off section of the stables, but Annie had been clueless as to the creature’s origin. He’d questioned all the patrons of the inn that day, but no one had laid claim to the amorphous shadow.

The readout didn’t make sense. Not even Annie had a scanner that worked on it. But if it weren’t a monster, the scan wouldn’t return a readout at all. Bran had avoided telling the authorities about the creature since he feared what might happen if he did so. Annie hadn’t been happy with that, but she had told Bran that so long as Shade kept out of sight, he could keep the creature. Bran knew that eventually someone would find out about Shade, and that it could cost Annie her monster medic license, so he’d eventually have to do something about the creature.

But that was a worry for another day.

Shade nuzzled Bran’s hand again and hovered around him in a circle. Bran might not know what Shade was, but he was glad he got to look after him.

The stables being as quiet as they were, each of the stalls mucked out, Bran glanced at the entrance, then shoved the scanner into his pocket and walked over to the closed-off section. He hadn’t seen Annie, the monster medic, that evening, but he knew there were a few monsters over there.

The closed-off section of the stables was even bigger than the side that housed the horses, which would have been unusual at most inns.

But most inns didn’t have a monster medic.

The Wayward Inn prided itself in catering to summoners, and there were always a few to be found in the common room.

Bran peered through the gaps in the wooden wall, catching glimpses of the monsters on the other side. There were two that he could see. He rarely saw the monsters as they arrived at the inn. The summoners had a private entrance to that side of the stables, and they summoned the beasts into being straight from the crystals on their bandoleers.

Bran’s eyes widened as he saw that one of the monsters was a small dragon.

At least, small for a dragon. It was still five times the size of the raptor he had just scanned.

The monster was resting. Snoring. Each time it exhaled, it released a small puff of smoke.

Bran stood up straight and let out a sigh.

He loved being a soldier. Fighting for his kingdom. Even the thrill of battle. And damned if he wasn’t good at it.

But battles weren’t glamorous things, and he could only make so much of a difference as a simple spearman. What he’d do to become a summoner… but of course, that wasn’t in the cards for him.

As much as he loved being a soldier, missed being out there with his squad mates, fighting the good fight… battle brought death.

He’d lost two of his best friends out there.

That’s why Annie’s offer was so damned appealing.

Monster medics always had an apprentice. Annie’s apprentice, Marth, was almost skilled enough to ply the trade on his own. It would be hard for anyone to miss Bran’s interest in monsters. And Annie, seeing how keen he was, had offered him the opportunity to apprentice under her when the time came.

It wasn’t being a summoner, but it might be the next best thing. Especially if he were able to become a field monster medic. He could support summoners in battle, giving their monsters much needed care in crucial moments. Though the training would take him a few years, he was sure it would be worth it.

It was getting late. Gods, the late shift could be a boring one. He still didn’t know why Mr Lettrige wanted him here. It was as though he imagined the horses would get out of their stalls and run through the inn the moment anyone important walked through the doors if there wasn’t someone there to mind them.

That would be a sight to see.

Bran walked down the stables, checking the stalls’ latches—especially the latch on the raptor’s stall—just to be sure.

An ear-piercing screech came from somewhere outside, loud enough to startle the horses awake. “Whoa, whoa!” Bran tried to hush the horses.

The screech sounded again, louder this time.

He rushed to the entrance and scanned the skies. Bran frowned, unable to see where the noise had come from. As he gave up, turning back around, something crashed into the roof of the stables, creating a massive hole in the roof.

A giant bird fell onto the ground in between the stalls—no, not a bird.

A griffin.

The horses went wild, rearing up in their stalls. The raptor woke and let out a screech reminiscent of the griffin’s.

An old man sat astride the griffin, trying to wrangle it as it thrashed beneath him.

Bran couldn’t help but stare at the monster. The front of its body was that of an eagle, sharp talons gripping the wooden floor as it thrashed its wicked-sharp beak from side to side, trying to dislodge the old man from its back. The rest of its body resembled a lion. Its back legs looked powerful and had vicious claws at the ends of them, its tail whipping back and forth as it struggled.

Taking a step forward, Bran tried to see if he could get hold of the griffin and help.

“Get back!” shouted the old man atop the beast.

The griffin’s beak flashed. Bran sprang backward, only just making it out of the way. This was no normal griffin. Bran still had his scanner on him, and the crystal was flashing brightly in his pocket. Bran took another step back. He whipped the scanner out of his pocket, unfurling the scroll in one swift flick of his wrist.

Galeforce Griffin

Level: 10

Evolution Stage: Legend (5th Stage)

Affinity: Air

Strength: 40

Toughness: 60

Agility: 80

Magic Power: 60

Personality: Aggressive

Summoner Bond: 0%

Future Evolutions: [Unknown]

Level 10? In its fifth stage of evolution?

That’s when Bran realized its feathers looked… almost like armor. Even if he had his spear, he doubted it would penetrate the monster’s natural armor.

Bran’s gaze snapped to the old man’s belt. He wore a Summoner’s Bandoleer, with four crystals inside of it. The brightest of them glowed yellow with streaks of silver.

That’s where the griffin was summoned from.

He took in the old man. He looked strong, wiry. He wore deep, red robes.

A summoner.

The monster was turning on its master!

The griffin bucked, and the old man tumbled off its back. The summoner landed hard on the ground, but made it swiftly back to his feet. He raised a hand. It glowed, a golden light emanating from it.

Chains sprang into being, glowing the same gold as the light coming from the old man’s hand. They encircled the beast, wrapping around its beak, neck, body, and wings, contracting tightly.

Bran stared in awe.

The summoner was taming the beast.

Then the griffin let out another screech.

Its wings snapped out, stretching wide, breaking the golden chains. The chains lost their glow, then turned to dust as they flew through the air.

The griffin eyed the old man, anger radiating from it. It took a step toward him as the summoner assumed a fighting stance. But he was faltering, beaten and battered.

The griffin slapped the old man with its wing, sending him back to the ground.

Bran needed to act.

His gaze shot about, looking for something to use as a weapon. He spotted the shovel he used to muck out the stable. It was no spear, but it would have to do.

Except it was on the other side of the griffin, and there was no time to get it. Besides, Bran might be a soldier, but he was just a man. What could he do to a magical beast? Jed and Wilson had died facing a monster like that.

The griffin raised one of its forelegs, razor sharp talons glinting in the lantern light. The old man struggled backward. He was hurt, unable to get out of the way.

There was no time to think—only to act.

Bran dashed forward. As he did, he felt the familiar presence of Shade resting on his shoulder. The amorphous shadow had his back.

Not that that was very comforting.

Bran put himself between the griffin’s talons and the old man, raising his arms to block the strike, knowing his flesh would be torn to shreds.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. Jumped into a situation he’d known might cause his death to save another. If it weren’t for that silver-haired summoner, back in the Battle of Heathland, he would have lost his life a year ago pulling a stunt like this.

Guess I’ll be seeing you soon, Jed and Wilson, Bran thought.

The griffin’s talons came down.

Bran anticipated blinding pain.

What he didn’t anticipate was what happened next.

The moment the claw touched Bran’s skin, the griffin… started to change shape. It lost its solidity, becoming smaller and smaller as it began to spin around.

Then it swirled into Bran.

He’d seen a summoner call their monster back into its crystal before, and this was much the same.

Only Bran had no Summoner’s Bandoleer, and he was certainly no summoner.

Bran realized—the griffin wasn’t going into him, it was going into Shade, the amorphous shadow creature who was hovering atop his shoulder.

“What the…” Bran stumbled a step as Shade floated forward to hover in the air in front of him. As the griffin swirled into Shade, the shadow creature began to take on a bright glow that only grew in intensity as the seconds passed. It grew so bright Bran had to shield his eyes with his hands. When that wasn’t enough, he scrunched them shut.

How was this possible? The griffin was… entering Shade? Bran thought that was only possible with a summoner’s crystal. Was it some sort of magical attack the shadow creature possessed? Was it somehow consuming the griffin? Shade was a monster, after all, even if Bran had never been able to get a reading that made sense from it.

Slowly, the light began to dim, and Bran opened his eyes.

What he saw stole his breath right from him.

Shade was still there, hovering in front of Bran, but the amorphous shadow had… changed. The griffin hadn’t just swirled into the creature, it had made it larger as well. Where the shadow had been twice the size of Bran’s head before, now it was as large as a wolf.

And that wasn’t all.

The shadow had taken on some of the griffin’s features.

Bran had seen the shadow creature shift its shape before, when it created a mouth to eat the sugar cubes. But this… this was something else entirely.

It had wings, a beak. Talons.

The shadow-griffin floated down to the floor, landing on its feet. It moved its head to look up at Bran, then tilted it slightly to the side, in an identical movement to what Shade would make when he was curious.

Shade and the griffin had fused into one monster.

Now that the threat had gone, almost absentmindedly, Bran pulled the scanner back out of his pocket. He waved the crystal in front of the shadow-griffin. Light spread forth, moving up and down the fused monster. The crystal flashed.

Bran had scanned Shade countless times, never returning an accurate result. It had always puzzled him, especially since even Annie’s newer scanner didn’t work on the shadow creature.

He unfurled the scroll, not knowing what to expect.

Amalgabeast [Griffin Form]

Level: 0

Evolution Stage: Novice

Affinity: Shadow/Air

Strength: 3

Toughness: 3

Agility: 3

Magic Power: 3

Personality: Curious

Summoner Bond: 40%

Future Evolutions: [Unknown]

An Amalgabeast? Griffin form? He didn’t understand what any of it meant.

Bran lowered the scanner, staring at the shadow-griffin. The… Amalgabeast. The horses in their stalls had calmed down, all at once, when the griffin had lost its shape and swirled into Shade. Fortunately, these animals were used to the presence of monsters. Of course, the monsters were never usually so close, nor that aggressive.

All the aggression the griffin had presented had completely disappeared once it fused with Shade.

Bran looked at the state of the stables—the stables he was responsible for. Fortunately, none of the animals had escaped, and the wall between his part of the stable and the part where the monsters were kept still held.

The roof, however, was a different story.

There was a massive hole in it. Honestly, given the amount of noise that had been made, he was surprised Mr Lettrige hadn’t stormed out here to berate him for the commotion. If the inn’s proprietor saw this giant hole, no doubt his first instinct would be to blame Bran.

He looked at the old man. The summoner’s eyes were wide, staring at the Amalgabeast, his mouth open. After a moment, the old man closed his mouth, and deep lines formed on his brow. He turned his gaze to Bran.

The weight of that gaze almost made Bran falter. The man seemed to be looking straight into his soul. Bran took in the man’s fine robes, the Summoner’s Bandoleer at his belt with four crystals inside it.

This man was a summoner. By the looks of his fine robes, a high-ranking one at that.

And Bran’s shadow creature had just… consumed his griffin.

Bran straightened, almost instinctively, and raised his chin to stare back at the man.

The summoner tilted his head to the side, in a similar movement to the one the shadow-griffin had just made. “I think we need to talk.”

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 2

The shadow-griffin seemed content to remain in the stables, but Bran ushered it into one of the stalls just to be safe. He still had no idea what had happened. Shade had never been dangerous, not that he had seen, but if the two monsters had truly fused, he worried about what might happen if the griffin’s temperament gained control.

When he closed the stall, he sighed, realizing the futility. Both the griffin and the shadow creature could fly. If it wanted, it could easily make it out of the stall. Bran was sure that Annie had some tools that could keep a flying monster secured to the stables, but she wasn’t here right now and he didn’t want to go digging around her belongings.

The summoner clapped him on the back. “Don’t worry about the Amalgabeast, it appears to be tamed.”

Bran frowned. How did the man know what the monster was called? Perhaps he had scanned it when Bran hadn’t been looking. Then again, he was a summoner, he might simply know. Summoners trained and studied for years in their academies. Bran couldn’t imagine the depths of knowledge they had. More knowledge than a simple stable hand, that’s for sure.

Bran took the old man’s word for it and led him into the Wayward Inn’s tavern through the door in the stables.

When the door opened, Bran drank in the feel of the place. A minstrel was playing a fine drinking song on the inn’s small stage and had gotten the patrons singing along, tapping their mugs on the table. A fire was roaring in the hearth, lending its warmth to the entire common room. A few off-duty guards were playing cards in the corner. Bran recognized some as former soldiers from his division, and one gave him a stiff nod as he walked by, no doubt eyeing his scars, knowing where they had come from.

The tavern was loud enough that Bran had trouble hearing his own thoughts, which right now wasn’t a bad thing, as nothing that had just happened made much sense. The noise went a long way to explain why no one inside seemed to hear what had happened in the stables.

To Bran’s relief, Mr Lettrige wasn’t in sight. He was probably shouting at one of the cooks in the kitchens.

Bran found them a corner table and sat against the wall. It gave him a good vantage point of the entire tavern. His gaze wandered about, idly searching for threats out of sheer habit.

One of the serving girls, Petra, strolled on over, giving Bran a curious look and a small smile. She put her hands on her hips. “Shouldn’t you be in the stables? If Mr Lettrige sees you out here, he’ll have a fit.”

“I can handle Mr Lettrige,” Bran said.

Petra looked him up and down appraisingly, not for the first time, then leaned forward, a hand on the table. “I’d definitely like to see that,” she said in a low voice. When she noticed the old man sitting across from Bran, her gaze quickly darted from his fine robes to his Summoner’s Bandoleer. She straightened, clearing her throat. Must have been an odd sight, seeing a summoner talk to a stable hand. “What’ll you have?” she asked them both.

Bran figured now was as good a time as any to knock back a drink. Drinking had been his plan for the night, after all. He could say a silent prayer for Jed and Wilson and shake off the nerves from his first near death experience since the Battle of Heathland. “Mug of the house ale, please, Petra.”

Petra nodded, then eyed the summoner.

“Drab of whiskey, if you would,” the old man said.

When Petra strolled off, Bran leaned back in his chair, staring across at the summoner. Would this man hold him responsible for what had happened to his monster?

Or would he hold Shade responsible? If he reported the monster's existence, untamed, to the authorities…

“I’m sorry for what happened to your griffin, sir. I’ve… never seen Shade—the shadow creature—do something like that before. If you think the monster should be punished, I’d rather you punish me, as I am responsible for it. But…” Bran tilted his head to the side and figured he would try his luck. “Well, technically, the griffin was about to kill you. So, if anything, Shade saved your life,” Bran said, thinking, it saved my life, too.

It was rare that Bran ever spoke to a summoner, and he’d certainly never been so blunt with one, but this man would be dead if not for him and Shade.

The old man raised an eyebrow, then shook his head and chuckled. In that moment, the tension seeped away. “Aye, that shadow creature of yours certainly saved my life. And the way you jumped in front of me? Don’t worry, there certainly won’t be any punishment. In fact, I should be thanking you. I haven’t had a monster turn on me like that since… Well, to be honest, I have never had a monster turn on me like that.” He sighed. “But things are changing, that much is clear. The whole world is being upended…” He seemed to drift off, his gaze turning glassy, then he shook his head. “As for the griffin, don’t worry yourself about that. To be honest, the monster wasn’t actually truly mine to begin with.” The old man chuckled again.

Bran relaxed. Annie wasn’t about to lose her monster medic license anytime soon, not if this summoner was as grateful as he seemed. Though he still wasn’t sure what to say to the man. All his life, he’d wanted to be a summoner, but summoners weren’t made, they were born. No matter how thankful the old man was for Bran and Shade saving his life, he wouldn’t be able to change that. “The griffin isn’t yours?”

“That’s a long story.” The old man waved the question away. “But truly, thank you for saving my life. My name is Urslan. I’m a summoner from the Ketria Academy. A Mage.” He spread his hands in a shrug. “Hence why riding the griffin didn’t exactly go as planned.”

Petra, drinks in hand, stopped by the table again, silently placing a mug of ale in front of Bran, and a tumbler of whiskey in front of the summoner.

The Mage summoner.

Bran didn’t know half as much as he wished he did about summoners, but he did have a passing knowledge of the different classes, enough to know Mages didn’t typically ride their monsters.

Bran held the mug of ale with both hands, he shut his eyes briefly, thought of his fallen comrades, then took a generous sip.

“You seemed pretty handy back there. What kind of summoner are you?” The old man held his glass in his hand, but had yet to take a sip.

Bran held in a sigh, about to explain he wasn’t a summoner, but before he could say a word, Urslan continued talking. He pointed down at Bran’s pocket with a raised eyebrow. The scanner’s crystal was sticking out.

“That’s an old model. Very old. A relic of the past, to be honest. Surprised to see it still works.” The summoner rummaged through the pockets of his robes. “I think I have another one somewhere…” He muttered. “Ah, there we go.” He produced a spherical crystal from one of his pockets and placed it on the table between them. “That’ll give you a much cleaner scan.”

Bran blinked down at the crystal. It didn’t look like any scanner he had ever seen before. There was no scroll, just a clear crystal. Where exactly was the information displayed? Curious, he picked it up. He knew a scan of himself would show the Mage summoner what he truly was—just a normal person.

Still, what if he’d been wrong all this time? What if he did have the talent, and it had just… presented itself late? Surely there must have been times when that had happened before.

He held the crystal in his palm, and it began to produce a dim glow. Light radiated from it in a thin line, facing him.

“Should only take a moment.” The Mage finally took a sip of his whiskey. As he did, his face soured. “Not exactly the good stuff, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Bran smirked at the man. He wondered what Lettrige would think if he heard a summoner badmouthing his whiskey. Urslan was not what Bran had been expecting. He’d always thought summoners were gruff and serious, with the worst of them just being plain arrogant. With that much power, Bran wasn’t surprised it affected some so. But this man was just plain, well, affable.

The crystal flashed brightly. Then it disappeared.

No, it didn’t disappear.

It was absorbed through Bran’s skin.

A tingling feeling spread up his arm, then through his entire body. His vision momentarily went white. For the split second that it did, he worried he was going blind, but it cleared just as quickly. Finally, the tingling feeling settled in his stomach and eased until it dulled into nothing.

Then text transposed itself over his vision.

New User! Identifying summoner class...

Lancer?

Invalid

Hunter?

Invalid

Mage?

Invalid

Protector?

Invalid

Ranger?

Invalid

Beastmaster?

Invalid

System Error. Stand by...

Then the text faded to nothing.

Bran let out a long sigh. Of course, he had known this would happen. Still, he had let himself feel a small spark of hope for a moment there. At least being a monster medic was still in the cards. Maybe this Urslan would put in a good word for him, get him fast-tracked onto the field after his training with Annie had been completed…

Now he was getting ahead of himself. He hadn’t even begun his training with Annie.

The mage’s eyes narrowed briefly. He’s scanning me, isn’t he? Bran thought. That’s why he hadn’t seen Urslan scan the Amalgabeast—his scanner was a part of him.

“Strange. It looks like the system is having trouble identifying you.” Urslan put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Hmm, of course. Some summoners are harder to read. They must have had to do a manual scan on you when you began your training. What class were you assigned in summoner school?”

Bran let out another sigh. This had gone on too long. As much as he liked pretending things could change, there was no use lying to the old man. “Sorry to say, you have this all wrong, sir. I never went to summoner school.”

“That’s… highly unusual. It’s not often I encounter a self-trained summoner, especially one with skills such as yours. To do what you did with that shadow creature and the griffin, fusing them as one… Well, I’ve seen a lot in my time, but never that. You must have at least apprenticed with someone? It’s not traditional, but I’ve heard it still happens in small towns—”

“You misunderstand me, sir, but I’m no summoner. I’m a stable hand. Nothing more. I was working when you and your griffin fell from the sky. I wouldn’t know the first thing about beast magic, and I certainly don’t possess any.”

Urslan frowned. “A stable hand? I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing here, but—” The old man’s brow furrowed as he noticed the blank expression on Bran’s face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He shook his head, then took a sip of his whiskey, face souring once more. “I’ve never seen an ability like that before. Perhaps your creature… no. No, it wouldn’t have been able to do that.” He stared into the drink, and now seemed to be talking to himself. “I’ll have to check the archives at—”

“Bran!” Mr Lettrige slapped his hand on the table, his face red. “What in the hell are you doing, having a drink on shift? I already saw you slacking off once tonight!” He pointed a shaking finger at the stable hand. “I just had a customer tell me the stables are in shambles! A hole in the roof!”

Urslan raised a finger. “I can explain—”

Mr Lettrige cut him off, holding a hand up to silence the old man, he continued his tirade. “Now, I’ve been good to you, Bran, gave you a job when you were fresh out of the army even when you had no experience as a stable hand. But I figured, the man’s served our country, fought in the Battle of Heathland, even, may as well give him a chance. Well, this is your last one! If that stable isn’t fixed before our prestigious guest arrives—”

As the Wayward Inn’s proprietor’s face grew even more red, Urslan quietly placed a badge he had pulled from one of his robes’ pockets onto the table.

Mr Lettrige noticed the badge, then stared at Urslan. As he did, all the air seemed to fall out of him.

“Bran bears no responsibility for the damage to the stables,” the summoner began. “As for the drink he’s having, well, you’ll have to excuse that. You see, it’s the anniversary of the Battle of Heathland, and when I realized this man had served, I all but forced him into the tavern.” He stared at the proprietor. “It’s a crime that someone who fought for our country should have to work on a day like this, isn’t it?”

Mr Lettrige’s red face paled, and he actually quavered at the old man’s words. “Oh, um, a crime, is it? Well, certainly, yes. Sorry for interrupting. Actually, I was going to offer him some time off. Yes. The rest of the night. Tomorrow, too. Yes, that should suffice, no? Now”—he eyed the badge—“is there anything I can do for the G-Grand High Archmage of Ketria Academy?  Anything at all? The Wayward Inn is at your service.” He gave a hastened, ugly bow.

The old summoner straightened in his seat, raising his chin, giving Mr Lettrige a steely gaze that would have made even a sergeant in the army shiver in their boots. “There is something you can arrange, yes. Urgent passage back to Ketria Academy.” He looked at Bran, then returned his gaze to the proprietor. “Urgent passage for two. Contact the academy and tell them to have my ward bring the airship here immediately.”

Mr Lettrige bowed again. He was about to slink away, when Urslan raised a finger. “Oh, and I’ll leave some money for stable repair on my way out. Sorry about that.”

When the proprietor was out of earshot, Bran couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “I’ve never seen the man pale like that.”

He tried not to think of the implications of who this man was. Grand High Archmage of Ketria Academy… There were few in the kingdom who held more power than one of the academy heads. But it wasn’t Bran’s first brush with power, and he doubted it would be the last. Though he hadn’t expected to run into such a man in the stables, of all places.

“Weak men like that hold onto every inch of authority they have, digging their claws in and never letting go, lording it over anyone they can.” There was a hint of anger in Urslan’s eyes as he watched the proprietor disappear behind the bar, then he got a faraway look in his eyes. The anger faded as quickly as it came, and he stared at Bran. “A veteran of the Battle of Heathland? I knew there was more to you than being a stable hand.”

Bran sipped his ale. He didn’t much want to talk about the Battle of Heathland, though he had to say he’d appreciated the man’s words. Watching Mr Lettrige squirm… well, Bran wasn’t too proud to say he’d quite enjoyed the scene. And he could use the night off. Maybe he’d be able to catch up with his squad mates in the lower district. Hell, he could use some time off, after what had just happened…

Then he remembered what else the summoner had said. He placed his mug of ale back on the table. “Passage for two? Are you… taking the Amalgabeast?” If so, Bran would lose Shade in the process. Maybe it was for the best, the monster being with someone who could properly train it. Maybe the Grand High Archmage of Ketria Academy would know how to identify what it was.

“I won’t be taking the Amalgabeast,” Urslan said. “You will be.”

Bran frowned. “As I said before, I’m no summoner.”

“I beg to differ. Look, Bran. You look seasoned. Those scars, the Battle of Heathland?” The Grand Archmage narrowed his eyes. “You’re the man who received the Silver Star, aren’t you?”

Bran eyed the man, not saying a word.

That was enough to confirm the Archmage’s suspicions.

Yes, Bran had gotten that damned medal. But for what? Almost getting killed by a summoner and his manticore? He had stood his ground, spear in hand, as the beast had bounded toward him, as it had given him the scars on his face.

He had even landed a blow.

But it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t done a damned thing to save his friends. He clenched his fists on the table, then forced them to open. Forced himself to relax.

“Yes. I knew there was something familiar about you. I have helped countless summoners come into their powers, fought in more wars than you’ve been alive for, seen… so many things. What I have never seen is what you pulled off in those stables.” Urslan shook his head. “Those beasts didn’t fuse on their own, and it wasn’t your shadow creature who did it. The power came from you. I know. I saw it. The archives at Ketria Academy are extensive. If there’s anywhere we can find out more about your powers, it’s there. I’ll have to teach you a thing or two along the way, lest people ask too many questions… I don’t have to tell you that a novice summoner of your age is highly unusual. And before you say another word, this isn’t optional. Whatever you think you are, you are far more. I have the authority to order you to come with me, but I’d much rather you do it voluntarily.”

The Archmage stood, downed the last of his whiskey, then placed it back on the table. “So, what do you say, will you come willingly?”

Summoner.

Did this man really think the power had come from him?

Bran stared at Urslan.

This was no joke. The Grand Archmage of the Ketria Academy wouldn’t make a habit of pranking lowly stable hands.

In that moment, Bran didn’t feel entirely capable of speech, and he found it was best to keep quiet rather than look like a fool—especially in front of someone as high ranking as this.

So he just nodded.

“Gather your things. We leave in the morning.” The Archmage straightened his robes, then touched a hand to his bandoleer, placing a finger on each crystal. It looked like an old habit. Bran’s eyes were drawn to the crystal that had held the griffin. Where before, it had glowed a brilliant yellow with streaks of silver, now it was devoid of color entirely and utterly clear—as though the life had been drained right out of it.

“Where are you going?” Bran hesitated a half-second. “Sir.” He had questions. A lot of them. Was Urslan really dropping all this on him in one second, then leaving the next?

“I have business in the city to attend to, and not as much time to do it as I had thought.” The archmage paused. “I'll be back here in the morning. Make sure you get some sleep. It’ll be a big day.”

The Grand Archmage of the Ketria Academy turned on his heel, his robes swishing about him. More than a few patrons looked the man’s way, noticing the fine robes, the Summoner’s Bandoleer.

Bran sat there a long moment, finished the rest of his ale, then ordered another.

Summoner’s Shadow 1: Chapter 3

Bran left two empty mugs of ale on the tavern’s table and walked up the Wayward Inn’s stairs to his room. One of the benefits of being a stable hand at an inn like this was free board. It also meant he didn’t need to find more permanent residence, as he was always expecting another war to break out and to be called back into service.

Saving the Grand Archmage of the Ketria Academy from one of his monsters going rogue on him, then being told he was a summoner? That, he hadn’t been expecting.

He opened his door, surveying his room. There wasn’t much to it. A tiny bed tucked into the corner, a chest at its end. One small window. There wasn’t even enough room for a writing desk or a wardrobe—not that he had many letters to write, or possessions. He liked traveling light.

That was a good thing, he supposed.

As he packed his few possessions into his travel bag, he went over the unlikely events of the evening.

Summoner.

It didn’t make any sense.

The Grand Archmage must have been mistaken. He was sure he didn’t possess any beast magic. He’d tried, countless times, to manifest powers, to tame beasts, but he’d never been able to.

Urslan’s words replayed in his mind: The power came from you. I know. I saw it.

But that couldn’t be right. He had been scanned a dozen, a hundred times! Nothing had ever come of it. Even tonight, the new scanner he had been given hadn’t been able to identify his class. Though Urslan had said some summoners require a manual scan to identify their type of beast magic, if that were true of him…

Bran plopped onto his small bed. He looked at his hands. Rough, calloused. First, from wielding a spear. Then, from holding a shovel.

The power came from you.

What if the Archmage was right?

What if these hands were capable of more than he had thought?

What if, all this time, Bran had been a summoner, but his magic just… hadn’t manifested?

He bent down, staring into the chest he’d almost emptied into his bag. There was a small pouch at the bottom of it that housed the few valuables he had. He grabbed the pouch and untied the string, taking out something from inside.

The Silver Star medal.

If he had been a summoner during the Battle of Heathland, he could have made a real difference. He could have actually saved his friends. Instead, all he’d gotten were scars and a piece of silver.

He gripped the star tight in his hand.

Summoner.

When the next war came, he needed to be ready.

He needed to be stronger.

He thought his dreams of being a summoner were long dead, given up on when he’d been a youth, before his days as a spearman in the Royal Kalaran Army.

But if he truly was a summoner… who better to teach him than the Grand Archmage of the Ketria Academy?

The Ketria Academy was one of the best schools in the kingdom. Hell, it was one of the top three schools in the entire world, alongside the Dreadmorth Institute and the Raugrite College—battles had been fought to decide which of the three should be considered the best, and opinion always shifted on that, with no one ever coming to a consensus. Though if you asked the students of each of the schools, they’d tell you theirs was the best.

What opinion didn’t shift on was the fact that graduates from the Ketria Academy were some of the strongest summoners in the entire world. Even the famous Mage, Ganadon, had been a graduate of the academy, and there were statues of him all over the nine continents, after he’d kept that Beast Realm portal from collapsing and unleashing… well, hell into the world.

Bran didn’t know much about the academy. Though there wasn’t much for a normal person to know. Summoners weren’t all that talkative with those who weren’t of their kind, but rumors slipped out on occasion. One of those rumors said the college had an absolutely brutal training regime, and that only one in a thousand students actually managed to graduate. Those that failed to reach the school’s high standards were turned away, forced to enroll in lesser academies or become wandering summoners of questionable qualifications. Urslan must have thought that was what Bran was, a wandering summoner who had never even attended a school.

Bran relaxed his hand. The star had dug into his palm, drawing a drop of blood from each of its five points. He wiped the blood off on his trousers after placing the star back into his pouch, then took out the other item within.

A crystal necklace. One he’d been given when he was a child, by his mother. It was the only thing he had left of hers. The only thing he had left of either of his parents. The crystal was clear, its clarity perfect. It didn’t glow like the crystals on a Summoner’s Bandoleer. Bran had always wondered where it had come from, but only knew it had been a part of his family for many generations.

She always said it brought her luck.

She should have kept it on.

He hadn’t worn the necklace since leaving the service.

Bran stuffed the pouch with the Silver Star into his pack, then put the necklace on, tucking crystal under the hem of his shirt.

He should try to sleep. There were still a few hours before dawn, but he was far too wired after the griffin attack, and the talk with Urslan.

The Grand Archmage of the Ketria Academy.

So he headed down to the stables to check on the shadow-griffin—the Amalgabeast.

As he did, he wondered what he would be learning in the morning, what Urslan might be able to teach him. He knew the basics of beast taming. At least, he knew the theory. He’d certainly tried his hand at it before…

To tame a monster, a summoner must venture into the Beast Realms. There, they have to conquer a beast in combat, or gain their favor in another way. Once the monster concedes its power to the summoner and has been “tamed,” a bond is created, and the summoner can trap the beast inside one of their four crystals.

Then, the summoner is able to summon these beasts from their crystal at any time, whether in a Beast Realm or the mortal world.

But only a summoner can create such a bond, and that was something Bran had never been able to manage.

Of course, he had heard there were other ways to acquire monsters. They could be bought, like the raptor in the stalls—though a normal human could never properly tame such a beast. And if one were a summoner, they could purchase their beast. Bran had even heard that in some high families, children with the summoner talent inherited beasts from their parents, giving them powerful monsters far beyond their level.

Bran stepped through the tavern. It had quieted much since he’d been in his room. The minstrel had gone home, taking his lute with him, and many of the patrons had turned in for the night. Some of the more… persistent regulars were still deep in their mugs, and the off-duty officers hadn’t stopped playing cards. Which made Bran wonder—could he still catch his squad mates in the lower district? Should he explain to them what had happened tonight?

No. They would ask too many questions. Questions he didn’t have answers to himself yet.

The stable was even quieter than the tavern. When he reached the stall he’d left the Amalgabeast in, he found it fast asleep. He leaned on the stall’s door, staring at the sleeping monster.

There were so many things about summoning he didn’t know—so many things he wanted to know. That spark of hope in his heart that this could be real was turning into a raging fire the more he thought on it.

He knew little of the different classes. Urslan was a Mage. Would that be what Bran turned out to be? He tried to recall the names of the others, when text suddenly appeared over his vision:

Lancer

Formidable fighters who ride their monsters into battle. Eventually, these monsters can become terrifying titans; the most legendary of which are large enough to rival the size of castles.

Hunter

Use traps and utility-type spells alongside their monsters. Adept at taking down enemies using stealth and traps.

Mage

Using the elemental affinities of their summoned monsters, Mages cast powerful offensive spells.

Protector

These summoners adapt the elemental affinities of their monsters to strengthen and bolster the defenses of themselves and their allies.

Ranger

Masters of ranged combat, utilizing their monsters to enhance and empower their ranged attacks.

Beastmaster

These rare and unique summoners practice the dangerous art of bioalchemy. They combine elements of their monsters in their own bodies, creating a synthesis between monster and man.

Bran stared at the different classes, taking his time to read over the descriptions of each several times. Summoners… They wielded such amazing power!

Gods among mortals.

He had seen what they were capable of. Come face to face with them on the battlefield, and from reading these descriptions, he realized he had encountered most of the different classes before.

The dark-haired summoner who had ridden the manticore into battle. The man who had killed his friends. He must have been a Lancer. For a moment, Bran wondered what that fight would have been like had he been a Lancer too. Could he have ridden a dragon into the battle while wielding a giant halberd? Could he have decimated the man with dragon’s flame from above?

The silver-haired woman who had saved him and the rest of his squad… She must have been a Mage, like Urslan. In fact, the two probably knew each other. Bran had never gotten the opportunity to thank the woman for what she had done.

Was there a chance she might be at the academy?

Out of habit, Bran walked down the stalls, checking the latches, ensuring all the animals were safe within. The stable was colder than it usually would be, what with the giant hole in the roof. While he was there, he cleaned away the fallen debris, stacking it all by the corner, then swept the splinters from the floor.

He didn’t do it for Mr Lettrige. He did it because he’d taken a certain pride in looking after this place.

As he cleaned up, he remembered the lone Beastmaster he’d met. That was something he would never forget.

The man had green horns sprouting from his head, and a large, lizard-like tail. His face had looked as rough as tree bark, and his voice sounded more like a dog’s low growl than that of a man. Annie had been tending to one of the Beastmaster’s monsters, and had given Bran a rare opportunity to observe.

When the cleaning was done, Bran sighed. He’d best get some sleep, else he would be useless in the morning. That would make for a poor first impression. He trudged back through the tavern toward his room, the wood of the inn’s stairs creaking under his heavy footfalls.

He laid back in his bed, his mind still turning, and realized something.

He had thought he’d never been able to tame a beast, make a bond with one… but if he had fused those two monsters, as the Archmage had said, then he must have bonded Shade. Bran might not have been able to get an accurate reading from the shadow creature, but he was a monster. That much was clear.

If that were the case, then what was the harm in trying to summon the beast?

Closing his eyes, resting his head on his pillow, Bran envisioned the shadow creature, calling it forth with his mind. He had no idea how a summoning was supposed to work, but he imagined if a bond was true, it wouldn’t be all that difficult—it seemed effortless enough for the summoners he had seen perform the feat.

He focused his mind as hard as he could for what must have been several minutes and…

Nothing happened.

Bran let out a sigh. Perhaps I’m not a summoner after all. Perhaps the Grand Archmage was wrong…

Then something occurred to him—he had envisioned Shade, not the Amalgabeast.

He tried, one last time, conjuring an image of the shadow-griffin in his mind and calling to it as he had before.

Again, nothing happened.

There was a commotion downstairs. One of the drunks shouting, by the sounds of it. Then Bran heard what must have been a table being overturned and the clatter of drinks falling to the tavern’s floor. He almost got up, then he remembered the off-duty officers playing cards—they would deal with whatever trouble was going on down there. Unless they’d gotten deeper into their cups than he had thought, and one of them had lost too many hands… wouldn’t be the first time he had seen a guard throw a punch over losing some coin.

Something thudded against his door.

Bran sat up. Instinctively, he reached for the dagger he kept under his bed. He would be a poor former soldier not to keep a weapon close to where he slept.

The thud came again, louder this time.

Then the door came off its hinges.

Bran thundered to his feet, assuming a fighting stance, the dagger’s hilt digging into his palm—

The shadow-griffin padded through the doorway. It expanded its wings, looked up at Bran, then tilted its head to the side in a curious gesture that seemed to say: You called?

Bran put the dagger down and let out a loud chuckle, then patted the Amalgabeast on the head before picking up the door and placing it back on the frame. It seemed Mr Lettrige would have more than just the stable’s roof to fix after night’s events.

But Bran didn’t care about that.

He was a summoner.

He had seen proof of it now.

That night, he slept better than he had in months. He still dreamed of the Battle of Heathland, as he often did, but instead of seeing his friends die again, in the dream, he was riding atop a dragon, wielding a massive halberd…

Summoner’s Shadow 1 is coming April 2022

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About the Author

DB King’s stories feature competent main characters, magic and skill progression, and nothing too dark. While he doesn’t shy away from violence, he mostly avoids cursing and doesn’t have any adult scenes. Most of his stories aren't strictly Gamelit/LitRPG, but a lot of his magic and progression systems often feel like something you might find in a video game.