An Outcast In Another World

Book 3 - Rising Insanity

Brett Finnicum / KamikazePotato

Copyright © 2022 Brett Finnicum / KamikazePotato

All rights reserved

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

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

Dedication

I wouldn't have been able to come as far as I have without a ton of help along the way. This book is dedicated to my family, who have given me unwavering support from the very beginning. I'd also like to thank the people of Spacebattles, Royal Road, and the HFY subreddit for making my story a success online. Board 8 helped me hone my writing skills over the years, and author MelasD deserves a big mention for all his advice on how to self-publish – and do it right. Lastly, I'd like to thank all the fans who helped make Book 1 and 2 a success on Amazon, as well as my Patrons for the incredible financial support that's helped make writing this story sustainable. Without the help of all these people, there would be no An Outcast In Another World.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Summary of Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of 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

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Afterword

About the Author

What else?

Summary of Book 2

Author’s Note:

This is a quick summary of the events of Book 2 (Shared Insanity) for those who need a refresher. If you’d like to jump straight into the action, feel free to ignore this section and skip straight to Chapter 1.

--

The start of Book 2 begins with a funeral. Rob and the Ranger trainees – Keira, Orn'tol, Zamira, and Vul'to – are mourning the loss of those who perished in The Village's invasion. Their friends Alia and Tarric and their mentor Riardin were just a few of the many dead. While The Village's invasion was stopped by killing the Blight, its infected creatures slaughtered thousands of Elves in the process. What's more, it infected The Village's Locus of Power, an invisible source of energy that provides life to the surrounding area. Without the Locus, everything from miles around will gradually turn into a Blighted Land, filled with corrupted air that rots life. Having no way to prevent that outcome, the people of The Village start preparing to abandon their home and travel elsewhere.

As a result of surviving the Blight's attack and being showered with blue energy from a broken Class Crystal, Rob gains access to a Sub-Class titled Crystal Bearer. It grants him unique new Skills that seem to be based on the functions of various Crystals. Three abilities that Rob gains throughout the course of Book 2 are Spatial Storage, which lets him store objects in a pocket dimension, Waymark, which lets him teleport to locations where he leaves markers, and Class Alteration, which lets him change people's Classes while allowing them to keep their previous Levels. Later on, Zamira and Vul'to make use of Class Alteration to switch Classes from Ranger to Swordsmaster, and Ranger to Vanguard.

Rob and the surviving members of The Village set out to Reviton City in order to find a new safe haven. Along the way, they're assailed by remnants of the Blight's invasion force, leading to more casualties. Rob assists a Ranger named Lycia on several occasions, earning her gratitude by restoring her lost leg. When the Villagers have almost reached Reviton City, a group of advance guards under orders from the Elven Seneschal demand that everyone hands over Rob and submits to punishment for the crime of harboring a Human. The advance guards are killed in response, causing the Villagers to splinter into two groups. One group continues heading to Reviton City, while the other rebels against the Seneschal's authority and heads north, calling themselves the Deserters.

Keira finds that she feels almost no emotional turmoil despite killing people for the first time. While assuaging her worries, Zamira learns that she has feelings for Keira. After Rob comes to terms with the fact that he's also killed people for the first time, he learns that his Diplomacy Skill has gained self-awareness and is forming a personality. Rob welcomes the Skill with open arms as a friend, although he keeps its existence a secret. He and the rest of the Ranger trainees – including Malika, Orn'tol's sister – then band together to form an official Party called Riardin's Rangers.

In Reviton City, the Elven Seneschal learns of the Deserters' dissent, and that Rob has the ability to share Fast Learner with other people. He sends saboteurs to kidnap Rob, but his efforts are stymied by Kenzotul, a veteran soldier of The Scouring who was inspired by Rob's mercy to become a better person and live for the sake of preventing further bloodshed in the world.

The Deserters continue north, hoping to find shelter at an abandoned city within Human territory. A group of mediocre saboteurs – the only ones available after Kenzotul's interference – try and fail to kidnap Rob. Their lone survivor, named Tiarsus, is conscripted into the Deserters. Eventually, the Deserters arrive at Human territory, a mostly-barren wasteland with little life or vegetation. The border is guarded by Human proximity mines left over from the war, one of which Rob accidentally triggers. He's teleported into an abandoned Human prison miles away, where he meets a reticent Dragonkin named Meyneth who's more nervous about him than he is of her. Emphasizing with her loneliness, he invites her to join the Deserters, and she accepts.

Rob and Meyneth travel towards the Deserters' target destination – Esternard City – to hopefully meet up with them. Partway through, Rob encounters a Locus of Power and is drawn to it by a strange force. He ends up attuning to it, a process that sends his mind on an astral trip to meet with an unknown being that asks Rob to "set us free." Attuning also grants Rob the ability to sense the Blight's Corruption. Soon after, he reunites with the Deserters, and despite a rocky start, Meyneth officially joins them.

Weeks later, the Deserters reach Esternard City. Rob freaks out upon finding that it looks extremely similar to cities back on Earth. He renews his vow to return home someday. As the Deserters settle in, they eventually learn that another Blight has infected the plantlife in the surrounding area and is attempting to absorb its Locus of Power. In an effort to prevent the tragedy of The Village from repeating, Riardin's Rangers and go on a Dungeon Crawl – hopefully, expunging the Dungeon will weaken the Blight's power.

Immediately after entering the Dungeon, everyone is trapped within vampiric plants called Dreamthieves that subject the excursion team to illusions meant to trap and torment them. Rob is confronted by specters of his parents, his best friend Jason, Alia, Tarric, Riardin, and the people he killed, all of whom force him to confront his desire to leave the world of Elatra and abandon the Deserters to their fate. Rob escapes the Dreamthief, and in a gambit to free Riardin's Rangers, activates Melancholy Resistance in order to share the effect with them. His plan works, but Melancholy Resistance almost takes over his mind, and the experience traumatizes both him and Diplomacy.

Riardin's Rangers realize that the only way to free the remaining members of the Dungeon excursion team is to expunge the Dungeon as quickly as they can. Throughout their efforts, Meyneth gains confidence, and Rob gains an affinity for setting things on fire. Riardin's Rangers manage to defeat the Organic Devourer laying in wait at the end of the Dungeon, saving the excursion team from a grisly fate.

Back at Esternard City, Elder Duran, Malika, and a team of mages form a mana link that Duran uses to burn out the Blight before it can reach the Locus of Power. Rob meets with Randor, a member of the excursion force who was trapped by a Dreamthief, and agrees to provide assistance to people outside of Riardin's Rangers more often. Later on, an encounter with an Elf who wants to jump his bones – an offer he declines – forces Rob to internally admit that he has feelings for Keira. Diplomacy extracts a promise from Rob to confess to Keira within the next two months.

Book 2 ends with Rob purposefully Attuning to the Locus within Esternard City. He believes that, despite the risks, doing so might give him a new ability of some sort. While Attuning, Rob is transported to an astral plane where he encounters one of the gods of Elatra. In a fit of rage, he attempts to choke out the god, not fazing it in the slightest. Upon waking, Rob immediately tells his friends and the Elders about what transpired, to their shock and disbelief.

Chapter 1

Words can change your life so much, and so quickly.

When Rob finished his very first day in Elatra, having barely survived a neighbor’s greeting from the local fauna, he’d found a crumpled note in his pocket kindly telling him ‘good luck.’ Those two words re-contextualized the impossible events he was being subjected to. It let him know that he hadn’t been dragged to a hellish fantasy world by accident – someone out there was fucking with him.

Days later, when Riardin informed him that he was the only Human left in the world, the revelation had instilled a sense of crushing isolation within him, one that never fully faded. It hardly mattered that he’d escaped a forest of murderous, mutated animals and finally reached civilization. He could travel the whole length of the world, and wherever he went, he would always be an outsider.

The follow-up revelation of most people in the world wanting him dead – because of a war he had nothing to do with – wasn’t particularly encouraging either.

Since then, there’d been moment after moment of his worldview being shattered. From Elder Alessia telling him about Leveling High infecting his mind, to discovering Tarric and Alia’s deaths on the Party Screen, to having his diplomatic pleas shot down by the Seneschal’s Advance Guards, to Diplomacy speaking to him for the first time...there were so many that he could barely remember them all. Compared to the tumultuous waves that simple words would often send crashing into his life, the frequent onslaught of violence and death was almost easier to deal with.

Almost.

Today, however, was different. It was a day to mark down as a special occasion, because for once, Rob was the one blowing people’s minds instead of the other way around.. The severity of the situation only somewhat dulled the refreshing sense of schadenfreude he felt when looking at everyone’s faces.

Because based on the expressions of Riardin’s Rangers, the Elders, and the Healers, Rob was pretty certain that ‘I may have strangled a god’ was a sentence they’d never heard before.

He drummed his left-hand fingers on his bed, waiting for someone to break the silence. They didn’t. The Elves might as well have been frozen in time. He wasn’t even sure if some of them were breathing.

“So,” Rob began, cautiously. “Just to be clear, ‘strangle’ is a word in Elatra’s lexicon, right?”

“Yes,” Orn’tol stated, in a quiet monotone.

“Cool beans.” He swept his eyes across the crowd, observing the sea of confusion and shock that hadn’t abated in the slightest. “Anything else I need to clarify?”

“YES,” they said, in unison.

Rob held up his hand, palm out. “Okay, okay. To summarize: when I Attuned to the Locus of Power, instead of getting mind-yeeted to the white room, I got put...somewhere else. Walked around for a while. Found a being beyond my comprehension. Tried to choke it.” He shrugged. “It’s really that simple.”

<You’re not making this easy on them,> Diplomacy remarked.

Refuge in audacity, Rob said. The less big of a deal I make it, the more they’ll feel pressured to accept my statement as truth. Unless you have a Diplomatic cheat code for this situation?

<Besides lying? No.> The Skill hummed in anticipation. <I’ll just sit back and watch the show.>

Elder Alessia was the first to react. “Arshan,” she said, addressing one of the Healers. “Examine him once more. The repeated brain damage and possible lingering side effects of Attunement may be worse than we feared.”

Keira, Orn’tol, Zamira, Vul’to, Malika, and Meyneth all took on fearful, concerned looks. Rob gave the core members of his Party a conciliatory look as he shook his head. As gratifying as it was to see people worried about him, he needed to put a stop to this line of questioning before it got out of hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” Rob said. “I can assure you that I’m entirely sane.” He paused. “Well, about as sane as I was before Attuning, anyway.”

“Rob,” Elder Duran began, as if speaking to a child that had woken from a nightmare. “What you experienced is a product of the absurd mental pressures that were being subjected to your unconscious mind. It was a fantasy akin to a fever dream. One only meets the gods when that person sheds their mortal coil and travels to their deity’s Hallowed Hall. As you still walk among the living, what you claim is a pure impossibility.”

It was a sensible argument based on common Elatran knowledge. Anyone else would have said the same thing. It was also completely, unequivocally, dreadfully, wrong. Rob had suffered through enough mindfuckery by this point to tell the difference between illusion and reality. Unfortunately, he had virtually no evidence to present, and the one witness he could call on was a voice in his head that no one else could hear.

…

He probably shouldn’t mention that last detail just yet. The idea was to convince them that he wasn’t delusional.

“Check my Status,” Rob remarked, in an overly casual tone. “Notice something different?”

The seven other people in his Party – consisting of the Healers, Elders, and several of his friends – took a moment to open up their Party Screens. Rob pulled his right arm out from underneath his bedsheet, waited a second for the recognition to dawn on their faces, and then idly shook his arm in the air, flopping it around like the useless appendage it was.

“I’m guessing that ‘Soul-Burnt’ isn’t a common status effect?” He said. “Turns out that strangling a god comes with some side effects. Which, you know, fair.” He sighed. “Not that my efforts did a damn thing anyway. Neck muscles might as well have been made of cosmic iron.”

“Your hand,” Keira gasped. She reached out to hold it, and Rob’s heart sank a little when he couldn’t feel her grip. “What happened, Rob?”

“Must I repeat myself?” He gave a weak chuckle. “No worries. I’ll be fine. Between healing magic and my Vitality Skills, we’ll find a way to fix it.”

He hoped that he wasn’t lying.

“Admittedly,” Elder Duran said, speaking slowly. “This is the first time I have come across a Status Effect of this particular nomenclature and effect. However, this is also the first time that I have witnessed a person directly interact with a Locus of Power. I find it much more likely that your affliction resulted from coming into contact with the Loci’s energy, whereupon your mind fabricated a fantastical scenario in an attempt to comprehend what it was experiencing. There are plenty other instances of self-imposed hallucinations occurring in patients who are recovering from a stressful event that left them half-aware and on the precipice of death.

Rob narrowed his eyes, causing the others in the room to flinch. He knew they were just trying to help him with all these annoyingly plausible theories, but there were only so many times someone could be ignored before they started to lose their cool. “I can’t help but notice that no one’s asked me why I did what I did.”

“Because it didn’t happen,” Taleya muttered.

Rob’s eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead. “Indulge my delusions, then,” he said, a taut smile on his face.

Realization sparked one by one in Riardin’s Rangers. Elder Alessia, eyes fixed forward, failed to detect their changes in demeanor. “As you have yet to charge us in a fit of rage,” she started, “Then I will presume that your dream was not brought upon by Leveling High surging out of control. Are you perchance angry with the gods?”

Rob nodded, teeth clenched tightly together. Conversely, Elder Alessia’s stonelike expression softened at his admission. “Understandable,” she said. “In periods of crisis and suffering, one’s faith in the divine can very easily waver. I imagine that many Elves among our numbers are wondering if Lothren has forsaken them. They would never admit to such thoughts, possibly not even to themselves, but-”

“You don’t get it,” he interrupted. Alessia looked taken aback and mildly offended, but Rob was past caring. He was thoroughly fed up with keeping this issue on the down low. “I’m angry at the gods in a personal sense. They are fucking with me, specifically, and have been ever since they ripped me from everything I ever knew and loved and dumped me in a forest to get eaten by wolves.”

His statement blew apart the atmosphere with the force of a gunshot. Rob stared daggers at the Elders, unblinking, daring one of them to come forward and contradict him.

Alessia and Duran exchanged frantic glances. Duran lost a silent debate, cleared his throat, and faced forward. “Now, Rob-”

“Don’t ‘Now, Rob’ me.” He practically growled the words. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. The manacled chains pulling me into a void, the note left in the pocket and the voice in my head, all the system messages insulting me or calling me good entertainment or saying I’ll rot in the darkness or telling me I won’t wake up or-”

Rob cut himself off and took a deep breath. “Elder Duran, when we were having one of our meetings in The Village, you admitted to me that you couldn’t fathom how I’d been transported to Elatra without divine intervention. And you know what? You’re right. Nothing else could so casually breach the barrier between realities. Nothing else could influence the system to speak to me like it had a malicious personality. Nothing else – except the gods of this world.”

Visions of eternity flashed in his mind. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to see one of them?” His voice fell to a whisper. “It puts everything into perspective. We’re down here, struggling to survive, hanging on by a thread, and then you find some jackass up there with the power to help everyone just lounging around flipping coins. Even if they hadn’t made me their personal chew toy, I’d still have enough righteous fury to fill an ocean. If the one I met was Lothren, then it deserves none of your worship, adoration, or trust.”

The fingers on his right hand twitched. “My only regret is that I wasn’t strong enough to kill it.”

<You aim for the stars,> Diplomacy commented. <First you declare you’ll find a way home to Earth, then that you’ll make me into a real person, and now you’re pondering how to slay divinity? Most people feel unmotivated when looking at a longer-than-average grocery list.>

You have a problem with that? Rob asked.

<On the contrary.> The Skill’s orb sent over an impression of bared, grinning teeth. <I’m already theorycrafting.>

The rest of the people in the room were at a loss for words. It was simultaneously nerve-wracking and liberating. Maybe he should have sugarcoated his words, but no, he refused to give them an inch of leeway on this matter. If they weren’t going to believe him, fine, but they were going to stand there and listen to what he’d fucking gone through before declaring him insane. A valve had burst inside him, and he had no desire to seal it back up.

“I believe you,” Keira suddenly said. “I wish I didn’t, but unfortunately, I do.”

Rob breathed an internal sigh of relief. Prior to this conversation, he’d already spoken with Keira, Orn’tol, Zamira, Vul’to, and Malika about the system turning against them. If anyone was willing to make the jump from agreeing that the system was malicious to wholesale condemnation of Elatra’s deities, it would be them. At least I’ve got one supporter.

“You damned idiot fool,” his one supporter hissed. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why in Lothren’s na- why in the world would you LAY HANDS on a GOD?”

Rob huffed. “Like you’ve never wanted to get revenge on people who messed with you.”

“People, Rob!” Keira exclaimed. “People! Not gods! I may take issue with the Seneschal’s treatment of those hailing from The Village, but if he were to show up at our doorstep, would I challenge him to a duel? No! Because he would tear me limb from limb with the barest modicum of effort! You speak of sensing immeasurable power from the being you encountered, and your first inclination is to attack it?!”

Rob scratched the back of his head. “Well, when you put it that way...” He put on a sheepish expression, feeling rather silly, but the alternative was openly admitting that the idea of squeezing the life out of that thing had been intoxicating. Delicious. Irresistible. All of those things and more.

<An accurate description,> Diplomacy said. <Normally this would be where I chastise you, but I share some of the blame this time.>

Mmhmm, you’re up shit creek in the same boat as me. Paddles not included. He paused. Totally worth it, though, right?

<In every respect. Given a second chance, I would do it again.>

Same here. And I don’t need your guidance to know to keep that detail to myself.

“Forgive me,” Elder Alessia said, in a tone conveying the exact opposite sentiment. “Perhaps I missed the moment where it was decided that Rob actually experienced what he claims, and isn’t simply a brain-addled medical patient in need of copious amounts of bed rest.”

Orn’tol and Vul’to spoke up at the same time. They stopped, waiting for the other to continue, before stumbling into a socially awkward tango of speaking up at random intervals to encourage each other to take their turn, accidentally talking over each other, clamming up, and repeating the process. After what must have felt like an eternity for the both of them, ending in Orn’tol appearing as if he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear, Vul’to turned to face the room with a serious expression and slightly red cheeks.

“The system attempted to hurt me,” he started, voice shaking. “It, it did hurt me, and in a precise way meant to strike at the core of my psyche. When Tarric and Alia...”

He steeled his resolve. “When Tarric and Alia fell in defense of The Village, I acquired a Skill titled Sole Survivor. Its Prerequisites were to ‘leave Alia to die and have Tarric take a lethal blow for you’, verbatim. Its Description is as follows: ‘Three trainees fought together. One trainee lived. Such is the way of the world that the worthy outlive the weak. Let their deaths be stepping stones to greater heights.’”

Vul’to almost stopped there, his voice choking up slightly, but he managed to press on. “Try as I might, I cannot think of a reason for the system to phrase that Skill in such a way – or to grant me that Skill at all – except for the singular purpose of tearing me down in the hour of my greatest failure.”

The color drained from the Elders’, Healers’, and Taleya’s faces as Vul’to read out the particulars of his Skill. Sparks of lightning flashed around Elder Duran’s fingertips, and a prominent vein began to twitch in Elder Alessia’s forehead. Meyneth didn’t know who Alia and Tarric were, so the news prompted a less visceral response from her, but she still looked genuinely perturbed, as if she’d seen someone speak ill of the dead at an emotionally charged funeral.

“The system didn’t treat me quite so harshly,” Orn’tol said. He kept his voice composed, but was betrayed by the twitching in his legs. “However, on several occasions when I had reason to be sickened with my actions, it named me a coward.” His eyes darkened. “There was no excuse, and no reason, outside of unchecked sadism.”

By this point, the Healers had checked out of the conversation. This was above their pay grade, and considering the conga line of classified revelations that were being tossed around, Rob was going to force them to sign some NDAs before they were allowed to leave the room. If the rest of the Deserters heard on the grapevine that their gods were pricks, it would be...problematic. They weren’t ready for this. Hell, the Elders, Taleya, and Meyneth might not be ready for this. The gears in their heads were struggling to turn, straining against the weight of the secrets they would soon be expected to carry.

“Why is this the first that I’ve heard of this?” Elder Alessia asked. It was one of the few times Rob had heard her sounding unsure of herself. “As Elders, it is our duty to support the younger generations through their myriad trials. Why suffer alone, fumbling for answers in the dark, when our wisdom could have guided you?”

“I implore you not to take my words as an indictment,” Zamira started. “But it was more than likely that our stories would have been met with disbelief. Were it not for the exceptional circumstances we find ourselves in, I myself may have found it difficult to accept it.” Her lips pursed. “The notion that the powers governing the world are using us as playthings is...unpleasant.”

Taleya abruptly clapped her hands together, drawing the room’s attention. “I’m done,” she stated. “I have no desire to take part in this discussion any longer. The Deserters won’t hear a word of what transpired from me, but I’ll leave the rest of the decision-making to you lot. Let me know how it goes.”

She turned away from them, shoulders hunched. “Preferably, I’d like to hear an explanation that this is all just a colossal misunderstanding, and that I wasn’t praying to empty air when I wished for my sister’s safe journey to Lothren’s Hallowed Halls.”

A small gust of air blew into Rob’s face as Taleya dashed to the door at a full Ranger sprint. She slammed it behind herself a second later, sending a long crack running through the beleaguered wood.

“I too would like to leave,” one of the Healers said. The second Healer, standing by the first’s side, nodded insistently.

“Swear an oath to secrecy,” Rob commanded. He had no idea if oaths were a big deal in Elatra, but it couldn’t hurt. The Healers quickly acquiesced, and as soon as Elder Alessia gave them the go-ahead, proceeded to scurry out of the room like rabbits being let out of a trap.

Meyneth stood her ground. She seemed much less surprised than any of the five Elves who had just been cursed with forbidden knowledge. Rob glanced at her; she met his eyes, and without a moment’s hesitation, nodded. He thanked her with a smile.

This could have gone better, Rob thought. But it could also have gone waaaay worse.

“Let us presume that your tales are true,” Elder Duran said. He collapsed into a nearby chair, gingerly rubbing his temples. “The question remains: how do we proceed? At present, we’re wandering into uncharted territory without a compass or a route back. I’ve perused many a tome in my years, and the number I’ve read that clarify the gods’ capabilities in detail can be counted on one hand. We know that they were here for the beginning, and that they will be here for the end. We know that they can shape reality as they see fit. We know that they govern the fate of our souls when we pass away. Perhaps those are exaggerations, but even if they were to possess a mere tenth of the power that the legends claim, then I struggle to envision what path is available to us if the divine bring their full might to bear.”

He let out a hum of contemplation. “We would have more success shouting away a hurricane than opposing Lothren and her ilk.”

Rob pounced on Duran’s notion before it could push the group into a downward spiral. He’d been waiting for this train of thought to arrive at the station. “As someone who’s seen one up close, it would be an understatement to say that they’re strong.” He held up a finger. “Thing is, they’ve got limits. I wouldn’t be alive otherwise. Maybe they were content with fucking with me early on, but based on the trend of the system messages I’ve been receiving, at this point they just want me dead.”

“Are you sure of this?” Meyneth asked.

A smile that didn’t reach his eyes spread across Rob’s face. “The most recent message told me that one day I’ll pass out and not wake up.”

The cascade of winces that his statement prompted was proof that he’d made his point. “Best analogy I can think of are the aberrant Dungeons,” he continued. “The way they can alter reality is beyond our understanding, and if the last one we entered was able and willing to kill us right off the bat, it would have teleported us into a vat of acid the instant we crossed its threshold.”

Rob leaned forward. “But it didn’t. For whatever reason, the Dungeons are restricted. There’s a rulebook that they have to follow. Why? I don’t know. But in the same way that we have to eat when we’re hungry and sleep when we’re tired, Dungeons have to ensure that there’s a path to victory, no matter how small. As monstrously powerful as they are, they’re only as powerful as they’re allowed to be.”

His mouth twisted into a grimace. “Despite the gods hating my guts, divine wrath has yet to smite me from on high – knock on wood – so the one explanation I can think of is that, just like the Dungeons, their strength is shackled in some manner.”

A moment of silence passed as the room considered his theory.

Shackled?

Explosive pain lanced through Rob’s head. A strangled cry tore out of his throat as his thoughts were washed away in a tsunami of agony. The others were screaming, and oh god why were they screaming, it just made the pain worse, noises grating on his ears, nerves seared to their roots, why, why why why-

SHACKLED?

A voice.

Rob grasped onto it like a lifeboat in a roaring storm. The voice was grand, derisive, overwhelming – and it distracted him from the pain. He centered his thoughts around it, regaining a semblance of sanity moments before it spoke again.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF BEING SHACKLED? YOU WHO ARE CONSTRAINED TO FOUR LIMBS AND ONE MIND, A SLAVE TO BODILY FUNCTIONS AND RULED BY THE CHEMICALS IN YOUR BRAIN. DAY IN AN DAY OUT, YOU FIGHT TO YOUR LAST BREATH TO SURVIVE, PRAISING THE FATES WHEN THE INEVITABILITY OF YOUR DEMISE IS POSTPONED BY A FRACTION OF THIS WORLD’S EXISTENCE. THE COURSE OF YOUR LIFE IS EVER DEFINED BY EXTERNAL FORCES OUTSIDE OF YOUR CONTROL. WHAT INTERMITTENT SCRAPS OF AUTONOMY YOU ARE ABLE TO SCAVENGE ARE EQUIVALENT TO MOTES OF DUST FLOATING IN THE WIND. AND YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO CLAIM THAT THE ETERNAL ARE SHACKLED?

Rob summoned every shred of composure he had, and in-between bouts of tortured screaming, used it to deliver a very important message. “Fuuuuuck yoooouuuu.”

ELOQUENT.

He wouldn’t have believed that the pain could get worse, but life is full of surprises. Rob trembled like a leaf in the wind as it overtook his senses.

His face was wet, his throat was hoarse, and arms were wrapped around him.

Then, out of nowhere, it lessened. Still there, still unbearable, but weakening with every passing second.

NO. NOT NOW. The voice lost a bit of its edge. I HAVE MORE INFLUENCE THAN THIS. WHERE – Vivacity, cease your laughing! And Kismet, stop flipping the damned coin!

With that, it was silent. The pain faded, bit by bit, until Rob could think again.

He observed the scene he’d ‘awoken’ to. Keira was hugging him, ear pressed against his heart. The Elders were speaking to each other in harsh tones. Malika had escaped to a corner of the room, sank to the floor, put her head on her knees, and covered her ears. Orn’tol was pacing in a circle, fingers clenching and unclenching. The others were gone – presumably to fetch the Healers.

“Huh,” Rob said. “I think this is a record for most brain damage in one day.”

Everyone’s heads snapped towards him. In a familiar scene, the crowd surrounded him and started pelting him with questions. The exception was Keira, who kept her arms around him, content to lay on his chest and sigh in relief.

Rob wiped his hand across his face, frowning at the smear it left on his skin. Tears and blood running down from his eyes had mixed into a red wet mess. Kind of gross, but nothing that a towel couldn’t fix. Belatedly, he realized that the others were waiting for him to explain what had happened. Considering the worry he’d put them through...again...they deserved a quick response.

“See?” Rob gave them a thumbs-up. “Still alive! Told you they have limits.”

For some unknowable reason, that didn’t end up being the right thing to say.

Chapter 2

“Let the 9th Official Assemblage of Riardin’s Rangers commence!”

Malika pumped her fist in the air and jumped, whooping loudly as she announced the start of their meeting. The Party had chosen a secluded, empty building as their place of rendezvous, meaning they could be as loud and silly as they wanted. Rob made sure to clap loudly, and the others followed suit, letting Malika soak in the attention as she grinned from ear-to-ear. It was an infectious smile, and Rob found himself mirroring her good cheer. She made for an effective mascot. One who could pump him full of 3000 volts of pain if he annoyed her, but an effective mascot nonetheless.

<I believe you’re giving Malika too little credit,> Diplomacy stated. <Even if were you to call her a mascot – which would be ill-advised – she isn’t the violent type. Without legitimate reason, at least.>

Probably, but it’s hard to forget Elder Duran’s face when he talked about Archmages going mad with power, Rob countered. Guy seemed genuinely worried about Malika’s long-term disposition. I’d like to avoid alienating her and accidentally writing the prologue to her villain origin story. Let’s keep leading her down the path of good, righteousness, and all that jazz.

Diplomacy paused. <Then perhaps you should stop encouraging her to experiment with dangerous magic so freely.>

Rob barked out an internal laugh. Clearly you don’t understand precocious young teenagers. I do – which I should, considering I was one – and stunting their creativity is the exact opposite card to play if you want them to listen to you.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Orn’tol was trying very hard not to sulk, and only partially succeeding. Rob belatedly remembered that it had been the young Ranger’s turn to announce the start of the meeting. Like the upstanding big bro he was, he’d wordlessly stepped aside and let his little sister take center stage, recognizing that it would mean more to her than it would have to him. Rob wrote a mental note to reward the guy for his noble sacrifice when the chance arose. Without letting Orn’tol know what he was being rewarded for, of course. Boys of his age put a lot of emphasis on personal pride.

Juggling the emotions of teenagers with too much power and responsibility for their age was a never-ending job, but Rob didn’t mind. They needed people who actually gave a shit about them in their lives. Riardin and the Elders had picked up some of the slack left behind by the siblings’ deceased parents, but while they'd offered support over the last eight years, there was a difference between support and care. Elven society post-Cataclysm had fractured into pieces, and peoples’ hearts had fractured with it. Spare love to share with others was in short supply. Some children were fortunate enough to be adopted, but most hadn’t; Orn’tol and Malika were merely two of many that ended up slipping through the cracks.

But that was then. Things were different now, and Rob would ensure they never felt alone again. He wasn’t exactly ready to be a stepdad at the ripe old age of 19, but a surrogate big brother? He could handle that just fine.

“Excuse me?” Meyneth abruptly asked. She flinched when everyone’s attention focused on her, but not as much as she would have flinched in the past. “Am I to presume that I’m being included in this...9th Official Assemblage?”

“That you are,” Zamira affirmed. “I bid you welcome. Regrettably, you arrived too late to take part in the determination of our group’s namesake. Should you have any complaints, or suggestions for alterations, please address them to Keira.”

Meyneth turned to face Keira. The Warrior smiled wide, showing two rows of sparkling white teeth, and shook her head.

“...I have no objections,” Meyneth flatly stated. “And I thank you for inviting me. However, at the risk of sabotaging my own interests, am I truly the right fit for your organization? I am not a Ranger, nor do I know who Riardin is.”

“Riardin was our teacher,” Keira said, her smile fading quickly. “Strongest, bravest man we ever knew. He would have liked you, I think. And in lieu of his spirit instructing us from beyond the grave, I feel confident in giving you his posthumous approval.”

She allowed for a moment of silence. “As for your non-status as a Ranger,” she continued, “It’s unimportant. The moniker was chosen when our group consisted of more Rangers than now, and even then, we had a Warrior and a Berserker among our ranks.” Keira smiled once more. It was slightly strained, but full of warmth. “You, my scaled friend, will fit in perfectly with our merry band of miscreants.”

Meyneth’s posture relaxed. “I see,” she said, in a soft tone. “Then I humbly accept your invitation, and will wear it proudly as a badge of honor.”

Diplomacy, take note: we need badges. And a rad logo to put on them.

<What am I, your personal journal-slash-secretary?> The Skill gave a thoughtful hum. <Badges do sound rather fun, though.>

I’ll make my coat of arms a Firebomb, Rob continued. Although that runs the risk of our Artificer realizing who keeps burning through all the ones he prepares.

“Rob? Did you hear me?”

He blinked as Meyneth called his name, snapping him out of his conversation with Diplomacy. “Sorry, what?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “If I may ask one more question,” Meyneth said. “Why am I here, while Taleya is not?”

The Party’s good cheer soured in an instant. When Rob answered, he wasn’t able to keep the moodiness out of his voice. “Because when I informed everyone about the gods, you stayed, and she didn’t.” He rubbed his forehead. “I mean, shit, I get it. The brain-damaged Human woke up and started spouting bombshells that sounded like crackpot conspiracy theories. Can’t begrudge her too much for bowing out. Still going to be disappointed about it.”

He faced Meyneth, regulating his expression so that she wouldn’t think his irritation was being directed at her. “Why did you stay, anyway? You weren’t aware of what the system had put us through. The whole thing must have sounded insane.”

“This may come as a shock to you,” she replied, in a tone dripping with sarcasm. “But I have a thoroughly pessimistic view of the world. In addition, I was raised under the dominion of the Dragon Queen. The revelation that Tylrud might be treating our lives as breakable toys was shocking, to be certain. But the notion that all-powerful beings don’t have my best interests in mind is easier for me to accept than you may have anticipated.”

“Makes sense,” Rob muttered. “Well, glad to hear you’re on board. We’ll need every helping hand we can get, especially since the Elders are still untangling their thoughts.”

He couldn’t blame them any more than he could blame Taleya. They’d put their trust in Lothren for centuries. What he’d told them was going to take a long while for them to fully accept – assuming they ever did.

Rob swept his gaze across the group. “I explained pretty much everything I know after waking up, but if you have any further questions, now’s the time. Otherwise, we can move on to the rest of the docket.”

‘Rest of the docket’, Rob thought, groaning internally. Leadership makes me sound so lame sometimes. I’m a Berserker, not an accountant.

The rest of the Party exchanged glances. “There is one important matter to discuss,” Orn’tol said, hesitant. “How do we proceed from here? Identifying our enemies does little for our capacity to oppose them.”

Rob shrugged. “Fuck if I know.” He tapped the side of his head. “But the Divine Dickheads haven’t taken any more dumps in my brain since the last time, so I stand by what I said about them being restricted by certain limits. We’d already be dead if they could drop the hammer of god whenever they wanted. The deity yelling in my head whined about needing more ‘influence’, so my educated guess is that they have to work in more subtle ways. Manipulate events to turn sour. Some of the shit we’ve had to deal with is probably a result of their handiwork. And yet, here we are.”

He put on a smug grin. “They’ve tried messing with us, but despite their best efforts, we’re still standing.”

“Are you sure the events that have occurred thus far have been their best efforts?” Zamira asked.

A bead of sweat ran down the back of Rob’s neck. “Uh, yeah, totally. And if I’m wrong, no worries – they hate me the most, so I’ll be targeted before any of you.”

Rob realized his misstep half a second before he finished his sentence, but by then it was too late, as his mouth already had one foot on the accelerator and couldn't pump the brakes in time. The Party’s eyes widened as Diplomacy rolled its own.

You shush, Rob said, defensively. So what if that didn’t come across as reassuring as I intended? They can’t all be winners. He pressed on before anyone had a moment to focus on what he’d said. “For now, let’s just concentrate on surviving until we get more intel, which should hopefully only take until I Attune with the next Locus of Power. Feel free to start theorycrafting with the info we’ve got, though. Use your imagination.”

His current #1 plan was to accomplish one impossible task – finding his way back to Earth – and then use that task as a stepping stone to accomplishing another. All he had to do was strongarm the US government into lending him nukes, open a portal to the gods’ domain, and then see how overwhelming magical power fared against the horrible wonders of modern technology.

There...were several steps missing along the way. But if he was going up against divinity, he had to shoot for the stars. Or in this case, shoot overwhelming firepower at the gods of another world and hope they weren’t 100% immortal.

One step at a time, though. Find a way home, then nuke the heavens.

“Your ethos of ‘wait and do nothing’ is inspiring,” Keira flatly stated. “Unfortunately, I can’t offer a better alternative.” The others, after a few moments, agreed. They fell quiet, considering what to discuss next. Rob had a few specific topics in mind, but he waited, letting the other Party members pick first. They wouldn’t be able to weasel out of what he wanted to inquire about if they ‘owed’ him some answers.

“Attunement!” Malika blurted out, having grown impatient. “You reached the second stage of it, right? Did you receive a powerful Skill?”

Rob smirked as he was struck by a strange sense of nostalgia. A month ago, their Party had been in The Village, his friends questioning him about Crystal Bearer as the Villagers prepared to abandon their home. Now, they were in Esternard City, his friends questioning him about Attunement as the Deserters prepared to abandon what could have been their second home. So much had changed since then, but in some respects, everything was business as usual – even if it was weird business that was warping the conventional logic of the system like a reflection in a funhouse mirror.

“Level 2 of Attunement is, speaking honestly, incredibly relieving,” Rob answered. “It reduces the damage I take while Attuning by a full 100%. Hopefully that means less brain damage mishaps.”

The Party collectively winced, which was an entirely normal reaction to being reminded that your friend’s brain was eating itself on the regular. Rob, for his part, wasn’t as worried as he felt he should be. Regeneration and healing magic had patched him up so far, but he had no idea if those abilities were truly preventing any long-term effects from building up. Head trauma that – for example – boxers incurred would only express its full medical complications years after the fact, and those were ‘just’ concussions, not magical assaults on his brain and psyche. It would suck to fight tooth and nail to survive Elatra’s bullshit just to be reduced to a drooling vegetable ten years down the road.

In the end, though, what could he do? It was a problem for future-Rob to deal with. Present-Rob would be satisfied with living to see next week’s sunrise.

“Aside from the Attunement damage reduction,” Rob continued, “It also lets me sense Corruption from the Blight that’s within close proximity. Not very relevant now, although I imagine it’ll come in handy later.”

That included sensing the Corruption inside his own body. It was a tiny kernel of rotted black, attached to the core of his inner self like a leech, perpetually gulping down 7 of his Max HP. Rob did the best he could to put it out of his mind – the thing honestly made him want to vomit whenever he looked too closely. Even if he didn’t know exactly what it was or what it was doing, something about the Corruption was deeply unsettling in a way that triggered primordial instincts in the back of his forebrain. It was sickness, pestilence, corrosion, and gluttony. The sooner he discovered a way to excise and purge its existence, the better.

“Are you well?” Vul’to asked. “Your face suddenly grew pale.”

Rob waved his concern away. “I’m good, no worries. And at the moment, that’s all I’ve got on Attunement. At least until we find another Locus of Power.”

The others nodded, and as if they’d given a signal, Rob took his shot while their guards were down.

“My turn to ask a question,” he said, injecting a bit of forcefulness into his tone. “What exactly are the Fiends?”

Everyone, in unison, looked away. Each member of Riardin’s Rangers employed their personal brand of time-wasting nonchalance, from Zamira drumming her fingers on her longsword, to Malika whistling off-tune, to Meyneth crouching down and drawing doodles in the dirt. Rob gave them a solid minute before concluding that they would rather wait until the heat death of the universe for someone else to bite the bullet than answer his question themselves.

“You guys can’t be serious,” Rob said, eyebrows raised. “I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets. What’s the problem with wanting to know more about supposedly dangerous creatures that we might run across as we travel farther north? I want to learn what I’m up against so I don’t, you know, die.”

“If only it were so simple,” Keira mumbled. With a sigh, she turned to face him, the motion taking visible effort. “You must understand – merely thinking about the Fiends is akin to the feeling of a spider crawling up your neck. In a better world where the Blight had remained as bygone stories, I would be confident in naming the Fiends as abominations.”

She grimaced. “Standards for what an abomination truly is have since risen, but the advent of the Blight has left the Fiends no less vile than they were before. You had best hope that we don’t encounter them on the journey north to Broadwater City, or that if we do, we encounter them in small numbers. A single Fiend has strength enough for two members of any other race.”

Rob barely stopped himself from throwing his hands in the air. “That sounds pretty bad,” he said, patiently. “But you’re spending more time hyping them up than telling me what they actually are. Are they sapient? Can they talk? What do they look like? Do they have any abilities beyond being swole as hell?”

“Sapient?” Keira echoed, slightly mystified by his question. “Presumably, yes. They possess a semblance of community, a rudimentary social structure, and bonds of kinship between one another. At least that’s what we’ve been able to glean from the Fiends that traveled south as invaders. Anything more regarding their society is pure speculation; the Humans never pushed far north enough to catch a glimpse of the Fiends’ cities, assuming such cities exist. And the Fiends themselves speak in an unholy tongue that grates upon one’s ears like steel scraping across glass. All attempts at communication with them have failed, and a version of Auto-Translate for their language is, as far as anyone is aware, impossible to learn.”

Rob nodded, keeping his face neutral as a sense of unease grew within. While it was good that someone was finally dishing out the dirty details, something about the whole conversation felt...off, and in a way he couldn’t put into words. He ran his paranoia by Diplomacy, and the Skill both agreed with his assessment and admitted that it didn’t know how to pinpoint the source of their unease.

“Their appearance is close enough to ours to be familiar,” Keira continued, her face growing more pale by the second. “And different enough to be disquieting. An average Fiend possesses two arms, two legs, and a head with a similar facial structure to the other races of Elatra. However, in place of skin, half the surface of their bodies are covered by crisscrossing lines of an insectlike carapace. Curled horns sprout forth from their brows and grow longer with age. Knife-sharp claws that are longer than any Dragonkin’s extend from the ends of their fingers. And lastly, their eyes are one solid oval of pitch blackness, lacking pupils or sclera of any sort.”

“Spooky,” Rob mumbled. “If underwhelming.”

Keira gaped at him. “What?”

“The Fiends sound intimidating and all,” Rob explained, “But based on how freaked out you guys are right now, I was expecting more. I’ve already been fighting plenty of things way stronger than me, and after being repeatedly subjected to the cavalcade of fucked-up creatures that Elatra hides around every corner, some jabronis with horns and exoskeletons aren’t going to keep me up at night.”

“They devour souls,” Keira whispered.

A heavy moment of silence passed.

“They devour souls,” Keira repeated, to Rob’s shocked expression. “Fiends are no better at casting traditional forms of magic than any other race, but truth be told, I would prefer that each of them were as strong as an Archmage than have to live in fear of the spells that are uniquely known to them. In a perversion of the natural order, and of life itself, Fiends possess the capability to directly sense and affect a person’s Soul. Whether they are able to do so via a closely-guarded secret or the strength of their lineage, we aren’t sure, but it’s the main reason why the Fiends are so abhorred. The main reason why their existence cannot be suffered.”

Keira’s hand trembled as she placed it over her heart. By now, her face had gone sheet-white, and the rest of the Party wasn’t faring much better. “We all die in the end,” she said, in a faltering tone. “Try as we may to prolong it, hanging on to life by the smallest of threads, the reaper always has its due. The death of a loved one leaves pain and sorrow in its wake, ripping a hole out of the tapestry of your life that can never again be sewn shut. Your own death represents the end of awareness and the vibrancy of living, robbing you of whatever sensations you have yet to experience. Death is terrifying – and the one tenet that helps make it bearable is the knowledge that, while your body may perish, your soul will persist. That you’ll be granted the opportunity in your god’s Hallowed Halls to meet with those you arrived before you, and to greet those who will eventually arrive after.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “Unless a Fiend devours your soul. The reaper still has its due, but this time, it collects with interest. Oblivion is all that awaits you. Calling it dark or cold would be false, as those descriptors imply that there’s any part of you left remaining to feel those sensations. The Fiend feasts well, and in return, you are condemned to nonexistence in its entirety.”

Keira looked away and closed her eyes. “Is that intimidating enough for you?”

Rob suppressed a gulp. “Sure is. Kill the Fiends on sight, then?”

She cracked open an eye and stared at him with an exasperated expression. “Yes, Rob. We kill the Fiends on sight.”

And that was that. The Party stayed silent, stewing in their own anxiety.

God damnit, Rob thought. You have any tips on how to break them out of this funk?

A wave of pensive thoughtfulness pulsed from Diplomacy’s core. <What would happen to me if your soul was devoured?> The Skill said, speaking mostly to itself. <Most people possess Diplomacy, but for whatever reason, you’re the only one who I can speak to. Your eyes are my eyes, and your ears are my ears. For all intents and purposes, I don’t exist anywhere else. Would I perish as well if your soul was obliterated? How connected at the hip are we?>

Rob had gotten a lot of recent practice at refining his poker face, but he was still forced to look away to prevent everyone from seeing the aggrieved expression on his face. Okay, first of all? Don’t talk about my soul being munched on so casually. It’s creepy. Second of all, I need some help with the Party here. There’ll be plenty of time for an existential crisis later.

<Wait it out and don’t say anything,> Diplomacy said, brushing off his concern. <You’d just make things worse.>

Lovely.

Iffy as Diplomacy’s advice sounded, it ended up being the right call. A few minutes to decompress and gather their thoughts served the rest of the Party well. It wasn’t long before their muscles slackened, their eyes opened, and the color returned to their faces. It was similar to watching caffeine addicts get their first cup of coffee at the crack of dawn; a sight that Rob was extremely well-acquainted with. Early morning class schedules took no prisoners.

“I’d like to talk about something else,” Malika said, in a very quiet voice. Her request prompted a round of nodding heads. After a moment of silence, Vul’to filled the void by raising his hand and stepping forward.

“There’s an announcement that I wish to make,” he said. Vul’to hefted the shield strapped to his left arm and displayed it to the Party. “I’ve decided to stay as a Vanguard. After what transpired in the Dungeon Crawl, I believe that our team requires a defensive frontliner moreso than a superfluous Ranger.”

The corners of Vul’to’s lips crept upwards. “And I would be lying if I said that the choice wasn’t also a product of my own inclinations. Protecting people, being their shield...the idea holds a great amount of appeal.”

His voice faltered slightly. “Of course, that’s only if the Party gives their approval.”

“They do,” Zamira forcefully stated, before anyone else had a chance to object. “No one should be constrained to a Class that is antithetical to the desire burning brightly within their chest. I think Vanguard is a fine choice for you, Vul’to.”

Vul’to was taken aback by Zamira’s impassioned statement – as was everyone else, really. A mild blush crept into his cheeks as his smile returned. “Thank you. Sincerely.”

D’aaaaaw. Rob felt his worries melting away under the warm sunlit rays of care and support. I think that’s a nice feel-good moment to end the meeting on.

<Aren’t you forgetting something?> Diplomacy remarked. <A certain grisly task you need their assistance with?>

Rob took in the sight before him. There was Vul’to looking happy and relieved, Zamira with an expression of triumph, Keira staring at Zamira with proud, soft eyes, and the rest content to stand back and enjoy the pleasant atmosphere. It was the most wholesome thing he’d seen all week.

But, but, he pouted. My feel-good moment!

<Rob.>

He sighed internally, then sighed externally. “One last thing,” Rob said, drawing the Party’s attention. He held up his limp right arm and gave them an awkward grin. “Anyone feel like helping me cut this bad boy off?”

His request was met with several seconds of dumbfounded silence. Orn’tol caught on first, his eyes widening with realization. “You mean to Regrow the limb?”

Rob nodded. “I figured this is the next logical step to take. The healers might have failed to fix my arm, but maybe Skills will succeed where magic failed.” He swept his eyes across the group. “Would be helpful if someone volunteered, though. There’s a bit of a psychological barrier preventing me from doing it myself, which is Rob-speak for ‘I’m too much of a wuss to cut off my own arm.’ To make things easier for you, I’ll deactivate my defensive passives, so there shouldn’t be any problems. One chop, the arm drops.”

“That may not be true,” Zamira said. “Your maximum HP is currently over 1000. That affords you a significant level of durability regardless of your defensive Skills. The common layman – and even mid-Level fighters – would be hard-pressed to sever the limb in a single clean blow.”

Rob scratched his chin. “Makes sense. But you should still be able to pull it off, right? You’re a Swordmaster with Power Slash. Keira and Meyneth have got the Strength for it as well.”

The three women peered at each other. They exchanged an unspoken argument. Meyneth was the first to break their standoff, facing Rob with a purposefully neutral expression.

“Strength is no substitute for expertise,” she said. “A sword is what would be required to sever your arm in a precise, painless motion.” She extended her claws and wiggled her fingers. “Alas, my claws are my weapon of choice. The intricacies of swordplay are lost upon me. Any attempt I make would run the risk of complications.”

“I may possess expertise with Swordsmanship,” Zamira said, cutting in. “But my Strength is not up to par. I’ve invested the majority of my stat points into Dexterity, and while that choice has borne fruit in many capacities, my build leaves me ill-equipped for this particular task. It would take two – nay, three slices before I could cut through your arm, and just think of the pain that would entail!”

Keira narrowed her eyes at the others. A moment later, she shrugged. “I don’t want to do it.”

...Are those legitimate reasons or are they passing the buck?

<Yes.>

Rob couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, fair, it’s a gross favor to ask. Someone needs to do it, though. We’re keeping the problem with my arm a secret from the Deserters so that they don’t get freaked out about one of their vaunted Blightkillers turning out to be – gasp – mortal. The Elders aren’t cut out for the job, and Taleya is making herself scarce. My pool of people to draw from is limited.”

How dare my friends be so reluctant to dismember me, Rob thought. Where’s Alia when you need her He rubbed his chin. “If it’s not going to be any of you, it has to be someone good with a sword, with a decent amount of Strength, who has a strong incentive not to gossip behind our backs, and preferably is someone unimportant enough that people wouldn’t listen even if they did decide to gossip. I’m kinda drawing a blank here.”

Meyneth laughed. It was jovial, deep-throated, fully displayed a full mouth of sharklike teeth, and lasted just long enough for Rob to be reminded that Dragonkin were naturally intimidating in the same way that apex predators were. As her laughter petered out, it was replaced by a look of contented satisfaction that spread across her face.

“I believe I have someone in mind.”

–

“I’m serious,” Rob said. “This isn’t a trick. You will literally be doing me a favor if you cut off my arm.”

Tiarsus the sorta-captive – who happened to be a Magic Swordsman – stared at Rob like one would eye a used car salesman of dubious intent. It didn’t help matters that they’d cornered him in a back alley. It was so sketchy that Rob almost felt suspicious of himself.

“Lord Blightkiller, you must understand my trepidation.” He shuffled nervously. “I’ve barely begun to earn the Deserters' trust. If word were to get out that I laid a finger on you-”

“That’s why word won’t get out,” Keira said, in a chipper tone. Tiarsus flinched as if he’d been struck, and the shuffling resumed.

Rob was starting to feel a bit guilty, but the alternative was doing the deed himself, and screw that. “Think of it as getting into my good graces,” he said, handing a longsword to Tiarsus. “One slice, no victims, and poof! Nepotism starts to work a bit more in your favor.”

He laid down on the ground, placing his right arm out to the side to present a clear target. Tiarsus hesitated, then slowly drew the longsword from its scabbard. Rob took a deep breath and pushed down the nervous tension in his chest. In the extremely unlikely chance that Tiarsus tried to kill him, Keira’s Danger Sense would let them know ahead of time, so he wasn’t in any real danger.

Didn’t make losing limbs any more fun. This would mark, what, the 4th time it had happened? The sensation wasn’t something you got used to quickly, if ever.

<Are you sure this will work?> Diplomacy asked.

Not even remotely, but why bother having a Skill called Regrow Limb if I’m not going to abuse it? His thoughts darkened. The sooner I cheat my way to having my arm back, the better. When things inevitably start trying to kill us again, I’m going to need both hands.

Tiarsus clenched the longsword’s hilt in a white-knuckled grip. “Are you sure, Lord Blightkiller?”

“Go for it,” Rob said. Tiarsus nodded, and slowly raised the blade.

…Wait, I should probably ask the Healers for extra info first. Regrow Limb isn’t a Skill that’s unique to me. There’s probably been cases similar to mine in the past – maybe not the Soul Burnt status effect, but the concept of ‘healing’ a crippled arm by utilizing Regrow Limb has to have come up before.

“Actually-”

Shing. Schlorp.

“Nevermind.”

Chapter 3

Vul’to bit back a curse as he stepped to the side, turning Zamira’s glancing blow into a minor one, her longsword scraping across the length of his shield. Even then, his knees trembled under the weight of her attack, and he had to lock his muscles in place to prevent his arm from being swept aside. He barely had a moment to collect himself when Zamira struck again, forcing him to repeat the same defensive maneuver, his body pushed back a fraction of an inch more than before.

Frustration built with every bit of ground Vul’to lost. Zamira was a Swordmaster who had eschewed Strength in favor of Dexterity, and his own latent Vanguard Skills increased the durability of his shield and allowed him to stand his ground against blows that would have sent other Classes crumpling inward. Vul’to had assumed that her attacks wouldn’t be overly difficult to deflect, and at the beginning, he’d been correct. When their sparring session had begun, Zamira charged forward in the blink of an eye, and he deflected her opening strike without too much effort. She’d struck again, and the sequence repeated.

Then she’d struck again. And again. And again.

When Orn’tol suggested Zamira as a sparring partner, saying that she would put him through the paces, Vul’to had underestimated just how true that statement would turn out to be. A clean loss was to be expected, but being so completely overwhelmed that he was helpless in the face of her relentless aggression? Less so. His Stamina had been worn away as if he was a tree steadily whittled in half by persistent axe swings, and the number of counterattacks he’d managed to pull off with his shortsword could be counted on one hand.

I am a novice, Vul’to reminded himself. Learning a new Class takes longer than a single sparring session, and finding opportunities to strike back isn’t as important as honing my defensive capabilities. The role of a Vanguard is to protect my allies, to safeguard their-

He raised his shield too high, and that was all it took. Zamira crouched low and swept Vul’to’s feet out from under his legs. Her practice sword was pressed against his neck before he’d even hit the ground.

“You did well,” she said, inclining her head at him. “Just as the heart of a Swordmaster lies within me, the heart of a Vanguard lies within you.”

She held out her hand. “I’ll feel much safer with you at the forefront of our Party.”

Vul’to didn’t miss the unspoken qualifier of ‘with more training’. He suppressed a sigh and accepted Zamira’s offer, grasping her hand as she pulled him upright. They exchanged a customary high-five, bowed to each other, and then sheathed their practice blades. Zamira exited the training grounds, leaving Vul’to to stew in his own failings.

He was well aware that he had little to complain about. Their spar had been extremely valuable, making him cognizant of his own shortcomings while pushing him to overcome them. He had a scant two days before the Deserters left Esternard City on a perilous journey north, and every opportunity he was afforded to improve himself during that time would be invaluable. Nevertheless, Vul’to couldn’t help but be disappointed at his showing, one befitting of the novice that he was. And he knew why, although the reason made the top of his ears burn at the thought.

Meyneth was watching from the sidelines. He knew it was immature, but he didn’t want her to think of him as incapable.

A choked grunt from the opposite end of the sparring grounds drew Vul’to’s attention. Randor, one of the new Combat Class recruits, was biting his lip as he nursed a quickly-purpling bruise on his left arm. “Gods above,” he hissed. “I was under the impression that we were using training swords devised to prevent serious injury. If I wasn’t currently blessed with the Lord Blightkiller’s Vitality buffs, your attack just there would have snapped my bones like a twig.”

Lycia had a sheepish look on her face. “My apologies. Training is an art form, and sometimes you spill paint all over the canvas. I should have been more careful to adjust my speed and strength for someone of your Level.” She glanced around the sparring grounds, sighing when she found it empty save for themselves, Vul’to, and Meyneth. “Figures that we would neglect to bring a Healer. Should I fetch one?”

Randor opened his mouth to reply – presumably in the affirmative – before his eyes widened. “No...no, this is ideal. There will come many times when I’ll have to fight while my body is bruised and broken. What better place to inure myself to that hardship than in the safety of training?”

He rolled his shoulders, winced at the stab of pain in his arm, and adjusted his posture into a fighting stance. “Come, hurry! Now that I recall, the Lord Blightkiller’s buffs include Regeneration as well! If we don’t fight while the wound is fresh, you may have to injure me once more!”

Vul’to could only stare and watch, chuckling under his breath. “He certainly seems spirited.”

“Agreed.”

It took every ounce of his composure to avoid jumping out of his own skin. Vul’to turned to face Meyneth, who had somehow snuck up on him despite being at least six inches taller than him. It was simply another instance of proof that he had never been fit to be a Ranger. Riardin would’ve tanned my hide had he witnessed one of his pupils being so lax in their environmental awareness.

“I don’t recall ever meeting Randor,” Meyneth continued, eyeing the adjacent sparring session with mild interest. “Was he less spirited in the past?”

Vul’to arched an eyebrow. “You don’t remember meeting him? He was the Ranger that we carved out of the Dreamthief.”

Meyneth’s face tightened imperceptibly at the mention of the Dungeon Crawl that had almost gone horrifically wrong. “I would not call that a ‘meeting’,” she said. “He was unconscious, half-dead, and slathered in Dreamthief innards. I recognized his face when he stepped onto the training grounds, but today was the first time we ever exchanged words.”

“In that sense, we are similar,” Vul’to said. “I barely saw much of him myself before you joined the group. At the risk of painting the man in an unfair light, he always came across to me as sullen. Dissatisfied with the way of the world.”

He gestured towards Randor, who had just taken a second glancing blow from Lycia and was muscling through the pain with fierce determination. “This, however? Is a whole new man. His talk with Rob worked wonders.”

Meyneth relaxed as an easy smile spread across her face. “I imagine it did. From my understanding, Rob has a proven track record regarding his way with words. When taking Fast Learner into consideration, it may not be farfetched to presume that his Level in Diplomacy has reached 6, perhaps even 7.”

Vul’to examined the pleased look on Meyneth’s face and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “He...does help people, yes. Rob is a good man.”

“That he is.”

“...a very good man,” Vul’to probed.

Meyneth tilted her head slightly. “My standards for what construes a ‘very’ good man or woman have been warped like steel bending under a Nachri’s fist, but for now, he does seem to fit the necessary qualifications.”

Vul’to shot a quick glance at Zamira, who had departed the training grounds after their bout and was just now disappearing from view down the street. She was well out of hearing range. Swallowing his indecision, he stood up straight, faced Meyneth, and threw caution to the wind. “Do you like Rob?”

“Yes.”

Tension roiled in his gut before he comprehended her matter-of-fact tone. “No, no. I mean, do you like Rob?”

Meyneth furrowed her brow in apparent confusion. Her expression shifted rapidly, as if her emotions were a stone tossed about by the wind. Finally, she settled on bewildered comprehension.

“Ah. No.” She shook her head. “He is, as has been determined, a very good man. Outside of a stubborn propensity for self-destruction, I can find few faults with him. However, this does not mean that I am attracted to him. Humans are a mite too...”

She trailed off. A few seconds later, she drummed her claws on the golden scales that covered half of her arm, producing a hard tapping sound. “A mite too squishy. Call it personal preference.” Meyneth shrugged. “Even were that not the case, I would have scant interest in poaching someone else's mate. Especially someone who can remove my head from my shoulders should I incite their fury.”

Her eyebrows furrowed once more. “Which, in the technical sense, would be an unfair response. As they still have yet to admit their feelings to one another and officialize their union. Tylrud’s Teeth, if I am forced to intervene...”

Vul’to was still reeling from the blow that a single word had inflicted on him when Meyneth extended her claws further. “Apologies for the sudden digression, but I believe we should begin our spar now. You may not have had a chance to fully rest from your bout with Zamira, but Randor has the right of it in that enemies will seldom afford you that luxury, especially to a Vanguard whose role lay at the front lines.”

A glint of excitement shone in her eyes. “Zamira outpaces my Dexterity by a fair margin, but she can’t hold a candle to my Strength. Clench your teeth and steel your resolve, Vul’to, as I intend to spare you no quarter.”

She walked to the other end of the training grounds. While her back was turned, Vul’to poked at the flesh on his own, very squishy arm, and let out a deep sigh.

–

Rob knocked on the front door to Urian’s house. He waited patiently for a response from the Artificer; when none came, he knocked again, louder and more insistently. Still nothing.

Well, Zamira did say this would probably happen, he thought. Guess we’re breaking down the door.

<She also said the door would be unlocked,> Diplomacy remarked.

I know, I know, Rob chuckled. He reached for the doorknob. It’s a minor fantasy of mine. One day I’ll get to dramatically bust down a door and- MMFGWHEWCK

Rob gagged and stumbled back, arms pinwheeling, as a thick plume of smoke surged out of the open door and smacked him in the face. Small tears welled in his eyes as he damn near hacked up a lung, idly thankful that no one was around to witness their Lord Blightkiller defeated in an instant because he didn’t close his mouth in time. The smoke in question was billowing upwards, dark gray smog cutting through the blue skies, resembling an industrial-era smokestack on a factory where the idea of safety regulations was heresy. Rob gave the house a wide berth until the overflow of fumes had subsided, after which he rushed inside as fast he could.

“Urian!” He yelled, waving lingering smoke out of his face as he ran deeper into the house. “If you’re okay, say something! Was there a fire?!”

He rounded the corner of a hallway and came face-to-face with an aged Elf. Zamira had described Urian as a slightly disheveled, but otherwise intelligent man with a fierce glint in his eyes. This man – Urian, presumably – looked more like a mad scientist from a Saturday morning cartoon series. His face was caked with smoke, his jacket was askew, his white hair was sticking out in all directions, and his eyes were wide with a gleeful mania. Rob strongly considered turning around and powerwalking back outside the house, but that would involve exposing his back to a potential crazy person, and he knew better. Shopping at Wal-mart had taught him that much.

Urian locked eyes with Rob and grinned from ear to ear. In a flash of motion, he held up a shiny metal object and stuck it an inch in front of Rob’s face. “Look at it!” The Artificer hissed. “I have taken arcane powers plumbed from the very depths of the world and refined them! My work is done! It is COMPLETE!”

Rob gulped. “That’s, uh, that’s real great, bro. Are you talking about the Enchanted Item?”

Urian’s already-wide eyes widened even further. “What else is there worth speaking of?” He said. “Gaze upon my work once more, and this time, look beyond your eyes!”

“...What?”

“Use Identify, you daft bastard!”

I can see why Zamira refused to meet with this guy a third time, Rob thought. But if it’ll placate the man and keep me from getting shanked: ‘Identify’.

Name: Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, grants the wearer several abilities when entirely submerged underwater. Their swimming speed increases dramatically, they become as maneuverable as a fish swimming through the sea, and they become able to breathe underwater indefinitely.

“That’s a lot better than it was before,” Rob affirmed. “The old Moderate Ring of Waterdwelling didn’t let you breathe that long or swim that fast.”

“Finally, you understand!” Urian withdrew his hand and stowed the fruits of his labor in a pouch. “With this Enchanted Item, we Elves can now tread within a realm that, until today, has been dominated by the Merfolk. An entire ecosystem, ripe for exploration! Just imagine the wondrous discoveries that might be lurking below the water’s surface!”

“Don’t the Merfolk already live there?” Rob said. “That sounds like less of an exploration and more of an invasion.”

Urian waves his hand in a nonchalant manner. “Bah, as if they would not do the same to us given the opportunity. Small-scale incursions are a simple matter of course.”

He paused, the mania in his eyes dimming. “They used to be, anyway. The Scouring and the Cataclysm were unlike anything we’ve ever known. Perhaps those two atrocities left a deep scar that has instilled an aversion to large conflict in our bones. Or maybe they simply changed the nature of war, and that the next invasion – whenever it occurs – will be on the same scale, or greater.”

Urian stared at the ground for a few seconds, lost in thought. All of a sudden, his head jerked up, and he glared at Rob with furrowed eyebrows. “You’re not an Elf.”

Rob blinked. He pointed at his hair, then his ears. “What gave it away?”

“That would make you the Lord Blightkiller, then?”

“Last I checked.”

Urian grunted in reply. The Artificer re-opened his pouch and retrieved the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling, holding it towards Rob in a much more casual manner than before. “I suppose you’re here for this?”

Rob nodded, not trusting himself to speak. With the care of someone petting a wild animal, he used his left hand to gently take the Ring out of Urian’s palm. The right hand was still limp, having Regrown in a nonfunctional state. Urian didn’t flinch when the Enchanted Item disappeared into Rob’s Spatial Storage in a flash of blue motes.

“Same as a Storage Crystal,” the Artificer muttered. “Then it’s true; you’re the one quadrupling my workload. The Deserters wouldn’t have the capacity to carry as many supplies as they do without magic of your like.”

Rob shrugged. “Sorry? We kind of need all those supplies.” The Dungeon Crawl would have ended in over twenty deaths without their large reserve of Potions and Firebombs. “I do want to thank you personally, though. The stuff you create helps keep us Combat Class users alive.”

Urian’s stony gaze softened. “Others beside me craft our supplies, boy.”

“Yeah, but you make the most, and you’re also the one who made the EXP Share.”

“You mean the Amulet of Allocation?” Urian snorted. “My life’s greatest work. Which you then proceeded to eat, as far as I’m aware.”

Rob grinned. “Trust me, it’s come in handy. I’ll make sure to give my thanks to the other suppliers as well, but I’d say you more than earned my personal gratitude.”

It was an interesting sight, watching someone go from manic insanity to sullen discomfort in the span of a minute. Rob didn’t know exactly what kind of preconceptions Urian possessed about him, but apparently, being thanked for his services wasn’t how the Elf had expected this conversation to go.

“What do you want, boy?” Urian asked, sounding defeated.

Rob blinked, then tilted his head. “You just gave it to me.”

“Spare the honeyed words and spoken half-truths. What do you really want? Had your intention been solely to retrieve the Ring upon completion of its refinement, you could have sent any one of your lackeys to complete the task, yet you elected to come in-person.”

“I don’t have lackeys,” Rob said, in an irritated tone. “You’d know as much if you spent more than five minutes a week outside instead of being a perpetual shut-in.”

Diplomacy sighed; that hadn’t been the right thing to say. Rob didn’t care. He was grateful to the Artificer, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let someone accuse him of being some pampered noble, especially when the whole ‘Lord’ thing was a farce to begin with.

“I stay indoors to work on crafting those supplies you’re so fond of,” Urian snapped. “Just as I slaved the last few days away refining that Enchanted Item, only to give it to a man who’ll walk away from our cause the moment it suits him.”

Rob froze. For a terrible instant, he was back in the Dreamthief’s illusion, being asked if he would abandon the Deserters in order to return home – and unable to give a response in turn. “I, what-”

Unfortunately, Urian picked up on that moment of indecision. “It’s as I thought,” he said, in a frosted tone. “The further north we travel, the closer we draw to Dwarven territory. They are the one race in Elatra that may accept you with open arms. What reason would you have to stay with the Elves once it becomes feasible for you to make the journey to the Dwarven holdings? What ties would bind you here?”

“The people I care about.”

Urian recoiled at the force Rob put into his statement. Rob breathed deep, taking a few seconds to compose himself and ensure that he chose his words carefully. “Do you honestly believe that I would’ve put my life at risk so many times if there weren’t people here who I wanted to protect?” He smirked. “Hell, there’s people here I don’t care about, and I still protect them. Have a little faith in me. I think I’ve earned that much.”

With that, he turned and walked away. Urian said nothing in response. Before Rob exited the room, he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. “By the way, the Dwarves are a bunch of hypocrites who took part in the Scouring and can’t own up to it. I won’t ditch you guys for them anytime soon.”

Rob continued his confident stride until he’d left the house and shut the front door behind him. Once he was out of Urian’s eyesight and hearing range, he slouched, an excited smile spreading across his face. I totally nailed that dramatic exit.

<Indeed,> Diplomacy said. <And in a way that prevented you from relying on Deception instead of myself. Urian asked the wrong question; rather than grumbling about the Dwarves poaching you, he should have asked if you would stay with the Deserters if it was also possible for you to return to Earth.>

Honestly, I don’t think I’ll know the answer to that one until the opportunity presents itself. Rob produced the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling and held it up at the sun. And I don’t think this bad boy is getting us any closer to achieving that particular goal.

<The Ring could be useful,> Diplomacy hazarded. <Although I’m not sure how. Maybe a portal to Earth lies at the bottom of a lake?>

Rob shrugged and Stored the item back into his Inventory. Can’t hurt to have it, I guess. What’s left on today’s schedule? Thanking the other supply-makers for their service, and then magic lessons?

<With Elder Duran and Malika, yes.>

“Awesome.” Rob raised his left hand and extended a finger. He concentrated, feeling out the surrounding mana, and managed to produce a tiny, lonesome spark of electricity. “A few more practice sessions and I’ll never have to buy another laptop charger ever again.”

–

"Aw yeah!" Rob grinned as he waggled his fingers. "I've got it!" He concentrated, feeling out the surrounding mana, and managed to produce not one, but two sparks of electricity.

"Well done," Elder Duran praised. "We'll make a fine mage out of you yet." His eyes twinkled. "I must admit, your enthusiasm is infectious."

"It's magic," Rob gushed. "The nerd in me is always going to get hyped over casting real, honest-to-god spells. And if nothing else, enthusiasm helps make up for my lack of talent."

While he'd technically doubled his record, two sparks weren't much better than one at disabling enemies larger than the average squirrel. Maybe I was being optimistic when I thought learning a decent lightning spell would take just a few more sessions, Rob thought. Turns out that bending mana to your will in order to break the laws of thermodynamics is actually kinda hard. Who would've guessed?

"Don't be unnecessarily harsh on yourself," Duran said, shaking his head. "Spellcasting is a precise art that traditionally entails years of intensive study. Your current pace of learning is, on the whole, above-average." He paused, seeming to realize something. "Are you comparing yourself to Malika?"

The young Archmage had already left for the day. She was speeding through Elder Duran's lesson plan at a breakneck pace, and Rob was pretty sure she could be going even faster if she was given more material to work on. Duran wanted Malika to focus on mastering her current repertoire of spells as opposed to branching out – although, admittedly, her Class and Levels were throwing a wrench into that plan. Most up-and-coming mages weren't destructive forces of nature before beginning their training.

"I'll try not to compare," Rob acquiesced. "But it's difficult when the limit of my daily progress is turning one spark into two, while she went ahead and raised her Level of Sense Magic. Again."

"Her growth would leave anyone astonished," Elder Duran muttered. "Myself included." He sighed, and after a moment of contemplation, perked up. "No matter. You will go at your pace, and she will go at hers. I'm equally proud of both of my students, and that's the honest truth. Today was a rousing success."

His voice took on an excessively casual tone. "And if you've any mental energy left to spare, perhaps we might celebrate that success with tales of your home world?"

Rob smirked. "Sometimes I think that having increased opportunities for Earth Storytime is the main reason you agreed to teach me in the first place."

"I shall neither confirm nor deny your assertion."

Rob lost track of time as he spoke, a comforting sense of nostalgia settling over him. They jumped around from topic to topic, the Elder's inquisitive nature making it impossible to stay on any one subject. He would latch onto random details, ask for clarification, then ask for clarification of the clarification. It was like he was going on a verbal Wikipedia dive, clicking link after link to satiate his endless curiosity.

"The wonders of a new world," Duran whispered, after their conversation finally wound down. "Never in all my life did I imagine I'd be so fortunate. Do you know just how many scholars would trade their limbs to learn of a society untapped and unexplored? A world with electric machines, pantheons of heroes, flying steel birds, and so much more. Remarkable. Simply remarkable."

A warm smile lit up his face. "Thank you, Rob. I haven't had this much fun in ages."

Rob scratched the back of his head as he met Duran's smile with one of his own. "And you said that I was the enthusiastic one," he chuckled. "We should probably call it a day, but...eh, screw it, I've got time. Interested in hearing about the rise and fall of the vast empire once known as Blockbuster?"

The Elder leaned forward, practically on the edge of his seat. "It would be my pleasure."

–

One week later, in a place located at the southern edge of Elatra, Seneschal Sylpeiros, leader of the Elves, found himself alone and in peril.

It was by his choice, of course. Reviton City couldn’t afford to spare its Combat Class users on an operation that led away from the City outskirts. The Elves’ full strength would be required to defend Reviton from the Blight’s monstrosities that, to this day, had yet to relent in their assault.

Which was why he’d embarked on a solo mission to expunge a Dungeon.

A hole in the ground filled with pitch-black darkness lay before him. Jagged glass had replaced the ground surrounding the entrance to the Dungeon, distorting his reflection into dozens of disparate frowning faces. Sylpeiros would rather have left the Dungeon well enough alone, but its rapid growth in size was becoming untenable. Any larger and it would begin to spew out monsters, turning the Blight’s siege of Reviton City into an overnight bloodbath. And according to the refugees from The Village, there was probably some connection between the Blight and the Dungeons, giving him every reason necessary to remove its stain from Elatra.

That it was necessary was of little comfort. Exploring a Dungeon on your own was already an exercise in foolishness; doubly so when it was likely aberrant.

There’s no reason to cloud my mind with doubts, Sylpeiros thought. The aberrant Dungeon that formed near The Village was expunged by a group of wet-behind-the-ears trainees. Clearly, its perils have been grossly overstated.

He tried his best to convince himself of that notion – and failed utterly. Dungeons had taken too many of his comrades for him to dismiss one out of hand. Large or small, normal or aberrant, he would conduct his Crawl with the utmost of caution.

Or he would die.

Duty calls. Sylpeiros drew his spear and jumped down the hole, plunging himself into darkness.

Chapter 4

In another place far south of Esternard City, two men knelt on the ground, cowering in fear as they regretted their life choices. The stone floor of the throne room was cold, hard, and positively inviting compared to the pitiless gaze being directed at them from on high. They stayed perfectly still, sending wordless prayers to whatever deity might listen, and waited for the hammer of judgement to fall.

Dragon Queen Ragnavi gripped her claws around each man’s head, resisting the idle urge to crush them into pulps and send brain matter splattering across the room. She didn’t, of course. That would be a waste.

The floor had been cleaned just yesterday.

“I find myself at a loss,” she said, in a carefree tone. “You’ll have to walk me through what you were hoping to accomplish, because from my perspective, all I can see are a pair of fools rushing to meet Tylrud centuries before their appointed time.”

Neither spoke. Ragnavi tightened her grip by a fraction, causing each man to wince. She lamented that neither them nor her crowd of voyeuristic noble onlookers appreciated how difficult it was to squeeze the fools without causing injury. It took the finesse of writing a letter with a sword dipped in ink. Strong as the two Dragon Lords were, if she were careless, she would break them before the festivities had truly begun. And that wouldn’t satisfy anyone; not them, not the crowd, and certainly not herself.

“Did you forget the purpose of the yearly rebellions?” She asked. “The Dragon Lords and Ladies battle for scraps of power. Some win, some lose. New lines in the sand are drawn. Vows of vengeance are sworn. All in good fun, yes? A way to release pent-up aggression so that we don’t rip ourselves to shreds. The aim is to prevent unnecessary Dragonkin deaths. Nowhere is this stated in Draconic law, as there’s never been a need to do so. Mere children are able to discern the writing on the wall before they hit the age of twenty.”

She laughed, low and jovial. “You can imagine my astonishment when I discovered that two Lords were conspiring against me. In earnest. Enlighten me: what started this? Bet gone wrong? A drunken night of overpromising? Spent too long out in the sun, and your brains overheated? Whatever the reason, I’m willing to listen.”

At this point, she wasn’t even attempting to grind their spirits into the dirt – that was simply an amusing byproduct. Ragnavi was legitimately confused. She’d been Queen for several decades, and a genuine rebellion hadn’t transpired in, what, almost a hundred years? Did they honestly think that they’d possessed a greater chance at toppling her than any of her predecessors?

“You were unfit to rule,” Lord Xaelar hissed. His hiss of defiance turned to one of pain as she increased the pressure on his skull ever so slightly.

“Do tell,” she purred. Xaelar tried to turn away from her gaze, but she kept his head locked in place. “No, go on. Why the hesitation? Your resolve must be worth more than a single sentence of defiance.”

A thrill coursed through her as Xaelar hesitated. He was doing an admirable job at keeping his composure, but she could feel the slight shivers in his body, see the errant beads of sweat running down his brow. For one born, trained, and raised to be the unyielding and invincible head of their household, those small tells were equivalent to screaming like a newborn babe. Xaelar was terrified, fully aware that any moment, without warning, may be his last. Lord Hraes, locked in a similar position by her other hand, was faring little better than his cohort.

Ragnavi drank in the sight like it was divine ambrosia. Levels went a long way towards erasing the fundamental difference in power between larger and smaller creatures, but she'd always enjoyed pushing others below her in a more literal sense. Each Dragon Lord was at least seven and a half feet tall, a full foot taller than her, and with twice as much muscle mass. And yet there they were, kneeling before her. Powerless. Afraid. Two proud souls accustomed to being in command – and who had lost control of their futures, all because they dared to bare their claws against her.

It was a cheap thrill. But in a world that had long since lost its luster, she would take any thrill she found, cheap or otherwise.

Eventually, the silence was too much for their nerves to bear, and Lord Hraes spoke up. “The Blight has returned,” he declared, in a solemn tone. Every member of the crowd tensed in unison. If there was one thing that the nobility detested, it was being reminded their easy ride might have some upcoming bumps in the road. “It is the greatest threat Elatra has known or ever will know,” Hraes continued, his voice intensifying. “And you do less than the bare minimum necessary to stop it. The world suffers under your uncaring indolence!”

Ah, this one’s found his spine again, Ragnavi mused. Probably left it right next to where he lost his balls. We’ll see if he’s managed to locate the latter as well.

“Strange that you would rally behind a banner that is inherently disprovable,” she remarked. “Have I not burnt out the Blight’s creeping tendrils from our lands? When its foul presence attempted to merge with the magma of Mount Tylrud, I was there before anyone else, and I was the one who prevented it from manifesting.”

“If that is what you think is sufficient,” Hraes spat. “Then our cause is truly lost.”

Ragnavi adjusted her hand and gently inserted a claw into Hraes’ left eye.

“I am allowing you to speak,” she calmly stated, swirling her finger around for good measure. “Do not interpret that as weakness.” To his credit, Hraes barely flinched while his eye was pureed into a gelatinous slurry. Several of the softer nobles looked about ready to be sick, which was a more shameful sight than the two Dragonlords on their knees. Had the standards of the Dragonkin elite fallen so low as to be disturbed by this much?

“You reject the other territories’ requests of aid,” Hraes said, in a tight voice. “Their own efforts to expunge the Blight go unassisted. By doing so, you condemn us all to a slow and torturous death. The Elves, the Harpies, the Dwarves, the Merfolk, and even the Gellin will need the might of Dragons in order to prevail. Their fights are our fights, as if they lose, the Blight will grow stronger and spread to Dragonkin territory after consuming theirs. This is not a border conflict between warring nations – it concerns the survival of the entire fucking world, and I would hear why you refuse to treat it with the severity it deserves!”

A kernel of regret settled in Ragnavi’s heart. Why did someone so competent try to rebel against her? Why couldn’t it have been Lord Yurak? That pissant could get eaten by a pack of rabid Volshoks and no one outside of his immediate family would bat an eye, possibly not even them. Losing a skilled orator and administrator like Lord Hraes was going to play havoc on her delegation of duties.

“Do you believe that a traitor deserves answers?” Ragnavi said, sidestepping his question. “What was your plan upon unseating me from the throne, exactly?” She glanced between the two Lords. “Would you have assumed power, or he?”

“Lord Xaelar and I would have divided the distribution of power as necessary,” Hraes stated. “Our goal wasn’t to seize influence. Not for its own sake. We only wanted to marshal the Dragonkin against the Blight. What purpose is power when the world is gasping its dying breath?”

Wow.

What a fucking idiot.

The tiny kernel of regret inside her heart vanished as quickly as it came. Hraes may be competent when performing his duties, but she had no idea he was so painfully naive. One look at Lord Xaelar’s countenance made it obvious that he was, in fact, seizing influence for its own sake. The threat of the Blight was a polite excuse. If they’d succeeded in overthrowing her – she held back a snort at the thought – then Lord Xaelar would have backstabbed Lord Hraes at the first possible moment. Literally. Then their two families would have gone to war, another power struggle would have risen from the ashes stronger than ever, and the Blight would have been left woefully unattended whilst Dragonkin nobles squabbled amongst themselves. Logically, pragmatically, and idealistically, Hraes’ plan had been stillborn in the womb.

Ragnavi comprehended all of this in an instant. There was a part of her that had been raised to analyze political byplay. It was a constant voice in the back of her head, acting automatically and of its own accord, even long after she’d stopped caring about what it had to say. Still, in this case it managed to make itself moderately useful, as it informed her that she had no need to waste any further time with these men. Even if she’d been in the mood to step down, handing control of Dragonkin territory to the two buffoons masquerading as Lords that were knelt before her would plunge the nation into turmoil. Their claim that she was unfit to rule was hypocrisy of the highest order.

She spared Lord Xaelar and Lord Hraes one final look, confirming that she’d seen enough. It was time to derive what enjoyment she could out of them and move on.

“I find myself at a crossroads,” Ragnavi said, putting on an imperious tone. The crowd and the Lord unconsciously straightened their postures. “Treason deserves death, but your attempt at a coup was so inept that I am loath to call it that. Would you consider me fair if I executed a child for throwing a rock and declaring himself the new King? I think not.”

Ragnavi felt that same cheap thrill from before as the Lords’ faces tightened. Diminishing returns meant that the feeling was lesser compared to last time, and would be even lesser in the next instance, so she shortened the speech that she’d been formulating in her mind and got straight to the point. Ragnavi gestured to her personal guard, and then to the other prisoners held in the back of the throne room. “Bring their heirs.”

Xaelar and Hraes moved to protest, but claws held over their remaining eyes stifled any complaints. The heirs – Xaelar’s son and Hraes’ daughter – were brought forth and forcibly knelt down beside their parents. Both of them were in their fifties, well-groomed, and seemingly capable. Most importantly, each father looked at their progeny with genuine affection in their eyes. That was ideal – it meant that what she next proposed would have meaning.

“I will offer you three choices,” Ragnavi began. “The first is the immediate execution of every member of both your families.” Their aghast expressions prompted her to give them a fang-filled grin. “Somehow, I doubt that’s what you’ll end up selecting. The second choice is a trial by combat. Lord Xaelar and Lord Hraes against me. I will restrict myself from using my Draconic form, while you may both use yours. Defeat me, and I swear on Tylrud's name that I will abdicate the throne. Lose, and the same punishment applies. Death for all of you and yours.”

Out of the three choices she had in mind, this was the one she most wanted them to take. It had been a while since she’d had a proper excuse to fight high-Leveled people. Hell, with those handicaps in mind, they might even put her through her paces. The notion was appetizing, and she was tempted to make that their only choice, but Option 3 had its own different sort of appeal that she was too interested in to pass up on entirely. Ragnavi gave the Lords half a minute to mull over the idea of facing her in combat before she continued.

“The third choice is another trial by combat,” she said. “In this case, as a duel between your respective heirs. They will fight until the other ceases to draw breath. Regardless of who wins and who loses, the rest of your families will be pardoned. As long as one heir dies, all others live.”

Ragnavi released her hold on the Lords, relishing the stricken looks of horror on their faces. “Choose wisely,” she said. “Oh, and there will be no bargaining. The opportunity for that is long since past.”

As if it had been planned, her attendant chose that moment to burst through a door. He barreled into the throne room at a full sprint, piercing the heavy atmosphere without a care as he sidled up to her. “My Queen,” he whispered. “There is an urgent matter that requires your attention.”

Annoyance flared within her, but it quickly died down when she considered the situation. Actually, this will do nicely. Ragnavi faced the Lords and their heirs, addressing them in her favorite queenly tone. “You have one day to decide.” She grinned. “Be aware that whatever follows shall come about as a direct result of your ill-attempted insurrection. You took your best shot, futile as it was, and missed. Later on, when you’re alone with your thoughts and sinking into despair, deciding if it would be worth it to throw away your sense of self and activate Melancholy Resistance, and wondering why this had to happen to the ones you love...I suggest you look inward for an answer.”

“Please,” Lord Xaelar pleaded, his voice choking with sorrow. “Not my boy. I’ll bow to any punishment or indignity if you would just spare my boy.”

“I accept the trial by combat,” Xaelar’s heir said without delay. His proclamation caused the group of four to erupt into a flurry of shouting, refusals, and determination. The heirs were the smart ones, having immediately understood the situation, their wills already resolved to minimize the damage done to their families. Their fathers hadn’t come to terms with the fact that there was no way out of the corner they’d put themselves in. Perhaps they never would. That was a feeling Ragnavi herself knew with intimate familiarity.

She walked slowly as she departed the throne room. The nobles’ debate, charged with raw feelings of panic and loss, serenaded her ears with the last of the cheap thrills she could wring out of their failed insurgency. It was the culmination of her sheer, overwhelming superiority. The Lords had plotted, schemed, and risked everything – and their efforts had been swept aside with the barest wave of her hand. She had crushed them, utterly and entirely.

It made for a decent snack.

‘Decent’ was as far as she would call it, though. The thrill had waned further every passing year. She could barely recall what it had felt like to have genuine passion for something. Had there truly been a time when adrenaline would course through her? When her heart would quicken in the heat of the moment? Trampling her enemies underfoot had used to be fun. It was the greatest pastime of any self-respecting Dragonkin, and she had been the Queen of it.

Then the war came.

Banishing the thoughts that were creeping into her mind, Ragnavi faced her attendant. She didn’t bother pressuring him with a royal glare. Unlike certain others, he already knew his place. “What is so urgent that you would call me away from a gathering attended by every noble under the sun?”

Her attendant bowed. “My apologies, Queen Ragnavi. I regret to inform you that the Scrying Stone detected an...unusual mana signature from within Human territory. Unusual and powerful.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Powerful enough to be felt this far south?”

“That’s right. And what’s more, the mana was entwined with the Blight’s stench, like two snakes constricting each other. The surge lasted for approximately ten seconds, after which it disappeared – and the Blight’s signature with it.”

He paused. “The Mage Symposium fears that a Blight may have absorbed a Locus of Power. They very, very humbly beg that you investigate what transpired. With your indomitable might, you’re the only one-”

Ragnavi descended into a bout of raucous laughter. Her attendant froze like a fledgling Draconic Warrior being stared down by a rabid Vraal. He clearly felt like he had stepped into a field of Mines, and the look on his face redoubled her mirth just as it was fading.

“Were you listening in on my judgement of Lord Xaelar and Lord Hraes?” Ragnavi asked, once she’d calmed. Her attendant blinked, and then shook his head slowly and carefully.

She turned around and walked away, leaving him to sort out his relieved befuddlement. Twice in one day I’m asked to confront the Blight, she thought. And from independent sources, no less. That’s as sufficient a motivation as I’m going to get.

Ragnavi held few delusions about herself. One day in the near future, when the last drop of enjoyment from being the Dragon Queen had been drained, she would quit this place. Fly off into the sunset in search of new horizons. Leave this colorless world behind, and never turn back.

But that was then. For now, she had duties to fulfill. Much as Ragnavi wished she could delegate them all to her subordinates and spend her time searching for new pleasures, she had enough respect left for the station of Dragon Queen to wield her claws when and where the territory needed them.

Ragnavi traversed the hallways of her castle until she arrived at the one spot that brought her a modicum of peace. Tranquility settled inward as she took in the sight of a large painting on the wall. Twenty feet tall and wide, exquisitely crafted, and protected by every magical protection spell known to the world. More spells were added by the year as a dedicated team of spellcasters she’d formed continued to invent new ones, crafting specialized magic specifically to ensure that the painting would survive into perpetuity. It was her one true treasure, the thing she valued above all else.

“Good day, my dear ones,” she sighed, exulting in their presence. “How I’ve missed you.”

Brave and noble Ardrud. Strong and brutal Iaso. Quick and cunning Chosne. Husband, son, daughter. The sun, the moon, and the stars. Irreplaceable.

“It’s been quite the busy day,” Ragnavi said, chuckling. “Upstart nobles, apocalyptic invaders...if nothing else, they stave away the doldrums.” Her gaze drifted leftward. “What do you think, Ardrud? Should I venture out into Human territory and test my strength against nigh-invincible abominations?”

She closed her eyes. “You should, my love,” he would have said. “For the good of our people, and the future of our children.” Yes, that was how it would have been. Ardrud had possessed the heart of a hero. He helped guide her wrath when she felt lost and aimless. If she beseeched his advice, he would have told her those exact words, in that exact tone.

…

Was...was the timbre of his voice quite that low?

Ragnavi’s eyes snapped open. Her eyes bulged as she stared at Ardrud’s smiling portrait, examining every detail of his face, using their features to summon distinct memories. A fond dinner, a nightly embrace, simple words of encouragement. She listened to them all, again and again, searing the words into her mind like a hot iron prod pressed against her brain. They were crystalline and pure, exactly as they should be.

At least, she thought they were. There was, within, a hint of d-doubt. A horrible little parasite that latched onto her psyche and wouldn’t let go. It whispered into her ear, asking her if she really remembered. If her family’s voices had sounded exactly the way she was imagining them.

After all; if they hadn’t, how would she know?

The hallway began to melt as rageborn power leaked out from her core.

No. NO. It had been a scant eight years. She couldn’t already be forgetting. There was so much of her life left to live. If she was already forgetting, then what would her memories be like in decades, centuries? Like reading from weathered parchment? Facsimiles of her dear ones twisted by the ravages of age and time? If that day came to pass, her family would die their second deaths. Ardrud, Iaso, and Chosne's likenesses fading away as the world moved on without them.

And as Ragnavi was left behind once more.

Her breathing grew fast and ragged. The stone walls and floors were bubbling as her aura suffused the area. Only the painting remained untouched, pristine. A visual representation that would never be distorted. But you couldn’t make a portrait of a voice – you just had your mind, and fervent prayers that it would not fail you.

Couldn’t be forgetting. Couldn’t be forgetting. Wasn’t possible. The doubt was lying. Tear it out. Reach inside and tear it out. Mind Mage could do it. Go grab-

Ragnavi froze. She’d already used the Mind Mages to reinforce her memories. Allowed them access to the depths of her sense of self. Their magic should have preserved her memories for longer than this. Had they failed? Had they LIED?

SHE WOULD EAT THEIR HEARTS.

Moments before she was about to run off, an idea struck her. Ragnavi activated the tracking spell she’d placed on a servant many years ago in preparation for an occasion such as this. He was two floors down, and on the other side of the castle. The man was likely cleaning or performing some similar duty and she didn’t fucking care. The sole purpose of his existence was that his voice was the closest approximation to Ardrud’s that she could find. If she heard the servant speak, then it might jog her memory. There was no guarantee, but right now, she would take anything. ANYTHING.

Without preamble, and in the time it took to blink, Ragnavi brought her fist down on the ground. She fell through to the lower floor, screams erupting around her as molten stone covered the room and its occupants. Another punch collapsed that floor as well, sending everyone and everything inside crashing down again, screeches of pain surrounding her ears like buzzing gnats. She nearly swatted them out of instinctual annoyance, but that would have taken precious seconds that she couldn’t afford to spare. Her mind was focused on one thing, and one thing only.

Ragnavi took off running, plowing through the castle walls like a hot knife through butter, forging a straight path to the servant. An arm went flying as she clipped its owner. A streak of blood splashed across her face. The castle trembled as she burst through a support pillar. None of it mattered.

She. Needed. His. Voice.

After an eternity, she was there. The servant cowered in fear as stone and dust from a collapsed wall plastered the front of his uniform. Ragnavi blurred forward and grabbed him by the arms. Bones cracked as a cry of pain tore out of his throat. Yes, she crowed. Similar. She had the voice – now she needed the words.

“Say this exact phrase,” she whispered. “Say: ‘You should, my love. For the good of our people, and the future of our children.’ Say it.”

“I, I, what-”

She roared. It was a guttural bellow that echoed throughout the castle, spraying flecks of spittle onto the servant’s face. “SAY IT.”

“You s-should, my love,” he stuttered. “For the good of our people, and the f-future of our children.”

Ragnavi considered his words. Rolled them around in her mind, examined them from every angle. They were…slightly different from Ardrud’s. And by hearing what Ardrud’s words were not, she reminded herself of what they were.

Tension flowed out of Ragnavi's body as she sagged with relief. Haven’t forgotten. Won’t ever forget. They’ll stay with me until the sun itself burns out – and after.

Satisfied, Ragnavi dropped the man to the ground and exited the room via the impromptu doorway she’d created. People were running and screaming in the background, but she paid them no heed. They would fix the castle and tend to any wounded. That was their duty. They had theirs, and she had hers. With languid steps, Ragnavi set off to her chambers.

She had a trip north to prepare for.

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 4

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. The detailed descriptions for a few Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 5.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 38

Race: Human

Class: Berserker (LV 35)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 3)

HP: 1041 / 1041

Stamina: 300 / 300

MP: 200 / 200

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Corruption (-9), Soul-Burnt (Right Lower Arm),

Strength: 38

Vitality: 105

Endurance: 30

Dexterity: 45

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 20

Unspent Points: 0

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

Strength – Bulk Up (LV 5), Power Slash (LV 4)

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 12), Not A Scratch (LV 12), Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 1)

Dexterity – Stealth (LV 3), Step of the Wind (LV 6)

Perception – N/A

Mind – Identify (LV 2), Recall (LV 1), Quick Thinking (LV 3), Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing), Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

Strength – Climbing (LV 2), Brawling (LV 3), Grappling (LV 3)

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 15), Tough Skin (LV 5), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 8), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 4), Regrow Limb (LV 4), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 6), Push Through (LV 3) (DEACTIVATED)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Dexterity – Swordsmanship (LV 7), Fleet of Foot (LV 4), Dagger Proficiency (LV 5)

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

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Diplomacy (LV 14), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 6), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 4), Pyromania (LV 1) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

Description: Heal yourself for 25% of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes. Only works when the Berserker Class is equipped.

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +7 for each stat. Max cap increases by 1 every 10 Berserker Levels. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario. Bonus hard caps at +3 if the Berserker Class is not equipped.

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 50%. If Berserker is not equipped, bonus is .4% per 1% missing HP, and caps at 20%.

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

Description: Quickly rocket straight forward. Your next attack has highly increased damage. Costs 50 MP.

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

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

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

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

3 Attunements: ???

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Strength 40, devote a significant portion of time to training your muscles.

Description: Increases Strength by +9 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Strength 35, hit twenty worthwhile enemies with a full-strength attack while wielding a shortsword or longsword.

Description: Damage of next melee sword attack is increased by 20%.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

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

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

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

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 7 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 60% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 15 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105, take damage from enemies at least 130 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply. Consumes 50 Stamina upon usage.

Cooldown: 15 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100

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

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Second Wind (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Endurance 30, reach 1% or lower Stamina at least once.

Description: Get back on your feet, you lazy bag of bones. You can rest when you’re dead. Take a single deep breath to instantly restore 30% of your maximum Stamina. Cannot be used without breathable oxygen in the area. Cannot be used if your lungs are nonfunctional.

Cooldown: 24 Hours

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 45, devote a significant amount of time to running and moving quickly.

Description: Increases Dexterity by +10 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

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

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

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

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

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Mind 30

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

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

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

Passive Skills

Name: Grappling (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Strength 20, grapple at least one worthwhile enemy.

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

Name: Regeneration (LV 15)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105

Description: Heals 150% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 40 minutes, or 2.5% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, take grievous physical damage at least four times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 30%.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 27 different occasions.

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

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Vitality 50, break bones on at least fourteen different occasions.

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

Name: Regrow Limb (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100, lose at least three appendages.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund. Regrow any lost limbs over a period of 3 hours. Assuming you can stay alive that long.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

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

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Vitality 75,  take massive heat or fire damage from a nonmagical source at least six times.

Description: Looks like today’s gonna be another scorcher! Reduces heat or fire-related damage by 30%, whether from magical or nonmagical means.

Name: Push Through (LV 3) (DEACTIVATED)

Prerequisite: Vitality 40, receive at least 16 moderate injuries, experience large amounts of pain in a short period of time.

Description: Reduces the pain felt by your body by 30%.

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 7)

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

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

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 4)

Prerequisite: 30 Endurance, 30 Dexterity, spend a moderate amount of time running for an extended period.

Description: Adds 8 functional Dexterity to your running speed when running for longer than 30 seconds.

Name: Dagger Proficiency (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 30, defeat at least six worthwhile opponents while using a dagger or a knife.

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

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

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

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

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

Name: Diplomacy (LV 14)

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

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

Name: Leadership (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Mind 50, exhibit strong leadership in at least six tense situations.

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

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

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

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

Name: Deception (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40, pull the wool over someone’s eyes using words and body language several times.

Description: Little white lies never hurt anyone, right…? Become slightly more proficient at lying to people and getting away with it.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

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

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

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

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

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

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 4)

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

Description: Been practicing your fastball? Apparently, the answer is yes. Slightly increases your aim when throwing shit at shit. Damage incurred by hitting an enemy with a thrown weapon or object is increased by 20%.

Name: Pyromania (LV 1) (RARE)

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

Description: Acquiring this Skill automatically puts you on a special FBI watch list. Deal 20% extra damage when using fire that isn’t cast from spells. This fire also burns 20% hotter and spreads 20% faster.

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: /

Description: \

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

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

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

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 5

“This game is bizarre,” Keira declared. She scowled at her hand – currently a fist – and unclenched it into a palm facing flat. “Who on Earth invented it?”

“Some dead dude hundreds of years ago,” Rob said, shrugging. He checked on the meat cooking over their campfire, frowning when he saw that it still wasn’t ready. “The game boils down to random chance, sure, but what’s so weird about it? You didn’t raise that complaint against Ouroboros.”

“Ouroboros is a game born and bred from lunacy,” Keira replied. “It never pretends to be anything outside of its true nature. Your game attempts to ground its rules in reality – only to fall short. Paper being shredded by a cutting implement makes sense, as does that very same cutting implement being smashed to pieces by stone. But how does it follow that the paper is superior to the stone by virtue of ‘covering’ it, though?”

She shook her head in disappointment. “A more sensible version would have been to use Swordmaster, Archer, and Lancer. The Lancer’s additional reach keeps the Swordmaster at bay, the Archer trumps the Lancer’s range advantage many times over, and the Swordmaster’s inherent speed allows them to run down the Archer and dodge their arrows. Naturally, this is a gross generalization that doesn’t account for Levels, experience, or battle tactics, but it’s derived from real-world situations with thousands of examples. And considering that this game of yours is apparently used to resolve disputes between people, I find that my interpretation does a better job of giving it the gravitas that it deserves.”

Off to the side, Zamira nodded in solemn agreement, casting her vote for Keira’s take on Rock-Paper-Scissors. Rob rolled his eyes as he reached his hand out and un-Stored some flame from his Inventory directly onto the meat to speed up the cooking process. Of course they would prefer a version involving sharp objects, he grumbled to himself. They were just lucky that the rest of the Deserters had given their trio a wide range of privacy. Rob had somehow convinced the civilians that he, Keira, and Zamira were going to discuss important battle tactics. It would probably blow some of the more impressionable civilians’ minds to learn that the Lord and Lady Blightkiller, heroes who had conquered an aberrant Dungeon once and twice again, engaged in as much inane chatter to stave off boredom as everyone else.

On the bright side, their trip was almost finished. After a week of travel with only a scant few incidents of errant Mines and monster attacks along the way, the Deserters would be arriving at Broadwater City tomorrow. There were some nasty, pitch-black storm clouds brewing in the distance, but aside from that, the coast was clear from here on out. All there was left to do was hope and pray that Broadwater was still standing. Until then, distracting themselves from their dwindling food supplies was the best they could do to pass the time.

And really, Rock-Paper Scissors was as good a topic as any. Especially after yesterday. Rob wasn’t sure he – or Earth culture in general – would ever live down his explanation of reality TV shows and their awful, addicting wiles.

“You’re thinking in Elatran terms again,” Rob explained. “Earth might have used swords, lances, and bows in the past, but we don’t have the corresponding Classes to go with them. A guy with a sword charging at an archer 100 feet away is going to make for a much less impressive display back home than it is here. There’s no way the swordsman has enough ‘Dexterity’ to reach the archer before at least one arrow is shot, and that one arrow is going to debilitate him, as everyone has low ‘Vitality’. And if the archer misses, it probably won’t be because the swordsman did a cool dodge or deflected the arrow; it’ll be because that archer’s accuracy is much worse with lower ‘Perception’ and ‘Dexterity.’”

“How did the Humans of Earth survive?” Zamira asked, in an inquisitive tone. “I understand the clear martial supremacy of firearms, but they weren’t invented for thousands of years. Your world lacks monsters, but from what you’ve told, it’s home to plenty of natural-born wildlife. Humans would have had to contend with creatures such as tigers, manticores, and gorebeasts, correct?”

What the fuck is a gorebeast? No, Diplomacy, don’t answer that. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

“Rob?” Zamira remarked, jarring him out of his mental conversation. “Is something amiss? You seem lost in thought more often as of late.”

A flash of guilt welled up within him. He hadn’t realized that he’d been zoning out too much. Talking with Diplomacy at the speed of thought took less time than verbal conversations, but after Melancholy Resistance and the gods directly assaulting his mind, of course his friends were going to be paying closer attention to him.

“I’m okay, I promise,” Rob said, smiling. “I appreciate the consideration, though. It means a lot.”

Zamira and Keira glanced at each other with expressions he couldn’t parse. Rob decided to continue on before they got overly worried. “As for how humanity was able to rise to the top of the food chain; again, you’re thinking in Elatran terms. Our animals aren’t anywhere close to being as dangerous as yours. They don’t have Levels, so strong Combat Class users aren’t required to take them out. Earth humans are weaker, but so is the opposition. You have to keep in mind that virtually every Utility Class user in Elatra would beat the stuffing out of most mammals on Earth, human or otherwise.”

Rob summoned his Broken Shortsword. “Here’s an example,” he said, gently pressing the edge against his right arm. “Let’s say I was to cut through the tendons in my arm. No big deal for me, right? Regeneration fixes it right up.” He paused. “But to be fair, Regeneration’s secondary Prerequisite for those without Fast Learner is that they have to spend at least a week recovering from a life-threatening injury, which limits its pool of owners to people who really should have died and somehow didn’t. I’m trying to make a point about the average Elatran, so let’s take that Skill off the table. Instead, I would just go visit a spellcaster who knows Healing magic. I’d be using my arm as normal by the end of the day. Even without that, the average low-level person in Elatra is going to have at least 200 HP, so the wound won’t affect them as badly as someone on Earth.”

He mimed a cutting motion across his arm. “Back home? Fixing an injury like that requires hours of invasive surgery followed by months – possibly years – of physical therapy. I could receive the best medical treatment we have to offer, and my arm still might never be the same again. People from Earth are fragile, and while training and experience helps us get stronger, the time investment is worth way less than the boost in power that leveling up grants you.”

Rob flexed his good arm. Muscles pressed up against the inside of his shirt, clearly visible. He was toned, bordering on ripped, stronger than almost anyone on Earth except the biggest of bodybuilders, yet his body type wasn’t unnatural in its appearance. To an average Joe on the street, he would look like a normal person who happened to be very in-shape, with no indication of the absurd strength compressed into that comparatively tiny space.

“I trained my muscles for years back on Earth,” he said, a note of bitterness in his tone. “Not a ton, but still. All that work was outstripped by, what, five points in Strength?”

Keira’s eyebrows raised slightly as her eyes roamed over his arm. Rob put it down and resumed talking before anyone could notice his embarrassment.

“We weren’t the strongest creatures on Earth,” he said. “So we had to get creative. It helps that the lack of Dungeons to deal with meant that humans could focus all their efforts on climbing to the top of the food chain. We banded together, popped out tons of babies, constantly invented new ways to kill things, and used our big dumb monkey brains to outsmart nature until we’d achieved a modicum of stability. After that came medicine and technological advancements to prolong our lives and make expanding society easier, and the rest is history.”

The two swordswomen sat in silence for a while as they digested his explanation. “It’s an odd life to consider,” Keira finally said. “Different from my own in so many ways. Your people are liable to break under small amounts of pressure, yet your world flourishes.”

She paused, humming to herself. A moment later, she lifted up her greatsword and gazed at it with a contemplative expression. “So much of who I am is intertwined with this blade,” she said. “I am Keira the Warrior, and my strength at arms has carved out a place in this world. Without my Class, without Levels, what would I be?” Her face fell. “What use would I have been to anyone? What role would I have played on Earth?”

“An athlete, probably,” Rob said. “There’s plenty of physical professions that you would’ve kicked ass in. Trust me, athletes on Earth are as beloved as they are stupidly wealthy.”

He pointed a finger at her. “And don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got more to offer people than your weapon and your stat spread. I’m living proof – it was your faith in me that helped convince the Elders to keep me alive, and that had nothing to do with how good you are at hitting things with a sword.”

A mild blush spread across her cheeks as Keira smiled. “Thank you for tactfully leaving out the part where I choked you when we first met.”

“Hey, could have been worse. Some people are into that sort of thing.”

“...Are you?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Keira giggled. “Good to know.” She paused, a thought coming to her. “Out of curiosity, when you return to your home world, will your experiences in Elatra cause you to become a person of renown?”

Rob’s stomach churned slightly at Keira’s usage of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’. He wasn’t sure what that implied or how it made him feel, and decided to bravely repress everything and deal with it later.

“Assuming I get to keep my stats and Levels?” He replied. “I will literally be the strongest, fastest person in the world, or close to it. Maybe there’s a steroid-infused bodybuilder who could match me in Strength, or an Olympic-grade runner who could keep up with my Dexterity, but no one would have the combination of both that I would. I’d definitely be the sturdiest, by a gigantic margin, but that goes without saying. And that’s all just if I went back now – I’ve got plenty more Levels to gain.”

Keira’s face twitched in irritation. Rob jumped on the slight motion like a cat chasing a set of wiggling car keys. “What’s wrong, Keira?” He said, in a tone laced with smugness. “Is there a problem with me gaining more Levels?”

“Why would there be?” She responded, in a sickly sweet voice. “We want you to be as strong as possible, dear Rob. Else you may perish next time you blunder into danger, unheeding of the risks, as you do so very often.”

“That’s true,” Rob said, nodding sagely as he ignored the hint of warning in her tone. “I suppose Level *38* isn’t high enough to consider myself safe from the horrors of Elatra. The cap goes up to 99, so in that respect, Level *38* leaves something to be desired. Thirty-eight. Thirty. Eiiiiight.”

Keira, the Level 37 Warrior, slammed her fist on the ground. “Laugh to your heart’s content!” She yelled, eyes blazing. “I’ll surpass you in short order!”

“Fast Learner says otherwise.”

A vein pulsed in her forehead. “Careful, Rob. A fighter’s ego can be suffered if it keeps pace with their growth – but not if they become prone to bouts of delusion. Would you care to prove your words on the sparring grounds? As long as you’re certain that your advantage of a single Level is sufficient to overcome my decades of additional combat experience paired with Danger Sense.”

Rob crossed his arm. “I’ll have you know that one Level is worth five whole stat points that got shoved into Vitality. You’ll have to hit me, like, extra hard. Might as well give up now and save yourself the embarrassment.”

They glared at each other. A second later, Rob and Keira burst out laughing, releasing days of pent-up stress in a cathartic bout of silliness. Their giggle fit had almost started to die down when Keira let out a loud snort, which was somehow just enough to send them laughing again. By the time they’d finished, both were out of breath, red in the face, and satisfied.

“But seriously,” Rob said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’d kick my shit in.”

“For now,” Keira remarked. “As months pass, the stat disparity will widen, until the gulf between our strength becomes unbridgeable.” She grinned. “When that day comes, I’ll make you earn that victory. Mark my words.”

Abruptly, Zamira stood up in a quick motion, drawing their attention. “I should go,” she said, in a hollow monotone. “Please enjoy yourselves.”

“Whoa there,” Rob said, standing before she could scurry off. “What brought this on?”

Zamira faced away from him. “I believe, at this juncture, that my presence is unnecessary.”

Rob winced. “Sorry if we left you out of the conversation for a bit. We were just fucking around and got carried away.” He felt genuinely guilty about that, having been in the same position as her on more than one occasion. It sucked when a conversation passed you by and you didn’t know how to insert yourself back into it without coming off as pushy.

Zamira shook her head. “You did me no wrong.” Her shoulders hunched. “I...simply have little to offer in the way of small talk. The both of you are enjoying each other’s company, and I don’t wish to dampen your mood by sulking in the background.”

Keira grasped Zamira’s hand, causing the latter to tense. “Zamira,” she began, “What exactly do you think I’ve been contributing to our conversation outside of responding to Rob’s stories about Earth?” Her tone turned dry and sarcastic. “You may have noticed, but my life experiences are largely limited to tragedy and hunting prey in Ixatan, and will unfortunately remain as such until the Deserters can settle down and afford me a moment to develop new hobbies. Without Rob’s never-ending tales of Earth’s wonder and absurdities, I would have run out of subjects to discuss hours ago. Does that mean that I should take my leave as well?”

“No!” Zamira yelled, turning frantically towards Keira. “Your presence alone is enough.”

“We feel the same of you.”

Zamira blinked. She glanced at Rob, as if asking permission.

“Please stay,” Rob said, in an honest tone. “We like having you around.” After a few seconds, she sat back down, seeming embarrassed and unsure in equal measure. She held on to Keira’s hand for a few more seconds, their touch lingering a bit longer than one might have expected.

If one was blind and unaware of the looks that Zamira sent Keira every now and then.

That...was a predicament that Rob wasn’t sure of how to resolve while leaving everyone’s emotions intact. But he legitimately did like spending time with Zamira, and he wasn’t about to let her exclude herself from the group because she felt like she was intruding. She deserved better than that.

“If I may inquire about Earth?” Zamira asked, clearly wanting to move on from her previous display. Rob nodded at her to continue, and she leaned closer, her gaze intense. “Tell me more about guns.”

Rob’s eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. “You know pretty much everything I do,” he said. “Why the interest?”

Zamira’s hand unconsciously crept towards her longsword. “I wish to know how to defeat them. A bullet is faster and more destructive than any arrow, yes? Then I won’t be satisfied until I can deflect both with the same level of ease.”

“But...Elatra doesn’t have guns.”

“No, no, she has the right of it,” Keira said. “Knowing that there’s a weapon out there that you can’t overcome, even if it’s on another world, is a distasteful notion. I won’t abide by it.”

Rob looked between Keira and Zamira, finding fiery resolve in both their eyes.

Diplomacy, why do I know so many gung-ho battle women?

<...Figure that out yourself.>

–

During the next day of travel, Broadwater City emerged over the horizon, and there was much rejoicing. The pitch-black storm clouds in the distance hadn’t moved any closer, which made for further rejoicing. And the city itself even seemed to be mostly in one piece, which was cause for the most rejoicing of all. An intact city meant stores of preserved food to plunder and a system of underground farms to cultivate. It was the lease on life that the Deserters needed.

And because nothing is ever simple, Broadwater’s appearance came with a caveat – which was why Rob was currently in search of answers. Unlike what happened with Esternard, he’d like to know what the fuck he was looking at before arriving at the city.

“Well met, Lord Blightkiller,” Randor beamed, as he graced Rob’s coming with a smile. “To what do I owe the occasion?”

“Just making the rounds,” Rob said, waving. The civilians in Randor’s contingent edged backwards as their Lord approached, which was treatment that Rob had grown used to by now. It was still kind of offputting, but in situations like these, he appreciated being able to cut through crowds like he was parting the Red Sea. “Everything going okay over here?”

Randor nodded, gesturing to the group of civilians that he was helping escort to Broadwater City. “Excellent! Apart from one ambush by several monsters that we repelled with ease, our travels have been blissfully uneventful.” The fledgling Ranger clenched a fist and pressed it against his chest. “I was even fortunate enough to gain a Level from the encounter. Thank you once again for including me in your Party so that I might reap the benefits of Fast Learner. I’ve worked hard to ensure that your gifts won’t be wasted.”

He turned to face Lycia, who had just finished making her way through the crowd. “There you are,” Randor said, nodding. “Lycia can attest to my dedication. She’s born witness to how I’ve spent every possible moment honing my Skills, so that not one single second of Fast Learner goes to waste!”

“I certainly have,” Lycia replied, deadpan. She swiveled her eyes – replete with dark bags underneath – to look at Rob. “Take it away from him.”

“Wh- Lycia?!” Randor flinched like he’d been shot. “But I’ve made such great strides!”

“Then stop fucking waking me up in the middle of the night for training!” Lycia threw her hands up in the air. “It may have slipped your notice, but people tend to need sleep, else they get testy. You’re lucky that I haven’t taken your head by accident – Lothren preserve, I thought I was being ambushed by the Seneschal’s saboteurs!”

“Functioning on meagre amounts of sleep is a core part of Ranger training,” Randor replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Besides, it’s my obligation as a member of Rob- of the Lord Blightkiller’s Party to make use of the time afforded to me. Every second I spend without increasing my Skills is a second that someone else could have been making use of Fast Learner.”

“No,” Lycia stated. “It is not. As they would have been sleeping. Like sane people do.”

“I am sane!”

Lycia arched an eyebrow. “A sane man knows when to be vigilant, and when to rest easy. For someone so eager to train with me, you’re surprisingly stubborn when it comes to following my example.”

“Follow your example, you say?” Randor narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I can only hope to be so vigilant as the Ranger who keeps getting her legs eaten by monsters.”

“You prick! That only happened twice!”

Rob smiled. “It’s nice to see you two getting along so well.”

His words froze both of them in their tracks. Lycia and Randor averted their eyes from each other, belatedly realizing that dozens of civilians had gotten free front-row seats to their hissy fit. A small, evil  part of Rob wanted to grab some popcorn and let them stew in embarrassment for a little while longer, but in the end he graciously chose to rescue them like the upright Lord Blightkiller he was.

“Randor?” He said, drawing the man’s attention. “Good job on the training. Despite the relative lack of enemies we’ve had to fight, you’ve raised your Level twice, which means that you’ve been grinding Skill increases nonstop as well. I appreciate you taking our heart-to-heart seriously.”

Rob turned from Randor to Lycia. “And thanks for assisting with Randor’s training, Lycia. The newbies are going to need all the help they can get from the Ranger veterans if they want to have any hope of catching up. My friends told me that you were out there on the sparring grounds with him every day; Randor couldn’t have advanced as quickly as he has without your guidance.”

<And just like that, they feel better,> Diplomacy remarked. It was right – both Randor and Lycia had calmed down, and were wearing the expressions of people who’d been given medals for their service. <My job is so easy sometimes,> The Skill said, sending over a mental image of it relaxing on the beach and sipping a martini. <Please, by all means, keep buttering up the Deserters and acting like you’re a credible leader instead of a hot mess on two legs. The amount of sway that simple lip service holds with these people increases by the day.>

Rob gave the Skill two mental thumbs-up. Hey, as long as it works. He waited a few seconds for his words of affirmation to sink in before proceeding on to the actual reason he’d visited.

“As good as it’s been to catch up with you guys,” Rob said, “I’m looking to speak with Elder Duran. Is he still traveling with your contingent?”

Lycia blinked as comprehension bloomed in her features. “You’re here to ask-”

“Yup.”

The two nodded and directed him to the opposite end of their group of several hundred civilians. Rob made his way over – parting the Red Sea some more – until he found Elder Duran, who was glaring at Broadwater City with the same intensity that Rob himself felt when he first got a good look at it.

“Hey,” Rob said, walking in pace next to Elder Duran.

“Good day,” the Elder answered, in a distant tone.

There was a pause.

“Any idea what it is?” Rob asked.

“A barrier.”

Rob sighed. “Yeah, but what kind?”

Elder Duran’s eyebrows furrowed, his gaze still locked onto Broadwater City’s distant form. “I will inform you of the specifics when they become known to me.”

At present, the whole of Broadwater City was covered by a massive translucent dome that shimmered like glass in sunlight. Rob’s initial assumption had been that Human architectural preferences were weirder than expected, but that assumption was shattered when Malika said that she could Sense the entire structure from afar, and that it consisted entirely of crystallized mana. The dome was the result of a spell, and according to Malika, she’d never felt a mana signature quite like it before – which, to paraphrase, was a big fucking deal that left her anxious and excited in equal measure. Rob had hoped that Duran’s years of experience and encyclopedic memory would succeed where Malika’s raw talent had failed, but the Elder seemed as lost as anyone else.

“Let’s ignore the ‘why’ part of a giant magic dome covering the city,” Rob said, “And focus on ‘how’ we get past it. If we can’t break through, are we going to...what, dig a big tunnel underground?”

“Any mage worth of note will know to extend sphere-shaped barriers below the surface as well,” Duran commented. “And who could have cast a spell of this magnitude except for a mage most worthy indeed?”

He stroked his chin. “My initial assumption is that, with sufficient force concentrated in one area, we will be able to pierce the barrier without much trouble. I would feel more confident in that assumption if I had the slightest notion of what form of magic we were heading towards. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that the spell is of Fiendish origin, but it doesn’t resemble any sort of Soul Magic that I’m aware of. And if it is truly an entirely new form of magic, then it could have been invented by any race, and cast at any time, whether a year ago or yesterday.”

The Elder sighed. “Well, I suppose it matters little either way. All of this is mere baseless conjecture that will be rendered pointless when we reach Broadwater in an hour.”

–

An hour later, Seneschal Sylpeiros stepped through a door, and the world exploded around him.

He scoffed, waved his hand, and the imaginary conflagration dissipated – unlike his foul mood. As far as he was concerned, the Dungeon’s cheap parlor tricks had run their course several rooms ago. It had barred his retreat, pierced him with lances of jagged glass, subjected him to traumatic visions of his past, and thrown a bevy of horrific monstrosities at him that needed to be cut down again and again.

Which was nothing more than he’d expected. That it was expected made it no less tiring, and the consecutive trials had greatly diminished his wealth of supplies. The last HP and MP Potions in his pack had been quaffed half an hour ago, and since then, every encounter had come down to resource management. Trading HP for MP by letting himself be injured when a spell would have prevented it, or vice versa. Physically, he was worn down, and mentally, he was exhausted.

So it was only natural that a grin of savage glee spread across his face when the illusion dispersed, revealing a twelve-feet tall monstrosity made up of an unholy fusion of flesh and glass. A beast that could only be the leader of the Dungeon roared at him in a jagged voice of twinkling pain.

“At long last.” Sylpeiros raised his hand, and six hovering spears of lightning materialized above his shoulders. “I wonder, are you worth even one-twentieth of a Level to me?” He chuckled. “Let’s find out.”

–

“Storm clouds, no rain.”

Rob’s head snapped towards Elder Duran, who had broken their long silence with quiet muttering. “Say what now?”

“Storm clouds, no rain,” Duran repeated. His gaze had shifted away from the barrier surrounding Broadwater City and towards the storm in the distance. The pitch-black thunderclouds had been visible for days, and it was a small mercy that they hadn’t moved closer and enveloped the Deserters’ traveling expedition with a cyclonic hug. Eerie as the storm’s appearance was, with its clouds that were darker and denser than the worst Rob had ever seen, its presence had taken a backseat to Broadwater once it had become clear that the storm was happy to stay put right where it was.

“No rain, no thunder,” Rob assented. “Honestly, I figured that was just more Elatra weather weirdness. Especially after being forced to adjust my sense of reason...again...when we passed that patch of land where it constantly hails upward.”

Elder Duran frowned. “The Plains of Pride are a perfectly ordinary natural phenomenon. This is far different and far stranger. I’ve never seen a storm that looked so fierce and acted so docile. It’s as if the very skies themselves have been engulfed by darkness, yet there is no precipitation of any sort, not even inclement winds. What’s more, the storm has remained stationary for several days, and shows no signs of moving or dissipating. I can’t fathom what would cause something like this.”

Rob glanced at Broadwater, which was close enough that he could make out details on some of the taller buildings. Earth-esque architecture, same as the last city. “I’ll take your word for it, but shouldn’t we be focusing on how to pierce the barrier? We’re five minutes away from reaching Esternard 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

He didn’t receive a reply. “Duran?” Rob turned back towards the Elder, his words dying in his throat when he saw the Elf’s expression. All of the blood in Duran’s face had drained away, leaving him looking like ghost-white parchment that had been stretched out over a rictus of horror.

“I've never laid eyes upon fully-Blighted lands,” he said, as if speaking from very far away. “We were taught from an early age to give the Deadlands a wide berth, and we abided by that rule, much for the same reason we left The Village in such a haste after the Blight devoured its Locus of Power. Why would anyone wish to tread near lands that are no longer fit for natural life? Enervated mana, poisonous air, and...and...”

“Dark skies,” Rob finished, his voice filled with dread.

They took an extra second to process what they were seeing. Later on, Rob would beat himself up for failing to react immediately, but in truth, it wouldn’t have changed anything that happened next. Nothing would have.

Something stirred in the center of those pitch-black storms that weren’t storms.

“BLIGHT!” Elder Duran bellowed, using magic to amplify his voice. “RUN!”

A haze of confusion fell over the civilians, one that lasted until the first scream jarred them from their daydreams and into reality. Cries echoed amongst the populace as reason gave way to terror. Hundreds of people sprinted towards Broadwater City as fast as their legs could carry them, minds fixated on reaching what their primal instincts claimed would be their salvation. There was no higher thought given to their decision; they simply saw buildings and walls, and wanted the comfort of cowering behind them when the end came.

Rob did his best to avoid being trampled as he ran against the crowd, ignoring his overwhelming desire to flee with them to Broadwater. There were around fifteen hundred Elves who weren’t a part of Elder Duran’s traveling contingent, and they needed to be warned about what was coming. Rob – against his better judgement – glanced at the approaching speck in the distance as he ran. It had been unnoticeable at first, no larger than a pixel on a screen, but was drawing closer by the second.

He blinked, and the speck inched forward, which considering how far away it was meant that it was moving fucking fast. Broadwater was still several minutes away at a full sprint, and Rob had no clue if they'd be able to reach the city before the Blight reached them, especially when taking into account the barrier that they’d never figured out if they could bypass. He didn’t have a proper frame of reference to go by, and he doubted anyone else did either.

The Blight that emerged from The Village’s Locus of Power had been reasonably quick, but at the same time, unsteady on its feet. It had also been alive for less than five minutes. He didn’t know how fast a fully-grown Blight was; one that had absorbed its Locus of Power weeks if not months ago, and had been allowed plenty of time to grow, solidify, and become accustomed to its new body. The plants in Esternard had been caterpillars, and the Blight in The Village, despite its terrifying form, had been more of a cocoon. The creature chasing after them right now would be the beautiful, terrible butterfly, ready to spread its wings and see the world.

Rob blinked. The speck inched forward.

Finally, he and a few other brave messengers broke free of the crowd, activating Step of the Wind and scattering in different directions to warn the other Elven traveling parties. Several of the closer groups had noticed something was wrong and were starting to run as well. Hopefully the messengers would end up being unnecessary, and everyone in the Deserters would reach Broadwater City before shit hit the fan, but he wasn’t betting on it.

“HEY!” Rob yelled, waving his arm at a nearby group that hadn’t gotten the message. “START RUNNING, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” He kept one eye focused on the approaching speck in the Blighted Lands as he ran towards the stragglers, never letting it out of his sight even for an instant.

Rob blinked. The speck inched forward.

Rob blinked. The speck was gone.

He nearly tripped over his own feet as a result of the ensuing double-take. The Blighted Lands were calm and still. No movement of any sort.

For a moment, all sound cut out.

Then the plains resounded with an unearthly shriek of screeching metal. The Elves screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground, clutching their ears as blood ran down the side of their heads. Rob barely stood his ground, eardrums pulsating in agony, and was rewarded for his resilience with the sight of the air cracking as reality groaned under the weight of an abomination rummaging around inside its innards. His teeth chattered as the Blight tore through the crack like a boulder thrown through a window, its discordant laugh piercing past his ears and slithering around his brain.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

The first thing Rob was struck by – besides its laugh and a deep sense of helplessness – was the Blight’s size. It was at least as long and tall as a bus, and was the largest creature Rob had encountered in Elatra, with only the Lord of the Forest from the Village invasion coming close. The Blight’s body was as twisted as he’d expected, resembling a multi-headed shark – minus the fins – supported by thousands of wriggling centipede legs. Its ‘skin’ was leathery, gray, and mottled, glistening with oozing pus that fizzled like acid when it dripped off and touched the ground. Dozens of eyes were placed haphazardly on the surface of its body, peering around excitedly as they took in their new surroundings.

Eventually, those eyes settled on the group of Elves belonging to Elder Duran, Lycia, and Randor.

It happened faster than Rob could have imagined. Discordant laughter intensified in Rob’s brain as the Blight opened its three sharklike mouths and spewed out a roiling wave of black pestilence that crashed into the Elves like a tsunami. Their screams lasted a mere half of a second before silence reigned. A gust of wind pushed a wisp of the pestilence in Rob’s direction, and that small fraction coming into contact with him felt like sticking his face into a morgue and breathing deep.

2 Corruption Damage Received!

The Blight closed its mouths, and the pestilence abated. Where around two hundred Elves had stood, a graveyard of bones remained. Some of them had escaped free of the smog – rather, they hadn’t been hit in the first place – and were fleeing north to Broadwater. A few distraught Elves were running into the pile of bones with tears in their eyes, hoping against hope that their loved ones had miraculously survived, but as soon as they got close to the graveyard, their flesh began to slough off their limbs and evaporate. Within seconds, their bones had joined their loved ones’ remains in an eternal embrace.

With a heavy heart, Rob checked the Party Screen. A moment later, he removed Randor and Lycia.

Regeneration couldn’t help the dead.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOY

The Blight opened its mouths and surged forward towards the graveyard. Bones crunched as it reveled in the slaughter like a dog showered in treats. The other groups had gotten the memo by now, and most were in a full-blown retreat, using the Blight’s feeding frenzy as a distraction to put as much distance between it and them as possible.

Rob wished he could do the same. The way forward was...obstructed.

His breath caught in his throat as one of the Blight’s eyes swiveled in its socket, rotating wildly before coming to a stop, pointed directly at him.

And staring.

Chapter 6

The Blight’s unblinking gaze locked onto Rob as the beast feasted on the bones of the dead. Out of the dozens of yellow, bulging eyeballs scattered across the surface of its body, only one eye had taken notice of him, but that was a cold comfort. One was all it took. The Blight was aware of his presence, and once it finished gorging itself on its slaughtered prey, he might be next on the menu.

Rob stood as still as stone. Maybe he should have run; it was a prime opportunity to escape, with the beast focused on its meal, but sudden movement could draw the creature’s attention, and he wouldn’t be able to outspeed the Blight if the thing gave chase. In the end, though, it didn’t really matter. Whether or not it was a smart idea to run was immaterial, as Rob wouldn’t have been able to move a muscle even if he wanted to. He was absolutely terrified out of his fucking mind, legs rooted to the ground as if he was chained by ten-ton weights, his thoughts muddied by a simple fact that shook Rob to his core and sent Diplomacy cowering to the back of their head.

A Blight was here.

Not plants in a basement or a tangentially connected Dungeon. This was an actual, fully-realized abomination sitting less than a hundred feet away, one that had just murdered scores of people on a whim. It drank their marrow with glee, satiating its gluttony on their unfinished lives, and its revelry had only just begun.

The Blight was here, and it had found him.

1 Corruption Damage Received!

A hollow chuckle escaped Rob’s throat. His gloating of being Level 38 to Keira’s 37 suddenly felt like two toddlers arguing about which was a day older. Level 38 was nothing compared to the presence he felt in front of him. Crystal Bearer’s ability to Sense Corruption was somewhat weak, but that didn’t matter when the Blight’s aura of Corruption was so thick that it was choking the air with miasma. He might as well have been using a thermometer to measure the surface of the sun.

1 Corruption Damage Received!

<Rob,> Diplomacy said, in a faltering tone. <We have...we have to...>

It fell silent, unable to offer the support it wished it could, because in truth, Diplomacy was as terrified as Rob was. He could feel the Skill’s fear radiating from its core in consistent, panicked waves. Both of them were like deer in the headlights of an SUV, frozen stiff by the Blight’s coming – which, all things considered, was understandable.

They’d already been killed by it once before.

1 Corruption Damage Received!

Rob gathered his willpower and took one step to the side.

Another of the Blight’s eyeballs snapped in Rob’s direction and stayed there, fixated.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Rob forcibly cut through the fog of panic in his mind and activated Quick Thinking. There had to be a way out. Fighting was out of the question. Reasoning with it…

JOYJOYJOYFEASTFEASTFEASTHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

...Yeah, not happening. Running away won the process of elimination despite the option’s numerous flaws. Step of the Wind had expired, he didn’t have any stat points to dump into Dexterity for a speed boost, and Rampage was only useful for short-range bursts of movement. He needed to find a way to get around the bus-sized abomination in front of him, then survive for several minutes until he reached Broadwater. The city probably wouldn’t save them, but it was better protection than being out in the open. Problem was, if the Blight focused on him, ran him down like an animal fit for slaughter, then he had as much chance of pulling that off as he would winning the lottery.

But if it focused on other people?

<Stay perfectly still,> Diplomacy said, in a tone that almost succeeded at sounding composed. <We represent a single target, while the other Elven traveling processions have at least one hundred per unit. As long as we can avoid drawing its ire, it stands to reason that the Blight would be more interested in areas with a higher density of targets->

People, Rob corrected. Not targets.

Diplomacy winced. <We can’t help them, Rob.>

I know.

<The moment the Blight turns its attention on you, we both die.>

...I know.

The Blight voraciously devoured the remnants of the skeleton graveyard, nearly cleaning its plate in the time it took Rob to consider his options. Dozens of bulging yellow eyeballs slowly drew a bead on one of the nearby Deserter traveling processions. The retreating Elves were booking it as fast as they could, but Rob held no delusions that they could outrun the Blight if it charged at them full-speed.

He clenched his jaw. Try as he might, Rob couldn’t harden his heart and prepare to flee like any sane person would. His friends weren’t among that group, but by now he’d spent enough time among the Elves that he was starting to remember the names of more and more people. He wouldn’t just be writing off the faceless masses that faded into the background. People whose presence he’d become accustomed to would disappear, their absence a reminder of the decision he’d made.

Damn them for making him care.

Within seconds – assuming he did nothing – hundreds would die. If he did do something, his distraction would buy them precious seconds of extra time. Most of them would still be fucked six ways to Sunday, but a few people might thread the needle and escape with their lives. As far as heroic sacrifices went, dumber ones had been attempted for lesser reasons.

Rob watched as the last skeleton in the pile was ground to pieces by the Blight’s three sharklike heads. It let out a triumphant, bestial wail that scraped at Rob’s inner ears like jagged knives. The abomination’s thousands of centipedal legs skittered as it turned towards the next buffet, almost all of its eyes turning with it.

All except two, which remained fixated on Rob. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity to draw the creature’s attention.

It stared, and waited.

Rob stared, and waited.

The Blight looked away.

I’m sorry.

Moments before the Blight began its charge, an enormous fireball soared over and crashed into the creature’s flank. Rob’s heart sank as he saw the cavalry rush in on spell-quickened steps. Elder Alessia, another mage, and a trio of Rangers; five veteran Combat Class users who were about to die for the sake of delaying the monstrosity’s advance by half a minute, tops.

The Blight, for its part, jerked back upon being hit by the spell. Not out of pain – the fireball did little more than burn away a couple eyes from the surface of the creature’s skin, and that damage was rapidly regenerating. It flinched more out of shock than anything else, like how a person would react if they were slapped by a paper fan. The Blight faced its body at Elder Alessia’s squad, observing carefully, before resuming its ear-splitting laughter a second later.

HELLOHELLOHELLOKILL

Dirt and dust kicked up in a rolling cloud as the beast’s thousands of legs suddenly started to vibrate with mana. Rob didn’t have time to shout a warning before the Blight shot forward, using an excess of overloaded mana to propel its body forward like a fucking Jet Ski. The mental image might have made him laugh if not for the thick waves of Corruption pulsing off the creature’s body, carving a wide trench in its wake that kicked up shockwaves of dirt and turned the ground black and infertile. Even if Rob had been suicidal to the point of trying to stop the Blight in its tracks, his flesh would have rotted away before he got five feet close.

Elder Alessia’s group didn’t need his warning; they’d come prepared. As they strafed sideways, the Rangers fired pre-readied Class Skills that collided with the Blight’s outer hide, each hit slowing it by a fraction. Elder Alessia and her mage compatriot summoned wide spikes of earth that jutted out in front of the creature’s path, and the Blight was slowed by two fractions more. It wouldn’t delay the beast nearly long enough for them to avoid being swept up in its massive jaws, and Rob considered deactivating Quick Thinking so he didn’t have to watch Elder Alessia eaten alive in slow-motion.

The other Elven mage – who had apparently come to the same conclusion as Rob – shouted as pulsating veins spread throughout his face like glowing spiderwebs. Mana thrummed in the air; a candle when compared to the Blight’s bonfire, but sufficiently powerful to summon a second earthen spike on a scale that dwarfed the first. This actually managed to put a dent in the Blight’s rush, the creature grunting in annoyance as it had to swerve around the giant spike to avoid injury. His task complete, the Elven mage collapsed to the ground, having used Soul Burn to empower his final spell. One life in exchange for several.

Even then, that still wasn’t enough. The Dexterity-based Rangers would dodge in time, but Elder Alessia would not.

An arrow fell from the sky and landed directly in front of the Blight’s path. The arrow shattered, and a thick monochrome fog expanded out ten feet in every direction from the point of impact. As soon as the Blight touched the fog, its pace drastically slowed, like it was a video being watched at half speed while the rest of the world continued as normal. The effect lasted for several seconds, during which Elder Alessia barely skirted out of the way of the Blight and its drive-by Corruption radius. Jubilant laughter – that didn’t grow quieter no matter how far away its owner was – echoed in Rob’s head as the abomination sailed far past the Elves, coming to a gradual stop a hundred feet away.

Rob cursed under his breath as he connected the slowing Skill, named Temporal Trap, to its owner. A quick survey of the area turned up Orn’tol, having just arrived, alone, like a goddamn idiot. Out of everyone in the Deserters, Rob would have pegged Orn’tol as being the one most likely to survive this clusterfuck. The boy had some of the highest Dexterity among them – maybe *the* highest, if you discounted Zamira – and possessed a Skill called Flight of the Coward that made him significantly faster when running away from threats. If there was ever a situation where that combination of stats and Skills would come in handy, it was this one.

He was about to scream at Orn’tol to stop being a fucking hero and save himself when inspiration struck. Rob summoned a generic shortsword from his Spatial Storage and held it aloft. “ORN’TOL!”

The boy looked over. His eyes widened as Rob made a show of placing a Waymark on the hilt of his shortsword. Once the Mark had been set, Rob reared back in a two-handed throw and used all of his Strength – plus Throwing Proficiency – to chuck the weapon as far as he could. It landed a couple feet away from Orn’tol, who accepted the proffered Waymark-totem and gave Rob a quick nod. Without another word, he sped off into the distance, blazing a trail to Broadwater City at a lightning-quick pace.

Rob wasn’t sure what the range limit of Flight of the Coward was, but when an honest-to-god Blight was around, he imagined that – with a bit of mental finagling – it would be more than possible to convince the system to accept the entire northern hemisphere as a danger zone you were running away from.

Their escape route secured, Rob spun on his feet and activated Rampage several times in quick succession to get a running head-start. He sprinted in the opposite direction of Orn’tol and Broadwater City, sending off quick Party Invites to Elder Alessia and the three Rangers as he went. They jerked up in surprise before reflexively accepting the Invites, likely assuming that he was inviting them to the Party in order to grant them shared Vitality buffs.

A winning strategy, in most scenarios, but not when they were facing a Blight whose laughter had just finished dying down as it prepared for a second charge. Waymark had the ability to teleport him and everyone in his Party over to the first Mark that he’d placed – which was presently being ferried to Broadwater City by the Orn’tol Express. Teleporting over wouldn’t get them all the way to Broadwater, but it would put a lot of added distance between them and the Blight. It was by far the best chance at survival they were going to get.

The plan was sound. Guilt-free, too, as he’d be saving others along with himself. All he had to do was activate Waymark.

He almost did. An instant before he would have, Rob spared a glance for the Blight, and his heart caught in his throat.

The creature was ignoring them entirely. Its eyes were focused on one of the last groups of fleeing Deserters that were still within eyesight. Elder Alessia and the Rangers pelted it with spells and arrows, but the Blight didn’t so much as swivel a single one of its dozens of eyeballs in their direction. Between the source of the minor tickling sensations on its back, or the hundreds of servings of fresh meat that were quickly disappearing over the horizon, its choice was clear. Brain-piercing laughter started to rev up like an engine as the Blight’s centipedal legs shimmered with Corrupted mana.

Rob didn’t think – which was good. He would’ve done what he did next either way, but at least in this case, he could blame his actions on instinct.

“ENMITY!”

Rob felt 50 MP drain from his body and flow into the Blight. The abomination froze, its laughter reaching a discordant pitch of surprise before cutting out entirely. Very, very slowly, it turned its massive bus-sized form to face Rob, two of its sharklike heads tilted to the side as if trying to solve a puzzle.

The gravity of what he’d done hit Rob far too late. He had – like the astoundingly intelligent person he was – willingly spent 50 of his own MP to cast Enmity, a Skill that draws the attention of an enemy and magically incenses them to attack you.

And he’d used it on a Blight.

A peal of manic laughter slipped past his mouth. How was it that this situation, this oh-so-specific situation, felt intensely nostalgic? He’d somehow done this exact same thing once before in The Village. Taunted the Blight in order to distract it from murdering a shitload of civilians. His plan had worked then, too.

Right until he died.

Rob’s fingers trembled, and his mouth ran dry.

He tried to concentrate, and failed, the world blurring as he remembered. Inverted light encompassing the world. Broken promises and a broken Class Crystal. Atoms ripped apart into microscopic fragments. Pain, then nothing. Cessation of consciousness. No afterlife. No Hallowed Halls. Just nothing-

<ROB!>

Diplomacy’s frantic scream jarred Rob out of his reverie. The Blight was nearly upon them, three mouths opened wide.

With practiced ease, Rob shunted two full crates of Firebombs out of his Inventory, activated ‘Not a Scratch’, and kicked a crate moments before the Blight closed its teeth.

--

Far to the south, in an aberrant Dungeon, Seneschal Sylpeiros lowered his arm and accepted death.

The notion rankled him, although not for the reasons he expected it would. Dying and leaving Reviton City to the mercy of the Blight was an unacceptable failure, but he’d known full well that he might perish when he chose to undertake a Dungeon Crawl on his own. It was a calculated risk, and any gamble came with the possibility of rolling snake eyes. As a Combat Class user, he’d always known that this is how his path would eventually end, and in truth he’d lasted significantly longer than almost anyone in his chosen profession.

Instead of despair, he mostly felt indignant. If he was going to fail, couldn’t he have done so before reaching the final room? To come so close and taste bitter defeat was worse than if he’d slipped and fallen into a pit of spikes halfway through the Crawl.

The Dungeon leader, a twelve-foot amalgamation of glass and flesh, crept towards him from across the room. It was wary, searching for a trap that didn’t exist. Sylpeiros’ slouched posture as he leaned against the wall and attempted to stem the bleeding from the wound in his gut was entirely genuine. He’d been nursing that wound since the start of the fight, and it had finally worsened to a degree that he couldn’t ignore. To make matters worse, his pain was compounded by the sheer insult that it was Sylpeiros’ opening salvo that had done him in – the distorted glass that comprised half of the monster’s skin being reflective in more ways than one. His spears of magical lightning bounced back, too many to dodge even with Danger Sense, and one tore into his stomach like a Class-infused Ranger arrow.

The rest of the fight was simply a matter of course.

Sylpeiros spat blood and grimaced. He could win, theoretically, were he given an opening. Unfortunately, the monster was canny, and recognized that it was fighting a foe far above its station. Sylpeiros had been slowly worn down until his strength failed, and at this point, the creature could afford to dance in place and still come out victorious. Even if he clinched a victory by the skin of his teeth, he would die from blood loss all the same.

The Elven Seneschal, killed by his own hubris, Sylpeiros thought. A sneer twisted across his face. I’m sure there are many who will rejoice at the news. May it warm their hearts and give them comfort before the Blight overruns them and tears out their entrails.

Then, out of nowhere, the monster froze as if it had been struck. It turned its entire body to the right, looking at – as far as Sylpeiros could tell – a wall. Or someplace far beyond it.

He didn’t give one whit about the reason. An opening had been hand-gifted to him by the gods, and there wouldn’t be a second one.

Sylpeiros drew on his wellspring of magic, forming dozens of miniature lightning spears in the blink of an eye. The volley shot forward with pressure that shook the air, aimed directly at the parts of the monster’s skin that were comprised of flesh. Unerring Accuracy ensured that each one found its mark.

The creature screamed, and it was the most beautiful sound Sylpeiros had ever heard.

--

Rob held his head and staggered upwards on shaking feet. His brain was doing the tango with itself, and Diplomacy was giving off the impression of someone waking up from a bender. Not A Scratch had nullified the explosion damage from the crates of Firebombs, but being sent tumbling bodily through the air by the Riardin Special wasn’t something you ever got used to. It took a few seconds for him to get his bearings and adjust his vision.

They were a costly few seconds.

His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. The Blight was standing six feet ahead, casting a long shadow as it towered over him, watching with an expression of naked interest. It was close enough that Rob incurred several points of Corruption damage just from breathing in its vicinity. The only evidence of the Firebombs’ explosion – which had been powerful enough to pulp the Organic Devourer into messy chunks – was a thick crack running along the side of the center head’s face. A crack that was already healing.

Each of the Blight’s three sharklike maws curled into a smile.

Waym-

Six feet was nothing. The beast was on him before he finished his thought.

Rob screamed in agony as the Blight’s center head slammed its jaws around his torso. Any semblance of logic or reason was driven from his mind as Corruption flowed into his body. It felt like sickness, pestilence, corrosion – and it was being attached to the end of a nail and hammered into his chest. The Blight’s razor-sharp teeth, shredding flesh and sinew with casual ease, were paper cuts in comparison to the sheer force of wrong that was now staining his soul, and staining deeper with every second.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t possibly think. The pain was so overwhelming that the notion of doing anything but scream would have been laughable, had notions been possible to comprehend. Teeth gnashed, the Blight chewed, pieces came apart, and still, Rob screamed.

Then something in the back of his mind twinged.

You have activated: Push Through!

Push Through Level Increased! 3 → 4

Push Through Level Increased! 4 → 5

The pain felt by your body has been reduced by 50%.

In a flash, he could think. Barely. Enough to form a coherent thought, and that was sufficient.

‘Waymark.’

Everything shifted. Colors swirled, and a moment later, Rob was deposited next to Orn’tol alongside Elder Alessia and the three Rangers. As a precaution, he immediately disbanded the Party so that the others wouldn’t be influenced by Push Through. Rob tried to say hello, but all that came out was a wet gurgle. The others started freaking out when they saw him, then they tried to pick him up, and then they started freaking out more when the bottom half of Rob’s body didn’t stay attached to the top half.

He should probably fix that.

‘Lifesurge.’

Healing magic surged through his body – and stalled. So much Corruption had infested inside him that it was blocking his Skill’s attempts to restore his lost limbs, acting like a dam of rotted black holding strong against Lifesurge’s wave of healing. The two sides warred, Lifesurge barely coming out on top after a gruesome struggle, managing to restructure the missing parts of his body before its energies dissipated.

Dimly, Rob checked his Status Screen.

HP: 219 / 613

Stamina: 30 / 300

MP: 7 / 200

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Corruption (-437), Soul-Burnt (Right Lower Arm), Push Through (-50% Pain)

Shit, was the one – singularly apt – thought he was capable of forming.

Consciousness was difficult. Like swimming through molasses. His physical body was passably healthy, in theory, but a fundamental part of his core had been damaged in ways that made him feel sick. Staying awake was harder than it should have been. It took effort, but he managed to keep himself from fully blacking out – which might have been a first when it came to situations like these.

His recollections of the events that followed were, to say the least, murky. Rob remembered the others carrying him the rest of the way to Broadwater City, and the crew talking back and forth to each other in increasingly panicked voices, but he couldn’t retain a single thing they said.

By the time he’d adjusted to the putrid sensation of 428 motherfucking HP worth of Corruption infesting his soul, Rob ‘awoke’ to Keira holding him in her arms. Orn’tol was there as well, and both were staring at him with complicated expressions of pity, because what else was new? Rob quickly swept his eyes across his surroundings and found that he was surrounded by familiar-looking people and familiar-looking buildings.

“This Broadwater?” Rob croaked. The two nodded. “Riardin’s Rangers?”

Keira smiled softly at him. “Present and accounted for.”

“Elder Duran?”

She paused. “Alive.”

Rob closed his eyes. “All that matters,” he breathed.

Another minute passed until he felt cognizant enough to open his eyes and examine the situation. They were in fact inside Broadwater City, with its faux-Earth architecture that looked strikingly similar to Esternard’s. Hundreds of panicked Elves surrounded Rob, running around and calling for missing loved ones. More were pouring into the City by the second, running straight through the barrier like it didn’t exist at all. Rob was way too exhausted to perform a proper headcount, but at a glance, it seemed like most of the Deserters had made it. There had been about 2000 of them before the Blight attacked, and well over 1000 were inside Broadwater right now, which...left a disquieting amount of wiggle room for casualties, but the outcome was still far better than it could have been.

Rob’s eyes lit up as a familiar face stuck out of the crowd. Marcina, a civilian Seamstress he’d spoken to once or twice. She’d been a member of the traveling procession that was moments away from being assaulted by the Blight before he’d distracted it with Enmity.

A well-deserved lightness spread throughout his weary muscles. Her group had made it. His sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing.

The warm fuzzy feelings vanished in a heartbeat when the crowd started screaming. Rob’s head snapped towards the barrier, his blood freezing in his veins when he saw the Blight standing outside. Dozens of veiny, bulging eyes were looking into the city, absorbing the sight of hundreds of morsels just out of its reach. Gone was any semblance of playful sadism from its faces; the Blight stared with an unrelenting desire, acidic drool leaking from its mouths as it stood mere inches away from the barrier it was refusing to cross.

The sound of over a thousand people holding their breaths in unison was deafening.

Then the ground below the Blight started to dissolve. It descended as if sinking into quicksand, keeping its eyes fixated on the Deserters until it had disappeared from view entirely. No one dared say a word.

Terror raged like wildfire through the crowd as a parting farewell rang in their heads.

STILLHUNGRY

–

Changes

Upgrade: Push Through 3 → 5

Corruption: -9 → -428

Chapter 7

400 dead.

The Deserters’ relief when they realized the Blight wasn’t going to burst out of the ground and begin its slaughter anew quickly morphed to sorrow as they counted heads and came up short. Including the group where Randor and Lycia had died, three traveling processions had been lost. According to those few civilians who saw the Blight and lived to tell the tale, after Rob had used Waymark to teleport his Party to safety, the Blight indulged itself by hunting down anyone it laid its manifold eyes upon.

Considering that Broadwater City had been just several minutes away at a full sprint, the rate at which the Blight killed hundreds was, in a way, awe-inspiring. It felt similar to how the aftermath of a natural disaster could make someone stop and think about the frailty of life. If Rob and Elder’s Alessia’s crew hadn’t kept the creature busy for a brief period, the death toll of hundreds might have grown into the thousands.

Rob tried to remind himself of that whenever he saw the grieving faces of those who couldn’t find their loved ones.

Speaking of grieving faces, they were making it difficult for Rob to head over and meet with Elder Duran. Not difficult in a physical sense – the crowds parted before him like the Red Sea as per usual – but emotionally. He could feel their probing eyes on him, searching for answers that he didn’t have. Rob was the Lord Blightkiller, and in this instance, he hadn’t lived up to his name. The pressure of their expectations dragged on him like shackles attached to his arms and legs, and it took all of his willpower to plaster a stoically confident expression onto his face and keep it there as he walked past them.

It was necessary, though. Acting like he had a plan was the least he could do for them. The only thing he could do for them, really. He’d never liked the Lord Blightkiller moniker, but it had stuck despite his protestations, and that meant his disposition would serve as a bellwether for how the rest of them were supposed to feel. If they realized that their Lord had been torn to shreds in a heartbeat, that he was scared as hell, that his right arm was still paralyzed, and that the Corruption suffusing his body made him want to curl up into a ball and scream...then it might be the last straw that turned a crowd into a mob.

And the first things a mob targeted were always the people they thought had failed them. Icons turned into sacrificial lambs to sate the masses’ desire to feel in control of their lives again.

Keira – their appointed Lady Blightkiller – was acting cool as a cucumber, and Rob wasn’t about to torpedo her efforts by casting doubt on his half of the title. So he put on his big boy pants, adopted a determined expression, kept his back straight, and walked forward like he knew what the hell he was doing.

Deception Level Increased! 4 → 5

Yeah, that checked out.

Thankfully, they were able to pass through the crowd without major incident. After breaking free, Rob, Keira, and Orn’tol made their way to a nearby hotel that had been requisitioned as the Healers’ base of operations. Three of the Deserters’ four Healers had escaped the Blight, and Rob was fully aware of how royally fucked their situation was that ‘only’ losing one Healer felt like winning the lottery. If Combat Class users were the pillars of Elatran society, then Healers were the ones doing maintenance to ensure that those pillars didn’t crumble. The Deserters’ Healer corp was hideously understaffed as it was, and their workload was just going to get worse now that one of them was gone.

<No worse than it was before,> Diplomacy said. <The Deserters’ numbers have dropped from around 2000 to around 1600. The Healers dropped from four to three. Proportionally, little has changed.>

Jesus Christ, dude.

The Skill pulsed with annoyance. <What, am I not allowed to make dark observations as a coping mechanism?>

Rob raised an internal eyebrow. That’s a bizarre coping mechanism. Dark humor is one thing, but dark observations? How is looking at the Deserters like values in an Excel spreadsheet supposed to help anything?

<One death is a tragedy; a million is a statistic,> Diplomacy said. <It may sound callous, but it’s a necessary measure for the mind to process tragedy on a large scale. Were I to mourn for each and every life lost on this day, I would be overwhelmed and left insensate. In trying circumstances such as these, I find it best to retain a level head until the dust has settled, after which I allow myself many smaller moments to grieve over an extended period, so that I can process what transpired without breaking down or completely walling off my emotions.>

Okay, sure, that’s great, but have you considered bottling things up inside until you explode? It’s all the rage back on Earth-

Rob’s thought was cut short as he entered the Healers’ base of operations. He gagged and stepped back, the putrid itching of Corruption assaulting his senses like fumes of rotting garbage. Inside the building, dozens of people were occupying rows of beds and blankets, most of them white-faced and groaning in pain. Varying levels of Corruption had latched onto their cores like formless black leeches, siphoning away Vitality and subjecting their hosts to a unique kind of constant agony that Rob was quickly becoming familiar with. Some people were better-off, having just a few grape-sized kernels of Corruption inside their bodies, but others were inundated to the point where Rob would clearly sense it from the other side of the lobby. Those people were the worst-off, either letting out faint whimpers or having long since fallen unconscious.

A peek at his own Status Screen reaffirmed how ‘lucky’ Rob had been. If the Corruption infesting the bedridden patients could be compared to simple leeches, then Rob’s was like having an overweight, gluttonous vampire with twenty mouths draped around his shoulders. Every breath he took felt like tiny needles poking at his nerves, and that wasn’t easy to endure, but the difference between him and the Elves that were struggling to stay conscious was a simple matter of numbers.

His metric shitload of Vitality meant that he could lose 400 Max HP and still function. Mr. Elven Baker in the corner over there probably had 250 total Max HP at the very most, and by the degree of Corruption that Rob was sensing in him, the Elf’s HP had plunged into the double digits. Mr. Baker’s fleeting brush with the Blight was more debilitating to him than Rob’s experience of being used as a chew toy was to himself.

Rob doubted he would find anyone in a worse state than the bedridden Elves or himself. He’d seen what Corruption did to flesh when it oversaturated a body. Only bones had remained.

A shudder passed up and down his spine. He took solace in the small mercy that he was still able to stand. It helped that – unlike anyone else here – he had Push Through to dull his pain by half. Considering its prerequisites of high Vitality and getting borderline tortured on numerous occasions, it was highly unlikely that any Utility Class users possessed the Skill. Rob wasn’t sure he would be strolling around so casually without system-induced painkillers taking the edge off of his suffering.

He grimaced at the thought. Push Through was one of the Skills he’d deactivated out of a fear that it would alter his mental state. As much as he disliked the idea of leaving it on, at the moment, he needed to. It was perhaps the biggest thing standing between him being able to function and him being another patient laid up in bed. He couldn’t afford to leave that edge on the table, not when – simply put – Push Through made him feel a hell of a lot better.

If anything, he should be thinking of additional ways to soothe the pain and keep his composure, although the only other thing he could think of at the moment was Melancholy Resi-

Rob took that thought out back, shot it in a dark alleyway, threw it in a hole ten feet deep, filled the hole with cement, built a building on top of the spot, and then collapsed the building.

Never again. He would deactivate Push Through once he found a way to remove his Corruption, and he would never. Again. Contemplate that second option.

He’d rather die.

<Thank you,> Diplomacy said. Rob belatedly realized that his idle consideration had caused the Skill to start shivering with fear.

Never again, he swore. For both our sakes.

“There is...one thing,” Keira said, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked past dozens of occupied beds. “Before you greet Elder Duran...” Her face fell. “You must be forewarned. The Elder did not escape from the Blight unscathed.”

Rob’s face tightened. He’d feared as much, but until hearing Keira’s words, he’d still possessed the lingering hope that – among the few in Duran’s group that escaped the Blight’s corrosive fog – the Elder had been on the farthest end away from its area of effect. “Alright,” Rob responded, breathing deep. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll mentally prepare myself.”

He didn’t prepare enough.

Duran was asleep. To clarify, he was in a magically-induced coma and wouldn’t awaken until he was allowed to. Rob wholeheartedly agreed with the Healers’ decision to put Duran into that state, because if the Elder wasn’t asleep, he would be screaming his throat bloody and raw. Out of every Corruption-infused person Rob had seen in the makeshift medical bay, Duran was the worst. The Elder's legs and left arm were missing, their stumps ending in a flaky black crust that seemed to wriggle in the light. His face was gaunt and white as a sheet. His body was rigid and unmoving, the ragged rise and fall of his chest being the sole discernible motion that Rob could detect. And the degree of Corruption that Rob sensed within him outstripped anyone besides his own, nearly snuffing out the light of Duran’s life entirely.

Rob stood next to the Elder’s bedside, staring down with a mute expression. His fists clenched, then unclenched. Diplomacy’s core swirled in a kaleidoscope of emotions, before settling on a shaky, self-enforced calm.

Neither of them knew what to say.

“I’m sorry,” the Healer stated. He was sitting in a chair, head in his hands, and on the verge of tears. “I can’t excise whatever vile pestilence the Blight has infected him with. It is beyond the limits of my capabilities. It may very well be beyond the capabilities of anyone in Elatra.”

The man dug his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood. “I’m sorry, Lord Blightkiller. I’m so, so sorry. I have failed in my duty as a Healer.”

“No, you haven’t.”

The Healer looked up, his face stricken with sorrow. A glimmer of hope spread through his expression as he latched onto Rob’s words like a lifeboat in a storm. Rob got the impression that whatever he said next would make or break the guy’s mental state – so, hey, no pressure. He quickly conferred with Diplomacy, and after a few moments, they went for it.

“Curing Corruption is impossible by traditional means,” Rob said. If it was, the minor amount of Corruption he’d carried for months after fighting the first Blight would've dissipated long ago. “That was never in the cards. What you did do was stabilize their wounds, and don't undersell how important that is. They’re alive, and as long as they’re alive, there’s hope.”

He gave the Healer a serious nod. “You performed your duty admirably. I’m proud, and you should be too.”

Diplomacy Level Increased! 13 → 14

The Healer’s muscles relaxed. “I...” He said, trailing off. “Thank you, Lord Blightkiller. I can’t express how much your words mean to me.”

Rob looked back down at Elder Duran. “Don’t worry,” he said, in a tone of certainty. “You just focus on keeping everyone alive. I’ll find a way to remove their Corruption. That’s a promise.”

Keira, Orn’tol, and the Healer sent each other disbelieving glances. Rob was too busy scrolling through his Character Sheet to care, mind racing as he stopped to reread a certain Skill that needed to quit being so mysterious and cough up some answers.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement

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

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

3 Attunements: ???

The second Locus of Power that I Attuned with expanded the Skill’s scope, Rob thought. From damage reduction, to damage reduction *and* sensing Corruption. Who wants to bet that a later upgrade might go one step further and remove Corruption altogether? It’s a Hail Mary solution, but it’s by far the best lead we’ve got. Attunement is the only Skill in Elatra I’ve heard about that references Corruption at all. Elder Duran, despite being a voracious bookworm, barely knew anything about the concept of negative HP or what its effects were. If anything is going to heal Corruption – or at least point us in the right direction – it has to be Crystal Bearer.

Diplomacy hesitated. <This was a long time ago,> the Skill began. <And your status only read this way for several minutes before matters quickly changed. But I can vaguely recall that, when you came into contact with The Village’s Blight, the Corruption it inflicted upon you was more than 10. When your body was reconstituted by the broken Class Crystal, that same Corruption was reduced to 7. The energies of the Class Crystal seemingly counteracted a minor amount of the Corruption infesting your body. And as Crystal Bearer's Skills appear to be based on the capabilities of Elatra’s Crystals...>

So now we’ve got a Hail Mary solution with a piece of evidence backing it up? A savage grin spread across Rob’s face. That’s more like it.

“Does every settlement have a Locus of Power?” Rob suddenly asked. The other three people in the room glanced at each other again. Eventually, Keira answered in a faltering tone.

“I’m unsure,” she admitted. “My knowledge of the subject is scarce, but based on my recollections of...Elder Duran’s...teachings, civilization naturally gravitates around Loci of Power like moths drawn to light. I can’t guarantee that every city or settlement will possess a Locus of Power at its center, but the likelihood is stronger than if you were to – for example – search aimlessly out in the wilderness.”

“Works for me.” Rob tore his eyes away from Elder Duran and fixed them onto Keira and Orn’tol. “No time to waste. Let’s go hunting.”

–

Sylpeiros awoke, which was a surprise in and of itself.

In the end, he’d prevailed against the Dungeon boss, using the creature’s momentary distraction to turn it into a pincushion of lightning spears. His victory had been a hollow one, as Sylpeiros was aware that he wouldn’t be able to stay conscious long enough to shatter the Dungeon Core before it finished forming. As his vision faded, Sylpeiros sank into darkness knowing that his lifeblood would run dry from his body, the Dungeon’s monsters and energies would replenish, and Reviton City would be left without its strongest defender. In every respect, he had failed in his duties as the Seneschal. As the sun set on his defeat, so would the dawn rise on the Blight’s eternal victory.

So when he awakened an indeterminable amount of time later, sprawled out on the grassy forest floor instead of sheets of cold glass, he couldn’t help but spend several moments staring at the sky in utter bafflement. Only several, though – his soldier’s instincts kicked in soon after. With a thought, Sylpeiros brought up his Status Screen.

HP: 57 / 920

Stamina: 33 / 500

MP: 162 / 1000

Low, but stable. The bleeding had stopped. Assuming that no strong monsters ambushed him and took advantage of his weakened state, he would live.

It was with relieved confusion that Sylpeiros asked himself: How? His demise had been a foregone conclusion. The fact that he still drew breath was impossible. Unless the Dungeon had perhaps taken mercy on him, and there was a greater chance of the Dragon Queen asking for his hand in marriage than of a Dungeon possessing any semblance of a conscience. Sylpeiros grimaced at his own comparison; between being indebted to a Dungeon or sharing a bed with Ragnavi, he wasn’t sure which idea sounded more distasteful.

“Ah,” a voice said. “You’re finally up and about.”

Sylpeiros froze. Slowly and carefully, he sat up and turned towards the voice’s owner. An Elf man in his middle years was sitting approximately fifteen feet away, his back resting against a tree and an unconcerned expression on his face. The facade may have fooled a lesser soldier, but Sylpeiros knew a coiled predator when he saw one. If the other man sensed the barest hint of hostility or danger, his slackened posture would tense, his eyes would harden, and an arrow would lodge itself in his quarry’s throat in the blink of an eye.

Which was nothing that Sylpeiros couldn’t handle. Danger Sense would forewarn him, and he had sufficient mana to shower the man in lightning spears before he could react. Still, best to let the stranger believe that he was in control of the situation. At least until he’d answered any relevant questions.

Starting with an explanation as to why the Dungeon Core was lying on the ground next to him.

Sylpeiros opened his mouth, then closed it a moment later when a spark of recognition alighted in his memories. A portrait constructed from an observer's description, wanted posters plastered throughout Reviton...

“Kenzotul the Turncoat,” Sylpeiros said, in a low growl. “I seem to have underestimated the limits of your audacity.”

Kenzotul, the Elf who had forsaken his own kind to protect a Human, met the Seneschal’s ire with a hearty chuckle. “Is that any way to greet your savior?”

Sylpeiros pursed his lips. He looked back, spying the Dungeon entrance several dozen feet away. “Explain.”

Kenzotul raised his eyebrows. “What transpired should be self-evident, I think.”

“I want to hear your own words from your own mouth.”

“Hmm.” The Turncoat shrugged. “Very well. When I became aware that a Dungeon had appeared close to Reviton City, it filled me with no small amount of dread – the same dread I assume that all of Reviton was experiencing, when facing the possibility of being overrun by a Dungeon left untended.” His lips twitched. “Now, I am hardly so arrogant that I believed I could expunge the Dungeon on a solo mission; nevertheless, I felt obligated to perform reconnaissance on its first few rooms. By relaying the information I gathered back to Reviton City, they would be better-prepared when they sent an eventual task force on to go on a Crawl.”

He crossed his arms. “Imagine my shock when I entered the Dungeon and found that it had been ransacked like a Vraal set loose in an antique shop. Its defenders eviscerated, its traps disarmed, and a deep sense of frustration pervading the air. Despite the dangers, I explored further, and I must admit that it was by far the easiest Crawl I’ve ever undertaken. Not once did the Dungeon accost me.”

The Turncoat smirked. “Almost as if it was busy dealing with someone else.”

Sylpeiros sent him an unamused glare. “How fortunate for you. At what point did you reach the Dungeon’s end?”

“Shortly after you fell unconscious.” Kenzotul patted a small pouch at his side. “Took three HP Potions, but I was able to stanch the bleeding in time to save you. Then it was a simple matter of grabbing you, grabbing the Core, and making a mad dash for the entrance before the Dungeon’s forces respawned.”

Seneschal Sylpeiros, leader of the Elves, a man who answered to no one, breathed deep and swallowed his pride. “You have my gratitude.”

Kenzotul’s eyes widened at that proclamation, but he said nothing, which Sylpeiros was grudgingly grateful for. The Seneschal hesitated, choosing his words carefully before continuing.

“Why bring me to safety?” He asked. “You could have retrieved the Core and left my body to rot.”

“Because the Elves need you,” Kenzotul plainly answered. “Without your strength, Reviton City will fall. Why should I deprive thousands of their sole hope for salvation?”

“I’ve sent people to bring you to justice,” Sylpeiros countered. “Incompetent people, apparently, but the attempt was made. Do you trust that my gratitude will be sufficient to leave you alone?”

“I am no fool.” Kenzotul grimaced. “My desires, however, are immaterial. Were I to consign you to an ignoble death out of a distorted sense of retribution, many others would suffer for it.”

Sylpeiros bared his teeth. He’d never been so frustrated by altruism. “Why throw your lot in with the Human?” He said, asking the true question on his mind. “You fought in the Scouring. You survived the Cataclysm. You know what they’re capable of.”

Kenzotul’s eyes took on a distant look. “It is because I took part in the Scouring that I’ve chosen to protect him.”

“So that’s your justification? A misguided sense of guilt?” Sylpeiros scoffed. “I’ve read the reports on your actions during The Scouring. You waded through rivers of blood as much as anyone else who had the stomach for it. Do you earnestly believe that throwing your lot in with the Human will overwrite the stains of your past and give way to absolution?”

The Turncoat’s gaze sharpened. “There’s no such thing.” He hesitated, eyes as fierce as burning coals, and continued. “And the human is but one person of many that I aim to protect; you’ll find that I am fully committed to walking the path of least bloodshed in whatever form it may take. From here until the day I greet Lothren in her Hallowed Halls, I will strive to make the world a better place.”

His mouth twisted into a wry smirk. “I’m aware of how naive that sounds. Yet, it gives me purpose. A goal that allows me to sleep better at night. What more could I ask for?”

Sylpeiros fell silent for a good fifteen seconds. “You believe that leaving a Human alive is the path of least bloodshed?”

“He is a good man,” Kenzotul firmly stated. “And deserves a chance at life. Can’t you see that? Surely the people of The Village have told you of his efforts to protect them. Does that not deserve consideration?”

Painful remembrances flared in Sylpeiros’ mind like chronic aches. “You are correct,” he spat. “In that your newfound ideology is naive in the extreme. When a second Cataclysm befalls our head, and the wailing death throes of the slaughtered serenade your ears, you will only have yourself to blame.”

Kenzotul looked forward with an expression that nearly made Sylpeiros explode with anger. Scorn, hatred, disbelief – all of those would have been far easier to accept than the emotion contained in the Turncoat’s gaze.

Pity.

“I truly hope that one day you will attain a measure of peace,” Kenzotul stated, in a solemn tone. “And finally free yourself from the ghosts of your past.”

Without another word, he picked up the Dungeon Core, grimacing as its malevolent energies came into contact with his gloved hand. Kenzotul unsheathed a knife from his belt, gripped it tight, and plunged it straight down.

A tortured scream rang through the air. Both men whirled to face the Dungeon entrance. They stared, transfixed, as the darkness-enshrouded opening in the ground crumpled inward on itself. Jagged glass screeched and cried, shattering into thousands of pieces as it collapsed into an infinitesimally small point at the entrance’s epicenter. The scream reached a fevered pitch, grating at Sylpeiros’ ears like a dying man in his death throes.

And then it was gone. Ten seconds was all it took. Glass slowly transformed into dirt and grass as the Wound in the World scabbed over.

“Never stops being absurd,” Kenzotul breathed.

“No,” Sylpeiros agreed. “It doesn’t.”

There was nothing left to say. Kenzotul gathered his things, nodded once at Sylpeiros, and made to leave. Sylpeiros eyed the man’s unprotected back as he walked away. Wary as the Turncoat was, he would have virtually no chance of evading an attack if Sylpeiros were to strike now. One instant to summon spears of lightning, another instant to shoot them, and the fight would be over before it began.

It would take merely a thought.

Sylpeiros sat and watched as Kenzotul disappeared from view.

An ill breeze swept over him, cold and mocking.

–

Changes

Upgrade: Deception 4 → 5

Upgrade: Diplomacy 13 → 14

Chapter 8

“Why am I here?” Orn’tol asked.

Rob and Keira stopped short, curious expressions on their faces as they turned to face the young Ranger. “What do you mean?” Rob replied. He gestured at the empty street they’d been walking down a moment ago. “We’re searching for a Locus of Power. Same thing we’ve been doing for the past hour.”

“Yes, but why am I here?” Orn’tol gave a helpless sort of shrug. “You’re the only person who can sense a Locus of Power. At present, I’m little more than a tagalong. When you invited me to join your search, I assumed it was with the intent of giving me a purpose. Some way I could assist you.”

“You’re assisting,” Rob assured.

“How so?”

Shit. Called my bluff. “Um...” Rob stalled for a half-second. “Emotional support?”

Orn’tol sighed and shook his head. Rob decided to call that a win – Orn’tol would have been way more exasperated if he knew that the real reason he was there was because Rob got caught up in the moment and invited everyone along for dramatic effect.

“Emotional support is as fair a reason as any,” Keira said, lying through her teeth.

Orn’tol scowled at her, looking – just for an instant – like the spitting image of Riardin. “And why, pray tell, are you here?”

“I’m shirking my duties,” Keira stated. “Had I stayed with the crowd, they would have foisted responsibility after responsibility onto me, the first of which would have been hearing their vapid complaints.” She adopted a nasally, high-pitched tone. “Keira, why didn’t you slay the Blight in a single blow and spare us all this trouble? Keira, can you make my grief disappear with a few kind words and a pat on the back? Keira, Keira, Keira.”

She rolled her eyes and blew a stray strand of hair out of her face. “I can’t be bothered with any of their mundane trivialities. They address day-to-day issues, and I kill things that need killing. That’s the arrangement, and perhaps one day they’ll understand as much.”

Rob and Orn’tol blinked, glancing at each other as surreptitiously as they could. “Keira...” Rob said, hesitant. “Are you okay? That’s a bit more disdain for the townsfolk than usual.”

Keira winced. “We’re all apprehensive about what happened,” she hazarded. “In that regard, I am no different from anyone else.”

<She couldn’t kill something that needed killing,> Diplomacy supplied. <She didn’t even try. As a result, Randor died, Lycia died, hundreds others died, and Elder Duran is on the verge of joining them. She feels as if she failed, and thinking of the civilians is a fresh reminder.>

The Blight is as killable as a goddamn natural disaster, Rob countered.

<Logically, she knows that. Emotionally, however?>

Rob took an instant too long conferring with Diplomacy; right as he was about to speak, Keira shook her head and turned away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Let’s keep at the search. If a Locus of Power resides in Broadwater, we’ll find it before long.”

She trudged off in silence. Rob ran his hand down his face and suppressed a sigh. “Can’t get it right every time,” he muttered.

“You’re generally quicker on the uptake than that,” Orn’tol whispered.

“Cut me some slack, okay? I’m in a lot of pain right now. Thoughts are mushy and stuff.”

Orn’tol narrowed his eyes. “Exactly how much Corruption have you been infected with? I wasn’t able to get a glimpse of your HP before you disbanded the prior Party.”

Rob opened his mouth in a wide grin. “You know, it would be really dickish of us if we kept Keira waiting. She can’t even find the Locus on her own! Let’s catch up with her before she gets herself lost.”

Ignoring Orn’tol’s protestations, Rob jogged towards Keira, wincing as the motion shocked his nerves. So, Diplomacy, how am I going to explain to the others that nearly half my HP is in the toilet and I would be in debilitating pain without the use of a body-altering Skill? A Skill that, I might add, will have its effect transferred to them if they join my Party.

<Your reservations regarding Push Through are more of a personal problem,> Diplomacy said. <I doubt that their aversion to the Skill would be remotely comparable to how deeply they fear and abhor Melancholy Resistance.>

That’s fair. Rob sighed as he neared Keira. Guess I can’t complain too much. It’s kept me on my feet without turning me into a mindless zombie or whatever. Glad I managed to turn it on in the nick of time.

One funny quirk about sharing your head with another consciousness – a quirk that had caused the two of them no small amount of embarrassment – was that it was extremely easy to slip up and broadcast your emotions to the other if you didn’t tamp down on your thoughts immediately. As soon as Rob finished ‘speaking’, Diplomacy let out a strong pulse of trepidation mixed with fear, one so loud and urgent that Rob sensed it before it could be suppressed.

...What was that?

Diplomacy hummed innocently. <What was what?>

Oooooh, you just picked the wrong kind of fight, Rob chided. In the game of feigned ignorance, I’m the master, while you are but a mere disciple. Speak up before I start imagining reruns to schlocky reality TV shows.

<Dear gods, you’ve brought a nuke to a fistfight.> Diplomacy hesitated. <Full disclosure? If I may?>

As long as whatever happened wasn’t intentional, I won’t be mad, Rob answered, feeling somewhat like a parent consoling their child who’d knocked over a vase.

<Right.> It gathered its courage. <You did not activate Push Through. I did.>

Rob bumped into Keira. Her annoyance was quickly replaced by concern as she asked him what was wrong and why he looked so startled. In response, Rob kept walking, eyes wide and mind racing at a full gallop. You activated my Skill. That’s – since when have you been able to do that?

<Today.> Diplomacy slouched. <Truthfully, I don't know why things have changed. I tested this potentiality when we first began speaking with each other, and found myself completely unable to affect your Skills in any manner whatsoever.>

The light of its core dimmed slightly. <Then the Blight was upon us, and I grew desperate. You were in too much pain to think, so I needed to reduce the pain, and, well...>

It gave a nervous chuckle. <In retrospect, it would have been simpler to activate Waymark outright. Can you forgive my panic?>

Rob let out a loud, audible groan. I have no idea what to make of this.

<Then you’re in good company.> It paused. <Just know that I will follow your lead on this matter. Should you wish to test this further, I will help you to the best of my ability. Should you forbid me from ever activating a Skill again, then I will do so barring very extreme circumstances. I understand – more than you know – the feeling of losing autonomy, and I have no desire to inflict that feeling upon you.>

A soft smile spread across Rob’s face. Hard to stay worried when you phrase it that way. I really appreciate-

“WAKE UP!”

The throbbing in his head worsened as Keira grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and shook him with both hands. During his five months spent in Elatra, Rob had – regrettably – inspired a wide variety of concerned expressions to form on Keira’s face. There was concern for his life, concern for his mental well-being, and most importantly, concern that he wouldn’t stop making bad jokes. He knew all her faces by heart; partially because her face was captivating and difficult to stop looking at, but also because he’d spent more time talking to her than anyone else since coming to Elatra. When one of them needed support, they knew they could confide in the other.

This face was new. She was confused, scared, and staring at him like she didn’t know him.

“What’s happening to you?!” Keira yelled. “Being scatterbrained is one thing, I could accept that much, but this behavior goes beyond what can be attributed to a peculiar idiosyncrasy! You just...stop responding and disappear into your own world, eyes widening, face twitching, as if you’re hearing things that no one else can. At first I thought you were simply the daydreaming type, but it’s only gotten worse and worse as the weeks go by.”

All of a sudden, she was stricken with terror. Keira grabbed his arms in dual grips of iron that made his bones creak. “Is it Leveling High? Your status has always denoted the affliction as Mild, but there are degrees of severity between Mild and Moderate. Is it speaking to you? Or is – no. No.”

Rob saw himself reflected in her grief-stricken eyes, and didn’t know what to say before she barreled onwards. “Please, please tell me you didn’t activate Melancholy Resistance again. Please.”

“I didn’t,” he stated, putting a heart’s worth of emphasis into his words. “I swear on my life.”

She grit her teeth. “Then prove it by adding me to the Party.”

In that moment, Rob’s affection for Keira was only matched by how much of a shitheel he felt like by causing her to make that face. He sent over a Party Invitation, and the keen sensation of being an asshole grew larger as Keira accepted the Invitation like she was putting her head under a guillotine. Palpable relief spread through her features when the effects of Melancholy Resistance weren’t transferred to her by the EXP Share, proving that Rob had been telling the truth.

She was lucky he was. If he’d been lying, the Skill’s tendrils would already be worming their way around her thoughts – an outcome that she must have been fully aware of. Keira had known the risk, and she’d taken it anyway, as the possibility of Melancholy Resistance fucking with her head was worth discovering if Rob was lost in his own mind again.

<Fuck,> Diplomacy swore. <This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll stop talking.>

The Skill’s light dimmed as it fell into a sort of hibernation that Rob knew it wouldn’t awaken from for hours. Rob tried to call it back, but Diplomacy ignored him, closed its metaphysical eyes, and slept, hiding its shame in the world of dreams.

“If you wish to tell me what’s ailing you,” Keira said, short of breath. “Then the opportune time is now. Whatever you’re hiding will seem paltry compared to what I just prepared myself for.”

“One of my Skills is alive and speaking to me.”

Keira’s mouth fell open. That was another face she made sometimes – a cute one, too – and luckily, it was a face reserved for revelations that were perplexing, but not overly worrying. “Um. Well. That’s...” She furrowed her eyebrows. “You’re sure it isn’t Leveling High? Or perhaps the gods playing tricks to spite you?”

Rob tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “Trust me. I know exactly what both of those sound and feel like. Leveling High is like a low, malevolent buzzing, and listening to the gods is comparable to nails being hammered into your ears. Diplomacy is just your everyday ordinary chatty neighbor.”

“Diplomacy. Hmm. Hmmmmm.” Keira tapped a finger on her chin. “I’ll have you know that I’m thoroughly annoyed right now. Months ago, what you just revealed would have shaken the foundation of my reality to its core – assuming I believed you at all. But after everything that’s occurred?”

She peered up at the sky with a faraway gaze. “It’s just another thing.”

Rob allowed her a few seconds to process. That was when he remembered, far too late, that they weren’t alone. He whirled around, a cry of ‘Orn’tol’ dying on his lips when he saw that the street was empty. “Where did he go?”

“I asked him to fetch the others when you wouldn’t answer us,” Keira explained. “I assume you didn’t hear that either?”

Rob let his face fall into his hands. “Sorry. Wasn’t trying to make everyone worry. Didn’t even realize I was zoning out so much.”

“Indeed, you were,” Keira replied. “It looked something like this.” She relaxed her facial muscles, looked off into the distance, and began twitching her eyebrows and lips at random intervals. Rob couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the sight, prompting Keira to do the same. They welcomed the giggle fit with open arms; it made for an effective, sorely-needed stress reliever.

“You know,” Rob said, once their laughter had died down. “Not that I’m complaining, but you were really quick to roll with the notion of a sentient Skill holding conversations in my head.”

Keira’s smile faded. She spent several seconds deciding what to say next before answering. “We may very well be at the end of days,” she said, in a solemn tone. “The Village is lost, and the Blight has returned. The system is malicious, and the gods have forsaken us. Wrong is right, down is up, and normalcy has been ground underfoot by fate’s capricious heel. At this point, one must either adapt, or die.”

She let out a soft sigh. “At least I can take solace in the fact that this latest revelation is – to my overwhelming surprise – beneficial to our cause. An unexpected ally is definitely preferable to an unexpected foe.” Keira quirked an eyebrow. “I am correct in assuming that Diplomacy is an ally?”

Rob nodded. “Yeah. An ally and a friend. It saved my social life and my actual life on more than one occasion.”

He frowned. When said out loud, calling Diplomacy ‘it’ came across as too dehumanizing. The Skill had never cared, but maybe using ‘they’ would be more respectful. Rob tried to run the idea by Diplomacy, but they were still locked within their self-imposed slumber, and there wasn’t much he could do to wake them that wouldn’t be a breach of boundaries. Setting off imaginary air horns next to the Skill’s ears would only be funny for the fifteen seconds it took for them to retaliate.

“I’d like to interrogate Diplomacy at the earliest opportunity,” Keira declared. “Just as soon as I’m finished interrogating you.”

Rob winced. “Do you have to phrase it that way?”

She bared her teeth. “Naturally. Intimidation is my highest social-related Skill, after all.”

Why do I find that so damn attractive? Thank fuck Diplomacy is asleep right now, I don’t want them hearing these thoughts. “I’ll let you know when they’re available,” Rob said. “At the moment, they feel like shit for playing a part in making you and Orn’tol panic, and I’d like to afford them some well-deserved privacy.”

Keira’s expression softened from a glare to a stare. “I see. And when, pray tell, were you planning on revealing the existence of a sentient Skill to the rest of Riardin’s Rangers?”

“When I thought of a way to mention talking voices in my head without sounding like a lunatic,” Rob said. He let out a deep sigh. “Though I guess that particular ship has sailed so far it’s disappeared over the horizon. Feels like every other day that a new voice pops into my head, uninvited and making a mess of the place. Wish I could find a way to lock the doors, but it’s not like Mental Resistance 4 prevented the gods or the Blight from practically screaming in my ears.”

Keira froze. “The Blight?”

“Yeah. You probably weren’t close enough to hear its gibbering, but there were some actual words mixed in between the horrifying laughter.” He perked up. “Ah, there was one bit right before it disappeared that you may have noticed – you know, the ‘Still Hungry’? That part at least managed to sound like an actual declaration of intent.”

It was difficult for Elves – naturally pale as they were – to whiten out of fright, but Keira managed. “The only thing I heard as the Blight sunk into the ground was a strangled, discordant, drawn-out rasp.”

Rob blinked. “Oh. No words?”

“None.”

Rob blinked some more. “Huh. Out of curiosity, when the Blight in the Village appeared, did you Identify it?”

Keira nodded. “Its Description was garbled and wholly unreadable. Was it different for you?”

“Sun. Moisture. Gravity.” Rob’s tone lowered as he quoted a recurring vision from his nightmares. “So novel, the sensations. Ah. And there’s wind…A scent of blood on the air. It tastes delicious.”

His voice hitched. “Let the revelry commence.”

Neither of them spoke for a solid minute. Rob broke the deafening silence with a quiet mumble.

“Transceiver.”

“What?”

“Transceiver.” Rob gingerly pressed his fingers against his temples. “Am I...”

The thought was swept aside by a sliver of wrong passing by his senses. It was no more than a small twinge in awareness, like a faint aroma of roadkill sent astray by a stiff breeze, but it was there, and it was unmistakable.

“Corruption,” he gasped.

“Yes!” Keira said, jabbing a finger at him. “On the subject of things you neglected to inform us about, I’d say the missing four hundred – four hundred! – points of HP from your Status Screen are certainly worth noting!”

“No, Keira, I mean there’s Corruption here.” Rob pointed down the street that they’d been about to traverse before his impromptu interrogation had begun. “I can feel it, although it’s subtle. Can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from or how long it’s been there. It’s not as easy as measuring background radiation with a Geiger counter aaaand no one in Elatra knows what either of those are.”

He suppressed a shudder and took a moment to compose himself. “The point I’m trying to make is that Corruption is lingering in the air somewhere in that direction.”

Keira drew her greatsword in one swift motion, her eyes sweeping across an empty street of vacant houses. In the span of seconds, it had gone from nondescript and mundane to dangerous and threatening, each quiet corner a potential trap waiting to be sprung. “Could the Blight have beaten us to the Locus of Power?”

“I’d be screaming for the hills if I thought that was the case,” Rob replied. “The whole city would be smothered in Corruption if its Locus was compromised.” He paused. “Doesn’t mean it’s safe, though. Maybe Broadwater is getting infiltrated like Esternard was. Itty bitty Blight babies creeping up from underground.”

“The spherical barrier surrounding Broadwater City extends underground,” Keira countered. “If a fully-grown Blight was unable to break through, I doubt its juvenile variants could succeed where it failed.”

“Right.” Rob sighed. “Then...what?”

She didn’t answer. They both fell silent, unable to come up with an adequate answer for why ambient Corruption was hovering around a specific section of the city – an answer that neither of them truly wanted to find out.

Even by Elatran standards, this was a lot of shit to deal with in a single day. Especially when it was still only mid-afternoon.

A few minutes later, Orn’tol finally returned with the cavalry, bringing along Riardin’s Rangers, Taleya, and Elder Alessia. Their relief upon hearing that Rob wasn’t being influenced by Leveling High or Melancholy Resistance quickly morphed to horror after learning what he’d just sensed. A panicked meeting commenced, during which they concluded – to their chagrin – that finding the source of the Corruption couldn’t be put off until tomorrow. Rob’s suggestion that everyone be allowed at least a few hours for a nap ruthlessly was shot down, Elder Alessia rattling off an itemized list of all the ways that letting unchecked Corruption spread could go wrong. With those dire warnings ringing in their ears, the Party committed themselves to, at the very least, figuring out the Corruption’s origin before the day was out.

And so they assumed a classic formation: Rob and Keira in front, one babysitting the other. This time it was Keira’s turn to safeguard Rob the Human Geiger Counter as carefully led the Party down the empty streets of Broadwater City. It was slow going, as none of them wanted to be ambushed by Blight babies lurking in the shadows, and because Rob soon discovered that sensing ambient Corruption wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. When it was attached to a person and gorging on their HP, Corruption felt sickly vibrant, like a perverse mockery of life. The remnants he was searching for in Broadwater were sporadic, dull, and lifeless. Fading wisps floating through the air, carried across the city by errant winds. It was by pure chance that he’d sensed the first bit to begin with, and narrowing the search ended up coming down to luck as much as anything else.

One hour passed before they found a solid lead. By then they’d spent more time looking for the source of the Corruption than Rob, Keira, and Orn’tol had originally spent looking for a Locus of Power – which, incidentally, never turned up. Having finished examining another segment of Broadwater City, Rob rounded a corner, took three steps into a residential district, and froze.

“There’s more here,” he whispered. “Still faint. But more consistent.” Everyone tensed, grips tightening on weapons they had yet to use. No Blight babies had popped out of the shadows as the Party made their way through Broadwater City, but that could change in a heartbeat. The range limit on Keira’s Danger Sense meant that they wouldn’t be able to predict an ambush coming from across the street. Malika hadn’t sensed the Blight’s presence in the city either, but the abominable creatures had hidden themselves from her detection in the past. Putting full faith in the Archmage’s Sense Magic Skill could prove to be a fatal error if it resulted in carelessness where caution was warranted.

They waited for the other shoe to drop. After several minutes of silence, Rob faced the rest of the Party and scratched the back of his head. “Think we have to explore further,” he said. “If there’s nothing on the road, there might be something in one of the houses.”

“This street contains an excess of fifty buildings,” Orn’tol muttered.

“Then we’d best hurry,” Elder Alessia said, glancing upwards at the sun. “Unless you wish to search for the Corruption’s source in the dark.”

Alessia, Rob thought, was an effective motivator.

They picked the closest house to their position, intending to explore in a straight line down the road. Keira entered first, greatsword drawn and held at the ready, eyes flitting back and forth in search of threats. Rob entered second, staying close behind her at all times. He froze at the sight of an empty pile of clothes on the floor, vaguely arranged in the shape of a person, and ruthlessly suppressed the memories it brought forth before soldiering on.

Half the party joined them inside, and half stayed outside to guard the entrance. One careful search later – where they spent every excruciating moment waiting for abominations to crawl out the woodworks – resulted in them finding jack and shit. Just an empty house with slightly higher levels of Corruption in the air than other parts of the city.

The lack of action wasn’t a comfort. It was like waiting on an upcoming phone call that you knew would be rough; every hour where the phone didn’t ring was a false reprieve, anticipation building until your nerves had been long since fried to a crisp when your ringtone finally sounded.

House #2 was more of the same. Blissfully, worryingly boring.

Third time was the charm.

Rob felt it as soon as he opened the door. The sensation wasn’t anywhere near as vile as when he’d first entered the Healer’s headquarters full of Corrupted patients, but there was a noticeable difference between the inside and outside of the house, similar to as if the temperature had raised by a few degrees Fahrenheit. It was a change that would probably go unnoticed if you weren’t paying attention – which he very much was.

“We have contact,” Rob whispered. The group tensed, their anxiety rising to a fever pitch. Keira stepped inside, followed by Rob, Vul’to, Elder Alessia and Taleya. Orn’tol, Malika, Zamira, and Meyneth stayed outside to guard the front entrance. The former group crept forward, sneaking around the house like they were burglars who’d busted in to ransack the place. And to be fair, that’s exactly what they did. The Party opened up every door, closet, and cabinet in sight, leaving no stone unturned. It wasn’t likely that the next coming of the Blight was hiding in a cutlery drawer, but they weren’t taking any fucking chances on that. Searching the house was a time-consuming affair; the place was large and spacious, having seemingly belonged to an upper crust Human family, but excavating every nook and cranny was well-worth the peace of mind.

One section of the ground floor remained – a back room that they’d been putting off. The Party fell into formation, approached, and opened the door. Keira stepped inside.

Her eyes bulged. She leapt back an instant before the doorway exploded into a flurry of wooden shrapnel. A figure blurred past the cloud of dust, swinging long, sharp claws at speeds that Rob could barely keep track of. Keira bellowed a cry of war as she swung her greatsword in a downward arc, meeting the ambush head-on with the full measure of her ferocity.

The figure – a humanoid – caught her greatsword in his hands.

Riardin’s Rangers were frozen stock-still as they gaped at the sight of the man, whose arms were trembling as he held the edge of Keira’s blade in a tight, two-handed grip. He was as tall as Meyneth, with ashen white skin and bulging muscles shirtlessly displayed, long claws extending from his fingertips, horns growing from his head, and a shimmering black carapace covering half his body.

But more than any of that, it was the man’s eyes that drew Rob’s attention. They were pitch black from top to bottom, orbs of pure darkness that repelled even the faintest glimmers of light.

Fiend.

Keira’s expression of utter shock twisted into savage glee in the blink of an eye. She laughed violently as her greatsword glowed with Power Slash’s blue aura, its force pressing the sword down like an anvil had dropped. The Fiend grimaced as the greatsword dug into his palms, cracking carapace and drawing silver blood that started to run down the side of his hands. A crunch rang out as the ground cracked, hard stone breaking apart as his feet were driven an inch into the floor.

You couldn’t ask for a better distraction than that. Rob brandished his longsword and dashed forward with Rampage and Power Strike. The Fiend's eyes widened; he immediately disengaged and jumped back into the room he’d come from, Keira’s greatsword scoring two deep cuts in the man’s hands as he was forced to let go.

Rob was about to give chase when he realized that something was missing. He whirled around, sputtered, and spread his arm in disbelief at Elder Alessia, Vul’to, and Taleya. Three allies, three people standing there, three dumbshits doing absolutely nothing.

“What the flying fuck is wrong with you?!” He yelled. “Get off your asses and help us!” His polite request for assistance snapped them out of whatever weird funk they were in. The Party called back to the entrance to alert the others before charging forward as a group of five, rushing into the house’s back room to prevent their one lead from escaping. Said back room turned out to be much larger than anticipated, even by the standards of the overtly rich one-percent-er that used to live here. It was spacious enough to host a small college party.

And more than spacious enough to house four Fiends.

Rob sized them up at a glance. There was the tall male one who had been injured by Keira, a shorter-but-still-tall female, and a younger boy and girl that looked like they were mid-teens in age. The kids had a body type closer to Rob’s sense of normalcy for what people their age should look like, but the woman was as ripped as Meyneth, her physique contrasting with her youthful face in a way that made it difficult to pin down her age. Unlike her male counterpart, she had a shirt on, and Rob wasn’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. All four were afflicted with varying degrees of Corruption; not as much as the bedridden Elves, but enough that the infection would feel similar to a chronic ache while simultaneously taking a minor chunk out of their Max HP.

When they noticed that five pairs of eyes were examining them, the older Fiends returned the favor and cast Identify, their eyes sweeping over Riardin’s Rangers. Rob was on the far left of his Party’s lineup – who were engaging the Fiends in a Mexican standoff as they waited for their last four Party members to arrive – so the Fiends noticed him last. When they finally looked his way, they recoiled like they’d been slapped, eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as their mouths fell open like fish gasping for water.

Rob had expected a strong reaction. From what he’d heard, the Humans and Fiends had previously been embroiled in a feud that dated back centuries. Humans were their mortal enemies, and Fiendland must have partied long and hard when the Scouring and the Cataclysm did their dirty work for them. Rob knew full well that his sudden appearance must have seemed like the arrival of a nightmare made flesh.

He still didn’t expect the man to throw up.

It was a lot, too. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all in one go. The woman wasn’t faring much better, having jumped back so quickly that she crashed into a wall, hands covering her mouth lest she follow her comrade’s lead in expelling the contents of her stomach onto the floor. From the far corner of the room, the boy had shoved his head between his knees, and the girl was pointing at Rob and screaming so loudly her vocal cords threatened to tear apart.

“Oh geez,” Rob said. “That seems a bit excessive.” He glanced at the rest of the Party, taking comfort in the fact that they seemed as perplexed as he was. Rob looked back at the male Fiend – who was eyeing him with open revulsion on his ashen-white face – and cast Identify.

Name: Male Fiend

Level: 29

Race: Fiend

Status Effects: Crushed Hands, Moderate Corruption, Determined, Repulsed

Description: Currently wondering why the world has decided that this week in particular is when life would repeatedly shit on his hopes and dreams.

Level 29 and he caught Keira’s greatsword? Rob thought. That more or less confirms the Elves’ claims that Fiends are inherently stronger than other races. Our Level advantage might not cut it.

Sheer numbers would, though. The Fiends’ expressions went from grimly resolved to laden with despair as the other four members of the Party arrived, bringing their squad to a total of nine. Fiendman faced his...friend? Sister? Wife? And started speaking to her in a tone tinged with hopelessness. She shook her head and argued fiercely, kickstarting an argument that the two of them probably didn’t have the time for.

In the last few hours, Rob had fought a Blight. He’d been infected with crippling levels of Corruption. He’d seen hundreds die, almost lost Elder Duran, and had Diplomacy’s nature forced out of him by Keira.

With all that in mind, it was really, really saying something that watching the two Fiends argue left him the most shocked he’d been all day.

No. Fucking. Way.

The Party raised their weapons. Rob stuck out his arm to block them. “Don’t,” he insisted, cutting off their protests. “Wait. Just – just give me a minute. I have to test something.”

He walked forward, slowly, one step at a time. The Fiends ceased their arguing, heads snapping towards him. Rob put his longsword into Storage and held up his empty left hand, keeping his movements gradual. No sudden movements. Sudden movements caused people to freak out in situations like these, and the Fiends’ claws could probably cut through solid rock like it was warm butter. He’d had enough of sharp pointed objects piercing his flesh for one day, thank you very much.

As he approached, wary hope started blooming on the Fiends’ faces, although it didn’t quite outmatch the sheer disgust they obviously felt from looking at him. It was the kind of hope that Rob had seen plenty of times on...well, everyday people. Aside from their outwardly intimidating appearances and fierce combat prowess, the Fiends really weren’t coming off as the boogymen that the Elves had hyped up them to be. It set Rob at ease, helping him feel like his plan was logically reasonable instead of liable to get him killed.

He stopped when he was ten feet away. Rob wracked his brain, digging deep into past memories, ones that he never thought he’d need again. With fumbling hands, he grasped at memorized words from a bygone era, phrases destined to be learned, regurgitated, and forgotten. Finally, with great effort, he unearthed the ancient treasures he was looking for.

“Mi nombre es Rob,” he said. “¿Cuál es tu nombre?”

The Fiends’ eyes-wide and gaping-mouth expressions returned with a vengeance. After several seconds of stunned silence, the male Fiend managed to choke out a word.

“¿Qué?”

Chapter 9

The Fiend stared. Rob stared. The Party stared. An atmosphere of abject confusion suffused the room, so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Silent chaos reigned as the seconds stretched on; absolutely no one knew what to do, and that included the person who’d spoken the magic words that threw everything into disarray.

Spanish, Rob thought, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. It’s actually Spanish. He’d recognized the Fiends’ dialect during their back-and-forth conversation between each other. At first, Rob had nearly dismissed it a figment of his imagination. Perhaps he was missing Earth badly enough to hear Earth languages where everyone else heard nonsense. That idea had lasted until he’d tested the waters by throwing out a stock greeting. There was a fundamental difference between shock and shocked understanding, and it was the latter emotion that he saw writ plain on the Fiend’s faces, their emotions as vibrant as glowing neon signs spelling out ‘what the fuck, yo’.

He’d spoken Spanish, and they’d responded in kind.

The two native Elatran languages that Rob had personal experience with were Elvish and Draconic. Neither sounded remotely like languages from Earth, with both possessing distinct words, accents, and intonations. Every race in Elatra spoke English as a universal language dubbed Common – which, in retrospect, was suspiciously convenient – and they had the ability to learn Auto-Translate Skills, making cross-species communication as easy as possible. But Spanish? Or any other language from Earth? Completely absent.

Until now.

“Did you just converse with them?” Elder Alessia managed to ask, in a tone of warring emotions.

“Think so,” Rob replied, glancing back. “Is it seriously true that none of the other races have been able to?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Fiendish is incomprehensible. The very sound of it is reminiscent of steel scraping across glass. What few dialogues we’ve been able to open with the Fiends have been a result of exchanging symbols and pantomimes, and even those attempts broke down and inevitably led to renewed fighting.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How in the world do you know their language?”

Rob shot her a tight smile. “It’s from Earth.”

If the atmosphere of confusion was thick before, now it was so dense that a chainsaw would be needed to cut through it. Rob tried to think of something meaningful to say, but without Diplomacy backing him up and feeding him advice, taking charge of a situation where he was just as lost as anyone else proved to be beyond his capabilities. It would have been equivalent to the blind leading the blind through a minefield. Unfortunately, someone needed to make a concerted effort towards de-escalation, and he doubted it would come from either of the two native races that had been at each other’s throats for centuries. The only saving grace of it all was that they stayed in shock long enough for him to cobble together a response.

“Crazy day, eh?” He eventually said. “Gonna go ahead and keep talking to them. Maybe this can be resolved without anyone dying. We’d win the fight, but those two are tough as nails. They might not go down without taking one of us with them.”

Keira stepped up next to him. The Fiends tensed, adopting fighting stances. Keira’s eyes narrowed, and after a heavy moment, she lowered her greatsword by a fraction of an inch. “I will trust you on this,” she said, through clenched teeth. “But the moment they attack, I won’t hesitate to litter the floor with their bones and entrails.”

They devour souls, she’d told him a week ago. “Yeah,” Rob agreed. “Thanks for the protection detail. You make for an awesome bodyguard.”

A glimpse of a smile passed across Keira’s face before giving way to a grimace of fierce resolve. Rob looked at the Fiends, whose postures were coiled as tight as a spring-loaded rifle, ready to shoot forward at a moment’s notice. If he didn’t start talking soon, they very well might. And there was just one little, tiny, itsy-bitsy problem with that.

Rob didn’t know Spanish.

Like most American students, he’d taken foreign language courses in high school, one of which was Spanish. And like any responsible teenager press-ganged into malicious compliance, he did what was necessary to pass: study, memorize, and fill in blank spots on an answer sheet. Rob wasn’t bad at Spanish, but foreign languages had never been his passion, so he didn’t end up retaining most of what he learned. Additional foreign language classes were required for his freshman and sophomore years of college, but he’d opted for French, followed by German. On a whim, really.

It was a whim that might cost him. Most of his proficiency in Spanish was locked behind years of neglect, and he was too on edge to remember what bits he’d picked up from cultural osmosis. Lacking options, he did what any reasonable person in his position would do: stall for time.

“Mi nombre es Rob,” he repeated, slowly, as he pointed to himself. “¿Cuál es tu nombre?” If nothing else, he was lucky that this was the first phrase he'd remembered. Offering your name and asking for theirs in return was about as simple as greetings got. Effective, too. Establishing personal identities was a basic tenet of mutual communication; people were a lot more hesitant to dismember each other when they knew each other’s names.

The male Fiend opened his mouth slightly. “...Helkath,” he answered, drawing out the word. The Fiend’s voice was deep, scratchy, and wary as a cornered jackal. “¿Como entiendes el idioma Fiendish?”

Uh oh. Rob suppressed a gulp. He looked at the female Fiend and gave her a winning smile. “¿Cuál es tu nombre?”

The man and woman exchanged glances again. “Faelynn,” she answered. Her voice was a little deep for a woman, but not so much in comparison to the male Fiend’s low timbre, indicating she was probably the younger of the two. “¿Es lo único que sabes decir?”

After a few more agonizing seconds, Rob’s brain finally finished rebooting. He threw himself an internal party as, one-by-one, phrases buried deep within repressed high school memories started trickling up to the surface. “¡Uno!” He said, holding up a finger. “¡Dos!” Two fingers. “¡Tres! ¡Cuatro! ¡Cinco! ¡Sei...”

He glanced at his limp right arm and sighed, closing the fingers on his left hand and raising them again. “Seis, siete, ocho, nueve, diez.”

Whatever the Fiends had been expecting, the strange Human counting to ten wasn’t it. Their cornered-animal postures had lessened, sheer confusion overpowering their survival instincts. Rob didn’t allow them a chance to get back into that mindset.

“¿Dónde puedo encontrar el baño?” He said, asking where to find the bathroom. Next came a list of colors, followed by commenting on the weather. The Fiends watched him intently, growing more curious with each phrase he spouted, their claws receding by a few inches.

Keira let out a murmur of disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“Anything I can.” The fact of the matter was, he wouldn’t be able to effectively communicate with the Fiends no matter how much Spanish he recalled. Foreign interpreters usually needed a bit more experience than one course in a high school curriculum to achieve fluency. Holding a legitimate conversation was beyond him.

But it might not be beyond the system.

Rob rattled off every last bit of Spanish he could think of. When the desired message didn’t pop up, he cursed, glancing around the room. Inspiration struck, and he pointed at a chair that had been shoved into the corner. “Chair,” he said, with emphasis. “Chair.” He turned his hand, palm facing upward, and gestured from the chair to the Fiend. Please get what I’m going for.

They stared for a few seconds more. Suddenly, the woman stood up straight and pointed back at the chair. “Silla,” she said.

Rob nodded, smiling wide as he visibly and purposefully displayed his relief. After committing chair = silla to memory, he pointed at a table and asked for a translation.

He and the Fiends took turns naming every object in the room. When they ran out of those, they started naming items they were carrying, parts of their body, and emotions displayed by facial expressions. Some expert miming allowed them to further expand their pool of words to draw from, and before long, most of the tension in the room had faded away. After fifteen minutes of the three of them regurgitating as much of the dictionary as possible, Rob finally received what he’d been hoping for.

Active Skill Learned!

Name: Auto-Translate (Span$^*&@!#$)

Converting...

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

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

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

“Fuck yeah!” Rob whooped, raising a fist skyward. “I don’t say this often, but thank you, system.”

One quirk of Auto-Translate was that if Rob could understand a language, then he could speak it just as well. It was a quirk he wasted no time exploiting. “Let me start over,” he began. “My name is Rob, and it’s nice to meet you.”

“My name is Helkath,” the male Fiend repeated. “Who and what in the hells are you? How can you speak Fiendish? Are you a Human? If so, then why didn’t you perish in the Cataclysm with the rest of your ilk?”

“You’re looking at a 100% USDA-certified Human,” Rob said. “The other questions have got some very long answers attached to them. I don’t mind explaining everything later, but for now, let’s focus on setting up a truce before mistakes are made. No one needs to die today.”

Their response faltered as Elder Alessia stepped forward and stood by Rob’s side. “You’ve begun conversing with them in full,” she stated. “Am I to assume that you acquired Auto-Translate?”

“Yup.”

She grunted. “Then you would be the first. Ever. Gods above, do you give me a headache, Rob.”

“If it’s any consolation, this entire situation is blowing my mind as much as it is yours.”

Alessia barked out a laugh. “It is.” She paused. “Inform the Fiends that...” She pursed her lips like she was sucking on a lemon. “Inform them that, should they stand down, we will grant them a ceasefire.”

Rob nodded. “Way ahead of you.” He looked back at the Fiends. Telling them to ‘stand down’ wouldn’t go over well, but he didn’t need a Skill to translate from Pissed Off Alessia to New Friendly Face.

“This is Elder Alessia, our de facto leader,” he explained. “She’s given the go-ahead for a truce. You don’t attack us, we don’t attack you, and everyone gets to go home in one piece.”

“You outnumber us,” the female Fiend – named Faelynn – pointed out. “What reason do we have to trust your word? The moment our backs are turned, it would be a trivial matter for you to slaughter us without recompense.”

Her concern was constructed of bad logic born from a position of fear. Had Riardin’s Rangers been so bloodthirsty and cruel, then it was highly unlikely that this conversation would be taking place at all. Rob didn’t use that argument; the less he reminded them of the power disparity between their respective groups, the better.

“I just spent the last twenty minutes trying to brute force Auto-Translate,” he replied. “Give me some credit. If you hadn’t ambushed us, there wouldn’t have been any need for violence in the first place.”

Now that was a sentence where Deception had to flex its muscles. Rob had little doubt that, without his intervention, the Elves would have cut down the Fiends without a second thought. Helkath and Faelynn exchanged dubious glances, which seemed to be their primary form of communication with each other.

“Please understand,” Faelynn said, in a non-combative tone. “From our perspective, a person’s refusal to explain their origins can cast suspicion upon their intentions.”

Rob rolled his eyes. “I’m from another world where Fiendish is a commonly spoken language.”

Helkath scoffed. “Your Deception level isn’t nearly high enough to pull off a lie of that magnitude.”

“Because it isn’t a lie,” Rob emphasized. “I could have lied. It would’ve been way easier for me to claim that I was protected from the Cataclysm by some special spell, or that I just so happen to be an Auto-Translate savant. But I didn’t, because trust is the core foundation of any mutual relationship, and building our trust on pillars of lies would have ended poorly in the long run.”

Elder Alessia inclined her head. “Relay what you’ve said to each other thus far.”

“They’re worried that we’ll backstab them,” Rob answered. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Which we won’t. Right? I’d like to hear you say that we won’t.”

“We won’t,” she replied, with mild exasperation. “By any sensible means, we should. The risk of our souls being torn from our bodies and consumed into nothingness is sufficient motivation to kill any Fiend on sight. But this is an unprecedented opportunity to learn more about their race and gain a unique wealth of knowledge. We would be remiss not to take it.”

For just a moment, her face fell. “Duran would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.”

Rob ignored the stabbing sensation in his heart that her words caused. “Yeah. Don’t worry, he’ll have plenty of juicy new info to interrogate me about when he wakes up.”

He turned towards the Fiends. “Apologies in advance if this is offensive,” he began. “But you’re going to have to swear an oath that you won’t mess with our souls. That includes eating them. I don’t think that would go over super great with the Elves.”

Helkath visibly bristled. “The merest suggestion that we would engage in Soul Consumption is an insult of the highest order. How dare you of all creatures suggest-”

“Which is why I said apologies in advance.” Rob interrupted. “To clarify, you can eat souls, though. Theoretically.”

“I never have, and I never will.”

So that’s a yes. Rob resisted the urge to step away. “Alright, that works. Just another way we won’t mess with each other. No backstabbing, no killing, no soul fuckery. That sound good to you?”

The mid-teen female Fiend hiding in the corner of the room suddenly burst out crying. “Make him go away!” She screamed. “Please! I can’t look at him a second longer!”

“...No emotional insults, either,” Rob muttered. “I’m a 7/10 on a good day and I’m sticking to that.”

Faelynn rushed over to the girl and started comforting her in a soothing tone. Rob was a bit disappointed by that; the woman seemed slightly more level-headed than Helkath, an important trait to have during life-or-death negotiations. If she was stuck on babysitting duty, she wouldn’t be able to take part as much in their conversation.

At least Rob had gained plenty of experience in navigating people with hair triggers. Elatra had seen to that.

“Hmm,” Helkath said, narrowing his pure-black eyes. “For now, we will accept that you have good reason for lying to us about your origins. However, you will tell us how and why your cadre traveled so deep into Human territory. No trust can be given until your intentions have been made clear.”

Rob translated his request back to Elder Alessia. She instructed him on what to say, and he nodded, addressing Helkath once again. “I can’t imagine you’ve missed the Blight hanging around outside the city.”

The four Fiends tensed, muscles flexing and claws extending. Their aggression wasn’t aimed at Riardin’s Rangers, though; it was an abstract fear, as if they expected the ground to open up at any moment and swallow them whole. Helkath took several seconds to compose himself before replying. “You encountered the Blight as well?”

“If you can call hundreds of people being massacred an encounter,” Rob answered, a dark edge in his tone. “Then yes, we encountered the fucking thing.”

Helkath flinched. “Hundreds?”

Rob paused. Technically, that was a piece of intel that he’d let slip, but it honestly didn’t matter. The Fiends would have found out about the full scope of the Deserters soon enough. “We have about 1600 Elves remaining. I imagine by now they’ll have chosen houses to rest in. It’s been a long day.” He sighed. “For everyone.”

Helkath’s fingers clenched as his face tightened – two tiny motions that gave Rob a wealth of information. The man’s shock and concern were unmistakable. No matter how many Fiends were lurking inside Broadwater City, whether dozens or hundreds, the Elves outnumbered them by a wide margin.

“Why have so many Elves come this far north?” Helkath asked, poorly-hidden worry in his tone.

Rob launched into a truncated explanation of the last five months. He relayed messages between Helkath and Elder Alessia, keeping both of them in the loop of what the other was saying. Thankfully, Alessia calmed down after a few minutes, leaving Rob with fewer prickly comments to smooth over during translation.

“So the Blight truly has infested everywhere,” Helkath spat. “You couldn’t have brought me worse news, creature.”

“Rob,” he corrected. “Not ‘creature’. That’s somehow more insulting than when the Elves kept calling me ‘Human’.” He leaned a half-inch forward. “And now that we’ve given you our side’s spiel, I think it’s only fair that you give us yours. Broadwater City isn’t particularly close to the northern tip of Elatra. Why come so far south? Looking to colonize fresh new land?”

Helkath’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Colonize the Human wastelands? Absurd. What sane race would willingly choose to live here? Plants are scarce and wildlife is scarcer. Eking out a lifestyle takes thrice as much effort as in any other territory. That the Humans made their home in these parts is a testament to their well-established lunacy.”

Rob tilted his head. “Then why keep invading?”

“Your kind invaded our lands first,” he stated, baring his teeth. “We responded with as much force as was necessary to defend our homeland, and no further.”

Of course you would say that, Rob thought. Maybe you even believe it. “Let’s table that for now. You still haven’t told us why you’re here.”

Helkath clammed up.

Rob allowed the man fifteen seconds. He wanted to wait longer, put silent pressure on the Fiend, but the day’s events were finally catching up to him. Too much shit had gone down for him to waste time being stonewalled by some self-important jerkoff, and as the cherry on top, the Corruption inside his body still fucking hurt.

A small something snapped inside him.

“You seriously doing this?” Rob said, raising both eyebrows. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve bent over backwards to ensure that we wouldn’t have to kill you, and I’ve been up front with you every step of the way. You yourself said – and I quote – that no trust can be given until my side’s intentions were made clear. Was that supposed to be a one-way street? Do you honestly believe I’m satisfied with the scraps you’ve given me in exchange for a fucking banquet’s worth of leeway?”

Helkath stood up straighter the longer Rob spoke. A snarl escaped his throat, and he seemed on the verge of saying something he would regret when Faelynn dashed forward from the corner and cut him off.

“We cannot tell you everything,” she rapidly explained. “Our expedition was sworn to secrecy. To reveal the full scope of our purpose would be the same as betraying the trust of our greatest leaders. However, let it be known that the goal of our journey southward was made with no ill-intentions towards the rest of Elatra’s races. We mean you no harm. I swear so on my life.”

Rob’s cheek twitched. He relayed Faelynn’s explanation to Elder Alessia, who was not remotely satisfied with the Fiend’s excuses. Neither were the rest of Riardin's Rangers, who'd been listening intently to Rob’s translation efforts thus far. He didn’t wait for Alessia to craft a response; his well of patience had officially run dry.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Rob said, in a voice cold as winter. “For now, I’m going to strongly advise that you give us some measure of information we can work with. Otherwise, that trust I was trying very, very hard to establish?”

He raised his eyebrows by a hair. “It goes out the window. What happens after that is on your heads.”

Faelynn was at least six feet tall and tied with Meyneth for the title of the most muscled woman Rob had ever seen. Helkath was even larger and built like a brick shithouse. Both had sharp horns, sharper claws, and eyes of pitch-black that gave a person goosebumps if they stared for too long. The Fiends were easily the most imposing Elatran race Rob had come across – and as they listened to his words, for an instant, they shivered in fear.

Passive Skill Learned!

Name: Intimidation

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

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

“We were assaulted by the Blight as well,” Faelynn said, her voice hitching slightly. “The results were...devastating. We were forced to flee to this city for safe shelter – which it utterly failed to provide.”

A deep sorrow rang in her words. “The Blight followed. It hunted us down, toyed with our lives, like a tiger playing with a mouse. I’m unsure if you’ve encountered them as of yet, but there are sections of the city that are presently slathered in piles of Corruption. They are where the Blight...took its time, with its revelries. That brief respite afforded us the opportunity to take drastic measures.”

Faelynn glanced down at the floor. “The barrier you see around – what did you call this city, Broadwater? – is a result of our handiwork. It repels the Blight.” She screwed her eyes shut. “And it came at a severe cost.”

“Damn,” Rob breathed. “Guess we owe you our thanks, then. Without that barrier, we’d all be freshly crushed bones digesting in the Blight’s stomach.”

The Fiends relaxed as Rob gave them the impression that his Party had been placated. Which wasn’t entirely untrue – if the Fiends really had created the barrier, then the Deserters were in their debt.

He still wasn’t happy with the amount of information that the two were withholding. Not by a longshot.

Rob relayed the Fiends’ testimony. As Elder Alessia was starting to speak, Zamira interrupted her, stepping forward. “If I may interject,” she began. “I can’t help but worry that our fledgling alliance is doomed to fail if Rob remains the only person who can understand Fiendish. Their lack of trust is aggravating, yet were we to consider the situation from their point of view, it’s plain to see that they have every reason to be cautious. The Fiends are severely outnumbered and surrounded by people who have, up until this point in history, been unable to speak with them or empathize with them on any fundamental level. And – no offense meant – the sole person who now can is a Human.”

“None taken,” Rob replied. “So what do you suggest? Cause I borderline cheated to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate so quickly. Fulfilling the Skill’s Prerequisite involves hundreds of hours of study. High school Spanish classes got me most of the way there, and Fast Learner split the difference. You don’t have the first advantage, and the second is a diluted, shared effect.”

He tapped his finger on his leg. “Which is assuming it’s possible for you to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate at all. The language sounds totally different to me than it does to you. I hear words; you apparently hear discordant grating noises.”

“Correct in every respect,” Zamira said. “Still, I would like to try. Perhaps I won’t learn Auto-Translate on this day, but putting full effort into my studies will serve as a show of good faith to the Fiends.” She nodded, her voice gaining strength with each word. “One day may not suffice, but those lessons will continue on until they bear fruit. Today, tomorrow, and the day after.”

“Are you sure of this, Zamira?” Keira asked. “The Fiends are murderous by nature. A show of good faith may not be sufficient to placate them, and I haven’t ruled out the possibility that this entire conversation has been a facade to trick us into letting our guard down. In the end, your efforts may go scorned and unrewarded.”

Zamira nodded, resolute. “It would go against every principle I hold dear to abandon an opportunity for peace without lifting so much as a finger to fight for it. My sword isn’t the only method there is to make the world a better place.”

“Oh jeez,” Rob sighed. “Friggin’ heroic speeches. Can’t win against them.” A hint of a smug grin flickered across Zamira’s face, prompting Rob and Keira to snort.

“What are you laughing over?” Helkath said, tersely. “Humor is a dangerous thing, depending on whose expense it comes from.”

Rob side-eyed him with an unimpressed glare. “My friend Zamira here wants to try and learn Fiendish. I’ll be her tutor. You two just sit back and keep your kiddies from freaking out any more than they already have.”

“Not a kid,” the young male Fiend muttered. He lifted his head for a second to peek at Rob, winced, and ducked back down between his knees.

“Riiiight,” Rob said. He turned his attention away from the Fiends, trusting the Party to have his back in case of an ill-advised, suicidal ambush. “Let’s start simple.” He pointed at a chair, and with a bit of finesse, dual-wielded Auto-Translate in order to speak Elvish and Fiendish in quick succession. The Elves knew Common, but he figured that using their native language as a reference would make it easier for them to learn new words. “Elvish: chair,” he said. “Fiendish: silla.”

Zamira frowned, shaking her head. “An unintelligible cacophony.”

“Right.” He scratched his chin. “Try repeating it back to me, please.”

She paused. A second later, Zamira let out a noise that sounded like a dying cat with a sore throat. She answered his bewildered expression with a shrug. “That’s the best approximation I can manage.”

Eugh. Gonna have to figure out that weirdness later, Rob thought. Standard method won’t work. If there’s a way to get around it, however…

A minor epiphany struck him. “Okay. Repeat after me: ‘see’.”

“See.”

“Now say ‘yah’.”

“Yah.”

Rob nodded. “Now put those two sounds together. Say them one after another.”

“See-yah?” Zamira said. “Does that have meaning?”

Rob glanced at Helkath and Faelynn. “Did that sound like ‘chair’ to you?”

Faelynn nodded, pure stupefaction displayed across her features. “It did. How...how in Argath’s name...”

“Loophole,” Rob answered, his grin reaching the corners of his eyes. Whatever restriction was barring the Elves from interpreting Fiendish as words – whether through system fuckery or their own inborn neuroses – could be circumvented by breaking the words down into isolated sounds. He looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “Screw you, whatever is causing this,” Rob declared. “We’ve got syllables on our side.”

Everyone stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Rob didn’t care; he was far past petty concerns such as social embarrassment. They could deal with unfiltered Rob until he’d gotten some sleep and Diplomacy came back.

“Did I say a word in Fiendish?” Zamira realized, eye widening. “Fiendish as you hear it?”

“Sure did,” Rob said. “Just in case, say it a few more times to see if it sticks.”

“See-yah,” Zamira repeated. “See-yah. Silla.”

Rob gave her a thumbs-up. “Great start. One word down, thousands to go.”

They continued that way for a long time. Head became cah-beh-zah became cabeza. Sword became ehs-pah-dah became espada. Rob thought of every random word he could, converting them into phonetic pronunciations for Zamira to sound out. The Fiends and Riardin’s Rangers were, at first, engrossed in watching the bridge between two races being built in real-time. Then one hour passed, and one hour turned into three. Tried as they might to stay interested, monotonous repetition can suck the magic out of anything. Keira and Elder Alessia managed to keep their attention spans in check, but the rest of the Party couldn’t help but make idle conversation. Taleya had long since left to go inform the Deserters about everything they’d discovered. Helkath and Faelynn were ignoring them entirely, spending their time comforting the younger Fiends who were near-inconsolable over the big bad Human and his hideous appearance, which Rob wasn’t bitter about at all.

Those three hours were blissful. As far as Rob was concerned, boredom was sacred. Boredom meant the sky wasn’t falling around him. Boredom was a reprieve from responsibility and catastrophe.

Boredom never lasted as long as it should.

“We may have to put a halt to these lessons soon,” Zamira said, rubbing her temples. “I fear that my head is becoming overstuffed with words.” A tortured smile spread across her face. “Or rather, my cabeza is.”

Rob winced in sympathetic pain. “Preaching to the choir. Cramming and all-nighters were the bane of my life before getting yoinked to Elatra. Tried and true strategies that, uh, didn’t always work. We should be grateful that I don’t need to teach anyone math, because I would have been a lot less helpfu-”

Zamira collapsed.

The sound of her body hitting the floor rang out like a gunshot. Riardin’s Rangers and the Fiends gaped in horror as Zamira’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head. Blood leaked from her nose in thick lines, and she convulsed violently, as if an invisible hand was shaking her like a rag doll.

‘PARTY SCREEN.’

Zamira

Level: 28

Swordmaster Level: 26

HP: 316 / 340

Stamina: 231 / 260

MP: 240 / 240

Status Effects: Brain Damage (Moderate)

The room exploded into a flurry of action. Rob summoned HP Potions from his Storage and tipped them down Zamira’s throat one after another. Keira planted her feet in front of them like a wrathful warden, slammed her greatsword into the floor, and demanded to know what the Fiends had done. Helkath and Faelynn were denying their involvement and adopting defensive battle stances. Alessia and Malika rapidly conferred, discussing whether or not they could bullshit a type of Healing magic with their combined abilities, and coming up blank. Meyneth, Vul’to, and Orn’tol were lost, frustration raging through them like wildfire as they realized there was nothing they could do.

It took every ounce of composure Rob could muster to keep his hands from trembling as he fed liquid life to Zamira. He’d known in the abstract that his incidents of brain damage must have been horrifying to witness, but it was only in this moment that he truly understood why everyone always looked so utterly relieved when he awoke. Watching blood run from Zamira’s nose, her body seizing, HP fluctuating up and down as HP Potions fought a losing war with internal injuries…

He couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t enough. He needed – he needed to do more.

Scattered thoughts coalesced, and everything clicked into place.

“HEALERS!” He bellowed. Rob scooped up Zamira and bolted out the door. He cast repeated Rampages for extra distance, shunted forward fifteen feet with the Bracelet of Minor Teleportation, and activated Step of the Wind to quicken his pace. After 30 seconds, Fleet of Foot kicked in, and his vision blurred as the air whipped past him. He awkwardly fed Zamira more HP Potions as he ran without slowing, prioritizing speed over getting every last drop down her throat. Each bottle lost at least half its liquid in the rush, but as soon as one emptied, its replacement appeared in Rob’s hand, forming a never-ending assembly line from Storage to Potion to Zamira.

It was the most anyone could do, and it still might not be enough.

Orn’tol’s Flight of the Coward wouldn’t apply to this situation, which meant that Rob was the fastest person here. The Potions were keeping Zamira above water, but he had a finite number in Storage, and consuming too many in a short period was harmful. Getting her to the Healers was their only hope. Even if this instance of brain damage turned out to be milder than any of his own incidents, Zamira didn’t have the same sheer bulk of HP that he did to help her weather the storm.

The most he could do – the most anyone could do – was run.

Riardin’s Rangers had ended up exploring somewhat deep into the city. 45 Dexterity made him faster than most Earth humans could ever dream of being, but even if he pushed himself to his absolute limit, the trip back to the Healer’s headquarters would take ten minutes.

He made it in five.

–

Changes

Learned: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Learned: Intimidation (LV 1)

Chapter 10

Zamira’s eyes fluttered open.

The first thing she became aware of was an aching in her head. Not one so bad that it was debilitating; rather, it was a dull, persistent sort of pain. With great care, she touched her fingers to her forehead, rubbing gently to ease the soreness. As the last dregs of sleep faded, and her vision cleared, she next became aware of her friends surrounding her bedside in a ring of apprehension. One by one, they noticed that she was awake, and their faces lit up like miniature suns.

“Hello, everyone,” she muttered, her voice soft as to not provoke the soreness monsters living in her head. “My apologies, but there seems to be a blind spot in my memories. What happened? Why do you all look so concerned? I remember Rob teaching me Fiendish, and then...”

She blinked. “Ah.” Scrolling through her text log painted a grim portrait. Zamira’s skin prickled with goosebumps when she saw the point at which her HP had dropped below 50, barely stabilizing afterwards via the ministrations of the Deserters’ Healers. Antecedent to those Healing spells were a litany of HP Potions keeping her alive, so many that Rob must have emptied nearly his entire stock in Storage.

And above every message, at the text log’s zenith, was a practical joke.

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

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

Description: Automatically translates any Fiendish speech you hear into Common. Was traversing a thorny road worth the prize at the end? Many would call you a fool, but as they say, the line between genius and idiocy is determined by success.

I see, Zamira thought, in a dry tone. So this is what it feels like to be a victim of the system’s subtle mockery. I can’t say I particularly care for it.

She had just finished perusing the last of the messages when Keira dashed forward and hugged her.

For a moment, everything was wonderful and warm. Then the panic set in, and Zamira pushed Keira away with a strangled yelp.

Everyone in the room froze. Zamira saw a glimpse of Rob’s sympathetic expression before she looked away, which only served to draw her eyes to Keira, whose face had scrunched into a visage of chastened guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Keira said. “I was so relieved to see you well again that I, well, forgot.”

Zamira shook her head fiercely. “You bear no blame. I promise.” After a few moments, Keira nodded, seeming to relax. For her part, Zamira managed to project a calm exterior that was diametrically opposed to the internal groaning racketing within her thoughts. Keira was full of empathy and compassion, and she knew that Zamira’s aversion to close physical contact wasn’t a personal slight against anyone, but that knowledge did little to stymie the upswell of overwhelming embarrassment that made Zamira want to hide under the covers and never emerge.

“In better news,” she said, pushing forward out of the dreadfully awkward silence hanging in the air. “The system saw fit to grant me Auto-Translate. Our intention to gain a second translator to converse with the Fiends was successful.”

Meyneth crossed her arms. “You almost died,” she stated, flatly. “From my perspective, you should be kept as far away from Fiendish speech as possible, Auto-Translate or otherwise.”

“Rob had no trouble utilizing Elvish Auto-Translate despite his first incident,” Zamira pointed out. “I fail to see why my Skill would function any differently.”

Keira opened her mouth – to protest, presumably – when Zamira jerked up and continued in a hurried tone. “What transpired after I fell unconscious?” She queried. “Did we part with the Fiends in good standing? Are they even still alive?”

“What makes you think they wouldn’t be alive?” Vul’to asked. Zamira’s eyes flitted towards Keira, who blushed slightly. The rest of the Party nodded in comprehension, which further deepened the red in Keira’s cheeks. It was really quite adorable – focus, Zamira.

“The Fiends are alive,” Orn’tol answered. “Wary, but alive. They were quite baffled by the sudden turn of events, and unfortunately, we had little time to explain.” He frowned. “Not that we could have explained, regardless.”

He let out a small chuckle. “Looking back, now that the crisis has passed, I can appreciate the looks of utter bewilderment present on their faces before we left to chase after Rob.”

“After Rob?”

“He picked you up and dashed like a madman to the Healers,” Keira remarked, in a proud tone. “If there’s a record, I’d bet a hundred gold that he broke it.”

Zamira blinked and stared at Rob, who was scratching the back of his head. “Thank you,” she said, with a warm tone and a warm smile. “You are a true friend.”

Rob shuffled in place. “Oh no,” he mumbled, a weak grin spreading across his face. “Compliments. My greatest weakness.” He cleared his throat loudly and stood up straight. “In any case, when we filled in the Deserters about how there were Fiends residing in Broadwater City, everyone, well, flipped their shit. Several times. It was an inspiring display of mental acrobatics.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Pretty sure we were a coin’s flip away from a riot exploding in the streets. Took some expert speechgiving from Elder Alessia to keep the people from breaking out their torches and pitchforks.”

“Understandable,” Zamira said. “Had I not observed you conversing in Fiendish with my own eyes and ears, I would scarcely believe them to be capable of peaceful discourse.”

“Trust me, that skepticism was a huge roadblock to overcome,” Rob grumbled. “I had multiple eyewitness reports corroborating my testimony, and people still looked at me like I was telling them that the sky was magenta pink.” His lips pursed. “Honestly, the main thing that made them think twice about marching on the Fiends was that we don’t know how many of them are stationed in Broadwater. A dozen? Easy pickings. A hundred? Manageable. A thousand?”

He shook his head. “Caution won out over valor. One talk led to another, and I got saddled with the lovely job of visiting the Fiends to try and smooth things over. None of the ones I met with were happy to see me...and one or two threw up...but speaking their language helped shock them into listening to what I had to say. They ended up agreeing to a second, more official meeting where both our sides can hash things out.”

Zamira was struck by several pressing questions. She chose the one that would hopefully alleviate her worries. “You met with the Fiends? Were you alone?”

“No, I had backup,” Rob said. “And I made sure to prep Waymark so that I could immediately warp us out if things went sour.” His face darkened as if a shadow had cast over his features. “Not making that mistake again.”

“Good to see you haven’t taken leave of your senses,” Zamira said. “When is our second parley with the Fiends taking place?”

“Several hours hence,” Vul’to answered. “You have been...” He paused. “Incapacitated, for nearly a day. The Healers assured us that you would awaken soon, but...”

The room fell silent.

“I’m thinking we should discuss why any of this happened in the first place,” Rob said. “I mean, sure, I can kinda understand why my brain eats itself every now and then. It’s just a big ole’ mess up there. Pretty sure Elatra doesn’t know what to do with me; sometimes I get glitches that don’t even involve brain damage.”

He narrowed his eyes. “But it’s been stable for you guys. The system fucks with you, but it never directly hurts you, or anyone else that I’ve heard of. This is a unique case.”

“Is it the gods?” Malika whispered, as if to prevent the assholes up-high from hearing. “Did they take issue with Zamira trying to learn Fiendish?”

“If the gods had taken issue,” Meyneth began. “They would have intervened long before the end of an arduous two-hour lesson. Either Elven biology is averse to learning Fiendish, or the system unilaterally mandates that you cannot. Or some combination of both.”

“Whatever the reason may be,” Zamira murmured. “I simply cannot comprehend why it is the way it is.”

The Party fell silent, collecting their thoughts. A short while later, inspiration lit up on Keira’s face. “Rob, you could ask-”

She clamped her mouth shut. “...your friend?” Rob furrowed his eyebrows as Keira navigated through the rest of her sentence as if walking on shattered glass. “Your friend may know something, as they are...familiar...with Skills.”

Rob stared at her with half-lidded eyes. “What’s your level in Deception, Keira?”

“...Somewhat low.”

“Shocker.” He let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to face the Party. “Don’t feel like beating around the bush on this one. You guys up for another revelation?”

Meyneth barked out a laugh that was halfway to a growl. “Oh, by all means,” she drawled. “As if you haven’t already upended my life half a dozen times since we first met. What’s one more?”

“Zamira has only recently awoken from debilitating injuries,” Vul’to pointed out, preempting Rob’s cry of indignation. “We should hear her opinion before subjecting her – or anyone – to news that may upset her recovery.”

The rest of the Party looked at her. Zamira donned an easygoing smile and nodded her head. “I’m feeling quite well,” she assured. “Rob and the Healers did a wonderful job at keeping me hale and hearty. No need to worry on my behalf – I would like to hear what he has to say.”

Truth be told, she felt like she’d been trampled by a gorebeast, but curiosity ultimately triumphed over the desire for sleep. Rob hesitated, mouth twisted into a thin line. His eyes flickered upwards for just a moment, and he gave a slight, near-imperceptible nod.

“Alright,” Rob said. “What I’m about to tell you is true. Please save your questions until the end of class.”

He opened his mouth and told them absurdities. A sentient Skill living in his head, conversing with him and giving him advice as bonds of friendship forged between them. And not any ordinary Skill; Diplomacy, one of the most prized social Skills in existence. It was the embodiment of wordsmanship, and in Rob’s case, Level 14.

Zamira believed it in a heartbeat. Rob’s absurdities had been proven right on too many occasions for her to start doubting him at this juncture. His claim was worrying, however, due to Diplomacy’s exorbitantly high Level. She’s heard only several instances of a social Skill advancing to that rank. It definitely helped explain how Rob – on occasion – came up with exactly the right words to fit a specific scenario. A phrase here, an intonation there, and people’s frayed nerves would be soothed as if slathered in a balm of healing. He was quite proficient at his ‘pep talks’, as he called them.

Her concern lay in the breadth and reach of Diplomacy’s influence over his autonomy. She had no concept of what possessing a Level 14 Skill was like, but could only imagine that the power it represented must have been enticing. Seductive, even. How often did he defer to Diplomacy’s will in matters of conversation? A quarter of the time? Half? More? When she’d spoken with Rob, had she been speaking with him, or a humanoid sack of flesh puppeteered by a Skill residing in his head?

She wanted to dismiss her concerns as simple paranoia. But after seeing what Melancholy Resistance had done to Rob within a mere half-hour of activation, she would never again doubt the capacity of a Skill to change a person. And this Skill was sentient, with a will and ego all its own.

Not to mention it was Diplomacy Level 14. If it wished to subvert Rob’s will, it could do so with a light touch of subtle ease, never letting him realize that his thoughts were no longer his own.

Zamira took her concerns and put them aside. Mostly. She kept them on the edge of her thoughts, an ever-present reminder to pay close and careful attention to Rob’s mannerisms from this moment forward.

If Diplomacy turned out to have ill intentions, someone would need to save their wayward Berserker from the enemy within.

The Party was left in varying states of shock once Rob concluded his story. Keira less so, as she had apparently learned of Diplomacy’s existence yesterday, but even she was surprised by some of the details that were brought to light. As the silence stretched on, Rob tapped his foot, eyes sweeping back and forth, wordlessly pleading for someone to speak up.

“Holy fuck!” Malika shouted.

Orn’tol sent an immediate glare at Rob, who held up his hand in defense. “Don’t look at me!” He pleaded. “I didn’t teach her that!”

“That’s an Earth phrase,” Orn’tol accused. “Not an Elatran one.”

“I’m sure someone else used it...sometime.”

“Nope,” Malika said, in a chipper tone. “I definitely heard it from you. And I must say, Earth’s vocabulary is absolutely fascinating. So many ways to curse!”

Orn’tol sighed as Rob jabbed a finger at Malika. “Traitor!” he said. Malika ignored his declaration and pressed on, eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Is Diplomacy there?” She asked. “Right now?”

“Yeeesss,” Rob said, drawing out the word in a trepidatious tone of voice. “And he says hello.”

“Hello to you too!” Malika smiled wide, rubbed her hands together, and asked the question burning in everyone’s mind. “What’s it like being a passenger in someone else’s head?”

Everyone winced. “Tact, Malika,” Orn’tol groaned. “Tact.” Zamira stifled a laugh. As someone with no siblings, vicariously experiencing the byplay between the two youngest members of Riardin’s Rangers was a pastime that never failed to amuse her.

Rob exhaled in a dramatic fashion. “Diplomacy says it’s awful,” he grumbled. “Like being the passenger of a car ‘helmed by a madman’ as you’re forced to watch him almost crash at every turn.”

“Oh. Okay.” Malika tilted her head. “What’s a car?”

Rob opened, then closed, then opened his mouth again. “Yeah, Diplomacy,” he said, in a strange tone. “What is a car? You tell me.”

He didn’t say anything after that, but his expressive eyebrows and scrunched face told a story of consternation. “One moment,” Rob eventually blurted out, before heading to a corner of the room and standing there, locked in a conversation only he could hear.

“Well,” Zamira said, in a dry tone. “Some of his past behavior certainly makes more sense. And I suppose that, were one Skill to come alive and attach itself to Rob, Diplomacy is a useful one for our primary Fiend liaison to have.”

“That’s a rather optimistic view of our current situation,” Meyneth said. “Diplomacy is yet another unknown variable. Within a day of arriving at Broadwater City, we’ve dealt with a Blight lurking outside and Fiends hiding inside. Both are trouble enough as it is.” She tapped a claw on her arm. “Personally, I’m surprised you accepted the state of affairs so readily.”

Because if Diplomacy is malicious, any word of true intent I give it is a weapon it may use against me. “We have precious few seconds to spend on worrying,” is what she said. “Our accord with the Fiends is occurring in a few hours, correct? I wish to be there. Rob may flounder without a secondary translator.”

“He performed well last time,” Keira remarked.

“Yes, he did.” Zamira began. “However, we possessed the advantage in that scenario. With our numbers, we could have browbeaten them into doing just about anything. In contrast, an official meeting done right takes place on neutral ground. Am I correct in assuming that there are more Fiends than a simple few dozen?”

Keira nodded. “By our best estimates? Two hundred at least. The Deserters still outnumber them, I believe, but we don’t know by exactly how much. The exact disparity between our respective sides is something we aim to learn in the coming talks.”

Zamira nodded. “Then I must go, and assist in any way I can.” The Fiends were repulsive, to be sure, but this was a moment in history she couldn’t afford to miss. Establishing cordial relations with their kind would spare Elatra oceans of future bloodshed. Countless lives preserved by kind words and a friendly face.

If she wanted to forge a better world, then there was no better place to start than here.

She stood up, took one step – and promptly stumbled, bracing herself against the bedpost to avoid a complete collapse onto the floor. Everyone in the room stared at her, and Zamira was unable to keep the embarrassment out of her voice as her legs continued to wobble.

“…I may require assistance.”

Chapter 11

“Have you had contact with-”

“No. I haven’t seen Rob.” Jason gave the FBI agent a withering glare from across his living room table. “I’ve told you everything I know. Over and over again.”

The agent, poorly masquerading as local law enforcement, looked up from his notebook and leveled a frown at Jason. “There’s no need to be aggressive, Mr. Brooks. Confirming whether or not you’ve had contact with your friend is simply a part of standard procedure. I wasn’t implying anything on your end.”

Jason was about to respond when Jeanette laid a hand on his shoulder. He paused, drawing support from her touch, before taking a deep breath and nodding. “Got it.”

“Very good.” The agent returned to his notebook and jotted down a few lines. “Now then. Have you noticed any lingering side effects from your proximity to Portal Delta?”

It was the same thing every week. A ‘policeman’ would arrive at his door, state that he was here to conduct a routine check-in, and proceed to ask a litany of questions. Jason wasn’t sure if they knew that he’d sussed out what organization the men truly belonged to by the third visit; if so, they didn’t seem to care as long as he allowed their polite fiction to continue. Which he almost didn’t – on several occasions, Jason had come close to caving in and asking them why the government was wasting their taxpayer dollars like this. The FBI Agent’s questions never changed, and neither did Jason’s answers. It was like being periodically strapped into a chair and forced to watch a rerun of the same episode of the same show.

That didn’t stop them from showing up – hadn’t missed a day yet! They were more punctual than his actual friends when meeting up to hang out, really. At this point, Jason had resigned himself to his role as a bullet point to be checked off on a government spreadsheet. Someone up there had decreed that Jason Brooks should be investigated every week, and by god, bureaucracy would ensure that these visits continued until the heat death of the universe.

Although he couldn’t entirely blame them for being thorough. When Rob came back, he fully intended to hide his best friend from the people that would interrogate him at best, dissect him at worst. And their paranoia that he was concealing any lingering Portal-based side effects was more reasonable than they realized.

He didn’t relax until the agent had left his house, the man’s parting words of ‘We’ll keep in touch’ well-ingrained in Jason’s brain.

“This should be getting easier,” he mumbled, leaning his head onto Jeanette’s shoulder. “But I think I hate it a little more every week.”

“They don’t suspect you of anything,” she said, soothingly. “They’re just...worried.” She trailed off afterwards, leaving the words ‘We all are’ unspoken. Jason appreciated the consideration. He knew that she didn’t blame him for what was happening around Portal Sigma, but there were plenty who did, and he didn’t need the reminder right this second.

The second pitch-black gateway that appeared in public – dubbed Portal Sigma by the press – had sent the government into a panic. Footage of it corrupting a harmless bird into a grotesque abomination that killed over a dozen people had spread across the internet within hours. After that came the military, and the FBI, and the scientists, and the news reporters, and even the random private investigators looking to make a name for themselves. The subsequent shitshow transformed Jason’s lazy college town into a media sensation overnight, and for good reason. Portal Delta had been a transient anomaly that abducted a single person. The body count was higher this time, and unlike Delta, Sigma wasn’t going away.

To their credit, the government had taken every precaution possible to prevent Sigma’s spread. At first, the portal frequently sent out writhing black tendrils in an attempt to snag something, but the military forces stationed at Ground Zero quickly learned that heat, explosives, and a surplus of bullets made for excellent problem-solving tools. Heavy armaments destroyed Sigma’s tendrils without too much trouble, and it bought the government the time they needed to build a six-foot thick cube made of reinforced steel around the portal. Its only opening was a single small hole allowing for fire and brimstone to be shot into Sigma’s enclosure daily. So far, these measures had been successful in keeping the portal at bay.

But not at killing it. No matter what the military threw at Sigma, it remained, an apple-sized scar in reality that refused to heal. The only change in its appearance was that it had slowly sunk to the ground over a course of weeks. Talks were being held about hollowing out the space underneath and adding another steel wall so that Sigma couldn’t escape via burrowing, but the portal hadn’t attempted anything like that yet, and there was the structural integrity of the road to consider, etc, etc. The talks would be progressing much faster if Sigma was actually doing anything, but it had been completely inactivate for almost two months.

Jason wasn’t buying it. There was an intelligence within that hole of pure darkness, and it was patient.

He shook his head and rubbed his face. For fuck’s sake, why was he still thinking about this? He was just one dude. The smartest people in the country were on the job – he would only torture himself by agonizing over what was going to happen next.

“Thanks, Jenny,” Jason said, gripping her hand tight. She gave him a warm smile that calmed his nerves. It was one of her specialties.

“Anytime,” she replied. Her smile morphed into a smirk. “It’s still your turn to feed Bosco, though.”

Jason let out a laugh and stood up from his chair. “Shit, you got me. One bowl of kibble coming right up for the little bastard.”

“Jasooon!” Jeanette complained. “Don’t call him that!”

“Hey, little bastard!” he yelled, his hands cupped around his mouth. “It’s dinnertime! The only time of the day where you actually...like...me...”

Bosco the Golden Retriever was sitting by his food bowl. Jason swore the dog had a wristwatch that told him when it was time to eat, because he was more punctual than even the weekly FBI visits. It was a scene of perfect normality; a slightly chunky dog waiting for his meal.

Then Bosco turned his head, glared at Jason with glowing red eyes, and wept bloody tears.

Black tendrils extending through a small portal in the air had pierced through Bosco’s flesh, roiling as they pumped something into him. A loud crack resounded through the house as their dog’s legs snapped in several places. Bosco’s eyes rolled back into his head as his body shuddered, a low-pitched whine echoing from his mouth. New joints bulged beneath his skin as his legs extended upwards into disjointed spindles. Pointed bones sprang out from within, his lower jaw grew into a massive underbite, and black pus started leaking from his orifices.

For one brief moment, Bosco’s expression seemed heartbroken.

Then the light of recognition faded from his eyes.

Jason threw himself to the side, shoulder smashing against the ground as Bosco lunged over him, the creature’s teeth missing his torso by a hair. Plates and cutlery were knocked every which way as Bosco’s spindly limbs swept across the room. The dog that wasn’t a dog turned around on wobbling legs, clearly unused to its own body, and glared with eyes of hunger and hatred. A chittering sound of kk-kk-kk escaped its throat as it strode forth, gradually gaining balance.

“Jason?” Jeanette poked her head into the kitchen. “What hap- WHAT THE FUCK!”

Jeanette shrieked in abject terror as Bosco turned its gaze upon her. The kk-kk-kks quickened. Jason jumped to his feet, rushed forward like his life depended on it, and was too late to get between them as Bosco pounced on Jeanette, shoving her back into the living room. Strangled cries that prickled his skin erupted from the love of his life. Jason rounded the corner, dreading what he might find.

Bosco was on top of Jeanette, its distended jaw gnashing inches above her face. She was holding the...the thing at bay, but her arms were trembling, and she wouldn’t be able to last long. Never did manage to get her to the gym, Jason thought as he ran, his mind in a state of shock. Should try harder. We’ll go tomorrow. Together.

If she’s alive.

He moved to jump on the beast and beat it to death with his hands, and a moment before he was about to execute his ill-fated plan, something caught his eye. A baseball bat, hanging over the fireplace. Family heirloom and useful conversation piece in the shape of reinforced wood.

Jason snatched it off the wall, and in the same motion, whirled around and brought it down on Bosco’s head.

The creature wailed in pain and tried to counterattack. Jason didn’t give it a chance. He beat it again and again, ruthlessly pushing down the memories that sprung up. Bosco barking at flies, Bosco whining for food, Bosco asking for belly rubs, Bosco sleeping at his feet.

Bosco laying on the ground, motionless, his misshapen head crushed into a pulp.

Jason dropped the bat – which was hanging together by splinters – and rushed to Jeanette. She was breathing, panicked, and a little scratched up, but alive. Jason enveloped her in a tight hug, muttering ‘I love you’ until his throat was dry.

Then he remembered Bosco again. Before he had a chance to cry, a torrent of text and screens exploded in his field of vision.

Reconfiguration complete!

Character Sheet unlocked!

Reached Level 2!

5 Stat Points Gained!

First-Time Level Bonus: 5 Additional Stat Points Gained!

Skill Learned: Bludgeoning Proficiency! (LV 1)

Skill Lear-

Jason shoved the messages to the back of his mind as they popped up one by one. He didn’t have time to deal with...whatever this was. “Jeanette,” he said, in a hushed whisper. “The portal.”

Her eyes widened as she immediately understood. The two of them were in their car in less than a minute, tires squealing as they shattered the speed limit en route to Sigma. Black tendrils had attacked Bosco through a new, smaller portal appearing in the air, which meant Sigma was free – or at least partially free. He didn’t know why it waited this long to strike, but the fact that it hadn’t attacked everyone at once meant there were limits to what it could do.

That realization was a cold comfort. Jason highly doubted that Sigma would waste all of its ‘resources’ on infecting a single dog in a single house. It wasn’t a mindless animal pouncing on the first sight of fresh meat. If it was acting now, after months of inaction, then that could only mean one thing.

Sigma hadn’t been idle. It had been preparing.

Within minutes, they arrived. Jeanette pulled onto an empty sidewalk, and the two of them bolted out of the car in an instant, sprinting towards Sigma’s enclosure like they were competing for gold in the Olympics. Noticing their approach, the soldiers posted outside quickly raised their guns and took aim at the maybe-crazy people who were dangerously close to trespassing in a restricted area. “Don’t come any closer!” One of them yelled.

“IT’S FREE!” Jason yelled back.

The soldier’s face paled. He hesitated.

Too late.

A black tendril sprung up from the ground and pierced the soldier’s leg. An unearthly wail tore from his throat, body shivering as he stood rooted to the spot. His friend cried out in anguish and unloaded the contents of his gun into the tendril. It was blown apart, but more sprung upwards, one re-piercing the first soldier as the rest chased the second away.

Jason skid to a halt, gaping in horror as something was pumped through the tendril and into the soldier. He pulled Jeanette over to a nearby parked car, jumping onto the roof and yanking her up as fast as he could. There was no way of knowing where the other tendrils were; the ground might as well have been riddled with mines. A portal might open in the air again, but this was better protection than nothing.

The guard shivered as the tendril ceased its actions and stilled. Black, bulbous veins crept under his face as his eyes blazed red. He slowly turned to face Jason, neck creaking like a rusted hinge, and spoke.

“WHERE. LOCUS?” Jeanette covered her ears and whimpered. The soldier’s...the thing’s voice was a discordant cacophony of jagged sounds that Jason was shocked he could parse. Listening to its speech should have hurt like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, but for some reason, he felt only moderate irritation when it began to speak again.

“NO. LOCUS.” Its head started twitching rapidly, appearing as an indistinct blur. “NO. MAGIC. NO. SOURCE. STRANGE. WORLD.”

It paused.

A few seconds later, the soldier’s face split horizontally, flesh tearing into a facsimile of a smile.

“NEW. SOURCE.”

The tendril roiled, but instead of pumping something into the soldier, it extracted what was inside him. Skin sunk and muscles shrank as the man was drained to nothing. Within less than half a minute, a sack of bones and clothes fell to the road, and the tendril receded into the ground.

All throughout the city, screams started to rise.

Chapter 12

<You mentioned cars before!> Diplomacy said, in a defensive tone.

Only to Elder Duran, and that was during one of our talks from a few months ago, Rob countered. Were you even ‘awake’ back then?

<Yes.> They paused. <I think. Look, it doesn’t matter. Focus on the Fiends. They’re almost here and you’re still nagging me about a turn of phrase!>

An *Earth* turn of phrase. Rob stifled a groan. Whatever. We’ll talk about this later. Bring out the honeyed words and get your bullshit detector ready, because I’m going to need you at your best.

<Of course,> Diplomacy grumbled. <I still can’t believe I missed the first ever diplomatic meeting between two races – and all because I was sulking.> They smirked. <At least I’ve rubbed off on you enough that you didn’t totally cock it up.>

Rob’s retort died in his mind as the Fiends came into view on the opposite end of the street. To make things fair, both sides had agreed upon a meeting location that was as neutral as possible. They’d picked a spot roughly halfway between their two territories that was out in the open road and with as little surrounding cover as possible for any sneaky assassin types to try and Archduke Franz Ferdinand someone. Agreeing to this seemingly obvious location had taken fucking forever to hash out, and the negotiations for the negotiations hadn’t ended there. The amount of people allowed to attend was just as important, as it established the exact kind of dick-waving contest that would be taking place.

In terms of numbers, each side was allowed to bring thirty people as an honor guard of sorts; fifteen Combat Class and fifteen Utility Class users. This left the Deserters in a bit of a dilemma, as they only had thirty Combat Class users to draw from, with seven of them being recently Class-Altered newbies. If they sent their fifteen best to make a good impression at the negotiations, it would leave nearly 1600 civilians in trouble if the Fiends attempted to ambush them while their leaders were away. If they included newbies in the set of fifteen fighters meeting with the Fiends, then the Deserters as a whole might come across as weak.

Elder Alessia, aware of this fact, had pushed for a meeting with five Combat Class users and five Utility Class users on each side. The Fiend’s nominal leader, a Level 36 slab of a man named Goroth, had pushed for twenty-five apiece. Fifteen was the glorious compromise that left both sides equally unhappy. Except for Rob, who was very much happy to quit bickering and move on.

...Except the negotiations for the negotiations hadn’t ended there either. Locations and numbers were just two of many discussions that took place. AND, as the one person capable of speaking to the Fiends – who was conscious at the time – Rob has to be there for All. Of. It.

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” Rob muttered under his breath. “Don’t care what happens. Blightkillers have got to have vacation days they can cash in.”

As the Fiends approached, one of Rob’s assumptions about why Goroth had pushed for fifty attending members was reaffirmed. Each Fiend possessed at least twice the bulk of any Elf, with some men shirtless and sporting pecs from a bodybuilder’s wet dream. While Levels were the true indicator of power in Elatra, intimidating appearances still counted for something. The Fiends made an imposing presence as they marched, muscles straining against the tight-fitting clothes of both men and women, eyes of pitch-darkness fixed forward, long curls of black hair flowing in the wind, mouths wide open as they vomited – OH COME ON.

Three Fiends, after laying eyes upon Rob, immediately turned to the side and lost their lunch. The rest didn’t look much better, staring at Rob with nauseated expressions as a few of them took wary steps back. Out of the thirty Fiends present, only Helkath, Faelynn, and Goroth were relatively unaffected, likely due to the extended proximity they’d already spent around Rob yesterday. For his part, Goroth was glaring at his fellow Fiends with an ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ face. Whatever preparation he’d given them hadn’t been enough, and as a result, the intimidation factor that the Fiends had been attempting to build up had deflated like a leaky balloon.

“Congratulations,” Elder Alessia remarked from her position next to Rob. “Your hideous visage has finally proven useful.”

“I’m a seven out of ten, goddamnit!”

“I would say nine,” Keira absentmindedly commented. Rob, Elder Alessia, and Zamira stared at her until she realized what she’d said, after which she hid her face by turning away from them and towards the Fiends. “Regardless of personal preference,” she continued, in a forced tone. “Their reaction is abnormal. Fiends hate Humans, yes, but I’ve never heard of the very sight of a Human causing intense bodily reactions.”

“It’s an advantage,” Elder Alessia bluntly stated. “Whatever the cause, we should embrace the result.” She paused, then let out a sigh. “And no, Rob, you aren’t actually hideous. Although some of us are perhaps more biased in their evaluation than others.”

The tips of Keira’s ears burned red. Rob took pity on her and kept quiet.

Eventually, the Fiends managed to collect themselves, pick up the pieces of their shattered pride, and join the Deserters at the negotiation table. ‘Table’ being a figure of speech – no one wanted to restrict their own movement and make themselves an easy target for assassins by sitting down. They had elected to draw a literal line in the road for each side to stand behind, which Rob thought was a little on the nose, if fitting for a world where regional territories were separated by color-coded grass.

And based on the ugly looks being traded between the Elves and the Fiends, the line was probably necessary. Their animosity seemed to spring forth from an almost instinctual basis, like cartoon cats and dogs that were at each other’s throats on principle alone. Goroth, the Fiend leader, was one of the few that kept his expression neutral and composed. Rob had spoken with him before during the negotiations for the negotiations, and the Fiend’s general good-sense and calm demeanor had been a welcome reprieve after dealing with Helkath.

“Human,” Goroth greeted, in a voice made of gravel. Had this been their first meeting, Rob would have assumed that the Fiend was trying to scare him, but apparently the dude just naturally sounded like he badly needed a lozenge. “Shall you be speaking for the Elves today?”

“For the most part,” Rob replied. He gestured one by one to his companions. “Elder Alessia is the one that will be calling the shots. Then there’s Keira, our bodyguard, who is not to be fucked with. Last but not least, we have Zamira, our secondary interpreter for today.”

The rest of Riardin’s Rangers had elected to stay back in case the civilians were attacked. Orn’tol was in Rob’s Party, and if trouble occurred in the Elven camp, he would remove himself to signal for Rob to teleport as many people back as he could with Waymark. It wasn’t a perfect plan – Waymark could only transport his Party, which would leave 23 people behind and at the mercy of 30 souleaters – but a poor contingency was better than none at all.

At Rob’s usage of ‘secondary negotiator’, Goroth perked up. “So the one named Zamira survived her injuries? And learned Auto-Translate in the process?” He inclined his head. “I congratulate you on your good fortunes, Zamira. May your ability to understand our language lead to newfound peace and prosperity between our races.”

Zamira inclined her head back at him. “I am here to ensure no less. Thank you, Goroth, and good fortunes to you as well.” Her voice would have sounded normal to someone who didn’t know her, but to Rob, Zamira’s inflection came across like she was putting on a performance. She wasn’t faking anything, per se, but she was projecting her voice more clearly and injecting added emotion into her words. Rob had heard it once before, back when she gave her speech in Esternard that emboldened the Deserters to undertake a Dungeon Crawl. It was the voice she used when she wanted to come across as...more.

And it worked, because a slight smile spread across Goroth’s face. “Never in a lifetime did I think I would hear words from an Elf,” he began. “And never in ten lifetimes did I think those words would be kind. After the many horrid shocks my people have suffered in recent memory, welcome surprises like these are much appreciated.”

<He’s telling the truth,> Diplomacy supplied. <You lucked out and got someone who isn’t an ass.>

Goroth turned towards Rob, who didn’t miss the fraction of a grimace that passed through the Fiend’s expression once he laid eyes upon the Human. “If you would relay my greetings to your Elder Alessia,” Goroth said. “Then we may begin negotiations as planned.”

Rob translated their pleasantries back and forth, trusting Auto-Translate to choose the proper words to fit the original speaker’s context and intent. Unlike an actual trained interpreter from Earth, the system did all the heavy lifting, so he had plenty of attention to devote to scrutinizing the Fiends. Helkath and Faelynn were standing next to Goroth, likely due to them being the ones to achieve first contact. Rob suppressed the urge to give them a wave; with how wound-up everyone was, any sudden movement of his hand could result in it being lopped off, which would suck for the next few hours it took to grow back. In addition to those three, the Fiends as a whole possessed a distribution of Levels that was similar to the Elves, with Goroth being their strongest combatant at Level 36. On paper, both sides’ forces were equally matched.

In practice, Rob had seen Helkath – who was Level 29 – instantly demolish half a wall, catch Keira’s greatsword, and successfully flee from Rob’s pincer attack. It was too much Strength, Vitality, and Dexterity for someone to have at that Level unless they’d severely neglected their other stats, which didn’t seem to be the case. The display was clear proof of what Rob had been told; pound for pound, the Fiends were naturally stronger than any other race.

That fact alone changed the dynamics of the meeting. If Goroth’s group attacked, his forces would win, albeit with heavy losses. Pointing this out and asking for unequal numbers of people to balance out the inherent gulf in power would have made the Deserters appear intimidated, which could expose their lack of Combat Class users, so in the end they had swallowed their unease and agreed to the proposed terms.

Without Waymark, they wouldn’t have. That Skill was an ace in the hole that they'd keep hidden for as long as possible.

Minutes passed, further pleasantries were exchanged, and minor probing questions were put forth. Finally, the meat and potatoes of the negotiation began.

“Next question from Elder Alessia,” Rob said. “How many Fiends are in Broadwater City? You already know how many Elves we have, so it’s a fair piece of information to give.”

Goroth nodded. “That is true. At present, there are approximately 300 Fiends residing in this city.”

<500,> Diplomacy stated. <He’s lying.>

How can you tell?

<It’s an extrapolation based on numerous shifting microexpressions and subtle voice tonal shifts that I don’t have time to explain.>

Rob decided to trust the expert. He turned to Elder Alessia and kept his expression normal as he spoke in Elvish. “Goroth says 300. Diplomacy says 500.”

Elder Alessia’s poker face didn’t waver for an instant. “Your Skill is sure of this?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” She gave Goroth a nod. “Tell him thank you for the answer, and offer to let him ask a question in return.”

When Elder Alessia learned about Diplomacy a few hours ago, her apprehension had lasted about as long as it took for her to remember that the Deserters were about to enter a critical meeting between two parties jockeying for position. When she did, hearing the phrase ‘Diplomacy Level 14’ made her eyes light up like a Christmas tree.

The talks continued. Sometimes, at Diplomacy’s request, Zamira would take over Rob’s translating duties, as the Skill wanted to see how Goroth’s demeanor changed when speaking to different people. The Fiend’s head honcho would ask details about why the Deserters were there, what their intentions were, etc. Elder Alessia answered freely, asked for the same details in return, and promptly received a bunch of evasive bullshit. Apologies, half-truths, the works. Whatever was going on in Fiendland – so dire it’d forced hundreds of their people south – was classified information. They weren’t going to give it up without a fight.

Rob’s group had assumed as much when planning the negotiations. There was simply too much inborn distrust between Fiends and the rest of Elatra for either side to offer up vital intel free of charge. The only reason Elder Alessia was being so forthright in her answers is that Rob had told Helkath and Faelynn a lot of it when they first met – an act he defended as necessary to reduce tensions in that moment, but which still put the Deserters on the back foot when it came time to duke it out on the field of words.

And honestly? All of that was fine. It didn’t matter whether Goroth was an open book or a locked safe. He’d already lost by showing up, and every second he spent talking was further sealing his fate.

Because every second that passed was another for Diplomacy to watch, learn, and collect data.

<Rob,> the Skill suddenly said. <In three seconds, ask this exact question.>

Rob almost burst out laughing on the spot when Diplomacy finished telling him what to say. You’re basically telling me to throw a match on a crate of dynamite, but fuck it, I’m down.

At the end of three seconds, Zamira finished relaying Elder Alessia’s latest statement; a perfectly banal response meant to act as verbal filler. There’d been a lot of those recently, and on the whole, negotiations seemed to be winding down. Goroth thought so too, as his posture had relaxed by a hair. To him, he’d succeeded in establishing peaceful relations without giving up the information advantage the Fiends possessed. All there was left to do was make a few final probing questions, possibly ferret out why the Elves had been so hesitant about bringing along more than fifteen Combat Class users, and then return to his side of the City as the functional victor of their tête-à-tête.

It was a fantasy that lasted until the moment Rob opened his mouth.

“So why is there Corruption in every single Fiend?”

Thirty heads snapped towards Rob in unison. Zamira gaped at him, then immediately started translating what he’d said – and the conversation that followed – to Elder Alessia.

“How are you aware of that?” Goroth said, too shocked to deny anything. Rob shrugged, giving the large Fiend a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Apologies, but I’m not at liberty to tell you,” Rob answered, directly quoting one of Goroth’s previous excuses. “And besides, I’d much rather focus on the black kernels of disgusting filth nestled in your souls. It’s to be expected, considering there’s a Blight around, but why all of you? Most of the Deserters who survived their encounter with the Blight are near-irradiated with Corruption, and the people who weren’t directly in its crossfire barely have any Corruption whatsoever. Every Fiend I’ve seen, no matter their age or profession, has about 30 HP worth of Corruption. It’s too uniform to be the result of an attack from a rampaging abomination.”

Silence.

“Still giving me the quiet treatment?” Diplomacy said. “That’s fine. I have this wonderful ability called ‘educated guesses’. No stats or Levels necessary. You’ve already given me everything I need.”

They held up their left hand and started counting off. “Let’s take a look at the evidence. First: you’re on a mission handed down by the Fiends’ leaders. Second: this mission is so secretive that you're worried that letting other races know the specifics will be detrimental in some fashion. Third: each of you has a strangely similar amount of Corruption. Fourth: you created the barrier around Broadwater that’s keeping out the Blight.”

Diplomacy smirked. “In conclusion: you were Corrupted before you went south. Something nasty related to the Blight is happening up in Fiendland, and you’re here to scavenge the abandoned Human cities in search of answers. Maybe find a non-destroyed library with knowledge Fiendland doesn’t have. If that failed, I imagine you would have traveled further south and made a last-ditch effort to make contact with the other races.”

They paused. “As for the barrier...probably a result of the research your kind has done up until this point. Enough to keep the Blight at bay, but not enough to reverse its effects. Costly, too, considering that it must have taken at least fifty of your people expending their lives with Soul Burn to empower a spell of that caliber.”

A figure in the Fiend’s camp blurred. Goroth was barely able to grab Helkath before the latter could rush forward past the dividing line. Faelynn stood frozen in a mixture of shock and embarrassment as she watched Helkath snarl and slash his claws through empty air, her shoulders slumping once she realized what had just happened.

“I’m glad to see that you, at least, are taking the peace treaty seriously,” Diplomacy told Goroth, as the man held down his ally. “Even if everything else you told us was misleading.”

“Those ‘fifty lives’ were our comrades, you piece of shit!” Helkath roared. “Don’t you fucking dare make light of their sacrifice!”

Rob winced. “Sorry if that’s how it came across. I don’t intend to diminish what they did to keep their loved ones safe.” His face fell. “Especially considering I know what that feels like. We’ve lost people too. A lot of people. Some who I cared about personally.”

Helkath laughed in a tone of bitter sorrow. “Who you cared about personally? What a joke that is. Allow me to ask the question Goroth was too cowardly to put forth: why is a creature like you allied with the Elves?”

“They aren’t ‘the Elves’,” Rob countered. “They’re individuals willing to change their minds, and some are totally fine palling around with a Human.”

Helkath’s eyebrows rocketed to the top of his forehead. “Human,” he said, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Let’s play that game, then. If you’ve become such close bosom buddies with the Elves, then I assume you’re aware of what activities their kind took part in some eight years ago.”

Yeah, and I try not to fucking think about it. “Our relationship at the start was...rocky,” Rob admitted. “But we’re on much better terms now. I’ve got friends I care about, and even people who aren’t my friends treat me pretty well overall.”

“And why do they treat you well?” Helkath said, his voice low. “Because they like you? Or because you’re Level 38?”

Rob’s answer choked in his throat. No one said anything, not even Goroth, who probably would have stopped his subordinate a long time ago if it wasn’t for the clear curiosity evident on his face. Both Fiends glanced at Rob, waiting for an answer that he couldn’t give.

“I figured as much,” Helkath eventually said. “Aside from the simpletons you may have tricked into a farce of a friendship, the Elves as a whole keep you around because you’re useful. Take away those stats and Levels, and to them, you’re just another Human. A stain to be rubbed out.”

Rob let him speak. The more of an ass Helkath made of himself during what were supposed to be peaceful negotiations, the better of a position it put the Deserters in. It made logical sense to sit back and wait things out.

That was why he stayed silent. There was no other reason at all.

Zamira finished translating Helkath’s diatribe, her voice filled with loathing. Rob sighed and waited for something to happen. Maybe Elder Alessia would play it cool and use Helkath’s outburst as a noose to choke some concessions out of Goroth. Maybe Zamira would confront the Fiends with a verbal dressing-down. Maybe Keira would snap and they’d have to restrain her like Goroth restrained Helkath.

Someone else beat them all to it.

“You know nothing!” Dozens of eyes widened as a man stormed out of the Utility Class contingent on the Elven side. He approached the very edge of the dividing line, glaring daggers of fiery hatred at Helkath, and spoke on before anyone had the presence of mind to stop him.

“Rob has gone above and beyond what was expected of him,” the Elven man seethed. “You’re grossly ignorant of the lengths to which he’s willing to go for the sake of others. He puts himself at risk and throws himself into the jaws of danger, not because of Levels or prestige or glory, but because he cares. I’ve witnessed it firsthand.”

That was when Rob’s distant memories clicked into place. The Elven man standing before them was Cyrus, a member of Rob’s traveling contingent on the trip from The Village to Reviton City. Rob had been the Combat Class user in charge of protecting their group of civilians from roaming monsters and Infected.

And on Rob’s watch, despite his strongest efforts, Cyrus’ husband had died.

“He is a Human, yes.” Cyrus continued. “What does it matter? The fervor with which Rob has supported our Village and its people matches any of our Rangers. Even were he to put his sword down tomorrow and never fight again, he would always have a place here.”

“But,” Rob blurted out, before he could stop himself. “I failed.”

Cyrus looked at him, and gave him a warm, sad smile. “Yet you still tried.”

Rob turned away from the Fiends. It would ruin his tough-guy image if they saw his eyes misting over.

Elder Alessia rushed to Cyrus and whispered something harsh in his ears. Cyrus gave Rob a nod and rejoined the Utility Class users without a hint of guilt in his expression. Zamira – in a much happier tone – finished translating Cyrus’ words to the Fiends, which was Rob’s cue to turn back around and restart the show.

“There you have it,” he told Goroth, letting a bit of smug creep into his voice. “Guess I’ve got a few supporters here and there. Now, if your subordinate is quite done with nearly torpedoing a peace treaty, what say you and I make a deal?”

Helkath winced and crept back into his side of the crowd, shoulders hunched. Goroth ignored him and faced Rob. “Elder Alessia is your leader,” he stated, crossing his arms. “You are in no position to make decisions for her.”

“We already discussed this beforehand,” Rob lied. “It was a backup plan for if you guys proved to be unreliable, which unfortunately, you have.” He waggled his finger. “Lies, misleading statements, and attempted physical assaults are poor form, my dude.”

Zamira’s mouth fell open when she realized what he was doing. Rob knew she wouldn’t say anything, though; if she called him out on his bullshit, it would make the Deserters’ chain of command look like a mess, which would hurt their position, etc. Sometimes, political dick-waving worked in his favor.

Just to be clear, Rob asked. This IS a good idea, right?

<There’s no better time to press the advantage,> Diplomacy assented. <Alessia would be too hesitant to approve this right away, and as a result, the moment would be lost. Don’t worry, she’ll enjoy the rewards she reaps from our insubordination.>

Forgiveness before permission? He grinned. I can work with that.

“Here’s what we’re offering,” Rob continued. “You tell us why you’re here, in full, and educate us on any knowledge you have regarding the Blight.” He held up his limp right arm. “As a bonus, pick out your best Healer or Soul Mage or whatever and have them make an honest attempt at fixing this. A limb that’s Soul-Burnt should be right up their alley.”

Goroth’s face could have been carved from stone. “And in return?”

“Aside from trading our own experiences with the Blight,” Rob said. “I’ll share with you what I know about Corruption, how I knew for a fact that you all had it, and how I believe – in theory – that I can cure it.”

Sometimes the lack of discernible pupils or sclera in their eyes made it difficult to tell exactly what a Fiend was thinking, but in this instance, the naked desire present in Goroth’s expression was overwhelming.

“And how can we be sure that you are telling the truth?” The Fiend drew up to his full height, and his coterie leaned forward, exuding a heavy aura of intensity that was so thick you could practically taste it.

The Elves tensed. Rob didn’t.

“Because I’ve been honest with you every step of the way,” he plainly replied. “And because you can’t afford to fuck this up. I’m making a promise – if you don’t cooperate with us, the Fiends will never find out what I know. I’ll take it to the grave if I have to. You won’t risk that when the prize is a simple ‘yes’ away. Those answers you traveled south to find?”

Rob jabbed a thumb at himself. “They’re right here.”

Violence hung in the air, balanced on a thread.

Diplomacy Level Increased! 14 → 15

Diplomacy Level Increased! 15 → 16

“We’ll consider it,” Goroth said. In an abrupt motion, he turned around and walked straight through his own contingent of confused Fiends. They followed soon after, traversing down the street and disappearing out of view.

<He’s already given in,> Diplomacy remarked. <Allow him a day or two to realize that.>

Rob wasn’t worried. He was actually feeling pretty fucking great, and even managed to keep that rush going for the rest of the day. The verbal lashing Elder Alessia gave him later over hijacking her negotiations didn’t dampen his spirits. Neither did her request for him to teach her Fiendish, regardless of the risks. And the way Zamira kept sending him guarded looks? No big deal.

Because every time he felt even slightly down, he remembered Cyrus’ words, and a broad smile would break out across his face.

–

Changes

Upgrade: Diplomacy 14 → 16

Chapter 13

Dragon Queen Ragnavi stood on top of the summit of her castle, breathing in the crisp midday air. A collection of traveling provisions lay stacked next to her, but otherwise, she was alone. No piling burdens, no cruel memories, no simpering nobles. There was just herself, and the breeze.

Uncomplicated joys such as these were some of the strongest chains keeping her sanity tethered groundwards. Should the day ever come when a refreshing breeze failed to soothe her temperament, then that would be a day when the world trembled in agony and fear.

It was a shame that she was incapable of feeling the supposed warmth of the sun’s gentle rays. Members of other races often spoke of the calming nature of sunlight, but Heat Immunity barred her from experiencing its sensations, good or ill. She could even stare directly into the sun’s core without incurring damage to her eyes, which had made for an amusing prank to play on non-Dragonkin during her childhood. Simpler times, simpler pleasures.

Tylrud take me, Ragnavi grumbled to herself. Too often am I lost in idle reminiscence as of late. Pining over my halcyon days is a hobby befitting of ancients preparing to enter their Hallowed Halls, not a woman in her early 200s.

Perhaps it was a blessing that she’d been called upon to explore the Human lands. It granted her an excuse to stretch her wings, so to speak.

Minor vibrations in the air put her on alert. Ten seconds later, her attendant emerged from the staircase leading to the castle rooftop, out of breath and presumably having run a great distance to reach her. “My Queen,” her attendant gasped. “I must express my deepest apologies for encroaching upon your solitude, but I bring urgent tidings that you would wish to hear without delay.”

“Speak,” she commanded. Her attendant nodded, straightened his posture into something resembling propriety, and dutifully followed her order.

“Our Infiltrators in the Elven lands have relayed new information,” he said. “They confirmed that Seneschal Sylpeiros is engaging in underhanded behavior. The traitor’s weekly reports to your majesty are brimming with falsehoods.”

Ragnavi raised an eyebrow. I didn’t think he had the stones. “And what, pray tell, is he lying about?”

Her attendant hesitated, which was immediate cause for concern. After several seconds of steeling his resolve, he continued, muscles tense as if preparing to weather a blow.

“The Human is alive.”

Her attendant’s eyes bulged. A moment later, he sank to his knees as a wave of pressure crashed down on him like the weight of a collapsing building. Ragnavi pulled back her aura, chastising herself for her temporary loss of control. Killing the messenger was a boorish act better-reserved for overcompensating warlords. And as recent events had proven, capable subordinates were in short supply.

“This is true?” She asked, in a dangerously neutral tone. The question was rhetorical; her attendant wouldn’t have brought news of this caliber to her attention unless he was completely sure that it was authentic. Her inquiry was mere verbal filler, meant to buy time in order to compose herself and prevent any further mishaps from occurring.

“Verifiably and utterly,” her attendant answered, bones creaking as he rose to his feet. “The Seneschal’s claims that they slew the Human before the Elven dissidents fled north was a fabrication. His last-known reports put the Human as being alive, well, and integrated into his newfound supporters among their so-called ‘Deserters’.”

Now that was surprising. Ineffectual as the Elves were, she hadn’t expected even the lowest of their lot to start suckling at a Human’s teat of all things. Ragnavi wished she could relax and enjoy watching the Seneschal lose control of his own people, but unfortunately, his ineptitude was problematic. Of course, retribution would be met on Sylpeiros and his ilk for their deception, but that was a matter barely worth considering. That it would happen in the near future was an unassailable fact. At present, she had far more pressing concerns.

The Human was alive – and he was north.

Ragnavi didn’t want to kill him. Personally, at least. She would be delighted if thunder rained down from the sky and cooked his flesh, or if a monster tore off his head and swallowed it whole. In an ideal world, the Human was already dead, having starved to death in the harsh northlands.

The fates were rarely so kind as that.

In truth, she was furious with the Seneschal – not for his deception, but because he had failed in this very simple task. By all accounts, the Human was weak. He shouldn’t have ascended to higher than Level 20 at this point. Sylpeiros had allowed a gnat to slip through his grasp, and because of that, she might be forced into proximity with the Human’s repulsive visage very soon. Searching the Human territories for signs of the Blight and errant Dungeons would be a comprehensive effort taking place over a span of weeks. The chances that she would encounter the Human were much higher than was comfortable.

It would be a simple task to slay him. A flick of her wrist should suffice. It would also bring her very little pleasure to do so. Slaughtering thousands upon thousands of Humans had been insufficient to quell her rage – one more would hardly make a difference. What seeing him would accomplish would be to dredge up painful memories best left forgotten. A brief glimmer of satisfaction in return for days of torment.

Fucking Sylpeiros, she seethed. I’ll make him hurt for this.

“There is more, my Queen,” her attendant said. Ragnavi’s mouth twitched, but she managed to keep herself under control, and motioned for him to continue.

“This report will sound farfetched in the extreme,” he cautioned. “But every word of it is true. We’ve discovered that the Human has – in some unknown way – gained the ability to grant Fast Learner to those in his Party.”

It took every ounce of Ragnavi’s self-control to school her expression. The Dragon Queen’s mouth was not allowed to drop open and gape like a fish out of water. Her station had a baseline of respectability that needed to be preserved at all times. Even during momentous revelations such as these.

In an instant, Ragnavi understood why the Seneschal had lied. He wasn’t concerned with hiding his failure – he wanted to hide the potential world-shaking asset that the Human represented. Whoever gained control of Fast Learner would inevitably catapult their race to dominion over the entirety of Elatra. It was the sort of development that wars would be waged over.

She didn't care.

If her choices were between giving up Fast Learner, or suffering a Human to live, then that was no choice at all.

“Well done,” she stated. “You are dismissed.” Her attendant nodded and limped back downstairs, leaving Ragnavi alone to ruminate on the tasks ahead of her.

Yesterday, she had legitimately considered eradicating Sylpeiros’ Blight infestation in exchange for him sending his manpower north to perform reconnaissance in the Human lands. The former would likely have been less time-consuming than the latter. Now? If given the chance to tread north, he would hunt down the Human, and preserve the thing’s life in order to secure Fast Learner.

She couldn’t trust him. It fell to her to do what was required.

Ragnavi released some of the energy constrained in her core, letting it spread throughout her body like blood pumping through her veins. It filled her with ecstasy; pure power bubbling just below the surface of her skin. Gradually, her skin hardened, her muscles expanded, and her claws extended to ten times their length. The world shrank in comparison as she grew taller, torso expanding as her body formed mass from the inherent strength that was her birthright. Her face elongated into a snout, her legs and arms thickened, exchanging bipedal motion for four-legged savagery. Finally, two twenty-foot wings sprouted from her back, proud and resplendent in all their glory.

She let out a bellowing roar of joy. Out of every pleasure in existence, there was no sweeter one than this.

The world held still as the Dragon took flight.

Chapter 14

Diplomacy had been right. Goroth, after trudging off with his coterie of humbled Fiends, requested an additional day to make a decision regarding Rob’s offer. The Deserters were a bit alarmed by his lackadaisical attitude until the Fiends reassured them that the barrier surrounding Broadwater City would last indefinitely – or until the Blight figured out a way to bust through. Which, to be fair, hadn’t happened yet. If the Fiends were that confident in their defensive measures, bought and paid with a hundred lives, then the Deserters had no choice to play along until they learned more about how the spell worked. Its failure would kill the Fiends just as easily as the Deserters, so their confidence probably wasn’t misplaced.

With nothing else to do except wait for the Fiends’ decision, the Deserters buckled down and got to work. Food was scavenged, Potions were brewed, and Firebombs were crafted. Without Elder Duran, breaking into the magic seal to Broadwater’s underground farms was impossible, but thankfully enough leftover preserved rations were found throughout the city to last everyone a month. The Deserters may have still been trapped in a ghost town with Fiends inside and a Blight outside, but no one would starve, so they had that going for them.

Meanwhile, Rob searched the rest of the city for a Locus of Power, and after a thorough exploration, came up empty-handed. The discovery – and lack thereof – threw a major wrench into his plans, but unfortunately, it wasn’t something he could actually do anything to change. If the Locus wasn’t there, then it wasn’t there, and he wasn’t going to find another one around for miles. Otherwise, the Blight would’ve already absorbed it, and a second patch of Deadlands sky would be darkening the horizon. As a result, Rob found himself at a loss for what to do – which was perfect, because that meant he knew exactly what to do.

“We’re taking the day off.”

Orn’tol didn’t hesitate before replying. “We can’t,” he said, steadfast.

Rob tried to cross his arms and sighed internally after remembering he was still down a limb. An arm-cross where one was normal and one was floppy didn’t look anywhere near as serious.

“That wasn’t a request,” he stated. “It was a decree. I'm mandating that we take a day off before we lose our fucking minds.”

Riardin’s Rangers, having gathered at his request in a secluded house, glanced at each other with varying expressions. The one who seemed most on board was Malika, her face beaming with excitement; a bright sun compared to Orn’tol’s serious-as-stone demeanor. He crossed his arms – lucky bastard – and responded in a voice one or two octaves below his natural timbre.

“We would be doing the rest of the Deserters a disservice by shirking our duties while they toil away,” The young Ranger said. “Even now, we could and should be assisting them in any number of tasks.”

“Orn’tol, my body feels like it got trampled by a pack of Vraal,” Rob said, shamelessly playing the sympathy card as his opening move. “I flat-out refuse to do any grunt work until this whole ‘horrid pestilence infesting my core’ thing is cleared up. And I would really, reeeeeally like it if my friends hung out with me on my very well-deserved day of rest.”

His comments struck home. The Party collectively winced, which Rob felt only mildly guilty about. He’d poke at their conscience as many times as it took to loosen them up, both for his sake and theirs. Plus, what were they going to do, say no to the guy with 400+ Corruption? He was going to milk that shit for all it was worth. It might not have been necessary – they obviously wanted a break just as much as him, and a bit more pushing would’ve broken their resolve – but at least this way they would beat themselves up less.

<I’m unsure if I should be impressed or concerned,> Diplomacy remarked. <As you didn’t require any of my assistance to make them dance to your tune.>

College social dynamics are weird as hell, Rob said. You pick up some tricks here and there.

“I accept your demands,” Keira said, smirking. “How dare you toy with my feelings and force me to neglect my responsibilities. Woe is me.” She stretched her arms and let out a contented sigh. “Of course, if anyone asks, it was your idea.”

“It was my idea, so that’s fair.”

Vul’to held up a hand. “Pardon my interruption,” he said. “But while I am not...entirely opposed to a short respite, what will we do about her?”

He pointed to Faelynn the Fiend, who was sulking in a corner. She flinched at the attention, turning eyes of pure darkness towards Rob and Zamira. “What did he say?” She asked, in a plaintive tone. “Have I offended him? And how so? All I’ve done is sit here.”

“No need to panic,” Zamira said, soothingly. “He was merely unsure of how to incorporate your visitation into our plans. At present, we are intending to allow ourselves a day to recuperate, which may prove to be a boring affair for you to partake in. If you’d prefer, feel free to find yourself a more entertaining endeavor to pursue – I promise that we won’t be offended.”

It was the nicest ‘buzz off’ that Rob had ever heard. Faelynn looked like she dearly wanted to take up Zamira on her offer, and it was with a heavy heart that the Fiend shook her head and sighed. “Your consideration is appreciated,” she said. “But Goroth would have my horns if he discovered that I lost track of your whereabouts. I would make for a rather poor diplomatic liaison in that case.”

“Ah, yes, a ‘diplomatic liaison’,” Rob said, injecting air quotes into his tone. “Is that what the kids are calling Spies these days?”

Faelynn blushed, which for a Fiend meant that her cheeks turned gray. “I am not a spy, and with what audacity are you calling me a child?! I’m at least five years older than you!”

“No worries, Little Miss Spy,” Rob said. “We don’t mind. Riardin’s Rangers have nothing to hide – and besides, you’re way better company than Helkath, so if they had to pick one of you two to send over, I’d say we lucked out.”

Faelynn’s embarrassment was burnt away in an instant and replaced by a soft fury. “...You will keep what I say in confidence, correct?”

Zamira tilted her head. “Assuming it has no negative bearing on our people, then yes, we swear.”

“FUCKING Helkath,” Faelynn growled, standing up straight and causing the Party to flinch back. “Ignorant prick nearly ruined the negotiations. We chance upon the first real opportunity we’ve ever had to make peace with the Elves – to make peace with the Elves, for Argath’s sake – and he can’t contain his own emotions for the span of a single conversation!”

She was pacing in a circle now, black eyes swirling dangerously as her muscles tensed, the aura of her presence exuding a subtle pressure in the air. Rob was quietly reminded that despite Faelynn’s youthful face and the shrinking violet demeanor she’d put on for the rest of the morning, she was still as tall and built as Meyneth, and as a Fiend at Level 27, would actually be stronger than most members of their Party.

“And then, of course, Goroth – in his most infinite wisdom – orders me to tail you for a day under a paper-thin guise of diplomatic relations.” She barked out a laugh. “For what purpose, you might ask? To ensure that you don’t ‘betray us when least expected’. As if you would have any benefit to gain from doing so.” She huffed. “Too paranoid, that one. Liable to overthink himself into an early grave.”

All at once, the fight went out of her. Faelynn sank into a chair and let her head fall into her hands. “This journey has been a horrendous disaster,” she whispered. “Every half-step forward we take is met with a great obstacle in our path, and with each trial we overcome, the bodies of our friends and family are left in our wake.”

Her voice hitched. “Why must the simple desire to live and protect the ones you love be so...harrowing?”

If Diplomacy hadn’t just assured Rob that Faelynn was being genuine, he might have actually started thinking she was a spy, because she couldn’t have chosen better words to tug at their heartstrings. As he translated the Fiend’s words back to the others, Zamira stepped forward and hesitantly placed a hand on Faelynn’s shoulder.

“There, there,” she said, in a voice that was only mildly awkward. “Your situation will improve if you persevere. That much I can say is true.”

Faelynn was silent. She moved as if to put her hand over Zamira’s, then froze before scooting her chair away. “I must seem like a complete fool,” she mumbled into her hands. “That emotional outburst was unbecoming of me.”

“Welcome to the club,” Rob cheerfully said. “You’ve already passed Step 1 of the initiation process. Step 2 is to do something suicidally heroic in a combat situation and have it work out anyway.”

It was a nice little sentiment, imagining Faelynn as a part of the group. Helped take the edge off the truth that both of them were perfectly aware of – that she and him would be at each other’s throats in a second if their respective leaders decided to treat their peace treaty like toilet paper. Rob couldn’t afford to pull his punches in the event of a mini-war breaking out. He was near-crippled in his current state, and the Riardin Special could only be used so many times before he ran out of explosives to dump into people’s faces.

In fact, keeping the Fiends happy was the biggest reason why Riardin’s Rangers had allowed Faelynn to tag along in the first place. It all went back to that initial number of attendees that each side had wanted the negotiations to be comprised of. The Elves wanted 5 Combat Class users while the Fiends wanted 25. Those numbers were telling; if the Fiends felt comfortable bringing that many Combat Class users with them, it meant that they likely had plenty more to leave back at their base camp to act as guards. Despite the Deserters winning the raw numbers game 1600 to 500, having a much higher total population, it was likely that the Fiends had way more Combat Class users among their ranks.

Which made sense – they’d apparently traveled south on an important mission, while the Deserters were a hodgepodge of people who uprooted their lives and sallied north in order to send the mother of all middle fingers to their boss. And that was after The Village’s best fighters had been decimated by the Blight’s invasion.

It was a minor miracle that the Fiends had yet to figure out that they weren’t actually at a disadvantage. Bringing Diplomacy along to the negotiations might’ve been the equivalent of bringing a bazooka to a knife fight, but that level of overkill had, in truth, been exactly what was needed to browbeat the Fiends into backing down. If the Fiends had realized that they weren’t as outmatched as they thought they were, the peace treaty’s resolution could have gone very, very differently.

As it stood, the Deserters were the only ones fully aware that a large-scale brawl between the two forces would come down to the martial might of an elite expedition versus the sheer numbers of a bunch of Utility Class schlubs. Even if the Deserters won, their casualties would be massive. Rob had started turning more people into Combat Classes with Class Alteration, but with that Skill’s once-a-day-limit, his efforts would result in merely a few extra warm bodies to throw into the grinder if a war broke out.

So yeah, making nice with the Fiends was currently priority #1, even moreso than figuring out how to deal with the Blight. The latter may have been an all-powerful abomination, but it was an enemy without. The enemy within was a more pressing concern.

Rob put on his best smile and beckoned Faelynn over. “Come on, don’t be a stranger,” he said. “You’ll get bored out of your mind if you stay in the background all day. Why not introduce yourself? Me and Zamira will translate, and we’ll even smooth over any accidental awkward comments. By the end of the day, the rest of the Party will think you’re suave as hell.”

At least she seems on the up-and-up, Rob thought, as Faelynn tentatively approached. No one with that much resentment towards Elatra can be a wholly bad person.

–

“Behold!” Rob proclaimed, sweeping his arm wide. “An establishment dedicated to the pursuit of vanity. Worshipped among fashionistas and valley girls alike.”

Five Elves, a Fiend, and a Dragonkin walked into the barbershop – which sounded like the setup to a punchline – and glanced around with curious eyes. Rob was content to sit back and let them find entertainment in what was, to him, something entirely mundane. Orn’tol raised an eyebrow at a pair of specialized hair clippers, Vul’to examined the front desk’s back counter, and Malika whirled around in a spinny chair until her face turned green. Each member of the Party was entranced in their own way, rapt with attention as they explored the features of a world they’d never known.

All in all, it was the easiest tour he’d ever given. And the only tour, but hey, still counted.

Half an hour ago, the gang had decided that taking a stroll through Broadwater and seeing the sights would make for a relaxing, low-key affair. Just as importantly, sightseeing was one of the few activities that their group of eight could equally participate in. It was either that or play a round of cards, and the latter option had long since been taken off the table – maybe permanently. Memories of their last game of Ouroboros played with Tarric and Alia were still fresh in everyone’s minds. Compared to that, rummaging through an abandoned ghost town whose inhabitants had been wiped out years ago sounded like a decidedly uplifting bonding activity.

“Do Humans truly require this much assistance with their hair?” Keira asked. She stood in front of a mirror, head turned sideways so she could examine her own flawless ‘do. “Yours has always looked...fine.”

Rob laughed. “Nice save. On Earth, ‘fine’ doesn’t cut it if you want to make a good impression. I guess  I can count myself lucky that Elatra’s standards for Human hairstyles seem to be pretty low. Which makes sense considering I haven’t been able to find proper shampoo or conditioner anywhere.”

Meyneth swept her gaze across the barbershop, mouth twisted into a rictus of horrified bafflement. “If I am to understand your claims correctly,” she started. “Humans of Earth willingly enter this...snare, sit themselves down, and subject themselves to the mercy of perfect strangers wielding sharp implements? While their necks are exposed?”

“What would a barber have to gain from murdering his or her clients?” Rob asked. “Doesn’t sound like good business sense to me.”

“The cost of losing clientele would be well worth the gain of a noble’s funds and backing,” Meyneth explained, as if speaking to a child. “One slipped pouch of gold leads to one slip of the knife. I can’t imagine a better place to carry out assassinations on unsuspecting targets.”

Rob raised an eyebrow and blurted out the first thing on his mind. “The hell kind of place did you come from, Meyneth?”

“A harsh place,” she deadpanned. “Are Humans truly so concerned with their appearance that they would put themselves at such risk?”

“Barbershop murders don’t happen outside of musicals,” Rob assured. “And unfortunately, we can’t wake up in the morning with supermodel-perfect hair. Most of Earth would kill to have what you guys have – figuratively speaking, not literally, which is something I feel the need to clarify after what you just said.”

“Don’t overexaggerate,” Zamira remarked. “There is some degree of work involved to fashion our hair as such.”

“There is?” Meyneth said.

A subtle sense of shock permeated the air. Keira and Zamira turned to stare at Meyneth with complicated expressions on their faces. “What exactly do you mean by ‘there is’, Meyneth?” Keira asked, in a neutral tone.

“Rob’s assertion that I wake up in the morning with this hair – and in truth, this general appearance as a whole – is functionally accurate,” Meyneth explained. “In fact, it is accurate for every Dragonkin that I’ve met in my lifetime. Is that not the same for Elves?”

Everyone took a few seconds to look over Meyneth’s lustrous, golden tresses that rolled down to her shoulders, her smooth skin free of blemishes, and her spotless golden scales that glittered in the light. Faelynn asked why everyone was acting weird, but as soon as Zamira translated what Meyneth had said, she joined the staring with eyes as wide as everyone else’s.

Finally, Keira sighed. “That simply isn’t fair. I can’t even ask for advice, because you have no advice to give!”

I guess it’s all relative, Rob thought. He couldn’t tell much of a difference between Elven and Dragonkin grooming standards, but they were probably so used to everyone looking perfect that minor discrepancies must have stood out like a sore thumb. No idea how that apparently doesn’t make me look like a grungy goblin-thing in comparison, but I’m not complaining.

<Yes.> Diplomacy assented, their core pulsing with mirth. <You have little reason to worry, Mr. Nine Out of Ten.>

Shush, you. Don’t make me get embarrassed in front of the ‘diplomatic liaison’.

Out of nowhere, Malika’s entire body tensed as stiff as a board. Orn’tol asked what was wrong, but she ignored him, mouth curling into a devilish grin. Without another word, she jumped off her spinny chair and ran on woozy legs to a corner of the room. A crack of rock on wood shattered a section of the floor into pieces, and after a quick glance at her handiwork, Malika whooped with glee.

“The Allied Armies may have scavenged Broadwater when they passed through eight years ago,” she said, voice dripping with pride. “But I imagine they lacked an Archmage among their ranks. Pity; otherwise, they might have Sensed the prize nestled right under their noses.”

She pointed to the newly-made hole in the floor, revealing an empty space with several items of interest stashed inside. Hair-related envy was forgotten in an instant as the Party was overtaken by the simple joy of finding buried treasure. Among the pile of knickknacks they proceeded to unearth, most of which were likely kept for sentimental value more than anything else, two items quickly grabbed the room’s attention. The first item’s value was immediately apparent; after all, it wasn’t often that you discovered an Enchanted Item outside of a Dungeon.

Name: Anklet of Moderate Brawn

Description: An Enchanted anklet that, when activated, increases the user’s Strength by 10 for fifteen seconds. Can be used roughly once every ten minutes. The cooldown will be recharged slightly faster in areas dense with mana.

Rob mentally thumbed through his Inventory and compared the Enchanted Item with the other two in his possession.

Name: Bracelet of Minor Teleportation

Description: An Enchanted bracelet that, when activated, teleports the user to a location within fifteen feet of their point of origin. The location must be unobstructed and in the user’s line of sight. Can be used roughly once every five minutes. The cooldown will be recharged slightly faster in areas dense with mana.

Name: Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, grants the wearer several abilities when entirely submerged underwater. Their swimming speed increases dramatically, they become as maneuverable as a fish swimming through the sea, and they become able to breathe underwater indefinitely.

He reminded the rest of the Party of their assortment of Enchanted Items, prompting a round of quiet contemplation.

“This is a great boon,” Vul’to said, the first to break the silence. “Much more so than the Ring of Waterdwelling – with apologies to Urian, of course. I’m sure his invention is a marvel of Artificing, but at present, increased fighting prowess is what we need more than anything else.”

“Who should take hold of the Anklet?” Meyneth asked. “Rotating its ownership is too much of a chore for my liking. I suggest we bequeath it to a single person; this would simplify matters and give the relevant person ample opportunity to incorporate the Anklet’s effect into their combat style.”

“Should we put it to a vote?” Orn’tol suggested. “To ensure that there are no hard feelings.”

“We could, but I don’t think that’s necessary,” Vul’to said. “Rob will handily win in the event of a choice-by-majority.”

Rob sputtered. “Wait, why me? I’m already hogging two Enchanted Items. This one should go to someone else.”

“Keira has plenty of Strength,” Vul’to began. “As does Meyneth. I prioritize defense. Malika is a mage. Orn’tol wields a bow. Zamira...would admittedly benefit from a Strength increase to supplement her exorbitant amounts of Dexterity, but...”

He paused. “Don’t interpret this as an insult, but she is still more proficient at felling enemies than you are. At least when Firebombs are excluded from the discussion. While you may wield them to startling effectiveness, they are a finite resource.”

“Hey now,” Rob protested. “My pure offense has lagged behind you guys’ at times, but I just picked up a Skill that triples the damage of my next attack. And using it only costs...10% of my Max HP. Which is currently down by more than 400. I...hmm.”

A sheepish grin spread across his face. “Anyone mind if I hold onto the Anklet for a bit?”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Zamira translated the exchange – minus the part about Rob’s missing HP – to Faelynn, who stared at the Enchanted Item like a dog staring at a forbidden plate of cookies resting on a countertop. After a moment, she sighed and looked away, visibly disappointed but realizing she had zero leg to stand on regarding the Item’s ownership. Rob put the Anklet into his Spatial Storage so she wouldn’t be tortured by it being out in the open.

With their big prize squared away, the Party turned their attention towards the second item of interest that Malika had discovered. This one wasn’t an Enchanted Item, nor was it outwardly helpful in any meaningful way, but that didn’t stop the young girl’s eyes from shining with excitement as she opened the book to its first page.

“It’s someone’s personal journal,” she whispered, oo-ing and aa-ing. “Dating back twenty years ago! It says, Property Of-”

In a flash, Zamira snatched the diary out of Malika’s hands. She tossed it upwards into the air, drew her longsword, and shredded the tome into ribbons with a rapid series of precise cuts that sent a mild gust of wind flying into Rob’s face.

“That’s better,” she said, sheathing her sword. Zamira glanced at Malika’s crestfallen face and gave her a serious nod. “I believe that its owner would have preferred that their secrets not be laid bare.”

Malika watched intently as the shreds of paper slowly drift downwards. When the last scraps had finished their descent and rested motionless on the ground, pages of juicy gossip forever lost, she stood up straight and let out a sigh.

“You’re right,” she said, slowly nodding. “Thanks for stopping me from acting so...boorish. In truth, if someone were to make the mistake of reading my journal – not that I have one – I’m fairly certain that I would immolate them. As a start.”

“A surprisingly measured response,” Orn’tol remarked. “I think you’re growing more mature.”

Malika glared at him. “Must you be so sarcastic?”

Orn’tol blinked. “Sarcastic about what?”

--

A haunting, soulful melody echoed throughout the theater as Zamira reached the end of her song’s final chorus. Riardin’s Rangers stayed perfectly still and quiet, absorbing the experience in full until she’d finished singing the very last verse. As the remnants of Zamira’s voice faded into silence, swallowed up by the depths of the Party’s admiration, Rob found himself at a loss for words. He’d never had an issue with his own voice, but he felt that if he spoke now, his diction would sound like the mumblings of a drunken frat boy in comparison. Zamira’s performance was the most beautiful things he’d heard in a long time, and like the rest of the Party currently sitting in the theater’s front row, he wanted to savor the afterglow and commit as much of it to memory as possible.

Unfortunately, from Zamira’s perspective, she’d sung her heart out and now her friends were staring at her without saying anything. Consternation crept into her demeanor as she tried and mostly succeeded to keep her composure. “Did I perform well?” She asked, her tone wary with a hint of dread.

The Party stood up in unison, clapping and cheering as they sang her praises. Zamira’s eyes widened, her mortification swept aside in an instant. A budding smile warred with pleased embarrassment on her face as if she were a kid at her first club recital. Rob knew that the Party would have clapped regardless of how well she’d done – and on a certain level, so did Zamira – but luckily, she’d knocked it out of the park. They didn’t have to fake a single iota of their applause.

And moreso than being treated to great music in a world where that was depressingly difficult to come by, Rob felt overjoyed that Zamira’s hobby was being given the positive reinforcement it deserved by her friends. Riardin’s Rangers got along well with each other, but most of that was a result of trauma bonding rather than sharing mutual interests. Most of them barely had interests outside of growing stronger and surviving to the next day. Rob wanted their friendships to mean more than that, and he wanted them to have something to live for once the fighting was over. When the dust cleared and the last of their enemies had been put ten feet under, they were going to need hobbies to fall back on to keep the PTSD at bay.

That was what made today so important. Rob knew full well that they weren’t going to get many days like these. There was still a fucking Blight waiting outside the City. He was going to treasure every quiet moment he could get his hands on – and make sure that his friends treasured them too.

“That was even better than your last performance!” Vul’to exclaimed, a broad smile on his face. “Have you been practicing in secret?”

Zamira cleared her throat, arms crossed behind her back. “Perhaps once or twice.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Perhaps...more than twice.”

“It paid off!” Rob yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Encore!”

“Yes, of course, right away.” She paused. “Might I ask what an encore is?”

“It means give us a repeat performance!”

Zamira took a moment to consider something. “If that is your wish, then I have no choice but to oblige,” she said. “However, I believe that before beginning my ‘encore’, I should ensure that our guest isn’t left out of the proceedings. It’s only fair.”

She began to sing again. Six members of the Party grimaced as their ears were assaulted by discordant sounds that their brains couldn’t fully parse. Rob smiled and glanced at Faelynn, who was sitting in her seat with an expression of pure astonishment. Zamira was reprising her performance – this time using Auto-Translate to re-interpret the lyrics from Elvish to Fiendish. Faelynn had sat through Zamira’s first song, and even clapped once it finished, but the actual vocals must have sounded as grating to her as the current song did to the non-Rob members of their Party. And as Rob had already heard the same song just a few minutes ago, it was clear to everyone here this was a performance meant solely for Faelynn’s sake.

A paranoid person might have attributed Zamira’s gesture to political manipulation. By ensuring that the Fiends' ‘diplomatic liaison’ felt welcome within the group, their ties with the Fiends would be strengthened, leading to a more favorable outcome in future negotiations. But Rob didn’t get that impression from Zamira, and neither did Diplomacy. She just wanted to be accommodating to their guest, and by the cheerful look on Faelynn’s face, it was a gesture that hadn’t gone unnoticed.

<This...is nice,> Diplomacy said, his core of emotions tranquil and calm.

Yeah. Rob settled into his seat and smiled. It is.

–

Zamira wanted to bury herself into the ground and never come up for air. It had been twenty minutes since her last song ended and she was still recovering from the embarrassment. How everyone had talked her into granting them a private performance, she would never know, and she could only give her thanks to Lothren that it hadn’t ended up as an unmitigated disaster.

She grimaced, striking the last thought from her mind. Praying to the gods was a reflexive action that would take some time to correct. And more to the point, the notion of thanking the gods for her success would only undermine her own achievements. Every endeavor involved a certain measure of luck, but luck was nothing without effort to reinforce it.

Zamira closed her eyes, and with some effort, forced herself to accept that her friends’ adulation was a response that she had earned on her own merits. Their cheers were gained not through divine assistance, but through a combination of talent, practice, and desire.

“You look happy.”

Zamira’s eyes snapped open. She turned her head towards Faelynn, who was sitting a respectful two seats away. The Fiend’s mouth was slightly open and her eyes were blinking rapidly, almost as if she was surprised that she’d spoken. Zamira decided to rescue Faelynn by replying before an awkward silence could permeate the air.

“’Happy’ isn’t a necessarily incorrect assumption,” she replied. “But ‘satisfied’ is more accurate. For most of my life, I limited the forms of self-expression that I allowed myself to participate in. It was easier to skirt beneath society’s bubble, like a transient breeze passing through an empty road.”

Faelynn raised an eyebrow. “That is a more poetic answer than I expected.”

Zamira’s lips perked up slightly. “I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on my past and come to terms with the woman I used to be. This includes time spent on composing metaphors meant to add a dramatic flair to the fact that I lacked a single friend.”

In truth, choosing Ranger over Swordmaster was but one instance of the ways she’d fled from herself. Zamira had never been particularly adept at forming bonds – owing to her taciturn demeanor, often interpreted as detached – and the fear of societal rejection was a powerful one that had informed many of her decisions. And unlike many others, her family survived the Cataclysm, which only made it easier to forego interactions with her peers. She had her mother and her father; it would be greedy to ask for more. Greedy to waste time practicing singing when she could be honing her martial prowess. Greedy to choose the Class she desired as opposed to the Class that The Village needed.

And so she’d become a Ranger, spurned her own hobbies, scorned Keira like everyone else, and accepted the horrific state of the world as an unassailable fact.

“If there is any silver lining to be gleaned from recent events,” Zamira started. “It is that Elatra coming apart at the seams has forced me to re-examine the type of person I was, and the type of person I want to be. The old Zamira would not have survived so long, I think. She certainly wouldn’t have thrived.”

Zamira inclined her head towards the rest of the Party. “I imagine it’s much the same for them as well.”

At the center of the theater’s stage, Rob and Orn’tol were in the midst of acting out an impromptu play. Orn’tol had cast himself in the role of the mighty hero, while Rob had adopted the guise of a sinister villain. Coaxing the boy out of his shell was no small feat – he seemed wary to take any action that might portray him as immature – but by now he was fully in-character and loving every second of their performance. Currently, he was in the middle of slaying the vile blackguard that had menaced the countryside for years, with Rob clutching his heart and crying out dramatically as he collapsed to the floor.

Vul’to was there as well, playing the part of a piece of scenery. Zamira was...confused regarding how that had come to pass, but he seemed happy, so she wasn’t going to question it.

For the sake of Orn’tol’s pride, the other members of the Party had elected to ignore the boy’s ‘larping session’ – as Rob called it – and find ways to amuse themselves. Keira was teaching Malika how to throw a punch, recommending that she imbue her fists with electric shocks, a prospect that the young Archmage was very enthused about. Meyneth, for her part, was sitting to the side and watching the chaos unfold. She didn’t have the appearance of someone alone and ostracized; rather, she seemed content to relax and soak in the pleasant atmosphere.

If only every day could be like this, Zamira thought. I suppose it may be, once the Blight has been defeated. This warmth, this affection...I need to remember it. When I next have doubts, I’ll recall that this is what I’m fighting for.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” Faelynn suddenly said. “None of you are. Before meeting you, I was already aware – in a distant, objective sense – that Elves had their own society. That they possessed hopes, dreams, and love.”

She grimaced. “But in the end, what did it matter? In my four decades of living, your kind has only ever been an enemy. Of course, the Humans were a significantly bigger threat, but every now and then the Elves would lend their assistance, and they slaughtered our people with the same level of ferocity.”

Faelynn swept her eyes across the room, taking in the sight of Riardin’s Rangers enjoying life. “I find it difficult to reconcile what I’ve experienced for many years with what I’ve learned in the past few days.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “Even though their voices sound like scraping glass, it’s clear as day that they are people I could get along with, time permitted.”

Zamira gave Faelynn a quick once-over, coming to the same conclusion she had with every other Fiend she’d encountered. Once someone got past the – admittedly disturbing – eyes of pure darkness, their race didn’t look so much different than the average Dragonkin. It was a fact she would never say out loud, as most Dragonkin would likely attempt to tear her head off at the accusation, but it made her observation no less true. The carapace that covered half of Faelynn’s skin was similar to Meyneth’s scales, both possessed retractable claws, and the two were of similar height and build. Faelynn had horns and ashen-white skin, but neither of those attributes detracted from her appearance. If anything, she was as attractive as Meyneth. Beauty and strength combined into one form.

Perhaps it was shallow of her to revise her opinions of the Fiends based on how physically appealing they were, but really, how was she supposed to continue thinking of them as horrifying abominations when they were so close to everyday people? The male Fiends were a bit more overly-muscled than normal, and overall not to her liking – for multiple reasons – but they still didn’t look monstrous. And Faelynn was a woman with transparent, relatable emotions who was scarcely older than Zamira herself. The more time she spent with the Fiends, the more her inborn animosity faded, like a dying ember in a winter storm.

It was almost enough to make her forget that they could eat souls.

Faelynn shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Fucking hell.” Her voice rose to a growl. “What was it all for? I’ve lost friends to Humans. Their race’s erasure almost made the destruction wreaked by the Cataclysm worth the tens of thousands of funerals that followed in its wake.”

She sagged into her chair. “And now a Human is the first to speak our language and offer vows of peace. I just...can’t make sense of it anymore.”

“I can’t either,” Zamira admitted. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m glad to have met you.”

Faelynn fell silent. Half a minute later, she spoke. “Thank you. For the song, I mean. It was beautiful.”

Zamira’s mouth widened into a broad smile. “You’re very welcome, Faelynn.”

–

“You know,” Rob said. “Laying on a rooftop and staring at the night sky is a lot more therapeutic than I would have expected.”

Keira nodded, eyes sparkling. “It is, isn’t it? A pity that the others couldn’t join us.”

“Can’t blame ‘em,” he remarked. “It’s getting late. Anyone still awake at this hour is probably out making poor life decisions.”

“Excluding you and I?”

Rob shot her a toothy grin. “Since when did I ever say I made good decisions? Do you have any idea how many all-nighters I’ve pulled?”

She let out an infectious chuckle, causing Rob to join in. In all honesty, while the added company would have been nice, he wasn’t too broken up about the others turning in for the night. They’d already spent the entire day together, and alone time with Keira was never a bad thing.

He breathed out a relaxed sigh and directed his gaze at the night sky. For all the weird ways Elatra was different from Earth – he was never going to get over purple grass – he could at least take solace in the stars. Points of light dotting a coat of blackness, constant and unchanging.

“What I’m about to say will sound cheesy,” Rob began. “But I’m allowed to be cheesy when staring up at a full moon, so hey.” He raised his arm and pointed upwards. “Seeing this kinda makes me feel nostalgic for Earth. Not in a bad way, though. It’s more like...”

He lowered his arm. “Mom, Dad, and Jason could be looking at their own night sky right now. Unlikely, but it’s nice to think about being connected to them in some small way.”

Keira turned her head to look at him. “Earth’s sky is similar to Elatra’s?”

“Would be impossible to tell the difference without a telescope.”

Keira kept her eyes on him. She opened her mouth by a fraction, apparently working up the courage to say something. Rob waited for her to speak up, the casual atmosphere and calming stars leaving him completely defenseless against the precision arrow that Keira’s next words fired straight into his heart.

“If you could return to Earth at this very moment, would you?”

Rob froze, Keira’s gaze locking him in place. The moment stretched into several seconds that might as well have been an eternity. He fought against the urge to turn away; she deserved to be looked in her eyes when he answered.

“I don’t know,” Rob admitted. “On one hand, I definitely want to return. Really, really want to.” He grimaced. “And can you blame me? Christ almighty, this world just gets worse every day. There doesn’t seem to be an end to the shit we keep having to deal with, at least not in the imminent future. Earth has its issues, but it’s heaven compared to Elatra, and at the bare minimum it doesn’t have to deal with eldritch abominations crawling up reality’s asshole.”

Rob paused. “On the other hand,” he continued, “I’d be leaving behind a lot of people who depend on me. My relationship with the Deserters is a bit rocky at times, but they did sever ties with the rest of the Elves to head north, and I know for a fact that some of them did it in support of me. I can’t ignore that, and I can’t ignore that a bunch of them would be dead without my shared Fast Learner and Vitality buffs.”

He made sure to keep his gaze locked intently on Keira’s. “And more importantly, I’d be leaving behind people who I personally care about. The Elders, Riardin’s Rangers...and especially you.”

Keira’s eyes softened. She took a deep breath, exhaled, then spoke.

“When you have the opportunity to return to Earth, take it.” A sad smile spread across her face. “It’s what I want. The gods are our enemies – it’s hard to imagine you lasting another year. As much as I very much like having you around, I would prefer to miss your absence rather than mourn your loss.”

“Not that simple,” Rob answered. “I care about you guys too much. Don’t think this is a decision I’ll be able to make until I get the chance to make it, and even then, it’ll probably come down to how selfish I’m feeling in that exact moment.”

“That’s just how it is?”

“That’s just how it is.”

They fell silent. Minutes of quiet passed.

As if drawn together by a magnetic force, their fingers laced around each other, hands embracing.

Rob closed his eyes, at peace.

<Confess to her,> Diplomacy said.

I still have over a month before my promise to you hits its deadline, Rob replied, without a hint of mirth.

<You are literally holding hands under the moonlight,> Diplomacy sputtered. <This is->

Don’t, Rob desperately begged. Please. Please don’t. I can’t…

It took a great deal of effort to prevent himself from crushing Keira’s hand as his body tensed. Everything hurts, he thought. Corruption’s burning me from inside. And there’s so many things to worry about. Fiends, Blight, Deserters, Gods, Leveling High, Duran. It’s all...I need this. Just a day of no thinking and no responsibilities and no complicated feelings. Don’t fucking take this away from me.

Diplomacy recoiled. A few seconds later, it nodded. <...Okay.>

Rob forced his muscles to relax and tried his best to get back into the mood. He was mostly able to, but from that moment onward until he and Keira split up and headed back to their respective rooms, a thin tendril of worry wrapped itself around his mind, and didn’t let go.

–

From behind her hidden vantage point, Meyneth watched with more than a little exasperation as the two fools left for the night. She was inexperienced in the ways of romance – to put it lightly – but scenarios such as these rarely came up organically. Alone, in a secluded area, under the moonlit stars? She wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d decided to consummate their union right then and there.

Yet there they were, going to bed. Separate beds. Another missed opportunity, she thought, sighing inwardly.

Although upon further reflection, it might have been for the best. Rob and Keira loved each other, yes. That much was apparent. However, love on its own was not enough to sustain a relationship. The numerous falling-outs she’d observed in Dragonkin territory were sufficient proof of that. It was distressingly easy for the warmth of affection to morph into the flames of resentment. The pattern was always the same; enthusiastic paramours would form a relationship without first addressing their issues and insecurities, and their love would fester and decay as a result. It was like trying to build a castle on a foundation made of rotten wood.

Rob and Keira weren’t the worst bundle of issues and insecurities she’d witnessed – Dragonkin romance was fertile ground for explosive melodrama – but they were both wounded people whose brains were addled by youthful lust. That was to say nothing of Zamira waiting in the wings to complicate matters. Not that it was her fault, but reality was what it was.

Meyneth frowned, tapping her claws against her scales. She’d seen groups of friends torn apart over situations less fragile than this. And she happened to like this group of friends. Very much so. She was accepted here; appreciated and cared about for who she was as a person. They enjoyed her company, and she enjoyed theirs.

And she would sooner burn down the city than lose that feeling.

With a nod, Meyneth stood up, her decision made. Waiting had failed to resolve the situation; thus, action was required. She would enlist help, join her mind with theirs, and produce a solution devised to resolve matters amicably on all sides. Keira, Rob, Zamira – you three had best be prepared, she thought, in a dry tone. The least-qualified person for the job is here to provide their aid.

She could only hope that it wouldn’t take overly long to resolve her friends’ issues. That way, they’d have time to share a few nights of passion before the Blight killed everyone.

--

Elder Alessia rubbed her temples and groaned loudly. It was behavior unfitting of an Elder, but she was resting alone in her room, so she could be as obnoxious and inelegant as she damn well pleased. Especially when her head kept pulsing like it was a drum being beaten by an overzealous performer.

One hour, she groused. One hour of Fiendish language lessons in the morning is all it took to reduce me to this state. She, Rob, and the Healers had collectively agreed that if she was going to attempt to learn a Skill that nearly killed Zamira – an idea that the Healers had pleaded with her to reconsider – then they would need to proceed with the utmost of caution. One hour of lessons a day, as opposed to the several straight hours that led to Zamira’s incident, with Healers on immediate standby.

Their caution was rewarded. Soon after the hour transpired, a splitting migraine tore through Alessia’s head like a sword through paper. No brain damage, thankfully, but any longer spent learning Fiendish would have triggered a potentially fatal reaction. It was telling that her headache was only now beginning to subside.

She would, of course, continue her lessons tomorrow. Learning Fiendish was too important of a task to be deterred by simple risk. Based on how long it had taken Zamira to gain Auto-Translate, several more days of one-hour lessons with Rob should suffice, after which she would finally be able to contribute to negotiations in a meaningful way. While the state of her body was...aggravating, the pain was irrelevant, a distraction from the true issue at hand: the Fiends were hiding something related to the Blight. Many somethings, most likely. And until she could understand their language, her chances of figuring out what game they were playing were nonexistent. In the state she was in, she couldn’t even see the board, let alone discern how its pieces were being moved.

To put it bluntly; the current state of affairs was unacceptable. Rob and Zamira had done well thus far, but they weren’t suited for this task. Without the surprise miracle of a sentient godsdamned Diplomacy allying with them, the Deserters would already have been cowed into subservience, slaves to the Fiends’ designs.

Alessia unclenched her teeth and willed herself to relax. Letting her anger continue to flare would only serve to worsen the pounding in her forehead. The Deserters’ predicament was fixable, and if she navigated these treacherous waters with a degree of finesse, the Fiends might end up as friends instead of foes. An absurd notion to consider, but they were living in strange times, indeed. Best that she mentally prepare herself to join forces with the terrors of the north and treat with them as allies.

Besides, it was far more sensible to direct her anger towards those who deserved it.

“I think I hate you,” Alessia said aloud. She didn’t bother clarifying her statement – if its recipients were listening, they could hear her, and they would know who she was speaking to. “It’s a curious feeling,” she continued. “Converting years of worship into loathing over the span of several weeks is like curing yourself of a poison and imbibing another right afterwards. Yet how could I not drink from hatred’s cup now that I know what I know? My ire is the very least of what you deserve.”

She dug her fingernails into her palms. “Were you incapable or incompetent, I would have accepted that,” she said. “Everyone has their limits. I would not have blamed you for an inability to assist your people, frustrating as the notion may be.”

Alessia’s wrists trembled. “Were you uncaring, I would have accepted that as well. You owe this world nothing. I would have put you out of my mind, discarded the possibility of divine intervention coming to our aid in a time of need, and that would have been that.”

Her nails pierced the skin. “Were you malicious towards my generation, and my generation alone, I would have disliked you. Feelings of shock would have given way to confusion, then betrayal, my emotions slowly consolidating into the grim realization that power corrupts even the highest of beings. And yet, even If I’d been subjected to this ghastly scenario, I still would have dealt with the revelation and moved on.”

Blood dripped down her palms. “So many allowances I would have granted you – and yet you target the children.”

Seething fury burst from her throat like an exploding Firebomb. “Do you have any notion in the slightest of what you’ve done to them? Meyneth excluded, Zamira is the oldest among their number, and she is thirty-nine. A technical adult, by society’s standards, but I know better. This is the point in their lives when they should be discovering themselves, engaging in torrid love affairs, and making mistakes to remember fondly decades down the line. Which is to say nothing of the two actual children among their number – gods, Orn’tol has embarked on an aberrant Dungeon Crawl twice. Instead of enjoying life, that group of miscreants has self-stylized themselves as hardened soldiers, neglecting their happiness for the sake of winning the next battle. And the worst part is, I can’t gainsay their decisions, because what they’ve done is necessary. It’s all that’s kept them alive.”

She saw red. “You have ruined their youth. They may regain some of it with time, but not entirely, never entirely. Even now, they struggle to retain a sense of normalcy, but one day is hardly sufficient in that regard. These years will haunt them for the rest of their days.”

Slowly, Alessia unclenched her fists. The pain in her palms and the throbbing in her forehead were paltry concerns. Grains of sand when compared to the desert of suffering that Riardin’s Rangers were being subjected to by deities from on high.

Riardin’s Rangers. They’d gone so far as to honor his memory by naming their Party after him. It was more than Alessia herself had been able to do.

“Initially,” she continued. “I couldn’t fathom why Rob made an attempt to strangle you. Now, I understand all too well.”

No one answered. She didn’t expect them to, nor did she care either way. Her intentions had already been set in stone.

“I’m unsure if there’s a word for what I’m thinking of.” A savage smile that didn’t reach her eyes split across her face. “The killing of a regent is regicide, the killing of a parent is patricide – I suppose the killing of a deity would have to be deicide, yes?”

Alessia smeared her blood across her forehead. It was war paint and a vow all in one. “Mark my words. If Rob is the one to kill you, it’ll be only because I didn’t get there first.”

Chapter 15

On the next day, the Fiends returned with their decision, and – rather unsurprisingly – acquiesced to Rob’s demands. In exchange for full disclosure of the purpose for their journey southward, and for the exact mechanics of how their Blight barrier functioned, and for their best physicians to make an earnest attempt at restoring his Soul-Burnt arm, Rob would divulge the secrets of Crystal Bearer and explain his theory on how to cure Corruption. Their next meeting was scheduled to take place in the early afternoon; Rob and some Elves were already hard at work setting up a rendezvous point that would act as sufficiently neutral ground.

For Meyneth, this represented a small window of opportunity within which to act. Keira, as per usual, would be joining the meeting as a member of Rob’s guard detail. That left Meyneth a single morning to corner their wayward Warrior and have a long-overdue discussion regarding matters of the heart. Perhaps the timing was ill-advised, what with Keira taking part in a critical gathering mere hours after their dialogue would finish, but if Meyneth put off this confrontation every time there was a stressful event in the imminent future, then they would never have it at all. More to the point, Meyneth was by now rightly convinced that Keira might never solve this matter on her own. The world would hardly sit and wait for her to work up her courage. Too much longer and she may miss her chance altogether.

Meyneth would be the first to admit that she was not a typical Dragonkin, but she was still a Dragonkin. Frontal assaults held a perpetual and undeniable allure. The core difference between her and many of her brethren was that she recognized the wisdom of constructing a plan before charging forth into uncharted territory.

Step 1: ‘Enlist Help’ was vital, and without it, Meyneth’s endeavor would have been stillborn in its conception. The backbone of any plan was to recognize what you could and could not accomplish on your own. Meyneth’s contribution to this endeavor would be her general forthrightness and her friendship with Keira and Rob. She was willing, able, and allowed to speak truths to them that others would shy from admitting. What she required assistance with was in the details of her plan’s execution; she knew what to say, but not how to say it.

Thankfully, Step 1 had already been completed. After deciding on a confidante – which took little deliberation – Meyneth approached her erstwhile companion last night and devised a plan of action with them. The two of them mapped out the likeliest possible branching paths that her imminent conversation with Keira would take, wrote a flexible script filled with pointed arguments that could be adapted to a variety of scenarios, and decided on the proper emotional beats to convey in each moment. One bout of memorization later, and preparations were complete.

It was time for the hunt to begin.

Step 2: ‘Locate Keira’ was solved in short order. Once again, she enlisted help, this time in the form of one of her dearest friends.

“Good morning, Vul’to,” she said, approaching the Vanguard outside of his house. “Might I trouble you with a request?”

Vul’to perked up and quickly nodded. For some reason, he seemed especially happy to see her as of late. Meyneth hadn’t the faintest notion of why, but she wasn’t going to complain about someone treating her very presence as special. It was an unfamiliar experience, but a welcome one, to be sure.

“Of course,” he replied. “What can I assist you with?”

“I need to discuss a subject of importance with Keira – do you happen to know where she is?”

Vul’to took a moment to think it over. “Last I saw her, she was heading westward. I believe that she’s claimed an empty spot near the tannery as her own personal training grounds, so I’d wager a fair amount of gold that she’s working out her frustrations on stationary targets as we speak.”

Passing time via exercise, Meyneth thought. She must be nervous about her upcoming meeting with the Fiends. Considering all the ways that it could go wrong, I can scarcely blame her.

“Thank you,” Meyneth, giving Vul’to a smile. “Your aid has saved me valuable time.” She inclined her head, and a moment later, turned away. “Apologies for leaving so soon, but I must go meet with Keira while the morning is still young.”

“Before you go,” Vul’to said, forestalling her departure. “Is aught amiss? You have a severe air about you. If Keira has gotten herself into trouble, I’d like to be there when you speak with her. She’s my friend too, after all. Is there anything I can do to help the both of you?”

Meyneth shook her head. “The offer is appreciated, but my current script only allows for a one-on-one dialogue. Duels grow too frenetic when a third person is added to the fray.”

“Duels? Scripts?” Vul’to raised an eyebrow. “What exactly is about to transpire between you and Keira?”

“It’s nothing overly serious,” She replied. “I’m merely going to trample over her insecurities by forcibly bringing her repressed feelings to light. In doing so, she will no longer be able to hide from making certain important decisions she needs to make, and the resulting flurry of decisive action will set her life on its proper course before the decay of indecision rots her happiness from the inside out.”

“………..What?”

Meyneth adopted a relaxed expression to set him at ease. “Not to worry. I’ve come armed with a plan.”

“That’s...better?”

Leaving Vul’to perplexed and dumbstruck, Meyneth made her way over to Keira’s private training grounds – which was a rather generous interpretation of an empty backyard that long-dead Humans had left behind as a parting gift. When she arrived, Meyneth wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Keira engaging in push-ups. Minuscule beads of sweat ran down the Warrior’s face, and her long, flowing silver hair that stretched down to the small of her back had less than a half-dozen strands out of place. She was a perfect picture of Elven beauty, reaffirming Meyneth’s longstanding theory that the social vampires who’d harassed Keira throughout her youth had insulted her appearance without believing their own words.

Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea why she and Zamira grew a tad envious of my visage, Meyneth thought. Keira especially. The sole purpose of one’s personal appearance is to attract a mate, and she’s long since ensnared Rob in that regard.

“How fares your morning?” Meyneth asked as she approached. Keira grunted in acknowledgment, finished her last ten push-ups in the span of several seconds, and pushed herself to her feet in one final motion. Her task now completed, she greeted Meyneth with a small wave, as an even smaller smile – tinged with apprehension – crept across her face.

“It’s certainly a morning,” the Warrior replied, in a dry tone. “Nothing to do besides wile away the hours until I’m granted the opportunity to stand guard against soulsucking liars. For the third time.” She smirked. “I can only hope that your day has been more fruitful than mine.”

“It is,” Meyneth assured. “I’m in the midst of accomplishing an important task.”

“Really?” Keira leaned a bit closer. “What might that be?”

“Freeing you from the cage you’ve locked yourself within.”

The air may as well have dropped several degrees. “Meyneth,” Keira began, a knifelike edge to her tone. “Fair warning: I’m in a foul mood. Now, would you care to explain that statement of yours?”

“Do you love Rob?”

There it is, she thought, as Keira’s mouth fell open. A decisive blow. Frontal assaults still haven’t lost their luster.

Meyneth counted to five as she watched Keira sputter, the Elf’s silver hair whipping about as she whirled around in a panic to ensure that no one else was nearby. When the time allotted for Keira’s distress had expired, Meyneth repeated her question. No progress could be made without first establishing a proper dialogue. “Do you l-”

“Quiet!” Keira hissed. “What in the world are you doing? You can’t just saunter up and inquire about that topic without even the barest minimum of preamble!”

“Why not?” Meyneth countered. “Do you believe me to be the only person who’s asked themselves that question? I imagine that more than three-quarters of the Deserters have ruminated over the subject by now. Likely with each other, their theories and predictions shared during a pleasant midday lunch as a form of passing amusement.”

Keira’s face flared red as a burning tomato. “Which Villagers have been gossiping?” She said, in a tone that threatened violence. “Give me names. All of them.”

Meyneth lowered her upper eyelids and gave Keira a flat stare. “Doing so would take longer than the day, let alone the morning. As stated, your love life isn’t a matter of secrecy to anyone in possession of functioning eyes and ears.”

“If you’re so damn well sure of yourself,” Keira said, fingers twitching. “Then why bother asking?”

“To gauge your response,” Meyneth said. “On that note: do you love Zamira?”

An exceptionally complicated expression sprung up on Keira’s face. Amongst the Warrior’s roaring tempest of emotions, Meyneth was only capable of parsing out a thick undercurrent of panic; the rest might as well have been hidden beyond a thick fog. Fortunately, Meyneth and her confidante had been prescient enough to plan around Meyneth’s conversational deficiencies. Much like her initial query regarding Rob, this was a question she already knew the answer to. The purpose of asking it was to provoke a response and lead the discussion down a particular path.

“Hmm,” Meyneth said, feigning analysis. “There’s a spark of something in there, but lesser so than with Rob.” She clapped her hands together. “In that case, I fail to see any reason for further delay. I believe that Rob is currently making plans with Elder Alessia – would you prefer seeking him out on your own, or shall I bring him to you?”

“NEITHER.”

“Why not?” Meyneth fixed her eyes forward. “Your heart has already made its choice.”

“...If only it were so simple as that,” Keira replied, in a voice made of granite.

Meyneth let out an audible hum. “You wish to spare Zamira’s feelings?” She offered. Keira hung her head, averted her gaze, and said nothing.

...Three, four, five. “Prolonging your decision will harm them both,” Meyneth stated. “You know this.”

Keira’s shoulders tensed. “...After Men’ta died,” she said, quietly. “Zamira was the first among the people of The Village to put forth an honest attempt at making amends. She approached me of her own accord, admitted her mistakes, and willingly extended a hand of friendship. That meant...so much, and still does. She’s important to me. I don’t want to lose her.”

“You make it sound as if she’s going to run for the hills with tears streaming down her face,” Meyneth said. “Zamira is an understanding person who possesses a deep inner well of strength. Your friendship won’t disintegrate in a flash merely because you gave your heart to another.”

“It might.” Keira released a deep sigh from within her chest. “People often try to keep friendships alive when romantic affections go unrequited. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. The best of intentions won’t always be sufficient – emotions are too complicated by half to predict so easily. What right would I have to demand Zamira’s continued presence around me when it would cause her nothing but pain and resentment?”

The fact that no one has ever held legitimate romantic interest in me grows more appealing by the hour, Meyneth thought, dryly. This is a convoluted mess that I hope to never have to untangle for myself. She took a moment to peruse the branching chain of conversation patterns etched into her mind, and with some degree of trepidation, selected one that was best discussed at the beginning, rather than the end.

“...You could take them both as lovers.” She hazarded. “With their knowledge and consent, of course. Although, if you go that route, I must also recommend that you allocate more points into Endurance. You’ll need it.”

Keira’s eyes widened as large as dishplates. “I can’t possibly do that,” she snapped. “I’m not someone who plays with others’ hearts for my own amusement!”

“Hence the qualifier of ‘with their knowledge and consent’,” Meyneth elaborated. “It’s a slightly more common practice in Dragonkin territory, although I’ve witnessed a few instances among the Deserters. It can work quite well, assuming all parties in the relationship agree and are satisfied with the terms. Rob and Zamira are fond of each other, so they might be perfectly willing to share, and who knows? Perhaps in time that fondness between them will itself grow into love. That way, all parties involved will be on equal footing.”

Keira shook her head violently. “I can’t,” she said, desperate. “Wouldn’t be fair. Wouldn’t feel right. I’m not...”

She screwed her eyes shut and fell silent. Meyneth took a mental step back and dropped the subject as if it were made of burning coals. In truth, while she would have supported whatever decision her friend made, it had been her hope that Keira would decline the option. Meyneth hadn’t lied when she said that she’d seen that particular form of romantic entanglement function quite well; if anything, it resulted in fewer duels to the deaths in broad daylight over hidden paramours. The issue was that it functioned well...for mature people with experience concerning romance. People who were open, honest, and aware of their feelings.

Keira couldn’t even confess to the object of her affections while alone and under the gentle caress of moonlight. It was yet another perfect opportunity squandered after months of stagnation. She exhibited a distressing level of trepidation towards the topic of romance as a whole, and Rob and Zamira were no better. Perhaps the three could revisit the option at a much later date, but presently? They weren’t remotely mature enough to handle the potential insecurities that often arose from entering into a nonstandard relationship. That type of union would end in blood and tears.

Unfortunately, while Meyneth had wanted Keira to decline the option, she hadn’t expected the Warrior to do so with such a frantic tone and pained face. She looked as if she was in the process of being tortured with pins and needles.

“Doesn’t matter,” Keira suddenly blurted out. “This is baseless conjecture. Neither of them feel that way about me.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Here’s a secret: I haven’t learned Seduction. The Prerequisites were never met. No one, in the entire span of my life, has loved me in that manner.”

Meyneth felt a small thrill of joy. It wasn’t often that she was posed a question that she could not only answer, but answer based on her own personal experiences, and without having to rely on outside assistance or a script.

“I haven’t learned Diplomacy,” she said. “And as unlikable as many have found my personality to be, I’m not so dismal at negotiations to warrant that little recognition by the system. I can pinpoint several prime examples where the system should have granted me that Skill, and yet, the desired message never appeared. It made little sense to me until I eventually learned that, for whatever reason, some people simply can’t learn certain Skills. We exist as arbitrary blind spots in the system.”

She crossed her arms. “At the time, the knowledge shocked me to my core. Now, after witnessing Rob’s interactions with the system, I am no longer surprised that it can be...imperfect.”

Keira was staring, blank-faced. “You think I’m one such blind spot?”

“I find that assumption far more likely than the alternative,” Meyneth snorted. “Unless you mean to tell me that the two people who have been gaping at you for months with starstruck eyes wouldn’t take you to bed if given one clear signal of intent.”

Keira, once again, fell silent. Meyneth started her count.

At ‘three’, Keira spoke. “Doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “They don’t care anyway.”

“Keira-”

“IT’S FINE AS IT IS!” The Warrior bellowed. Meyneth’s claws reflexively extended by a half-inch as Keira snarled, eyes wild. “Don’t you get it?! Things right now are stable! If I make the wrong move, this happiness I have, it, it all goes to shit in the time it takes to fucking blink! And so what does it matter if I’m some sort of system blind spot? That proves nothing! Rob and Zamira might be attracted to me – for some fucking reason – but that doesn’t mean they love me, they just want-”

Keira slammed her lips shut, shame and self-loathing bursting across every inch of her expression.

Ah, Meyneth thought. I erred.

She’d assumed that Keira’s lack of self-confidence stemmed from the Elf’s poor treatment by The Village as a whole. What Meyneth was witnessing now went even deeper than that. Someone, a specific someone, had taken Keira’s self-worth, dragged it through the mud, and tossed it aside without a second’s care.

Meyneth didn’t need outside assistance to recognize that kind of hurt.

Her first impulse was to find the Someone in question and devour their innards. Unfortunately, that would require learning who the Someone was, and she doubted Keira was in the mood to share that information at present.

The script didn’t account for this, Meyneth groused. And if I could fix this kind of pain with mere words, I would have helped myself long ago.

“My apologies,” was all she could say. “I pressed too far.”

Keira’s posture relaxed by a fraction. “It isn’t your fault,” she said. “This isn’t a subject I’ve discussed with...anyone. Ever.”

“Do you wish to-”

“No.” Keira closed her eyes. “Leave it be, please.”

Neither of them knew what to say after that. As a distraction from the awkward silence enveloping her in a cold embrace, Meyneth picked up the shattered pieces of her script and began to look them over, seeing if there was anything left to salvage. I can’t solve Keira’s internal hardships, she thought. But her external stressors are a different matter. She won’t have to worry about rejecting Zamira if a rejection is no longer necessary.

“Thank you for your time,” Meyneth said, inclining her head at the now-taciturn Warrior. “I sincerely pray that the dark specters of your past will cease to trouble you in the near future. Please focus on setting those thoughts in order; in the interim, I will do my best to assist Zamira to the greatest extent of my capabilities.”

Meyneth turned around and walked away, her stride brimming with purpose and her head racing with possibilities. This conversation with Keira was only the beginning; she wouldn’t stop until the three fools who called her a friend were living their lives to their fullest. They deserved that much and more. Motivation infused her soul, and her stride became a sprint, the disparate ideas floating within her mind slowly coalescing into a plan.

Had she been slightly less motivated, she likely would have stayed long enough for Keira’s thoughts to catch up with everything that just transpired.

“Wait,” Keira said, to an empty backyard. “Assist Zamira how?”

–

“I’m sorry,” Taleya stated.

Rob blinked a couple times. “Okaaaaay,” he said. “About what?”

Her downcast eyes snapped upwards in an instant. “What do you mean ‘about what’?” She exclaimed, with a note of irritation. “Must I describe – in detail – every single facet of my blunder?”

Guess this is why she wanted to talk in a secluded area, he thought, furrowing his eyebrows. “Well that’s just rude. This apology doesn’t sound very sincere at all.”

She sputtered. “You don’t even know what it’s for!”

“That’s hardly an excuse.”

Taleya was about to retort when Rob let out a snort, his poker face cracking. “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckled. “Couldn’t help myself. Seriously, though, I can’t remember what you would need to apologize for. Unless it’s because you’re the one who told Urian that I’m the ‘flame-addled simpleton’ who keeps using all the Firebombs, in which case, apology not accepted, what the hell is wrong with you.”

“I’m fairly certain that was Jevora,” Taleya remarked. “Heard her complaining once or twice about a lack of ‘forceful illumination’ for her birthday celebration in several weeks.”

“Oh my god, it was that nouveau riche jerkoff?” Rob ran his hands down his face. “Just knew she would try and get back at me one day. She’s had it out for me ever since I told her braindead husband that he couldn’t fill up Spatial Storage space with his giant-ass luxury bed.”

He paused. “What were we talking about again?”

“I was apologizing.” Taleya winced. “Would it be a proper show of sincerity if I helped you devise a plan to feed Jevora and her husband to the Blight?”

“That’s in extremely poor taste. Let me think about it.” Rob raised an eyebrow. “Should probably explain why you’re apologizing first, though.”

“I walked away!” Taleya said, throwing her hands up in the air. “When you revealed that the gods were targeting you and your friends out of a sense of sick and twisted amusement, I couldn’t bear to hear it. And when Vul’to later told me that a god spoke to you, with words of bitter hatred no less, I couldn’t bear to hear that either.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I should be offended or relieved that you’ve apparently forgotten about it already.”

“Trust me, I didn’t forget.” Rob sighed. “The thing is, as annoyed as I was when you stormed out, I can’t really blame you for it. What I said can’t have been easy to accept.” He paused. “Mind telling me what’s changed between then and now?”

“I required time to come to terms with the...implications,” she grimaced. “Of a world where its creators are sadistic creatures of vice. And to grow weary of being a damned coward who spent every day avoiding her closest allies out of lingering shame.”

“Honestly, it’s not a big deal,” Rob said. “I figured you would come around eventually. Didn’t really need or expect an apology.” He smirked. “And at this point, it just feels kind of weird not having you in the Party.”

Her grimace deepened. “You are owed another apology,” Taleya murmured. “I repeatedly joined your Party at every possible opportunity in an attempt to ingratiate myself and become a permanent recipient of Fast Learner.”

Rob rolled his eyes. “Taleya, I’m not stupid. I knew that too.”

She winced. “Was I that blatant?”

Rob held his thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart. “Little bit.”

Taleya rubbed her forehead. “Shit. Forgot you were a prescient bastard with a Diplomacy of 10 or god knows what. I don’t suppose you happen to have any magic words to help soothe the crippling guilt I feel over Randor and Lycia’s death? If I’d offered my position in your Party to them – and others – on more occasions, they would have been higher-Leveled when the Blight came.”

Rob’s smile faded. “Wasn’t your fault or mine,” he said, in a small voice. “A few Levels here and there wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Told myself that already,” Taleya said. “Didn’t work. The effort is appreciated, though. Thank you.” She hesitated. “And...thank you for the easy forgiveness. I swear that I won’t take it for granted.”

“Hey, I’m no saint,” Rob said. “What if I’m being chill – as in, lackadaisical – about this whole thing because I want to make you feel indebted to my overflowing generosity?”

“Then I must beg you to teach me your ways.”

They shared a smirk. A moment later, Taleya’s gaze sharpened. “In all seriousness – be wary when meeting with the Fiends,” she stated. “They’re planning something. Those who quickly agree to terms they dislike are either pragmatic or underhanded. I’d bet the depths of my coffers that the black-eyed behemoth of a Fiend you met with before is both.”

“Figured as much,” Rob sighed. “I’ll be on guard for chicanery and duplicity and all that jazz. I doubt they end up trying anything too bad – especially since we’ve been scoping out the meeting spot since sunrise – but my finger’s on the panic button until further notice.”

“Then go with Lothren’s grace – argh.” Taleya made a face like she’d smelled a sewage pump. “May the day when I stop giving praise to those reprobates out of habit come soon. Simply put: good luck, Rob.”

Rob’s heart swelled with pride as Taleya held up her hand for a high-five. After the Deserters’ sacred ritual had been performed, he said his goodbyes and started making his way over to the meeting location.

Thanks for staying out of that one, Rob thought, as he walked.

<Figured you’d want to handle it on your own,> Diplomacy replied. <But I have free rein to pick apart the Fiends at my leisure, right?>

Abso-fucking-lutely.

The Deserters and Fiends had agreed to rendezvous at a small house in neutral territory. Three people from each side would show up, say their greetings, and then immediately start to exchange information and take a look at Rob’s arm. He was bringing Keira and Zamira, while the Fiends were bringing Goroth, Faelynn, and one of their Healers. Keira’s Danger Sense was a necessity in the event of an ambush, and Alessia had reluctantly acceded her spot to Zamira after recognizing that a second person with Fiendish Auto-Translate was more valuable than an Elder with a splitting headache. Most importantly, Helkath wasn’t attending – thank Christ – so in theory, the whole affair should go off without a hitch.

It wouldn’t, but a man could dream.

Keira was waiting for him when he arrived. He gave her a wave, his good cheer fading when he noticed how on edge she was. Shuffling in place, eyes twitching, fingers inching towards her greatsword – she seemed about ready to fight the next thing that looked at her funny. The other Elves nearby had noticed her demeanor and made themselves scarce, and they only spared a moment to glance at Rob’s arrival before studiously turning away. If sparks were about to fly, then they didn’t want to stay too close and be set aflame.

“Keira?” He asked. “You okay?”

At the sound of his voice, every muscle in Keira’s body stiffened. “Rob!” She said, in a warbly falsetto. “You’re here!”

“...I sure am,” he said. “Going to have to repeat my question of ‘you okay’, because you’re not exactly filling me with confidence.”

“Everything is fine!” she proclaimed. Rob raised his eyebrows to the very top of his forehead. A second later – and with visible effort – Keira forced herself to relax until she’d attained something resembling composure.

“Not everything is fine,” she admitted. “But it won’t affect our meeting with the Fiends, and it’s a matter that I’d prefer be discussed at a later time.”

Rob examined her for a few moments before shrugging. “Your call. If you say you’re good, then you’re good. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need something, though.”

“Of course,” Keira said, a bit more at ease. “Thank you.” She paused. “As an aside, did you – by any chance – happen to speak with Meyneth today?”

“Haven’t seen her. Did hear on the grapevine that she was going around and talking to random civilians for whatever reason.” The arrival of a familiar face caught his eye. “You could ask Zamira – she might know more.”

For reasons that she refused to explain, it took Keira a few solid minutes to regain her composure after that comment.

–

It turned out that the Fiends’ chicanery and duplicity had started early, because when Rob, Keira, and Zamira arrived at the meeting location, an important figure was already missing.

“Where’s Goroth?” Rob asked, as he hesitantly sat down at the table. “I was led to believe he would be here.”

“That was the planned arrangement, yes,” Faelynn explained, as she fiddled her fingers with nervous energy. “However, after further consideration, he decided that it could cause a power imbalance if a Level 36 Fiend was present at a non-hostile meeting between allies. As a...um...show of good faith, he elected to switch out his attendance for that of a second Healer, in order to better facilitate the restoration of your injured arm.”

<Her eyes looked left for an instant,> Diplomacy stated. <Towards the Healer standing at her shoulder. Heard the news from him, not directly from Goroth. Additionally, she’s unsure of her position as the new de facto head of the Fiends’ side, and may subconsciously defer to the Healer in moments of doubt due to him presumably being the last person to receive orders from her leader.>

The breadth of information that Diplomacy – currently Level 16 – could glean from a flicker of movement was mildly terrifying. Is their Healer telling the truth?

<Insufficient data. Keep them talking.>

“Don’t appreciate the short notice change,” Rob said, directing a wintry gaze at the Fiends. “But as long as you’re officially speaking for Goroth, then I’m willing to roll with the punches.”

He lifted his limp right arm and laid it onto the table. “Speaking of punches, I miss being able to throw them. Before we get started on the information exchange, I’m going to need at least a cursory examination of what Soul-Burnt is and how to fix it. Otherwise it’ll be on my mind the entire time we’re talking.”

“Of course,” Faelynn said, eager to please. “That’s why Yezrun and Sigdra are here, after all.”

“He’ll need to explain his nature,” the older male Healer – Yezrun – intoned. “I won’t take one step closer until he does.”

Faelynn was too slow to hide her wince of anxiety. Keira laid a hand on Rob’s shoulder and kept it there. Rob narrowed his eyes at Yezrun, who returned his gaze with a hard stare that brooked no argument, the man glaring forward with two orbs of pitch-black surrounded by furrowed lines of age and hardship.

<Not bad,> Diplomacy remarked. <But I see disgust and terror lurking beneath those eyes. His stoicism is a mask – brittle stone that may crack with the slightest pressure.>

Rob sighed internally. What, does he want to throw up too?

<As does the second Healer,> The Skill pulsed with determination. <Be forthright. Unearth their true colors.>

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Rob said. He leaned closer, causing the Healers to tense and flinch backwards, their masks slipping. “What does ‘nature’ mean, exactly? Say what’s on your mind – we’re all friends here.” Theoretically.

The three Fiends glanced at each other, unspoken words passing between them. “Our people can use Soul Magic,” Faelynn eventually said, speaking slowly. “This includes an inherent Racial Skill called Soul Sight. Explaining the sensation would be similar to explaining sight to a blind man, so for the sake of simplicity, imagine that each person has a soul nestled inside their body, and Soul Sight allows us to discern their soul’s makeup at a glance. Each race follows a general template, although individual souls are uniquely distinguishable from one another.”

Rob leaned closer – this time, out of interest. “So you can ‘see’ my soul’s arm? Does it look fucked up?”

“...Yes,” she replied, at a loss. A moment later, her face brightened as if she’d been struck by some sort of epiphany. “Are Zamira and Keira unaware of your Status? Is that why you aren’t-”

“They know anything and everything that I do.” Not even Diplomacy was a secret anymore.

“Oh.”

More silence. Rob tamped down his irritation; according to Diplomacy, it wasn’t the right moment for him to turn up the aggression. A few more vague avoidances on the Fiends’ part, and it would be.

“Faelynn, this is the fourth time we’ve met in so many days. There’s no need for subtlety or doublespeak anymore.” He gestured, palm open. “I won’t take offense if-”

“Feigning ignorance, even at this stage?” Yezrun interrupted. “Predictable. You were given a chance, creature, and you squandered it.”

He pounded both fists on his shirtless chest. Markings that Rob had assumed were tattoos lit up with a brilliant white light. His inner ear protested as the space around them warped, leaving Rob feeling like he was a passenger on a plane that had abruptly taken a ninety-degree nosedive. The sensation dissipated as quickly as it came, and when his vision cleared, Rob was unable to stop himself from firing off a string of expletives in both languages.

He, Keira, and Zamira were surrounded. Yezrun’s teleportation spell had transplanted five new Fiends into their now-cramped meeting room. All were Combat Class users over Level 25, none of them seemed very happy to be there, and one of them just so happened to be Rob’s ‘favorite’ Fiend of all.

“Helkath!” Faleynn stood and jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “What in Argath’s name are you doing here?! When Goroth hears-”

“Goroth knows,” Helkath said, stepping forward. “Stand down – my actions are sanctioned.”

<No they aren’t,> Diplomacy said, in the tone of a gossiping housewife. <Ooooh snap, there’s been a coup. Wonder if Goroth is still alive.>

Rob sighed. I really wish I was surprised.

Faelynn and Helkath descended into a short argument that the latter, with his superior numbers and presumptive authority, was guaranteed to win. Yezrun the Trojan Horse Healer was also on Helkath’s side, making Faelynn’s only nominal support the second Healer she’d brought along, who was already doing her best to shrink into her seat and disappear. Recognizing that anything they could say would be like throwing gasoline on a fire, Rob, Keira, and Zamira sat back and watched in silence.

That didn’t mean they were idle. As soon as the Fiends’ argument began, Rob removed Vul’to from his Party. It sent a signal to the Deserters on the outside – specifically, that things on the inside were fucked, but not so fucked that it was time for them to storm the gates and mount a rescue. Keira kept her hand at its place on Rob’s shoulder without increasing or decreasing her grip strength, a silent message that her Danger Sense hadn’t gone off, meaning that despite the teleportation ambush, none of the new Fiends intended them imminent bodily harm. And while the Fiends were distracted by their verbal slapfight, Rob tapped his ring finger twice on his inner thigh, signifying to Keira and Zamira that he was going to stick around and see where this plane crash was going to land before bailing. If the second negotiation was anything to go by, Helkath was far more honest when emotionally compromised, and Rob wanted answers while the Fiend was in the mood to give them.

After all, this wasn’t just Helkath acting on his own. Numerous Fiends had gotten together and agreed that supplanting their leader and invading a glorified luncheon was a perfectly logical course of action. There had to be a damn good reason for that – and if there wasn’t, Rob was going to start breaking kneecaps. With that pleasant thought in mind, he repeatedly cast Not A Scratch in case of a sudden attack, kept his finger on the Waymark panic button, and waited for the Fiends’ infighting to subside.

One minute later, Faelynn sank into her chair, defeated. Helkath turned his dark gaze towards Rob, face taut with emotion. “Rob,” he began, phrasing the name like an insult. “If I am here, it is because you – a man who propagates lies of mutual trust and understanding – are still refusing to admit your true nature. You claim the moral high ground with every breath you take, yet you expect us to ignore the falsehood that has been staring us in the face since the moment we laid eyes upon you. I say: no more. This mutual fiction has been allowed to persist for far too long.”

“Shut the fuck up, Helkath,” Rob said, disregarding Diplomacy’s instructions. “I’m sick of your shit. You’re lucky that your actions haven’t already led to the death of every Fiend in Broadwater.”

Black eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat, creature?”

“It’s an obvious outcome to a predictable series of events,” Rob said, like he was explaining 2 + 2 to a child. “We set up a peace treaty. You broke it. Want to know what happens when peace treaties get broken? People die. For extremely avoidable reasons. Do they not teach History class in Fiendland?”

“Peace with a monstrosity such as you is doomed to failure,” Helkath scoffed. “If Goroth had the sense to realize that, he would have struck you down when the chance presented itself. The fact that he is willing to parlay with Elves who accept you as one of their own is an affront to good sense.”

“You know, the Elves weren’t nearly so bitchy as you when they first met me,” Rob countered. “And considering they tried to kill me on sight, that’s really saying something. I get that there’s bad blood here, but maybe if you took a second to pull your head out of your ass, you’d be able to see that I’m not like the Humans you’ve fought against in the past.”

“That much is certain,” Helkath growled. “As you are no Human at all.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“I mean...okay?” Rob replied, ignoring the undercurrent of dread welling up from the bottom of his gut. “Status Screen says otherwise. Can’t show it to you, but it says ‘Race: Human’, right there in big bold text.”

“Then you are a liar,” Helkath continued. “Or the system is wrong. For decades, I have seen Humans, fought Humans, killed Humans. The shape of their souls are as well-known to me as any Fiend’s. And you, creature, are no Human.”

The Fiends he’d brought with him adopted aggressive stances and extended their claws. Rob didn’t care. The sight of a group of hostile, battle-ready soldiers was nothing compared to the sensation of the world falling out from under him that Helkath’s proclamation had induced.

“No more tricks. No more lies.” The Fiend pointed a glimmering claw at Rob’s face. “This is your final chance, so speak well.”

He bared his teeth. “What are you, and whose soul did you devour?”

Chapter 16

<Rob,> Diplomacy urged. <Calm down.>

I’M SUPER CALM DON’T WORRY, Rob giggled. I MEAN WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL IT’S NOT LIKE SOMEONE WHO CAN LITERALLY SEE SOULS SAID I’M NOT HUMAN AND ALSO THAT I ATE A SOUL HAHA WHAT A FUNNY JOKE.

Diplomacy reached over and gave him the mental equivalent of a hard slap to the face. <There’s an explanation,> the Skill declared. <There’s *always* an explanation. Ask Helkath for further details – trying to fill in the blanks on your own will just drive you insane. Trust me, I can see Exhibit A of that eventuality playing out right in front of me.>

Rob bit his tongue. Hard. Push Through dulled its effect from a yell to a wince, but that small jolt of pain managed to be enough to shake him out of the mental spiral he’d been tumbling down. Rob inhaled, then exhaled, letting the stress flow out with his breath.

“I’ve got a lot of Corruption,” Rob said, causing the group of nine Fiends to tense in unison. “Like, a lot a lot. Maybe that’s throwing off your ‘eyesight’?”

“Corruption is a parasite,” Helkath hissed. “It drains souls, but it does not alter them.”

“Okay.” Rob drummed his fingers on the table. “Right. Helkath, when you look at my soul, what do you see?”

The Fiend bared his teeth in disgust. “A patchwork abomination,” he began. “Your soul – if it can truly be called one – is an amalgamation of disparate constructs that have been haphazardly mashed together into a facsimile of life. There is a ball of sentience at your core, but its purity has been...perverted by whatever foul process you’ve inflicted upon yourself. To describe it in terms that people lacking Soul Sight can comprehend, imagine a torso of living flesh with a beating heart inside. In place of functioning limbs, rotted legs and arms have been stitched onto your extremities, their movement possible only through the tugging of a puppeteer’s strings. Those limbs have additional limbs stitched on their knees and elbows, their forms misshapen and blurred, their function impossible to comprehend. Your head has not yet necrotized, and its brain contains a spark of life, but your hair is falling out in chunks of matted shock-white fibers, and in place of ordinary teeth are points of jagged knives. An overwhelming odor of decay emanates from you at all times, worse than a cemetery of open graves filled with weeks-old corpses. And even if every single one of these atrocities was removed, leaving only the parts of your soul that are ostensibly normal, I would still refuse to call you Human. I have sensed Humans, and the pulse of your soul is not theirs.”

Rob lowered his gaze and stared at the table. It was better than making eye contact with anyone in the room.

“Oh.”

Thoughts frozen. Breath short.

“I see,” he said, softly. “I guess that’s why you guys keep throwing up when I’m around.”

Helkath’s face twisted into a rictus of loathing. “Indeed it is – and I’ve still yet to lay bare your greatest sin. Beneath the surface of your mockery of a soul is another soul. It is attached, yet separate, bulging upward from underneath like a great lump straining for freedom. This second soul is distinct from yours, and worse still, it is alive. Rather than sitting dull and empty, it pulses with life and thought, a sentient mind trapped within the confines of your body.”

The Fiend’s hand trembled, his claws pointed straight at Rob’s throat. “To devour a soul is the highest of all possible transgressions,” he began. “For so many years, that is what I believed. How could there possibly be anything worse?” A snarl tore out of his throat. “You, creature, have opened my eyes. There is indeed a higher transgression than devouring a soul – and that is to imprison one. Instead of consuming its energies and sending it to merciful oblivion, you have seen fit to shackle this soul to yours, prolonging its torment for the sake of...I cannot imagine. Stealing its Skills? Drawing upon its knowledge? The sick pleasure of simple sadism? It is a question I dread to ask, as every answer is reprehensible.”

He inched his claws forward. “Your crimes are beyond forgiveness. Beyond redemption. In the interest of fairness, I will give you one final opportunity to explain yourself before gutting you like the monster you are.”

<...Okay,> Diplomacy said, snapping out of their shocked daze. <This is...a tough one. Let me think->

“There!” Helkath hissed. “The soul pulses with thought. Even now, it begs for release.”

Realization struck Rob and Diplomacy like a hammer.

<This answers one or two questions and raises so many others,> Diplomacy said, lightheaded.

Christ almighty, Rob assented. I just – you know what? Screw this. I need time to process...all that, and beefcake over there isn’t going to let me have it.

“I have an explanation,” Rob flatly stated. “Which, frankly speaking, you won’t believe.”

“The typical first words of a silver-tongued liar,” Helkath sneered.

Alright then. Rob sent Helkath a Party Invitation, and on a whim, sent one to Faelynn as well. Both their eyes widened in surprise. Either through reflex or simple curiosity, they accepted his invitations, and were summarily added without any fuss.

‘Waymark.’

In the quarter-second it took Waymark to teleport Rob’s Party out of the room, Helkath lunged forward. Keira punched him in the eye, meaning that when the teleport finished, Helkath was in the process of falling on his ass when the world re-asserted itself. He scrambled to his feet in a flash, claws lengthening – and immediately stopped short when he realized he was surrounded by fifteen Elven Combat Class users who had been notified when Rob removed Vul’to from the Party ten minutes ago.

“What just happened?” He sputtered, eyes swiveling back and forth.

“You got counter-kidnapped,” Rob answered. He cleared his throat, pointed forward, and proclaimed the Deserters’ secret code words. “Stranger danger!”

The Elves moved to apprehend Helkath, and thankfully, he wasn’t quite enough of a dumbass to resist arrest when so badly outnumbered. Faelynn stood there in silence, her head lowered and cupped in both hands. For his part, Helkath twitched with impotent rage as he was restrained, shouting a strangled plea before the Deserters carted him away to a reinforced jail cell.

“You don’t understand!” he yelled. “That thing is an abomination! It’s...”

Helkath’s expression when he remembered that no one could understand him caused Rob’s mouth to split into a savage grin. He drank down the resulting schadenfreude like a dying man in a desert, making sure to savor every last drop.

It was one final silver lining to keep him sane in the face of a fast-approaching shitstorm.

–

Keira leapt from rooftop to rooftop with practiced grace, eyes sweeping the empty streets of Broadwater like a hawk searching grassy thickets for a mouse. Her heart was beating rapidly, adrenaline coursing through her body as she awaited for that perfect moment to arrive. As soon as she spotted her prey, she would fall upon them like the spectre of death, ripping out their necks before they had a chance to realize that their lives had come to an end. Her hands quivered with rage, aching to be used, desperate to inflict pain.

If only her companions weren’t so fucking slow. Granted, she was nine Levels above the next-highest in the Party, but that did little to stymie the mounting frustration burning in her gut as their group of six blitzed through Broadwater. She knew that it was necessary to slow her pace – the hunter could easily become the hunted if they allowed themselves to be outnumbered – but by the gods, if their prey managed to escape, her fury wouldn’t be spent until she’d toppled an entire street’s worth of houses. The anger racing in her mind mingled with her need for a decisive victory, becoming an all-consuming desire that would only be quenched with sword-drawn blood.

She had failed the Deserters when the Blight came. But this? This was an enemy she could fight.

Thankfully, tracking their targets was no trouble whatsoever. Her group consisted of three Rangers, and all six people in their Party had at least Level 7 in Hunting. It was simply a matter of closing the gap before the mice could scurry on home.

Almost, almost, almost, THERE.

Seven Fiends ran through the streets of Broadwater as if their lives were in peril – which was accurate. Keira bared her teeth and activated Step of the Wind, Bulk Up, and after a moment of consideration, cast a Quickness spell on herself. It would leave less MP for her Warrior Class Skills, but this was a situation where speed was paramount. Fiends were too naturally strong to fight head-on; allowing them to catch their bearings would result in a brutal defeat. Instead, her Party would strike hard, fast, and with devastating force, a bolt of lightning in the form of Elven wrath.

She was practically licking her lips in anticipation.

The Fiends ran, and ran, and ran. They were fast, and fear was spurring them to move even faster than their limits. But faster than Elves born and bred in Ixatan? No, their fate had been sealed the moment they were spotted. The events that followed were simply a matter of course.

100 feet. 50 feet. 25 feet.

Now.

Orn’tol’s arrow struck the ground in the center of the Fiend’s group. It shattered on impact, spewing out a gray mist in all directions. Their movement was cut in half, determined faces slowly morphing into expressions of panic. In the several seconds before Orn’tol’s Temporal Trap subsided, a deluge of violence rained down on the Fiends, decimating their ranks. Keira’s greatsword, wreathed in a blue aura, launched forward like a spear and struck one Fiend straight in the head. He crumpled and fell; a quick Identify marked him as alive, but barely. Her throw was immediately followed by four empowered arrows flying true as they pierced deep into various appendages, crippling one Fiend and injuring two more.

A good start. But her Party’s ambush had still left standing one uninjured Combat Class user, two more who were injured but able to fight, and two Healers who were rushing to rejuvenate their fallen allies. If left unchecked, the Fiends could potentially mount a counterattack, glimmers of renewed hope flaring in their souls as they then rallied to a hard-won victory.

That won’t do, Keira thought, as her greatsword reappeared in her hands. That won’t do at all. She landed deftly on the paved brick road and rushed towards the Fiends’ Healers like an arrow let loose from a bow, a laugh on her lips and a song in her heart.

The uninjured Fiend moved to intercept her. Temporal Trap had faded by then, so he ran at his full speed, nearly as fast as Keira despite her speed buffs. Her Danger Sense sounded the alarm; a moment later, she tilted her head several inches sideways to avoid a set of piercing claws that would have minced her brain. Their razor-sharp edges, glowing red with the aura of a Combat Skill, managed to scrape her face and pop an eye, but with Rob’s shared Vitality buffs, the damage was far less than it could have been. She could still fight, and later, she would heal.

Meanwhile, every drop of blood she spilt from her enemies was a drop they couldn’t afford to spare.

Keira’s greatsword wreathed with energy once more as Power Slash slammed into the Fiend’s torso. He cried out in pain as his carapace cracked like brittle wood. To his credit, he planted his feet and stood his ground. It was a show of valor that cost him dearly – had he allowed himself to be knocked aside, he wouldn’t have been in range for Keira’s follow-up attack. The Fiend grabbed for her sword, but Keira turned sideways and swung it back around, empowering it with yet another Skill as Circle of Death pulled her body around in a spin. Her greatsword crashed into the opposite side of his torso, but instead of the expected crack of carapace, Keira’s blade bounced off the Fiend as if it had struck an unbreakable wall. The telltale shimmer of Not A Scratch faded from the Fiend’s body, and with a guttural roar, he lacerated her upper-left torso with a wide sweep of his claws.

A grievous wound. Normally. In this case, with shared Vitality buffs, it was merely harsh. The Fiend’s shocked expression when she muscled through the pain and brought her greatsword down on his head like a five-foot hammer was a sight she made sure to commit to memory.

Her foe toppled to the ground in a twitching heap. Keira whirled around, blade ready – only to find that her allies had dealt with the rest of the Fiends. Zamira, Orn’tol, Taleya, and two other Rangers stood over their fallen prey, arrows aimed and swords pressed against necks. Half the Fiends were unconscious, and somehow, all of them had survived. That last fact came as a surprise. She had thought that one or two Fiend deaths would be an acceptable amount of casualties, but in a sense, their natural durability gave them minor Vitality buffs of their own.

Not that it had saved them.

“Here,” Zamira said, rushing forward with a Potion in hand. “Drink up before you lose too much blood.”

Keira gratefully accepted and downed the Potion, although truthfully, she wasn’t sure if it was necessary. Platelet Party was already stemming the laceration’s bleeding. Her other scratches were superficial, and the eye...well, Push Through dulled the pain, and Regrow Limb would restore it before the day was over. No harm done.

Keira almost burst out laughing as she considered how absurd that thought was. Shared Vitality buffs were an incredible blessing that had altered her fundamental tenets of battle strategy. The Skills’ effects allowed her to fight recklessly, which was a greater advantage than one might realize. Soldiers in combat usually had to act with caution; even if they won, there was no point in the victory if they took permanent injuries that would haunt them the rest of their days. Daring bravado produced corpses and cripples just as often as it inspired legends and songs.

That wasn’t the case for a person with Vitality buffs – specifically, Rob’s Vitality buffs. Regrow Limb was an uncommon Skill while Regeneration was an exceptionally rare one. It was unlikely that she would have ever fulfilled their Prerequisites without expiring in the process. The fact that she had access to them on a build that prioritized Strength and Dexterity over Vitality was, in a word, unfair. She fought with the ferocity of a Warrior and the survivability of a Vanguard, and as long as she lived, nothing else mattered. Every nonlethal injury her foes inflicted on her was immaterial; Regeneration and Regrow Limb would fix all her woes.

She couldn’t envision any possible set of Skills that suited her fighting style better.

One Fiend – a Healer – started babbling in that grating language of theirs. Keira silenced her with a wave of her hand, then faced Zamira. “What did she say?”

Zamira arched an eyebrow at her. “I believe that she was in the middle of surrendering. That Fiend is, if you’ll recall, the sole one besides Faelynn who wasn’t a collaborator in Helkath’s plot. Presumably.”

“Fantastically bad luck – if our assumption is correct,” Keira replied. “Tell her that she is to stay silent. At present, I hold a sliver of pity for her predicament. That pity will wither away with every subsequent word that passes through her lips.”

Zamira translated, and the Healer sat on the ground, gulping audibly.

“Very good.” Keira swept her eye across the Fiends before pointing at one of the Combat Class users that was still conscious. “I’ll be speaking with him. Zamira, please continue to act as my translator as we engage in what will undoubtedly be a calm, civil discussion.”

Technically, Taleya and the two Rangers had seniority over her, but she was Level 37 and possessed Level 5 Intimidation. If any of them were foolish enough to try and wrest command of the interrogation away from her, then it would be a mistake they sorely regretted.

Although that regret would have been a puddle compared to the ocean the Fiends would soon be submerged in.

Keira stepped forward and gazed down at the shivering fool. “You invaded a peace negotiation,” she said, serenely.

“We’ll cooperate,” he said, Zamira translating his words. “We only did what we thought was best for all. You must understand – that creature is dangerous. If left unchecked, it will devour your group from the inside out, and our people will be the ones next served on its platter.”

“You invaded a peace negotiation,” she repeated. “And tried to kill us.”

His eyes widened. “We made no attempts on your lives.”

“Yet.” Keira tilted her head. “Once Helkath’s judgement was fully laid down, what would you have done? Listened to our pleas? Went home quietly? That sounds far less likely than the imminent assassination we escaped by mere seconds. And while Rob was your target, I doubt you show Zamira or I the barest fraction of mercy in your efforts to slay our friend. Therefore, your people tried to kill us.”

She leaned forward, and spoke in a voice as tranquil as the night sky. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He said nothing.

Keira nodded, hefted her greatsword, and pressed it against the Fiend’s neck.

Everyone tensed. Zamira was about to protest, but Keira forestalled her with a quick shake of her head. “Please continue translating,” she said. “They need to hear this.” After a long moment, Zamira nodded, and continued.

“I should kill you,” Keira stated. The Fiend gasped, trembled, and began to beg. His pleas washed over Keira like a refreshing summer breeze. Once he’d finished his groveling, Keira responded by pressing her greatsword harder against his neck, cutting a thin line that seeped silver blood.

“Your arrogance is aggravating.” She narrowed her remaining eye. “By all rights, I should kill you. It’s been some time since I leveled up, actually. The EXP would be well-appreciated. Oh, I’m sure your family and friends would weep tears of sorrow, and perhaps they would swear a vow of revenge, but I fail to see how that should affect my judgement. You were the one attempting murder, and as you seem to have forgotten the most important rule of combat, let me be the one to remind you.”

She leaned closer and smiled. “Those who come to take a life should be prepared to lose their own.”

Her blade flashed.

Both groups gaped in shock. A second later, the Fiend started screaming, eyes bulging as he stared at the stumps where his legs used to be.

Keira pointed at the Fiendish Healer, and then to her invalid of an ally. “Stanch the bleeding.” The Healer didn’t need to wait for Zamira’s translation before rushing over and casting her magic. Shimmering mana coated the Fiend’s wounds, flesh scabbing over the end of the stumps, leaving two rounded nubs of off-color pink. The Healer’s magic wasn’t enough to regrow his legs – that was a talent reserved for the greatest of spellcasters.

Which was exactly the intent.

“Keira,” Zamira exclaimed, in a severe tone. “They’ve surrendered.”

“And what of it?” Keira challenged, locking eyes with her friend. “They only surrendered after they lost. Do you earnestly believe that they would have spared our lives if we had surrendered to Helkath?”

She slammed her greatsword on the ground, showering the air with rubble and causing everyone but Zamira to flinch backwards. “You wish to end this without further violence.” Keira continued. “To avert the Fiends’ reprisal and keep the dream of peace between our races alive. And don’t misunderstand – your ambition of a better Elatra is one that I find noble. It’s a cause worth supporting.”

A low growl escaped her throat. “But there is a time and a place for mercy. Forgiveness is lost on those who abuse your trust. The Fiends have broken a treaty, and to brush that aside would imply that the Deserters are willing to lay on their backs and get harshly fucked whenever the Fiends feel like taking what they desire. Make no mistake; violence is the one universal language of the world, the one method of communication that crosses cultures and borders. They will hate us for this, but more importantly, they will respect us. Because do you know what happens when people push, and push, and push, and you do nothing except waggle your finger and ask them politely to stop?”

She raised her greatsword. “They push further.”

Schlorp.

Another pair of legs fell. Zamira clenched her teeth. Orn’tol closed his eyes and turned away. Taleya and the Rangers appeared ill, but otherwise, stayed silent.

The Fiends were not so silent. Keira ignored their screams as she severed four more pairs of legs one-by-one until only the Healer remained. Tears ran down the Healer’s cheeks as she finished the last of her ministrations and waited for her turn. The disparity between their heights struck Keira as farcical; the Healer was more than a foot taller, yet she was looking down at a much-smaller Elf as if gazing upon the face of her executioner. Keira almost laughed at the sight.

Then the moment passed, and her rage flared anew. Her grip on her greatsword tightened, and with some effort, she returned it to its place on her back.

“Tell her to deliver a message to her people,” Keira stated. “The Deserters possess a Healer who can regrow limbs. If the Fiends unfairly cry offense at our retribution, then your allies will remain in the state they are, their usefulness as Combat Class users having come to an end. They will spend the rest of their days wallowing in sorrow, failing to suppress tearful memories of the feats they were once capable of.”

A clap of her hands caused the Healer to jump an inch in the air. “There is a better way, of course,” Keira continued. “If the Fiends stand down and agree to our terms, again, then I will personally see to it that your allies are restored to their full forms.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Only upon completion of your end of the bargain. I’m sure you understand.”

Zamira relayed the message. The Healer took a shuddering breath and nodded.

Intimidation Level Increased! 5 → 6

Intimidation Level Increased! 6 → 7

Keira gave her a thin smile. “I’m so very glad we’ve come to an accord. Farewell for now – I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

She reached down and picked up two Fiends with each hand. One was conscious, but he didn’t struggle, his face crestfallen and defeated. The Party– Orn’tol and Zamira excluded – collected the remaining Fiends, and together they began their journey back to the Deserters’ territory. Keira tried to speak with Zamira along the way, but the Swordmaster refused to make eye contact, shying away whenever she was approached.

Keira suppressed a sigh. That was...unsurprising. She didn’t regret her actions, though. It had been the right thing to do.

And even if it hadn’t, it felt damn good.

--

Active Skill Learned!

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Fiendish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it. Is this Prerequisite even accurate anymore? I don’t think it was written with a specialized Fiendish translator paired with shared Fast Learner in mind.

Description: Automatically translates any Fiendish speech you hear into Common. Stubbornness breeds success. Risky, foolish, yet fruitful. A mentality that creates champions – and one day, kills them. Luckily, today is not that day. Rejoice, as you will be in dire need of this Skill very soon.

Elder Alessia frowned as she dismissed the system message. “That was rather grim.”

“What is it?” Rob asked, practically wringing his hands. “You okay?”

“My head aches as if it was stabbed by an icicle,” she remarked. “But I am conscious, and blood is not yet pouring from my orifices, so I dare say that this hour of Fiendish language lessons can be declared a success.”

Her frown crept upwards. “Especially as I have acquired Auto-Translate, complete with an ominous Prerequisite and Description.”

Rob – and the Healers waiting on standby – sagged with relief. “Oh, that’s totally fine,” Rob said. “Ominous text descriptions are par for the course. Welcome to the club, Elder Alessia.”

Alessia nodded. Slightly. Any further movement would have inflamed the incessant throbbing in her head. She had underplayed the pain by several notches, but revealing the full extent of her agony would just serve to worry the others. It was only pain; it wouldn’t kill her, and it would pass. That small of a hindrance was more than worth learning Auto-Translate – especially after the thoroughly disastrous meeting between Rob, Keira, Zamira, and the Fiends. There were few ways it could have gone worse. If I had been there, she thought, then perhaps…

Alessia dispelled her regrets. What’s done was done, and by the sound of it, her words wouldn’t have been sufficient to placate the Fiends. All she could do now was pick up the pieces and do her best to put them back together.

“Elder Alessia?” Rob began, drawing her attention. “Is it okay if we speak in private for a few minutes?”

She nodded, shooing the overly concerned Healers out of the room. Once the door had been locked and closed behind them, Alessia faced Rob, took a seat, and addressed him in Fiendish. “Better to speak in this tongue to hide our words from prying ears,” she said. “What did you wish to discuss? I can think of several matters of interest that may be on your mind.”

Rob shuffled nervously. “No kidding,” he sighed. “For now I just...wanted to ask something.” His leg rocked up and down with nervous energy. “Are you worried about what the Fiends said about me? How they described my soul? It’s kind of fucked up.”

“Certainly so,” she assented. “We would be wise to address the problem sooner rather than later. While the Fiends may find it difficult to describe what they sense with Soul Sight to people outside their race, I can’t imagine any possible metaphor where parts of your soul being ‘rotten’ is a desirable trait. When we use this incident to extract further concessions from the Fiends, having them tend to your soul will be imperative to ensure your long-term health.”

Rob paused. “That’s a very good idea,” he said, after a moment. “But it wasn’t actually what I was referring to. When I said ‘worry’, I meant more in the sense of being worried about Rob, the person, not my health. They kept calling me a monster, a creature, an abomination – lots of lovely titles that I personally tend to reserve for the freaking Blight.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “Weird way to start off the day, that’s for sure. Was just wondering if it made you look at me any differently.” His lips twitched. “Definitely has me looking at me differently.”

“No,” Alessia stated. “You are who you are. The nature of your soul means little when compared to the person that, through deeds and actions, you have proven yourself to be.”

She smirked. “If anything, it comes as minor relief to know that there may be an actual reason for the bizarre oddities that follow in your wake. My first guess is that the energies of the Class Crystal that revived you did an imperfect job at placing your soul into its newly-reconstructed body. Discovering the true nature of your soul may provide us with the answers you’ve been hoping for. And regardless of what those answers are, to me, you will still be Rob.”

He grinned with poorly concealed relief. She couldn’t blame his apprehension – although it was somewhat misplaced. Despite her casual demeanor, Alessia was far more concerned about Rob’s long-term health than he seemed to be. Elves were hardly experts on the inner workings of souls, but she highly doubted that they were supposed to be as misshapen as Rob’s. Securing the Fiends’ assistance in fixing the broken nature of his soul was the Deserters’ current top priority.

After preventing a war, that is.

A small part of her felt sympathy for the Fiends. She knew what it was like to be beholden to uncontrollable physical reactions. Rob’s visage, to this day, disgusted her. She was working to curb that response, but deep-seated trauma was not so easily undone in a matter of months. And in truth, had she been any better than the Fiends when first meeting the Deserters’ wayward Human? She’d voted to have him executed, and it was only through the will of the other Elders that his death was forestalled. The moral high ground was scarcely hers to claim.

Of course, she’d accepted the Elders’ will and changed her opinions after being presented with facts, while the Fiends lied during negotiations and broke a treaty. The Deserters’ overtures of peace, achieved largely through Rob’s efforts, had been spurned – hopefully not by every Fiend, but by enough to stamp a black mark on their credibility. Her treatment of Rob in the past was...imperfect, but she would take solace in the fact that she’d never caused The Village to teeter on the brink of war over her misgivings.

“Thanks for the reassurance,” Rob said, pulling her from her thoughts. “I promise to ask nicely before hijacking the next round of negotiations.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You will do no such thing. Diplomacy or otherwise, I am the acting leader of the Deserters. Now that I’ve gained Auto-Translate, you – and your Skill – will perform your duties in an advisory position. Is that understood?”

Rob held up his hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. Trust me when I say that I’m more than happy letting someone else handle all this nonsense.”

As if on cue, a messenger burst into the room, breaking through the door’s lock in their panic. “Apologies for the intrusion!” He yelled. “I have news!”

Alessia inclined her head. “What is the matter?”

“The advance party has returned,” he instantly replied. “They’ve captured six of the Fiendish insurgents.”

“Good news, then,” Alessia stated. “Which is troubling, as you’re clearly agitated. What complications occurred during the mission? Are our people safe?”

He nodded. “They are. But the Fiends...” The messenger winced. “Their legs were severed by one of our soldiers. Intentionally. When captive. After surrendering.”

“By one of our soldiers, you mean Keira.”

“...I mean Keira.”

Alessia sat there, frozen stiff as stone. Rob pinched the bridge of his nose, then glanced at her. “Remember when I said that someone else could handle this nonsense?” He gestured vaguely in her direction. “This is me, passing the buck. Enjoy.”

She pressed her lips into a line and brought up the Description for Auto-Translate.

‘Rejoice, as you will be in dire need of this Skill very soon.’

“Fuck you, Lothren.”

Chapter 17

For the dozenth time that day, Faelynn found herself wondering how it had all gone so wrong.

The simple answer to that question was sitting at the opposite corner of their shared cell, his limbs restrained by heavy chains and heavier shame. It would have been easy to place the full blame for her predicament square on his shoulders. He certainly deserved as much. But while Helkath represented a delightfully straightforward target to foist her frustrations on, the truth was that his treachery was merely the latest setback in a long string of unmitigated disasters. First came the Corruption, second came the Dwarves, third came the Blight, and fourth came the Elves. Just blow after blow for months on end, leaving her people with no chance to catch their bearings. Rare calamities had become her new normal, and based on the events of today, the pattern wasn’t changing anytime soon.

It somehow made Faelynn look back fondly on the years where Human aggression was an ever-present threat. Her enemies were clear and killable, and the Fiends spent enough time warring with their southern neighbors that a sense of grim familiarity had been bred between both sides. The Fiends never possessed any delusions that they would put a permanent end to their conflict with the Humans, but at least the Humans’ periodic assaults were manageable. In a way, Humanity was little different from the seasonal gales that struck Elatra’s northern regions every year or so. And any storm, no matter how large or powerful, could be weathered with sufficient preparation.

The Blight wasn’t a storm – it was an unending hurricane that poisoned the land in its wake. The Blight’s Corruption was no better, and despite having borne witness to a risen Blight effortlessly slaughtering her people, Faelynn considered the beast’s Corruption to be a greater threat to her people. Then there were the Dwarves, whose recent technological developments would have destabilized Fiendish society if the Blight hadn’t already beaten them to the punch. And the Elves...

In truth, that disaster stung worst of all. Unlike the other three, which were unavoidable catastrophes, encountering the Elves had been a chance for a great turnaround. The first in Argath knows how long. While other races learning to speak Fiendish was hardly an unknown concept, that was due to the idea’s prevalence in plays and novels that tended towards wish fulfillment. It was meant to be a shocking plot development, and thousands of years ago, perhaps that was the case. By now, the idea was such a cliché that Faelynn rolled her eyes whenever an author grew lazy enough to include it in their story.

Then the cliché came to life, and despite how matters transpired since then, remembering the moment when Rob opened his mouth and spoke in real words still gave her chills. That unforeseen encounter in the back of some dead Human’s house was possibly the most significant event in all of Fiendish history. And, in a twist of fate that Faelynn had yet to fully process, she’d experienced the event firsthand; not just as an observer, but as an active and important participant. A seasoned Diplomat should have been the one to handle that powder keg of a conversation, but Faelynn felt as if she’d done an adequate job in their stead. Without her ability to soothe the sensibilities of two wailing teenagers and one Helkath, a second negotiation would never have taken place. For that brief and beautiful instant, peace was not a cliché to be found in fiction, but a realizable goal that was sitting in the palm of their hands.

Fitting, then, that her accomplishments had been torn to shreds by people unable to recognize a wondrous gift if it clawed them upside their fucking heads.

She aimed another withering glare at Helkath. He didn’t notice, having elected to ignore her after bearing the brunt of her fourth and greatest glare, one that would have sent a Vraal running for the hills. Faelynn did her best to burn her loathing into his back, but alas, she wasn’t fortunate enough to be born with Heated Eyesight. A pity, as being set ablaze was the least of what that piece of shit deserved – he and the few dozen he’d somehow convinced to help him imprison Goroth. As if they were the only ones who were terrified of Rob and whatever vile deeds he’d committed in the past. The ‘Human’ may have been a monstrosity, but at least he was an affable one. He opposed violence, kept good friends, and also happened to PIONEER COMMUNICATION BETWEEN THEIR RACES, but that small fact was apparently lost on those who took one look at a warped soul and reverted to the mindset of a child shaking in fear as their parents read them stories of Lost Ones. They couldn’t wait five goddamn minutes for Faelynn to get a straight explanation out of Rob before teleporting in and undoing all of her progress within a span of seconds. Progress that was fragile, historic, unprecedented, and might very well be impossible to regain.

The frustration and rage building within Faelynn reached a crescendo, and in an instant, vanished. We were so close, she thought, tired to the bone. That’s always how it ends. With battered hope and fewer prospects.

She wished she could journey back several years and prepare her people for the trials that were yet to come. They’d grown lax since the Cataclysm. While the devastation it wrought was...incomprehensible, after the bodies were counted and the graves were filled, the Fiends had seen fit to allow themselves a sliver of optimism. No price was worth losing half their people – Faelynn would revert the Cataclysm in a heartbeat if she could. But if the trade was to be forced upon them, an end to violence was the best compensation they could have possibly asked for. Humanity’s curtain had fallen, and with that grandest of finales, the eternal war between their two races was finally over.

They’d been too naive. The Cataclysm wasn’t a finale; it was a prelude.

Just then, the front door creaked open, snapping Faelynn out of her torpor. Through the bars of her jail cell, she held her breath and watched intently as Zamira entered the prison. The Elven Swordmaster locked the door with an ominous click before turning to face her captives. Zamira didn’t say a word as she strode forth, moving with the sinister confidence of a cat that had spotted a one-legged mouse huddling in fear. She ignored the room’s furnishings and took a seat on the floor in front of Faelynn’s and Helkath’s shared cell. The small embers of anticipation smoldering in Faelynn’s chest were immediately snuffed out when she got a closer look at Zamira’s cold, pitiless face. With an expression carved from stone, the Elf sat there, barely moving, barely blinking, and stared.

In pure silence.

If this was an interrogation tactic, it was working.

After fifteen minutes of being subjected to quiet torture, Faelynn worked up the courage to speak. “Hello, Zamira,” she said, in a voice that didn’t quite waver. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Training.”

Faelynn paused. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

Another moment passed. “Are you, perhaps, displeased with me?” Faelynn asked.

The only change in Zamira’s expression was a flicker of movement in her cheek. “Potentially.” Her voice was as frigid as a wind in deep winter, prompting the hairs on Faelynn’s neck to stand on end. She suppressed a gulp, chose her next words with great care, and spoke.

“I wasn’t a part of Helkath’s plot,” Faelynn said, putting as much genuine emotion into her words as she could. “The time you and I spent together was short, but it dispelled any misgivings I may have had about you and your friends. They’re good people.” She smiled. “Honestly, your singing voice alone would have won me over. I’m still hoping that I’ll get to hear more of it in the future. Please understand; the way our recent meeting played out was the exact opposite of how I intended.”

“I am aware.”

Faelynn blinked. “You are?”

There was that flicker of movement on Zamira’s face again. “I’ve been informed by a highly reliable source that your motivations were pure,” she stated. “They, without exaggeration, possess more prowess in the art of negotiation than anyone in all of Elatra. If they say that I can trust you, then I can trust you.”

She folded her arms. “Assuming they told the truth, of course. I would not put it past them to twist my emotions to fit their designs. As one of the few Deserters with Auto-Translate, my presence in negotiations between our races is paramount, and it will be much more difficult to reconcile with the Fiends if I am still grappling with feelings of abject betrayal.”

“I did not betray you,” Faelynn assured. “I swear it.”

“And that is what I will choose to believe.” Zamira's fingers tightened slightly. “It is a more attractive prospect than tarnishing yesterday’s memories.”

“Are you blind?!” Helkath burst out, finally unable to suppress his indignation any longer. “How can you sit there and profess your worries about something as trivial as being manipulated into forgiving Faelynn when a monstrosity has already wormed its way into the upper echelons of your group?! Rob ate a soul! It lives inside him, screaming for release, a captive wracked with everlasting agony!”

Zamira shook her head by an inch. “That is incorrect,” she replied, in a bored tone. “We’ve more or less discerned who the soul is. I’m not at liberty to tell you the details – as it is not my story to tell – but rest assured that Rob has done no wrong.”

Helkath’s mouth fell open like a fish gasping for air. “You people are insane,” he mumbled.

A hint of a malicious sneer passed across Zamira’s face. “Welcome aboard the Rob Express,” she said. “I’m yet unsure of what an Express is, but the intent behind the phrase is an apt descriptor of the absurdities our group has been subjected to since the day he stumbled upon our Village. My personal recommendation is that you loosen your standards for what is natural and expected, for they will be stretched many more times from here on out.” She paused. “Assuming you both live that long. There are many in the Deserters who are calling for blood.”

“Helkath only subverted several dozen of my people,” Faelynn interjected. “The rest likely don’t have the faintest idea that Goroth was imprisoned. They – we are not to blame, and once this matter has been settled, we will be more than delighted to continue strengthening bonds of peace between our races.”

Zamira’s posture sagged. “That may be more difficult than you think.” She sighed, hesitated, and then spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “A hunting group captured the assassins and cut off their legs.”

Her proclamation rang out like the strike of a hammer. “Ah,” Faelynn said, feeling dizzied.

“Yes. ‘Ah’.” Zamira closed her eyes. “Keira was the one who carried out their punishment. I was there. I could have stopped her. And I did not.”

Her second proclamation struck just as hard as the first. Faelynn hadn’t spoken to Keira without an interpreter, but from what she could tell, the Warrior was a supportive woman who cared deeply for her friends. The notion of the people she’d explored the city with – people with who she’d joked and laughed and sang – being the ones to hunt down her comrades was a concept she couldn’t quite wrap her head around. Keira had shown nothing but kindness; and less than a day after, she’d cleaved six Fiends in twain.

Bloodthirsty Elves were enemies to be killed on the field of battle. They weren’t supposed to have names.

“Violence comes easily to Keira,” Zamira explained, as if reading Faelynn’s mind. “I...failed her, I think. She once told me that she was worried about those latent tendencies. That she didn’t want to become a monster. I assured her that I would stop her if she ever went a step too far – and when the moment came to make good on that promise, I stood aside and let Keira dismember people who were at our mercy. She swung her sword, again and again, and each time I let the opportunity to stop her pass me by.”

Any traces of emotion fled her tone. “I knew she was in the wrong. A reprisal against the saboteurs’ actions was necessary, but there were ways to achieve that instead of butchery that would only serve to spark outrage. Yet I too was as furious at their duplicity, and she offered to take the dark whispers in my heart I dare not act on and carry them out in my stead. The temptation was too strong for me to resist. No one else moved to stop her either, but that hardly excuses me from blame. She deserved better than what I gave her.”

Neither Faelynn nor Helkath dared say a word. After a few seconds of contemplation, Zamira continued. “What has been done cannot be undone. Keira’s deeds are engraved on her heart and will be carried with her for the rest of her days. I doubt she is particularly bothered by what she did, but in essence, that’s exactly the problem.”

Zamira’s eyes opened, her gaze cold and hollow. “I failed her. Thus, I’ve come here to train. It’s become apparent that I am far away from achieving a disposition where I can present myself as a heroic figure who inspires others. Sharpening my swordplay is insufficient; my mind must be strengthened as well.”

“Is that why you’re staring at us?” Faelynn asked, before she could stop herself.

“Yes,” Zamira answered, in a voice that betrayed nothing. “Putting myself into close proximity with those involved in the assassination plot serves two purposes. It forces me to come to terms with what transpired, lessening my...displeasure for those involved, and also reduces my ingrained enmity towards your people as a whole, thereby deepening the scope of my empathy.”

She pointed at each Fiend in turn. “Faelynn, presumably, is innocent. This will help me convince myself that it is illogical to hate all Fiends based on the desires of a foolish few. Helkath, assuredly, is guilty. This will allow me to find a measure of understanding in those who commit actions I find reprehensible. He seems to have betrayed the Deserters out of a sense of urgency rather than blind ambition, which is worth something, however small. Both of you provide two different avenues for mental training. Take solace in your continued usefulness to our cause.”

A soft laugh escaped her throat. “If I may make a recommendation: stay silent from here on out. In the near future, you will have great need for Elves who don’t want to put your heads on pikes and parade them through the streets of Broadwater. Let me train in quiet contemplation.”

They did.

–

“They’ve arrived.”

At Elder Alessia’s warning, Orn’tol nocked his bow and held it ready. He was careful to keep it lowered; there was no reason to give the Fiends cause for alarm. The split-second longer it would take him to fire a shot if an ambush occurred was worth preventing their rendezvous from coming to unnecessary blows.

Tensions were already high enough. He didn’t want to be the final breaking point that triggered a full-fledged war.

Thirteen Fiends had arrived to meet them, all Combat Class users, and more than the Deserters’ group of eleven. If negotiations soured, retreat would be their only viable recourse. Orn’tol leaned closer to Malika and whispered. “Do you Sense any hidden Fiends nearby?”

“No,” she whispered back. “But I also didn’t Sense Helkath when we first met. I don’t think I’m used to what the Fiends’ mana signatures feel like.”

“Friendly reminder that a bunch of them ambushed me by teleporting,” Rob remarked. “And Waymark won’t be available for 20 hours.” He grimaced towards Elder Alessia. “Last chance to put this off until tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “By then the Fiends will have spent those 20 hours whipping themselves into a frenzy over Keira’s actions. Delaying the meeting is an option that was sealed the moment she maimed their people.” Her eyes glimmered as she Identified each Fiend in turn. “We can outrun them if necessary. Most in our Party are Rangers or used to be one, I can cast Flight on myself, Malika can be carried, and your Dexterity has grown higher than almost any of ours.”

Elder Alessia drew herself up with a regal bearing. “It’s a risk. What isn’t, these days? Inform Diplomacy that their services will be required for some time longer.”

“They can hear you,” Rob said. “And they’re – I’m quoting this verbatim – looking forward to twisting around the Fiends’ fragile emotional states like soft clay in dexterous hands.” He raised his eyebrows. “Good grief, buddy, that’s dangerously close to villain monologue territory.”

“We could use a villain or two in our midst,” Taleya muttered. “They tend to win up until the tale has nearly been told in full.” She hesitated, then placed her hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Be careful. The Fiends will be out for your blood.”

“Trust me, I’m aware.” He grinned and pointed at Vul’to. “Don’t worry – our fancy new Vanguard has got our backs.”

Vul’to nodded, hefting his shield. “I’ll be right by his side. No harm will come to Rob or anyone else while I still draw breath.”

“That’s a great hero one-liner to balance out Diplomacy’s villain monologue, but please make sure you keep drawing breath,” Rob remarked. “I like you better that way.”

Vul’to chuckled. “That’s a very unique compliment, but I’ll accept it nonetheless.”

The trio said a few more parting words before moving to greet the Fiends’ three chosen representatives. Each side exchanged tense pleasantries, and their conversation took all of twenty seconds to devolve into strangled shouting. Orn’tol was glad that he was a fair distance away; the sound of five discordant, grating voices arguing in Fiendish was hurting his ears. Poor Vul’to already seemed to be regretting his decision to guard Rob and Elder Alessia, but he was one of the few frontline fighters in their group suited to the task. Keira was stationed back at the Elven camp, ready to defend the civilians in the event of an ambush. Bringing her to this meeting would have been...ill-advised. Zamira and Meyneth both requested to stay behind as well, leaving Vul’to to plug his ears with cotton and suffer in silence.

Five minutes passed. The shouting worsened. Many accusing fingers were jabbed in Rob’s direction. Either Diplomacy was employing an esoteric strategy beyond Orn’tol’s comprehension, or even Level 16 Skills could fail in their given profession when faced with a challenge that was impossible to overcome. From what Orn’tol could glean, the latter possibility was growing more likely by the second.

Temporal Trap in the center of the road, Orn’tol thought, planning for the worst. Twin Shot to slow the fastest Fiends. Draw closer, bait as many away as I can, divert them from pursuing the Party. If they catch me…

He pressed his lips together. If they’re quick enough to catch me, then none of us are escaping, regardless.

“Orn’tol,” Malika suddenly whispered. “You witnessed Keira cutting off the Fiends’ legs, right?”

Honestly, Orn’tol wasn’t sure if whispering was necessary, but Malika seemed to be enjoying the clandestine nature of their conversation, and he wasn’t going to spoil her fun. “I did.” His thighs twitched. “Please don’t ask me to recount the sight.”

She shook her head. “I won’t. You probably looked away after the first or second slice, anyway.”

“...You can’t prove that.”

Malika giggled. “Just this once, I’ll let that statement stand.” Her good cheer faded as she grew pensive. “I wanted to ask you something. I’ve heard what the others think, but their thoughts are too jumbled for me to make sense of. Do you think that Keira was in the right?”

Orn’tol answered after a few moments. “Yes. The Fiends should consider themselves fortunate that they’re still alive. Losing their legs is a mercy in comparison.” Even if the noises were disgusting.

“They did try to kill our friends.” Malika hummed. “I think I agree. What about the peace strategy, though? Wouldn’t this conversation be going better if we’d just captured the Fiends instead?”

She pointed to the verbal slapfight between Deserters and Fiends. Orn’tol took a bit longer to answer this time. “Probably. But there’d also be six more Fiends ready to battle when the fighting starts.”

In the end, it always came down to fighting. He’d learned as much.

“Hmmmmmmmm.” Malika twiddled her fingers. “Okay. Last question for you. Why are the people in charge of everything being so stubborn?”

He considered many possible answers from many different angles. The nature of Rob’s soul, the thousand-year war between the Fiends and Humans, fear, hatred, pride. Eventually, he settled on a universal maxim, adopting the bearing of an Elder as he imparted his sage wisdom to Malika.

“Because sometimes,” he began. “Smart people can be very stupid.”

Malika nodded. “Makes perfect sen- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

Her ear-splitting scream cut through the chatter like a knife through fresh bread. Malika rushed over to Orn’tol’s side and grabbed his arm in a vice grip, babbling incoherently and on the verge of tears, before slowly pointing upwards with a quivering hand.

One by one, the Deserters and the Fiends looked up. One by one, their breathing froze.

The Blight was laying on top of the barrier covering Broadwater City. Black smoke rose from the points where its body touched the translucent dome, fleshy carapace burning and regenerating in perpetuity. The Blight didn’t care; its attention was focused entirely on the food that had dared to escape its hunger. Acidic drool dripped from the mouths of its three animalian heads, and the dozens of yellow eyes that were dotting its frame bulged with frustration.

!@(#T&*^&$@(#)@(#&%*(!^%@)#!

Orn’tol dropped his bow, fell to his knees, and clutched his ears as the Blight’s speech, a hundred times worse than any number of Fiends, stabbed directly into his mind like jagged nails. A crack resounded as the air in the middle of the street split open, pillars of black smoke billowing out from within. Orn’tol gaped in horror as putrid flesh, heedless of how it sizzled and popped, breached whatever magic that empowered the Fiends’ barrier and gradually pushed through the opening. He reached for his bow, but his palms were shaking and coated in the blood running from his ears, and he dropped the weapon once more. One Ranger managed to snap off a quick shot that flew wide, one mage fired a brittle icicle that broke apart before reaching its target, and everyone else was left gathering their bearings as death invaded inch-by-inch. Part of the Blight’s flank appeared, followed soon by small wriggling tentacles.

And then a single head, its mouth split into a toothy grin.

Crack.

The rift slammed shut with the force of a thunderclap, severing the parts of the Blight that had forced themselves into Broadwater. Discordant speech rang out as the Blight shrieked in pain, leaping off the top of the barrier dome and disappearing into the distance.

Orn’tol was allowed a single second of relief before the Blight’s discarded flesh began to ripple and shake. It burst outwards like a watermelon with a Firebomb in the center, breaking into over a dozen disparate globs that scattered across the street and rapidly expanded. Someone yelled, and as if an alarm had sounded, the Deserters and the Fiends fired a deluge of arrows and spells into the nascent abominations. Three were blown into even smaller chunks that slowly stopped moving, but the remaining eleven grew, letting out pained moans as they mutated into the forms of the Infected monsters that invaded The Village so long ago. Orn’tol was barely able to suppress his panic as lumbering piles of meat and chitin in the shape of his nightmares charged en masse.

He was right. It had come down to fighting.

A snake-thing whipped towards the Fiends’ front line, fangs scraping against Vul’to’s shield as he turned aside a lunge that would have pierced one Fiend’s neck. He wasn’t fast enough to save the second. A mutated gorilla slipped past Vul’to’s guard and grabbed another Fiend by his torso, ignoring the clawed counterattack that carved half its neck apart. The beast lifted its screaming prize high into the air and brought down the Fiend with enough force to crack his head like an egg. His allies, arriving too little too late, cried out in rage as they set upon the creature and ripped it to shreds. Pieces were torn into smaller pieces which were torn into even smaller pieces, until at last each individual fragment had ceased its grotesque wriggling. Their vengeance fulfilled, the Fiends made a hasty retreat as more Infected descended upon their ranks and drove them further down the street.

The Deserters were faring worse. They hadn’t lost anyone, but their lack of a frontline fighter meant they’d been forced into a retreat the instant that four Infected started charging straight for them. Orn’tol snagged three of them in a Temporal Trap, but the barrage of arrows and magic that followed only managed to bring down one creature before the inverted fog dissipated. Vul’to’s attempt to rejoin them was cut short as he was beset upon by an Infected and forced to defend himself. The Deserters ran, the creatures followed, and Orn’tol came to a horrible realization: the Infected were faster. They shouldn’t have been, what with their gangly limbs and loping strides, but whatever arcane power that was forcing dead flesh to move was also empowering the Infected with unnatural Dexterity. Orn’tol knew he could escape using Flight of the Coward, but no one else would, especially Malika.

And that was just considering the Infected in front. One chunk of flesh in the back – the largest chunk – hadn’t formed into a monster. Instead, it was expanding outward like dough rising in an oven, pulsating with red veins and emanating a glow that hurt to observe.

Whatever was about to happen, the Deserters couldn’t afford to be anywhere nearby when it did.

Draw closer, he thought. Orn’tol stepped forward, shoving down the roiling in his gut as he drew an Infected’s attention by shooting it in the head. Bait as many away as I can, divert them from pursuing the Par-.

A Rob-shaped blur Rampaged in from the side. He struck the Infected with his Broken Shortsword, and the attack – presumably empowered by every Skill in his arsenal – decapitated the tiger-thing and burst its head into meaty chunks. That was enough to give the creature pause, as did the Power Shot-infused arrows that blew apart its extremities, ending with a white-hot fireball that consumed the Infected in cleansing flame. Malika whooped with glee as her final blow sealed the monster’s fate, granting her an immediate Level.

As you made a major contribution to the defeat of an enemy, Helping Hand has activated!

Partial EXP awarded!

Reach Level 29!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Ranger Level Increased! 25 → 26

Orn’tol kept his own whoop internal. No one knew he’d learned that particular Skill, and he wanted it to stay that way for as long as possible.

Rob moved to bar the charge of Infected. He sidestepped around one attack and used Not A Scratch to block another, rending deep gouges into the creatures’ mutated flesh with his Broken Shortsword as more arrows shredded the distracted targets. When he’d found a brief moment of respite, Rob jumped back, flopped his limp arm in a direction and cried out: “ALESSIA!”

Orn’tol snapped his head to the side to find Elder Alessia engaged in a losing aerial battle with a bat-thing. She swerved to the side to dodge a swoop of fangs and claws, unable to cast a spell before the Infected veered around and forced her back on the defensive. The Rangers’ arrow support shifted away from the Infected in front over to Alessia’s dance partner, blowing large holes in the bat’s wings and sending it toppling to the ground. Elder Alessia aimed her hands down and pumped the creature full of electricity, her snarl of anger drowned out by the sound of the Infected’s flesh frying to a charred brown.

As you made a major contribution to the defeat of an enemy, Helping Hand has activated!

Partial EXP awarded!

We’re surviving, Orn’tol thought, his grip tightening on his bow. We can win. Just need a bit more.

Then something exploded.

A person who’d led a normal life up until that point would have been startled. And for a brief instant, Orn’tol was – until he recognized the noise. Loud, concussive, and distressingly familiar.

He sighed as a smoking person soared in and out of his field of vision. His panic rapidly fading, Orn’tol glanced at the largest chunk of Blight-flesh situated in the back. The expanding flesh bubble, which had grown fifteen feet tall and begun to glow with a warped light, was – simply put – gone. Blackened road was all that remained where it stood.

There goes our last stock of Firebombs.

Each of the remaining Infected froze. The Deserters and Fiends wasted no time in butchering the stunned abominations, drawing the battle to a sudden conclusion. Once the last creature had fallen, Orn’tol stowed his bow and wrapped Malika in a gentle hug, which she returned with enthusiasm.

A few seconds later, one of the Rangers tapped him on the shoulder. “Orn’tol?” She said, in a questioning tone. “Should we be worried about the Lord Blightkiller?”

Orn’tol squinted at Rob, who was picking himself up off the ground. Half of his clothes were burnt away, his skin was cracked and oozing liquid in several places, and his hair was aflame. He possessed the appearance of someone who’d slapped a Level 50 Fire Elementalist in the face and called them a coward.

“Not really,” Orn’tol shrugged. “He’s – ah, there we go. Right as rain.”

Lifesurge’s healing light washed over Rob, repairing the man’s injuries in a matter of seconds. He stored his ruined clothes into his Spatial Storage and placed a fresh set directly onto his body, blue motes obscuring his half-second of nakedness. In no time at all, he’d gone from looking like he needed to be rushed to the nearest Healer, to possessing the countenance of an uninjured, casually dressed Human without a hint of concern on his features. From across the street, the Fiends gaped at him with some of the widest eyes Orn’tol had ever seen, the entire group standing still as statues. He put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter; Malika didn’t bother hiding it.

From the side, Elder Alessia watched with a smug expression as Rob sauntered up to the Fiends, stopping short five feet in front of them. The group of hardened soldiers took a half-step backwards. Orn’tol didn’t need to understand Fiendish to know what Rob said next.

“You guys ready to cooperate?”

–

Changes

Orn’tol

Level 28 → 29

Malika

Level 25 → 26

Chapter 18

Reached Level 39!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Reached Level 40!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Berserker Level Increased! 35 → 36

Berserker Level Increased! 36 → 37

Battle Fever Max Cap +1

Dagger Proficiency Level Increased! 5 → 6

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 6 → 7

Fuck yes, Rob thought. He cackled under his breath, manic euphoria engulfing him from head to toe. God, it’s been too long since I leveled up. That’s the *good* shit right there.

<...Rob?> Diplomacy asked. <Are you okay?>

Oh, don’t be like that. Rob mentally crossed his arms. I know the Riardin Special is riskier when I don’t have Not A Scratch available, but as long as I let the explosion send me flying away before it gets too hot to handle, the damage isn’t so bad. He giggled. To me, anyway. Didn’t turn out so great for the Infected.

<That’s not what I – nevermind.> Diplomacy sighed. <Do you mind picking your lazy ass up off the ground and finishing the fight? As much as I’d like the ability to slap you upside the head from time to time, I can’t actually move your limbs for you.>

Rob blinked, then cursed. He scrambled to his feet as the last dregs of euphoria slipped away. A longsword materialized into his hand from out of Spatial Storage as he activated Quick Thinking.

‘Status Screen.’

HP: 373 / 613

Stamina: 251 / 300

MP: 103 / 200

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Corruption (-437), Soul-Burnt (Right Lower Arm), Push Through (-50% Pain), Third-Degree Burns (Moderate), Determined

All things considered, he’d been through much worse. 373 HP was probably more than most Combat Class users’ max health. Aside from that, 100+ MP in the tank equaled two activations of Rampage and/or Enmity. He’d have to use them with care; they were the only Active Skills left in his arsenal. Most of his resources had been sunk into the initial strike that nearly one-shot an Infected. While Skill stacking was necessary in order to offset the fact that he was attacking with a single non-dominant arm, the maneuver put Not A Scratch, Step of the Wind, Bulk Up, Power Slash, and the Anklet of Moderate Brawn all on cooldown.

The one other Active Skill he could call upon was Imbue Vitality, and while it was technically usable, he was gun-shy about activating it when his health was so low. Theoretically, the Skill’s massive damage increase combined with Lifesteal would offset the 10% Max HP cost from using it, leaving him with just as much – if not more – health than before. That was the ideal; the reality was that he would be moderately fucked if he mistimed the Skill or flat-out whiffed his attack. Not totally fucked, as he was still a tanky bastard, but more fucked than he cared to be without getting dinner and a date first.

Besides, he was sitting at around half health, which meant that Blood for Blood was increasing all of his damage by close to 50%. The final piece of Rob’s battle strategy clicked into place; he would scope out which of the Infected was most dangerous to his allies, then cast Enmity on the creature, drawing its attention and increasing the damage he dealt to it by an additional 25%. If he was unable to deal any significant damage to it despite those stacking buffs, he’d wait for an opportune moment to attack with Imbue Vitality, keeping Lifesurge at the ready in case he didn’t Lifesteal back the necessary HP to stay out of the danger zone.

And if that wasn’t enough, he’d just have to pivot strategies. Instead of fighting to kill, he could play defensively and hold out for reinforcements – which would be easier than directly taking on the Blight-spawned Infected, really. Tougher sons of bitches than them had tried to kill him and failed. He wasn’t dying anytime soon, not when he hadn’t confessed to Keira yet, and especially not while Jason still owed him twenty bucks. If worst came to worst, he could always stick his arm down one of the creature’s throats and materialize his last few Firebombs into their stomach. Any strategy that was fucked-up enough to wipe out the Organic Devourer should be overkill when used on these mooks.

Rob considered all of this in the time it took for him to stand. Fast improvisation was a skill that had been beaten into him since coming to Elatra.

Quick Thinking Level Increased! 3 → 4

The actual Skill helped too.

He hefted his sword, whirled to the side – and discovered that the battle was over.

The Deserters were all alive. So were the Fiends, save for the one poor dude who’d gotten his brains spread across the road. The Infected were collapsing into piles of gooey viscera; apparently, whatever Blight fuckery was animating them couldn’t hold their forms together anymore. A couple Rangers were staring at him funny, the Fiends had begun to mourn their fallen comrade, and the Blight itself was nowhere to be found. All was quiet on the western front.

Huh, Rob thought. Guess we won.

<Why don’t you sound happy?> Diplomacy asked.

It’s just, I had a whole plan ready and everything.

<You got another Level in Quick Thinking,> Diplomacy offered. <That’s something, right?>

‘Not really’, Rob refrained from thinking. Compared to the influx of joy he’d received from leveling up after weeks of stagnation, the minor EXP boost he received from increasing a Skill was like eating a single stale cookie after having feasted on a full-course buffet.

Suppressing a sigh, Rob reset his health and appearance with Lifesurge and a change of clothes. He afforded the Fiends fifteen seconds of additional grieving before moving to approach them. The group stared at him in disbelieving awe, eyes roaming up and down his form to triple-check if he’d really just healed his wounds and performed a magical girl clothing transformation without missing a beat. Rob stopped walking when he was five feet in front of them, lips smirking at the way the Fiends took an unconscious half-step back from the Big Bad Human.

Even if the Riardin Special wasn’t so deadly, Rob thought, I’d still use it. The looks on people’s faces when they see me shrug it off never gets old. It’s the kind of respect you can only earn by establishing an implicit threat that, if you push me just a liiiiiittle too far, you might find yourself swimming in explosives at the drop of a hat.

<Oh, *now* who’s the one giving a villain monologue?>

No idea what you’re talking about. Rob pointed towards the Fiends’ leader and spoke in a voice as sweet as honey.

“You guys ready to play nice?”

–

“Am I a prisoner?” Goroth asked.

Rob tilted his head in confusion. “In case you haven’t noticed, we removed your chains.” He gestured around the cozy living room they were sitting in. “This look like a jail cell to you?”

It had taken an hour for Elder Alessia, assisted by Diplomacy, to coerce Helkath’s remaining cronies into releasing Goroth. Rob mostly stood back and tried to look intimidating as gossip among the Fiends quickly spread about the ‘exploding Souleater with regenerating clothes’. Thankfully, Goroth turned out to be uninjured – albeit unamused – and had quickly agreed to an impromptu meeting away from prying eyes.

Leaning back in his chair, the Fiend gave Rob a wry smile. “Allow me to rephrase. If I so wished, would I be allowed to leave this room without answering any of your questions?”

Rob paused. He glanced at the room’s only door, which was situated behind himself and away from Goroth. He glanced at Vul’to, who was standing guard in case Goroth got stupid. And he glanced at Elder Alessia, who barked out a single, harsh laugh.

“Okay,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Maybe you’re a little bit of a prisoner.”

Goroth nodded. “Make no mistake – I much prefer this cell to my prior accommodations. Or to the executioner’s block. Can I assume that you have brought me here to talk rather than mete out justice for Helkath’s attempt on your life?”

“Mostly correct,” Elder Alessia replied. “There will be talking, yes, but it won’t be the same sort of drivel that you spewed before. My people are outraged by Helkath’s actions, and if I don’t bring them information of substantive worth when I return, I can’t guarantee that they won’t riot. The time for ‘talks’ of many words and little progress is over. You will explain the full scope of the Fiends’ purpose here, and together, we will plan for the future.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Any other path ends in bloodshed.”

“You are, of course, correct.” Goroth straightened his posture. “Ask me anything – I only request that you also speak truthfully when it comes time to share what you know.”

<Something is bothering him,> Diplomacy piped up. <In specific, I mean. He doesn’t want to blurt it out because he’s in a really shitty position right now, but it’ll bug the crap out of him until he gets it off his chest. Easy way to win some extra brownie points with no downside.>

Rob touched Elder’s Alessia’s shoulder, interrupting the question she’d been about to ask. “I promise I’m not actually hijacking negotiations,” he said. “But I think something is bothering Goroth. In specific, I mean.”

Alessia looked like she was about to argue. A moment later, realization dawned on her face as she remembered who Rob was speaking for. “Is this true?” She asked, addressing Goroth.

The man’s muscles tensed by a slight fraction – if he wasn’t shirtless and a walking advertisement for protein powder, Rob probably wouldn’t have noticed. “There is...one matter,” he admitted. “Your Warrior who exacted retribution against Helkath’s dissidents claimed that you have the ability to restore severed limbs. Was she...”

“Lying?” Elder Alessia shook her head. “No. We can regrow their legs with little effort.”

Goroth sagged with relief. “Thank Argath,” he muttered. “I understand that you hold little love for those men and women, but they only erred because I failed to act as a leader they could put their trust in. Thank you for your generosity in this regard.”

Rob didn’t think it was all that generous. Objectively it might be, what with the whole assassination thing, but he wasn’t going to not Regrow people’s legs. Would feel dickish when he could easily do so just by adding them to his Party. Maybe he would think differently if they hadn’t sucked so bad at killing him, but right now they came across to him like unruly teenagers that fell in with the wrong crowd. He wasn’t going to punish them further when Keira had already grounded them and sent them to their rooms without supper. At this point, they’d taken their lumps and learned their lessons.

And if they hadn’t, then their EXP would be distributed among the Deserters accordingly.

“Your people will be restored to full form when the Deserters are granted convincing guarantees that Helkath’s insurgency was an aberration,” Elder Alessia stated. “I don’t see the point in healing a group of would-be assassins only to watch as they bare their claws at our throats a second later.”

Goroth’s face hardened. “There will not be another Helkath,” he said, in a vicious tone. “Of that, I will personally ensure.”

“Very good.” Alessia nodded. “If that’s settled, then we should waste no further time in commencing our discussion, starting with the barrier. Two days ago, you seemed confident that it would hold.” She folded her hands together. “After what my people just witnessed, I find your assumption to be...flawed.”

“The Blight was unable to fully break through,” Goroth commented. “If anything, the incident you reported is a testament to the barrier’s efficacy. In its attempt to bypass the barrier, the Blight suffered grievous injuries, and the few pieces that managed to slip inside were heavily weakened.”

“I would have preferred for the barrier to keep the Blight locked outside in its entirety,” Alessia murmured.

“And I would have preferred the Blight to remain a fairy tale,” Goroth stated. “Yet we will have to make do, nonetheless. Strong as it is, the barrier is an imperfect spell, as it stems from an imperfect field of magic. Skills and spells meant to counteract the Blight are exceptionally difficult to develop. Were it not for an immediate and pressing need to advance that field of magic, a spell like the barrier would have taken years longer to produce.” He paused. “It may be easier to start from the beginning. The Grand Elders will have my horns for this, but Rob guessed most of the details during our negotiations, so the harm has already been done.”

Goroth took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tinged with sorrow. “Roughly six months ago is when it all began. One day was normal, and the next: Corruption. I can’t tell you what triggered the change, only that within the span of a month, it had spread to thousands of our people like a virulent plague. The numbers were worsening by the day when I first began my journey south, and by now I expect that more than ten thousand Fiends have been infected.”

Rob and Alessia stared in shock. A bitter smile crept across Goroth’s face. “Yes, that is certainly the proper response,” he drawled. “We’ve tried our best to deter the Corruption’s spread, but those efforts have largely been in vain. It was not so much a plague as a curse, striking anywhere at anytime, no matter your age or location or Level.” His smile faded. “So many died before our mages were able to develop a spell to forestall the Corruption’s encroachment in the afflicted. And even now, we are powerless to stop new infections from occurring.”

“Hold on,” Rob interjected. “Sorry to interrupt – this is really fucked up and I don’t want to come across as insensitive – but you’re saying some things that don’t match up with what I know. The Corruption in the Deserters was always caused by close proximity to the Blight, and the amount of Corruption in each person stayed stable until encountering the Blight again. I once had single-digit Corruption that didn’t change for months. But from what you’re telling us, Corruption in the Fiends gets worse and worse over time until it straight-up kills them?”

Goroth’s eyes widened. “Are you sure the Corruption you speak of is the same calamity befalling my people? Auto-Translate may be misinterpreting terms related to the Blight.”

“No, it’s definitely the same,” Rob assured. “I’ve actually got a Skill that lets me Sense Corruption. We’ve got the same kind of disgusting little Blight parasite inside of us – only difference is the size.”

Goroth fell silent for half a minute. “Despite my envy, I will interpret this discovery as a blessing,” he said, more to himself than Rob or Alessia. “If there is a fundamental distinction between our races that causes Corruption to afflict us in divergent ways, then the nature of that divergence may hold the answer to both its cause and cure.”

“To clarify,” Elder Alessia interjected. “The spread of Corruption among the Fiends happened largely at random and without the appearance of an actual Blight?”

“That used to be the case,” Goroth began. “Until roughly two months ago, when a Blight emerged in a city that had already been brought to its knees by Corruption. I’m unsure of what transpired – the Grand Elders have restricted that information with an iron claw – except that the Blight was somehow destroyed. As was the city it came from. All that remains of Evermore City is a smoking crater. I haven’t heard of another Blight appearing, but then again, I haven’t been home in weeks.”

He clenched his hands into fists. “There is a reason we journeyed so far south,” Goroth said, in a dark tone. “Desperation. Pure, unbridled desperation. Despite their efforts, our mages aren’t any closer to discovering a cure for Corruption, and the manifestation of a living Blight was the final shove that pushed us over the edge. Until then, we’d managed to hold on to our last dregs of sanity. Watching the plague ravage our lands was harrowing, but if Corruption had remained the sole calamity forced upon us, perhaps our people’s resolve would have held strong. Some particularly ardent zealots were even interpreting its spread as a trial from Argath to be overcome by the faithful. They shut their stupid fucking mouths in a heartbeat when an abomination from ancient legends came to ravage our lands.”

Goroth paused, and with visible effort, calmed himself. “My expedition team was created to find answers in the Human lands, and if that failed, to make contact with the southern races at any cost.”

“That’s a very vague sort of plan,” Elder Alessia remarked.

“It was,” Goroth agreed. “No one, least of all ourselves, expected the expedition to succeed. The fact that I’m conversing with both of you in a language I can comprehend is a miracle so great that it is nearly sufficient for me to regain the faith in Argath that I’ve lost since the Corruption appeared.”

Might want to hold off on that. “So what you’re saying is both of our interests coincided literally from the start,” Rob began. “And everything almost got screwed up because my soul is ugly?”

Goroth’s expression stiffened. “Ugly is...an understatement.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Helkath already gave me the spiel,” Rob sighed. “You don’t have to repeat it. I’m a bit surprised, though – you never gave me the impression that you thought I was some horrible monster.”

“I am a diplomat,” he replied, with a hint of pride in his tone. “And I would have dealt with the Dragon Queen herself if it meant saving my people. When compared to the threat of imminent extinction, your status as a Souleater is hardly-”

“I didn’t eat anyone’s fucking soul,” Rob growled.

Goroth blinked. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

The Fiend’s eyebrows rose slightly. He glanced at Elder Alessia, who nodded, her eyebrows raising to match his.

“Interesting,” Goroth stated. “That warrants an explanation.”

Rob poked Elder Alessia in the arm. “Can I tell him? It’s my Skill. I should be the one to tell him.”

<I am not a prop to be used for your amusement,> Diplomacy complained.

Oh, shit, sorry. I’ll-

<Nah, just fucking with you. Tell him, it’ll be hilarious.>

Alessia rolled her eyes at him. “I highly doubt Diplomacy is instructing you to say these things out of necessity,” she commented. “But I suppose you’ve earned your fun. It’s difficult to say no to a man who recently immolated himself with Firebombs in order to lead your people to victory.”

Rob gave her a grin and a thumbs-up before turning to face Goroth, who looked exceptionally lost. “Strap in,” Rob said. “Cause you’re going for a ride.”

He was more right than he realized. Rob’s explanation about Diplomacy prompted Goroth to ask about why that might be happening, which led to a discussion about Rob’s system glitches and brain damage, which led to Rob mentioning he wasn’t an Elatran native. Half an hour had passed before Goroth held up his hands in defeat, evidently having reached his limit.

“The odd thing is that I’m forced to believe you,” Goroth remarked, in a lightheaded tone. “Were you lying, there are a million and one yarns you could have spun that would have all been easier to swallow than anything you just spoke of.”

He adopted a serious expression. “With that in mind, you’ve shown me great trust by revealing such deep secrets. I swear that the knowledge you’ve imparted won’t be misused.”

Rob nodded. “Appreciate it. The Earth-native thing is common knowledge among the Deserters, but the other bits, not so much. Keep it on the down-low.”

“I’m sure that Diplomacy would start divulging my innermost secrets were I to reveal yours,” Goroth said, in a dry tone. “Do you have any idea of how aggravating it is to take pride in your role as a diplomat and then realize you were crossing verbal swords with the very embodiment of the profession? Little wonder I lost our first spar so badly.”

“If it’s any consolation, Diplomacy says that you ‘performed respectably’,” Rob assured.

“Damned by faint praise,” Goroth muttered.

Elder Alessia clapped her hands once, drawing Rob's and Goroth’s attention. “You will have plenty of time to process the implications of a sapient Skill later,” she said, addressing the Fiend. “The purpose of this last half-hour was to provide a sufficient explanation for the abnormal nature of Rob’s soul. Now that you’re aware that its condition is not a result of Rob’s own doing, you can devote your best Healers towards fixing it, correct?”

She phrased it as a command, and Goroth didn’t refute her. “His Soul-Burnt arm should be fairly simple to rejuvenate,” he said. “The rest is...unlike anything I’ve ever seen. We’ll have better luck preventing anything from ‘rotting’ further if he’s examined by our specialists located within Fiend territory.”

“...Within Fiend territory,” Alessia repeated, the implication sinking in.

“My people have not been waiting idly by for our inevitable demise in this bear trap of a city,” Goroth stated, his tone full of conviction. “This fact may be unbeknownst to you, but in the last two decades, Fiends have made large strides in the development of teleportation magic that doesn’t require the use of a Crystal. Helkath’s saboteurs employed a lesser version to ambush you. We intend to employ a much, much greater version to escape back to the north right out from under the Blight’s nose.”

“An extended Magic Circle,” Alessia gasped, saying words that Rob was hearing for the first time, but pretended to understand by nodding. “How far along are the preparations?”

“A week. Several more days should be sufficient.” He paused. “Would have been sufficient, at any rate. Including your 1600 Elves into the teleportation spell will require significantly more time to invest mana into the Circle, but we’ve also estimated that the barrier will last for another month. As long as the Blight’s attempts to break through are contained to a manageable level...”

The two of them descended into a discussion about magic-based logistics as Rob sat and watched, dumbfounded. We never even talked about my plan to purge Corruption, he thought. And the guy’s already offering to let us hitchhike a ride back to his home. Did he forget that I dangled the possibility of a cure right in front of his face last time we met?

<Doubtful that he would,> Diplomacy remarked.

Then why isn’t he asking?

The Skill shrugged. <I’m not omnipotent. Use your words.>

Rob opened his mouth and did just that. In response, Goroth inclined his head and gave Rob a small smile. “Were the solution readily available, you would have mentioned so already,” he said. “I presumed that expunging Corruption from our bodies is an undertaking that will require personal preparation on your part, and that focusing on what I myself can prepare would be of more use to us both.”

“Dude,” Rob whistled. “That’s a lot of trust you’re throwing at me.”

Goroth’s smile deepened. “Trust begets trust.”

<Oh ho ho.> Diplomacy rubbed their chin. <I’m upgrading him from ‘performed respectably’ to ‘you’ve got moxie’.>

Rob leaned forward. “Well, shit. Now I’m emotionally cornered.” He grinned. “Fiends know about Loci of Power, right?”

–

Zamira held out the newly-forged longsword. “Take it,” she said. “You’ve earned it.”

Tiarsus stared at the proffered weapon like it was covered in bees. “In what way have I earned it?” He asked, warily. “I haven’t fought a single battle since you captured me.”

“I observed the way you were standing guard by the civilians,” she answered. “Despite their skeptical gazes, you waited with the bearing of a soldier ready for battle. While the Fiends did not attack, I’m fully confident that if they had, you would have defended the Deserters with your life.”

Tiarsus fell silent. Zamira continued holding out the sword, but the gesture was starting to feel awkward, and her arm was getting tired. “Why the hesitation?” she asked. “Gaining more autonomy has been your heart’s greatest desire for as long as I can remember.”

He shuffled in place. “If I may be honest,” he said, in a hesitant tone. “I’ve been feeling...guilty, as of late, for my part in the Seneschal’s plot to kidnap Rob. After months spent watching him fight on the front lines to protect those outside of his race, I’m no longer able to think of him as just another Human. He’s done right by our people.”

Tiarsus grimaced. “The Seneschal conscripted me into his plan against my will. At the same time, that doesn’t mean that I cared one whit about Rob’s fate. Had he been successfully taken, I would have celebrated the Human’s lifelong imprisonment as a slave to the Seneschal’s will.” He shuddered. “Lothren preserve, I was almost complicit in something truly vile.”

“Yet you weren’t,” Zamira stated. “The Seneschal’s ploy failed. Rob bears you no ill will for what transpired, and neither do any among our Party. Don’t let the ghosts of the past hinder your potential for the future.”

Tiarsus stared at the sword. Steadily, the embers of determination lit in his eyes, and when they’d finally soared to a roaring flame, he grasped the blade and strapped it to his side.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “You won’t regret this.”

Zamira gave him a proud smile. As Tiarsus walked down the street and out of view, she allowed herself to enjoy the contented warmth blooming in her chest. It was a soothing balm for the aches she’d suffered since her debacle with the Fiends. Considering the string of setbacks that had occurred as of late, she’d needed this victory – perhaps moreso than she’d realized.

Her respite lasted a peaceful thirty seconds before being swept aside by a hurricane in Dragonkin form.

Meyneth rounded the corner of the street, spotted Zamira, and immediately began to walk over. Zamira’s greetings died in her throat as she saw what the woman was carrying. The following seconds stretched on into an eternity as Meyneth approached at a leisurely, maddening pace. Zamira’s head was full to bursting with questions by the time the Dragonkin had finally drawn near.

“Good day,” Meyneth greeted. “I hope you’re faring well.

With a rigid finger, Zamira pointed. “Why.”

An Elven woman was nestled in Meyneth’s arms. She was laying perfectly still, an expression of defeated confusion on her face. Her very pretty face. Zamira couldn’t help but notice that Meyneth’s parcel was possibly the most beautiful woman she’d ever laid eyes upon. Lustrous hair, soft lips, well-shaped features-

Get a hold of yourself, Zamira thought, sighing inwardly. First Keira, then Faelynn, and now this poor woman. It may be time to admit that I’m growing increasingly...frustrated.

“I’m here to offer a chance for the two of you to become acquainted with one another,” Meyneth explained. “This fair lady’s name is Sivia. She is very pleased to meet you. Sivia, this gallant Swordmaster’s name is Zamira, although you already knew as much.”

“This must be a dream,” Sivia mumbled, her eyes vacant. “Please wake me before it turns into a nightmare.”

Zamira froze in the middle of pinching the bridge of her nose. “I must have misheard,” she stated. “Sivia knows who I am?”

“Of course she does,” Meyneth nodded. “It’s one of the key reasons I’ve brought her to be your paramour.”

A gentle breeze blew through the street. It was deafening in the silence that followed.

“Hrk,” Is what Zamira choked out. Sivia covered her face in her hands and curled up into a ball, seemingly wanting to compress inward and inward until she disappeared altogether. Unaware or uncaring of their turmoil, Meyneth carefully placed Sivia’s prone form on the ground and addressed Zamira with a serious expression.

“After much deliberation, I’ve determined that she is the ideal partner for you.” Meyneth held up her fingers and began to count down. “She is female, the gender which you have a strong preference for. Sivia possesses the same inclinations. According to the Elves I’ve spoken to, she is considered to be one of the most attractive women in the whole of the Deserters. Her personality comes highly regarded, as she is described as being able to set people at ease and bring smiles wherever she goes. Furthermore, it is common knowledge among her circle of friends that she is besotted with sexual desire for you, to a degree that is moderately uncomfortable for them to listen to.”

Zamira’s brain had ceased functioning long ago, but one small section of her mind managed to quietly ask for clarification, which Meyneth was more than happy to provide. “Sivia sometimes observes your training sessions from afar,” she continued. “To her friends, she has described your visage as ‘dashing,’ ‘captivating,’ and ‘with hips that would shake the heavens.’ As discerning the other person’s level of interest is one of the largest hurdles towards starting a romantic relationship, this prior guarantee of attraction should come as a relief.”

“Which so-called friend betrayed me,” Sivia mumbled, in a stilted voice. “I must know. They will be flayed – if I’m in the mood for mercy.”

Meyneth ignored her statement and looked at Zamira and Sivia in turn. “Normally this would be where I heavily recommend protective measures during your nightly activities in order to prevent pregnancy out of wedlock, but as both of you are women, that is a step I can gladly forego.” She gave them a wide smile. “I shall now take my leave. Feel free to use this opportunity to initiate a conversation using the information I’ve laid bare. I wish you both the best of luck.”

With that, she left, a spring in her step as if she hadn’t just upended Zamira’s day like a flipped table after a game of Ouroboros. Zamira glanced at Sivia, who was somehow curling in even further than before. Neither of them said a word.

For a long moment, Zamira found herself wishing that Auto-Translate had killed her.

–

Changes (since Chapter 17)

Rob

Level 38 → 40

Berserker Level 35 → 37

Upgrade: Dagger Proficiency 5 → 6

Upgrade: Heat Resistance 6→ 7

Upgrade: Quick Thinking 3 → 4

Chapter 19

Eight more days.

That was how long they needed to hold out before the Fiends’ teleportation spell was ready. Expanding the Magic Circle to accommodate an additional 1600~ Elves wasn’t going to be easy; it involved redrawing complex markings, injecting mana into esoteric runes, and a lot of other jargon that was flying over Rob’s head. Under normal circumstances, accomplishing the endeavor in a short period of time would’ve been impossible.

But while the Deserters didn’t have many mages left to contribute, they did have an ace-in-the-hole in the form of a very smug Archmage. Whenever spellcasters formed a Mana Link, they gained a portion of each other's power – and in this case, Malika's sky-high Sense Magic Skill. Once the mages realized just how much they'd be able to accomplish by joining forces, they'd promptly boarded a hype train with no signs of getting off.

Malika especially. She’d be riding this high for weeks.

The whole thing was apparently really amazing and super cool and by god did it make Rob miss Duran. The Elder would have been more than happy to explain how the Magic Circle worked in a verbose, lengthy, and entertaining lecture. Despite speaking with a level of wordiness on par with Rob’s most grueling college professors, Duran’s lessons were always fun. His enthusiasm was as infectious as watching a kid in a candy store. Blight aside, Elder Duran would’ve loved this whole situation in general. Skill breakthroughs? An entire new culture to explore? It all sounded like a scholar’s fantasy come to life.

You’ll get to nerd out over it soon, Rob thought. He looked down at Duran’s unmoving form, keeping a close eye on the man’s repeated, shallow breaths. Every day Rob visited, and every day was the same. Corruption had irradiated the Elder’s body to the point where his organs were on the constant verge of failure. The Healers were doing their best, but Duran’s condition wouldn’t improve until his Corruption was removed. In a sense, the lack of change in Rob’s visitations was a blessing, as it meant that he didn’t arrive to find an empty bed. Without the Healers’ regular ministrations, he already would have.

Loci of Power exist in Fiend territory just like anywhere else, Rob thought. I’ll Attune to them, pump up Crystal Bearer, and start expunging Corruption like nobody’s business. Just hold on until then.

He held back tears. Please, please hold on. I just need eight more days.

Assuming everyone cooperated. When news of the joint alliance first reached the Fiends, their mages were – to put it lightly – displeased with having the scope of their work tripled so that a bunch of unwanted squatters could bum a ride back to the Fiends’ ancestral homeland. During the entire length of the Fiends’ endless war, no one had ever once broken into the far reaches of their territory, and the Deserters would technically be the first ‘invaders’ to set foot on Fiend soil. The mages took their grievances to the people at large, who were already pissed about the whole leg-cutting thing, and in the blink of an eye, an unruly mob was marching through the streets.

Goroth silenced their dissent within a single day. Rob wasn’t there to witness it, but it was easy to imagine what probably went down. Goroth may have been a calm, unflappable, and friendly diplomat, but he was also the kind of man who spoke softly and carried a big stick.

And when his people started bitching, he’d brought out the stick.

That was four days ago. Since then, the Fiends had been on their best behavior. With events finally being set in motion, there wasn’t much left for Rob to do except occasionally act as a translator. Well, more like an interpreter, really. Auto-Translate was very proficient at choosing the right words to fit the right context, but that didn’t always mean that Rob opted for a one-to-one translation. He was pretty sure that informing people that they were ‘horned, black-hearted ogres’ or ‘knife-eared little pissants’ wouldn’t strengthen the bonds between their respective races.

Miraculously, the conversations he oversaw tended to turn out more amicably than the ones Elder Alessia did. They’d be needing his services again later today, and hey, he couldn’t complain. Not many people were able to hold a stable job in this economy. Before that, however, he had another engagement to attend.

An engagement he’d never get to unless he left the medical ward. Left Duran.

Rob took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the Elder’s quiet form. Torturing himself like this wouldn’t help anyone. A little grief could serve as proper motivation, but this much was bordering on self-indulgence. If he could speak, Duran would’ve sent Rob on his way long ago.

“Take care, buddy,” he said, heading towards the door. “And get well soon.”

Keira, Vul’to, Meyneth, and Taleya were waiting outside the medical ward. He nodded to each of them in turn, appreciating that they didn’t ask how he was feeling. They’d already said everything that there was to say during prior visits.

“Ready to go?” Vul’to asked, raising his shield.

“As I’ll ever be,” Rob answered. “Same place as yesterday; the fourth house down on Gaudy Rich People Avenue.”

They didn’t actually know what any of the street names in Broadwater City were, but they had to call them something.

The trip took about fifteen minutes, most of which were spent in companionable silence. Once they’d reached the dividing line between Elven and Fiendish territory, Keira broke off from the group and said her goodbyes. Part of the Fiends’ agreement stipulations had been that, while they wouldn’t seek retribution against Keira, she wasn’t allowed anywhere near them. Any of them. They’d essentially slapped her with a 500-person restraining order; the border was as far as she could go. It was a fair request, although it didn’t stop Keira from being annoyed that she wouldn’t be able to accompany Rob as his bodyguard anymore.

“Rob,” Keira called out, just as he was about to leave. “Might I talk to you alone for a minute or two?”

He didn’t know what that was about, but she didn’t seem particularly nervous, at least when compared to some of their other talks. The two of them moved to a spot still within the rest of the Party’s eyesight, but outside their range of hearing. “What’s up?” Rob asked. “You doing okay?”

Keira fidgeted for a moment before relaxing. “I believe so. If you can assuage my fears – do you think less of me for maiming the Fiends?”

“Nope,” he answered immediately. “It was a bit too brutal for my tastes, but hey, you do you.” They had tried to kill him, after all.

She smiled. “That was simple. Thank you for-”

An unearthly groaning split through the quiet streets. It came from nearby, probably one or two blocks away, close enough to be heard but not close enough to blow out their ears.

“Shit,” Keira cursed. “That’s twice in two days. It’s growing bolder.”

“Or hungrier,” Rob muttered. The two of them took off running, rejoining the rest of their Party and making a beeline for the source of the sound. Rob removed Malika from his Party in order to send out a message to the Deserters, notifying everyone else that an entry attempt was taking place somewhere near his position. The Party arrived just in time to see the Blight’s latest attempt snap inward, its portal closing shut with the force of a guillotine. The bits of Blight-flesh that had been pushing through were cleaved apart from the main body and left laying on the Broadwater streets. Rob winced as the Blight’s screech of pain grabbed his eardrums in a vise grip and squeezed. He was able to keep his balance and stay upright; the other members of his Party weren’t so lucky.

“Someone doesn’t know when to take a hint,” he muttered. “If brute forcing an entry point hurts that much, then quit abusing regeneration to try again and again.”

<Pot calling the kettle black,> Diplomacy remarked. <Look alive – there’s six this time.>

Rob summoned a longsword from his Inventory and took stock of the day’s invaders. The Blight’s shorn-off flesh had split into six distinctive pieces that were rapidly forming into vague likenesses of monsters, some more sensible than others. One was clearly a bear, another was a scorpion...crab...thing that could still pass as a fantasy animal, but there was also a humanoid figure consisting entirely of glued-together hands. Not arms; just hands. It tried to stand, then collapsed a moment later, writhing and slapping against the road as hundreds of jagged fingernails scratched each other to ribbons.

I know I’ll regret this, but...’Identify.’

Name: GrabgraspgripholdclutchholdlatchclenchholdHOLD

Level: 33

Status Effects: Coagulating

Description: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“’Tis reassuring to see,” Meyneth commented, earning a round of questioning looks. “The creatures spawned from Blight-flesh lack intelligence,” she explained. “Even the forms they take are subject to random variation caused by a rapid decline of cognitive thought once they separate from their host. They are of the Blight, but are no longer part of the Blight as it currently lives. Their existence is no more than that of chaotic meat forced into movement by unknowable cosmic powers, a crude joke that would likely expire on its own after several days without any intervention on our part.”

“That’s one of the most horrid things I’ve ever heard,” Vul’to replied, his face pale.

Meyneth arched an eyebrow at him. “Would you prefer they be sapient and capable of strategy?”

Vul’to closed his mouth and shook his head.

“Wise.” Meyneth glanced at the Blight babies – quickly growing to adulthood – and frowned. “Taleya, why aren’t you taking this opportunity to riddle them full of arrows? I can’t imagine an easier target than an unarmored, stationary beast which scarcely knows how to walk.”

“Same reason you aren’t trying to score some free hits right now,” she answered, scowling. “They regenerate too quickly. Would be a waste of arrows. We need to wait for reinforcements.”

Unfortunately, she was right. When factoring in that the hand monster had more or less taken itself out of commission, the forces on each side amounted to a five versus five brawl with roughly equal combined Levels. On paper, those were good odds. Riardin’s Rangers had certainly dealt with worse. The problem was that the Blightspawn didn’t move, act, or fight like actual living beings. They pushed their bodies to limits that were beyond healthy, shrugged off deadly arrows like they were spritzes from a water gun, and regenerated at a rate that was tempting Rob to dump more stat points into Vitality. Most non-Blight monsters that took the forms of animals also adopted those animals’ instincts, and would thus fight with at least some degree of self-preservation. The Blight babies, however, went from 0 to 100 and wouldn’t stop until they were dead. Violence was the core of their existence. As long as pain was being inflicted, to others or to themselves, they were satisfied.

One Ranger and four Fiends had been lost in the days since the Blight started knocking on Broadwater’s door. They’d treated their enemies like creatures born from natural life, and everyone else was making sure to learn from their mistakes.

“Vul’to stays with Meyneth,” Taleya instructed. “Draw the attention of no more than three Blightspawn at a time. Fight to live, not to kill. I’ll offer arrow support from afar. If one Blightspawn diverges from its pattern in order to chase me down, assistance will be required. Some of them may outrun me at a full sprint.” She grunted in frustration. “So much for my vaunted Ranger Dexterity. I can put points into the stat, but I can’t grow multiple ten-foot long legs.”

She glanced at Rob and Keira. “Both of you tend to function well as solo operatives,” she said. “So do as you will. Rob: no Firebombs.”

“Words have never cut me deeper.”

“We have one crate remaining,” Taleya said, crossing her arms. “Urian threw a fit when he discovered that the ‘sweat-toiled fruits of his labor’ were being used largely by a single person. If you want to negotiate terms with the man, then by all means, feel free.”

Rob gave her a thin smile. “No Firebombs, got it.”

They took position, Rob and Keira slightly apart from everyone else while Taleya stayed close to Meyneth and Vul’to’s pair. Fifteen seconds later, the Blight babies were all grown up, ready to leave the  nest and take a soul-crushing job at a megacorporation that would call them family and then kick them to the curb as soon as the company found someone they could hire for cheaper.

<That’s the second thought you’ve had today regarding Earth employment,> Diplomacy asked. <What’s prompting this?>

Was just thinking that none of the stuff I’m learning in Elatra are particularly transferable skills, Rob explained. ‘Exploded a giant living tree’ isn’t something that works on a resume. Which is a problem, as my prospects outside of getting a job seem limited. College would be a nightmare to return to, and they’ll probably ban me from sports once some committee decides that stat points are too similar to doping. Either I become some sort of celebrity and skate off the fame, or...I don’t know, lift crates for a living? In between bouts of getting dissected by the government, that is.

<If Auto-Translate works for Fiendish, it works for Spanish,> Diplomacy pointed out. <And likely other Earth languages as well. You’d be the most efficient interpreter in the world.>

Oooooh, Rob thought, perking up. I like that. Maybe-

The Blightspawn, having noticed that fresh prey was nearby, let out a chorus of bloodcurdling screeches. Rob rolled his eyes in response. He cast Enmity on the biggest, scariest one, and raised his sword as it promptly charged at him with bulging eyes and a tortured cry. The creature was a hybrid cross between an elephant and a spider, skittering forward on eight leathery legs as it brandished its four trunks, each with a sharp-toothed, slobbering mouth on the end. It was a sight that would have made veteran horror movie fans tremble with disgust.

And Rob didn’t care in the slightest, because no one in the entire city was better at killing Blightspawn than him.

‘Step of the Wind’. ‘Bulk Up’. ‘Power Slash’. ‘Anklet of Moderate Brawn’. ‘Imbue Vitality’.

The last activation hit him like a punch to the gut as 10% of his HP was sacrificed to empower the Skill. He didn’t suddenly sprout injuries over his body, but he felt indefinably more frail, like a sickness without the accompanying sensation of stamina-reducing exhaustion. Imbue Vitality was a risk when used at low health, but this time, he’d been sitting pretty at max HP before activating it. That was more than worth tripling his damage.

“Out of the way, asshole,” Rob hissed, his blade glowing the aura of myriad Skills. “You’re making me late for my doctor’s appointment.”

When the Blight drew within six feet of Rob, he activated Rampage and aimed a one-handed sword strike at the creature’s head. All of his Active damage buffs, plus Headsman, plus the triple damage from Imbue Vitality, combined into a single blow of destructive force that popped the elephant’s head like a needle stuck in a balloon. Rob’s HP rebounded to full as Lifesteal engorged itself on the absurd amount of damage he’d dealt. The beast was still moving, because of course it was, but the blow caused it to stagger like a drunken frat boy, its trunks falling limp onto the ground.

In one move, the fight had already been decided.

Rob sidestepped a few halfhearted leg swipes as he hacked away at the abomination again and again and again. Each line of flesh that he gouged out diminished the unnatural energies animating its body. Rob’s attacks weren’t nearly as strong as they would’ve normally been, as he was using one arm to wield his sword, but that hardly mattered when his opponent was struggling to stay upright. It helped that he’d increased his Strength by 10 since his first encounter with the Blightspawn, prioritizing raw damage output over anything else in order to bulldoze through their regeneration. Thirty seconds passed, Imbue Vitality’s cooldown timer reset, and Rob blew another chunk of flesh out of the Blightspawn’s torso. The attack was slightly weaker this time, as Power Slash and Bulk Up weren’t ready to go yet, so he had to settle for dealing a grievous wound instead of a fatal one.

The next wound would be.

Out of nowhere, the creature began to violently shudder. Rob’s eyebrows shot upward as a spear-like appendage sprouted from the Blightspawn’s side, six feet long and tipped with a point of sharpened bone. The flesh-spear stabbed towards him in the blink of an eye, piercing through his stomach and out the other end.

178 Stabbing Damage Received!

“A for effort,” Rob stated. He sliced the appendage in half, ripped it out of his stomach, and stabbed it back where it came from. “C for results.”

That was about when the Blightspawn officially ran out of gas. It still put up a fight afterwards, but the fight it put up was kinda pathetic. Rob almost began to feel sorry for the newborn abomination as he chopped off each leg one by one, reducing it to a quivering torso. He stared at the creature with pursed lips, wondering if this was what it felt to put down an animal with rabies.

Then Imbue Vitality’s cooldown refreshed again. Rob tilted his head, shrugged, and brought down his sword.

Reached Level 41!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Berserker Level Increased! 37 → 38

Beautiful, he thought, salivating. He’d never felt more in his element. This was what his Class was meant for.

One thing that Rob had realized over the past few months was that Berserker was a sub-par Class for dueling other people. Despite the widening gulf between his Levels and the rest of the non-Keira members of his Party, he still wasn’t able to beat them with any regularity during sparring. Zamira and Meyneth almost always won, Vul’to forced a stalemate, Orn’tol ran away and harassed him from afar, and Keira just straight-up beat his ass into the ground.

Berserker’s problem was that it lacked direct offensive abilities and was one of the few frontline melee Classes without a Class Skill that increased its user’s expertise with a given weapon. It was a Class suited for long-term engagements where the user was supposed to outlast their opponent, which didn’t help much against people who could run rings around you and end the fight early before they ever took a hit. When compounded with his own lack of weapon and combat experience, he found himself consistently struggling to gain an advantage when fighting any of his friends, even after factoring in his rising Dexterity. Hell, the Seneschal’s Elven Swordswoman who he’d battled on his journey to Reviton City – back when he was 15 Levels lower – would still probably beat him if they popped into existence and challenged him to a Round 2.

What Berserker excelled at was killing monsters. A fight against a monster wasn’t a duel where finesse was king; it was a brawl where savagery thrived. Suddenly, his lack of expertise didn’t matter so much. His opponents weren’t trying to dodge or parry his attacks, they were jumping forward with fangs and claws aimed right at this throat. It was all they knew, and it was exactly what he wanted. Monsters didn’t have Lifesteal to restore their injuries or Not A Scratch to block a crippling wound. Every time he hit them where it hurt, that injury stayed. His own injuries didn’t. Trading blows with deadly beasties was risky back when he was lower-Leveled, but now that he had more defensive Skills and higher Vitality, he could muscle through just about anything they threw at him, Blightspawn weirdness included.

He was unique in that regard. The Blightspawn were a nigh-unbeatable threat for nearly anyone else in Broadwater City. It was why the Deserters and Fiends tried to engage the abominations only when they possessed an overwhelming numbers advantage. Even Keira struggled to defeat some of the stronger Blightspawn one-on-one, because she knew that if she got careless and took a stray hit, a whirlwind of sharp appendages would fall upon her and tear her to shreds. Rob, on the other hand, didn’t have to give a single shit. Not since reaching 100 points in his favorite stat. Imbue Vitality was the pure offensive Skill he’d been craving for 40 fucking Levels, and the way it synergized with the rest of his Berserker build was chef’s kiss level of perfect. Against these enemies, in this context, he was borderline unstoppable.

<You do realize these are Blight *babies*,> Diplomacy pointed out. <’Unstoppable’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe yourself. There’s always a bigger fish.>

Quiet, you. He turned to face the remaining targets. Vul’to, Meyneth, and Taleya were in the process of executing an offensive retreat as Blightspawn pushed them back with manic ferocity. It’s about time I managed to feel like a badass without having to facetank an explosion.

<I’m just...concerned. You’re getting a bit aggressive.>

Aggressive? Against otherworldly monstrosities without a modicum of restraint or sapience? Rob grinned, teeth fully on display. Perish the thought.

He cut off Diplomacy’s response by charging the Blightspawn that were menacing Vul’to and Meyneth, catching the creatures in a pincer maneuver from behind. A Rampage strike timed with Imbue Vitality turned his friends’ losing battle on its head in the span of an instant. Rob laughed as they butchered the abominations, savoring each and every gouge of flesh as if it were a bite from a candy bar.

To his disappointment, reinforcements showed up soon after. He’d gained another Level before they arrived, and if they’d been a bit slower in their coming, maybe he could’ve gone for a hat trick.

–

“Sorry I took so long,” Rob said. He waved to his doctors as he took a seat at their table. Vul’to, Meyneth, and Taleya made themselves comfortable as they sat beside him. “Ran into some uninvited guests along the way.”

Fiend #1 and Fiend #2 looked a little queasy as they set eyes on him, but it was a vast improvement from projectile vomiting, so he would take it. “No problem at all,” Fiend #1 – named Vythe – replied. “Are you ready to begin?”

Rob nodded. The Healers had already been informed of the details of his condition, including Diplomacy, his Bound Items, and his resurrection via Class Crystal. It was a bit risky, spreading that info around, but they couldn’t help him if they didn’t know what they were dealing with. Doctors back on Earth needed access to your patient history as well. The Fiends had sworn an oath to secrecy, and he could only hope that physicians on Elatra believed in some form of HIPAA.

“I’m more than ready,” he assented. “What should we focus on first?”

“That’s a question for you to decide,” Fiend #2 – named Zordred – said. “Your arm will be a much easier injury to attend to. While Soul-Burnt isn’t a specific Status Effect we’ve seen before, it bears similarities to certain other afflictions of the soul that we are much more familiar with. Granted, those afflictions are uncommon, but they occur with enough frequency that any Soul Physician worth their salt will know how to mend them. I estimate that restoring your arm to its natural form should take approximately two weeks’ worth of time.”

Rob sighed in relief. “Can’t beat that.” Earth doctors would throw a fit if they heard about any of this. “What about the rest of my soul?”

The Fiends hesitated. “May we speak truthfully?” Vythe asked.

“Lay it on me,” Rob said, preparing himself for disappointment.

“We haven’t the faintest idea of where to start,” she admitted. “Your soul is…patchwork. Imagine a child’s doll, made of cloth, old and weathered. Its stitching has weakened after decades of roughhousing. In its current state, pulling on an errant thread – even by accident – may cause the entire thing to come undone.”

A chill ran down Rob’s spine. “But you still think we should try and do something about it? Despite the risks?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. Your soul will likely come undone without any interference on our part. I’m somewhat surprised that it hasn’t already. Fixing your soul will take an indeterminate length of time, but it is essential that we try.” Her gaze sharpened. “More than try – we shall succeed. My honor as a Physician demands no less.”

Rob weighed his options. “Arm first,” he said. “I can’t afford to fight with a handicap while the Blight is nipping at our heels.” He put on a weak smile. “Two weeks, you said? That works. We’ll take care of the easy problem, then move on to the tougher one.”

“Are you sure?” Zordred asked, in a cautious tone.

“I’m really, really not,” Rob answered. He tapped his leg with nervous energy. “But we have to start somewhere. My soul has lasted this long so far; what are the odds it gives up the ghost now of all times?” He winced. “Don’t answer that.”

<Let it be known,> Diplomacy began. <That while I do not necessarily disagree with your decision, it terrifies me all the same>

Preaching to the choir.

The Fiends accepted his decision, nodding in unison. “Very well,” Vythe said. She held up her hand, which began to glow with a soothing white light. “If that is the case, then we should begin your treatment immediately.”

Rob flopped his limp right arm on the table. “Go for it.”

As Vythe got to work, Rob did his best to calm the anxiety welling up in his chest like a bear awakening from hibernation. Talking to the Fiends about his burgeoning health crisis had solidified how serious the whole thing was. There was a difference between being objectively aware that he wasn’t well and having a physician directly tell you that you were done for if you didn’t get help ASAP. Choosing to fix his arm over having them get started on figuring out how to unfuck his soul was a risk that might end up lethally biting him in the ass.

But that was fine. His soul would keep. It had to. Too many people were relying on him these days. Between the shared buffs, shared Fast Learner, storing supplies in his Inventory, Fiendish Auto-Translate, his combat prowess, and the potential of Crystal Bearer to cure Corruption, the Deserters would be left in a really tight spot if he bought the farm. They probably wouldn’t collapse entirely, but people would die. Lots of people. His friends first, once they ran into a battle where his buffs and Regeneration weren’t there to keep them alive.

And that was far more terrifying than any affliction.

–

Changes

Rob

Level 40 → 42

Berserker Level 37 → 39

Strength 38 → 48 (since Chapter 17)

Bulk Up Level 5 → 7

Power Slash Level 4 → 6

Vul’to

Level 28 → 29

Meyneth

30 → 31

Chapter 20

21 Days Ago

Kismet flipped the coin.

Kismet flipped the coin.

As it ever was, Kismet flipped the coin.

Kismet flipped the coin.

Static.

Inert.

Kismet flipped the coin.

Kismet-

Change.

Something in the air rippled. Like a soft ocean wave in summer. Then: a presence. It was faint, yet bright, and hot as the sun.

The coin landed on its side.

With his mind’s eye, Kismet peered behind himself, body tensing as he discovered a shade standing fifteen feet away. It was made of smoke and fog, its essence constantly shifting and roiling as if blown about by a tempest of emotions. The shade stared at him with eyes of nothing, and Kismet could only stare back, lost in their depths. Finally, the gravity of the moment caught up with him, and he managed to utter the first words that came to mind.

“How in the great infinity did you find your way here?”

The shade shivered, its form growing indistinct. For an instant, it seemed about to fade entirely, like a puff of smoke dispersing into the air. Then a low-pitched keen resounded throughout the Planes, rising in intensity, piercing Kismet’s ears with streams of passion. It had been so long since he’d heard that sound in-person that it took him a full few seconds to remember what it was.

A scream of rage.

The shade started to walk towards him. Slowly, methodically, and with purpose. It stalked forward like a tiger creeping through the brush, a rabbit in sight, and after a moment of stunned realization, Kismet realized that he was meant to be the rabbit. That thought was so absurd that all he could do was wait in silence as the shade approached. One foot after another.

It was struggling. That much was plain to see. The shade was not supposed to be here, and its form was being rejected with every step it took. Each inch it crossed was a victory; every foot, a miracle. Kismet couldn’t fathom what was driving the thing. Any further and its essence would disperse into oblivion. On an instinctual level, it had to realize that. And yet, it walked.

Rage, Kismet marveled, was an effective motivator.

The shade, barely holding itself together, stepped close. Its body was still indistinct, but now Kismet could see its face, and what he saw froze him in place. The shade possessed three overlapping pairs of eyes, each layered overtop each other and flickering in and out of existence. Its ears and nose seemed normal enough, but the inside of its mouth glowed a brilliant hue of orange-red, and when Kismet took a closer look, he found that a roaring inferno was blazing deep inside the shade’s throat. The heat was as palpable as the heart of a volcano, and if Kismet possessed skin, it would’ve started to char and burn.

Finally, the shade was there, standing mere inches away. Its smokey form quivered with pent-up emotion that pulsed in waves, its mind so filled with fury that it seemed a hairsbreadth away from bursting apart. Kismet gently placed his coin on the table and turned his full body to face the shade. Nothing about the creature had changed on a fundamental level, but to Kismet, its actions meant a world of difference from how he’d originally viewed it. Any life that could tread upon these grounds and retain their sanity was a life worthy of noticing. The shade was no longer a thing or a piece; it was an entity deserving of a name. After a moment’s deliberation, he asked the only question he could that would honor its resolve.

“Who are you?”

The shade vibrated. Its mouth exhaled searing flames of rage as it reached forward and wrapped its hands around Kismet’s neck. Fog and smoke evaporated into nothingness as the shade’s hands brushed against infinity. It didn’t care; if anything, it squeezed harder. The futility of its efforts was inconsequential to the intent it wished to express.

Kismet was unaffected. He felt no pressure and no pain from the shade’s attempt at strangulation. Despite that fact, he felt rooted to his chair, unable to move so much as a millimeter in the face of an incomprehensible will. Endless questions whirled about in his mind.

He never got the chance to ask them. The shade’s multiple eyes materialized all at once, melting together to form a singular gaze of blazing purpose. With the final dregs of its strength, the shade smiled wide and spoke three words in a voice of three minds.

“I’ll kill you.”

And then it was gone. Not annihilated into dust, not scattered to oblivion, but returned to whence it came. Kismet's belated comprehension sunk in a moment later.

A creature of insignificance had walked the Higher Planes and lived.

Kismet sat in silence. He was quite annoyed when his ruminations were interrupted just several minutes later. With a snap of inversion, Vivacity and Malid shifted into his domain and approached him with expressions of naked curiosity.

“Leave the door unlocked next time,” Malid said, his tone curt. “Vivacity and I have been attempting to gain access for a good while now.”

“There is a reason for that,” Kismet sighed. He turned away from them and resumed flipping his coin. The small, circular scrap of metal, painted silver and with a smug face emblazoned on one side, had far more to offer him than Malid and Vivacity did.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Vivacity said, smiling brightly. She came over and patted him on the shoulder. “I know that in your heart of hearts, you love our visits and anticipate them with bated breath.”

No, Kismet thought. I truly don’t. He’d said as much before, and they hadn’t believed him then either. Their egos wouldn’t allow them to. Little surprise, there; in Kismet’s experience, power and ego were aspects that walked hand-in-hand.

Malid swept his eyes across the room, brow furrowing. “Where is the disturbance we felt? Have you been experimenting with new types of quintessence under our noses?”

“Nothing so crude,” Kismet answered. “A shade entered the Higher Planes.”

He would treasure the looks on their faces for a long time to come. Few things ever managed to make them hold their tongues, not even momentarily.

“How?” Vivacity asked, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know.” His coin landed. Tails, this time. “Perhaps I would, had I not been so rudely interrupted.”

Suddenly, Malid tensed, a wave of frustration emanating from his core. “It’s him,” he snarled. “I’d recognize that stench anywhere. Your shade was the Human.”

Kismet blinked. “I suppose he was.”

“Don’t you understand?!” Malid screamed. “The Human – the one who has defied logical sensibility at every turn – invaded a Higher Plane! Your Higher Plane!”

“I suppose he did.”

Malid paced in a circle. “This cannot be ignored,” he muttered. “Surviving ridiculous odds is one thing. Trespassing on our domain? Inexcusable. Punishment must be dealt.”

“I suppose I agree,” Vivacity said, tapping her finger on her chin. “How, though? Most of us have spent more Influence on harassing him than strictly necessary. It was fun for a time, but there are other avenues to pursue, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t a matter of pleasure,” Malid countered. “It’s a matter of decorum.”

“Then observe him and make your decisions from there,” Kismet said, in a dull monotone. The two intruders glanced at each other before summoning a scrying portal a moment later. They huddled around it, eyes wide like they were children watching their favorite television show.

Kismet joined them. From afar. He had some measure of dignity to uphold.

“The Human survived,” Vivacity excitedly whispered. “What’s more – he kept his sanity.”

“His allies certainly don’t seem to think that,” Malid remarked. “This may be too great of a challenge for their preconceived notions to accept.”

The Human spoke on as he attempted to convince his allies of what he’d seen, his voice within the scrying pool sounding like it came from beneath shallow water. “Despite the gods hating my guts, divine wrath has yet to smite me from on high – knock on wood – so the one explanation I can think of is that, just like the Dungeons, their strength is shackled in some manner.”

“Shackled?” Malid hissed.

With a shock, Kismet and Vivacity realized that he wasn’t speaking just to them.

“What do you know of being shackled?” He continued, seething. “You who are constrained to four limbs and one mind, a slave to bodily functions and ruled by chemicals in your brain.”

The fool’s Influence drained by the second as he directed his ire straight at The Human, his words piercing through the veil and imprinting onto a world-bound psyche. Kismet frowned as blood ran from The Human’s ears. Malid was not attempting to shield his words, and much more of this would shred the mind of any mortal. Kismet considered stopping him, but after a moment’s consideration, decided to sit back and let the coin land where it would.

To his credit, The Human persevered. His unyielding fortitude – and crass demeanor – when confronted with the almighty only served to incense Malid further. Blinded by irritation, and unwilling to concede an inch of ground, Malid failed to notice the toll that speaking directly to a being outside the Planes was taking on him. It wasn’t long before his Influence waned from a flame to an ember.

“No.” Horrified realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. “Not now. I have more Influence than this. Vivacity, cease your laughing! And Kismet, stop flipping the damned coin!”

Tails. Kismet rolled the coin around in his palm. You reap what you sow, Malid.

Malid dismissed the scrying portal with a feral growl. Vivacity clapped her hands and jumped in place, giggling all the while. “Marvelous!” She said, her voice blooming with delight. “Impulses ever do lead you down the strangest of roads. And you walk them so freely and so often! Even mortals learn from their lessons once in a blue moon.”

She leaned closer. “Although, I must admit, I hope you never do.” Her smile deepened, showing teeth. “It keeps the doldrums away.”

“Glad to be of service,” Malid replied, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll learn to check my impulses when you learn to think longer than fifteen seconds into the future. Do you not see the issue with a mortal that can enter the Planes and resist our speech running amok?”

Vivacity tilted her head. “Why would I? A visiting shade is still a mere shade. He can look, but he can’t touch.”

“He can.”

The interlopers’ eyes snapped towards Kismet. “I’m sorry,” Malid began, in a tone making it clear that he wasn’t. “Care to clarify what you just said?”

“The Human can touch.” Flip. Clack. Heads. “And he did. For what little it accomplished.”

Malid and Vivacity were once again stunned into blissful silence, which ended all too soon. “How is he alive?” Vivacity asked. “What – what did he do?”

Kismet raised his hands and mimed a strangling motion around his neck.

A third silence. In one day, even. That, he thought, was a far more extraordinary occurrence than a being of flesh and blood visiting the Higher Planes.

“The Human means us harm,” Malid said. He sounded calmer, as if he’d just witnessed the last piece of a puzzle neatly falling into place. “This is no longer a matter of my personal pride – it is an insult to each and every one of us.”

Vivacity sighed in an exaggerated motion. “Really, Malid, must you be so high-strung? Whether he means us harm or otherwise is immaterial. A mortal raging at the heavens is a tale as old as time.”

“This mortal owns a Class that we’ve never witnessed before,” he countered. “A Class, which you may recall, has allowed him to interface with Loci of Power, utilize the inherent power of Crystals, and sense $*(@(!%. We have no way of knowing how it may evolve in the future. He can’t harm us, that much is true, but it’s entirely possible that he gains the ability to come and go as he pleases.”

“And what then?” Vivacity crossed her arms. “You’re sucking all the fun out of this. A world-bound creature learning a brand-new Class should be celebrated. The novelty alone is more enticing than years of Influence spent on alternative endeavors. Why stymie its potential? As you said yourself, no matter how it evolves, a mortal can’t harm us either way.”

“Is that what you believe?” Kismet commented.

They turned to look at him. “Yes,” Vivacity replied, as if affirming that water was wet. “The idea is, on every fundamental level, impossible.”

“Improbable,” Kismet corrected, in a neutral tone. He gripped his hand around his coin. “Nothing is eternal. We are hardly an exception. The chances of a world-bound entity doing harm to one of our kind may be a fraction of a fraction of a fraction, but it is not zero. And when given infinite time, inevitably, an infinitesimal chance becomes an eventual certainty.”

Malid and Vivacity were taken aback. Not by worry or fear, Kismet noted, but by indignity.

“If you’re so convinced of this eventual certainty,” Malid said. “Then why aren’t you moving to nip our mortal problem in the bud?”

Kismet forced a brittle smile onto his face. “The two of you seem to have it well-enough in hand. By all means: carry on.”

That was as much as he could bear. The invaders tried asking him further questions, but he paid them no mind, instead concentrating on his ever-dependable coin. Mercifully, they left soon after, presumably to inform the others of their findings. For what little that would accomplish. Kismet couldn’t imagine the others giving the Human’s evolution the gravitas it deserved, especially not when Malid and Vivacity were scarcely worried themselves.

A situation such as this may be too great of a challenge for their preconceived notions to accept.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure by how much. Eventually, Kismet summoned a scrying portal targeting the Human. He kept it open just long enough to learn what he needed.

“Rob.” Kismet drummed his fingers on the table. “Hmm.”

Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails.

The pattern repeated for dozens of iterations before deviating.

Chapter 21

Present Day

Rob rolled around in bed, trying to fall asleep – and failing miserably. That much wasn’t uncommon, but his insomnia was even worse than usual due to the constant tingling in his right arm. The good news was that the Healers’ soul-surgery therapy thingy was proceeding right on schedule. He couldn’t move his hands or fingers yet, as they needed to repair his ‘nerves’ starting from where they were closest to his un-Burnt flesh, but in two days they’d restored the feeling in half an inch of his arm. Not bad for an injury caused by giving a god a ten-fingered hug. Two weeks and he’d be giving high-fives with his dominant arm again! He’d missed that almost as much as being able to swing a sword at optimal strength.

The bad news was that it felt weeeird.

"So how's this going to work?" Rob had asked, before his first treatment began.

"If you've been a recipient of standard Healing magic in the past, it is much of the same experience as Soul Healing," Vythe the Fiend Physician explained, her voice chipper and upbeat. "All that's required of you is to sit quietly and bear the sensation for one or two hours daily."

"Sounds good." He paused while in the middle of nodding. "Wait, what do you mean by 'bear' the sensatioaaaaaaaaugh!"

Rob started shivering like a freezing winter wind had blasted in his face. Vythe was positioning her hands several inches above his arm, a soft off-white glow emanating downward from her palms. Visually, it was very similar to Healing magic. The feeling, however, was decidedly not. Instead of feeling like a soothing balm spreading throughout his body, Soul Healing was closer to someone pouring carbonated ice water directly into his veins.

"You c-could've warned me," Rob protested, his teeth chattering.

"I find that patients warned of the specifics of their upcoming procedures tend to 'tense' subconsciously," Vythe replied, in a distant tone, focused on her work. "This method saved approximately 15 minutes off of your required treatment time."

"Oh. I g-guess that's o-okay then."

Vythe hummed in agreement, and the healing continued. After several minutes passed, his right arm started to spasm like it was undergoing a localized seizure.

"Is that-"

"Normal?" Vythe interrupted. "Yes."

And that was that. Rob hoped that he would grow accustomed to the sensation soon – a futile hope that was dashed in short order when the carbonated ice water in his veins turned blazing hot.

<Want to play rock-paper-scissors to pass the time?> Diplomacy offered.

*It's a bullshit game,* Rob thought back. *You always win.* He paused. *Best two out of three?*

Unfortunately, the feeling always persisted for hours after his treatment was finished. In the grand scheme of things, he couldn’t complain, but damn if it didn’t make sleeping borderline impossible. It didn’t help that whenever the ache wasn’t keeping him awake, his apprehension was.

Five more days until the Fiends’ spell was ready.

Less than a week, yet it seemed like an eternity. While the mages’ progress towards upgrading the teleportation circle was continuing as expected, the frequency of the Blight’s attacks were not. The thing had gone from sending in its spawn once every two days, to once a day, and now to twice a day. You’d think that it would ease up on attempting a method of entry that was clearly causing it massive amounts of pain, but as far as Rob could tell it was just getting more and more pissed off. Each scream of agony from a failed entry sounded a little...angrier. The creature was indignant at their resistance, and it wouldn’t stop until the lesser beings that had eluded it for so long were reduced to shards of bone digesting in its stomach.

At least, that’s what Rob imagined it was thinking. For all he knew, it barely thought at all, acting only on instinct and pure hedonism. It certainly didn’t seem as crafty as the Blight that invaded The Village. That particular Blight infected an entire forest’s worth of animals and directed them to attack en masse in a coordinated assault. Compared to that, the Blight of Broadwater seemed simple. Prone to flights of fancy, and frenzied with desire.

In fact, if it wasn’t so laser-focused on the obvious prize right in front of its eyes, it would’ve been dropping off its Blightspawn in distant corners of the city. Broadwater, to put it simply, was fucking huge. It was meant to house hundreds of thousands of people. The Deserters’ 1600~ and the Fiends’ 500~ covered just a fraction of its territory. If the Blight injected its babies into areas of the city that were uninhabited, those spawn would have the breathing room to...well, spawn. Rob was pretty sure that’s what the bubbling ovals of flesh were meant to do, although no one had allowed them to get to that stage.

Put those spawners in an isolated area, and within a few days, an unstoppable army of Blightspawn would be descending on the rest of the city like a swarm of Cronenberg-flavored locusts. Instead, the Blight kept trying to hammer a square peg through a round hole, when there were some frankly simple strategies it could be using to achieve victory way more easily.

Which wouldn’t stop it from killing everyone, anyway. Its brood only needed one good battle.

The Deserters and the Fiends were doing their best to hold off the Blightspawn incursion, but their heavy hitters couldn’t always be there to ensure a decisive victory. Rob hadn’t even been close enough to make it to any of yesterday’s attacks; whether by choice or by chance, the Blight was starting to make entry attempts a good distance away from the one guy in the city who could single-handedly turn the tide of battle. Keira was as effective as always, and some of the Fiends – Goroth especially – were tough sons of bitches, but none of them possessed the unique cocktail of Skills that let Rob defeat Blightspawn quickly and with minimal risk. It was infuriating, for a multitude of reasons. He’d only gained 1 additional Level since hitting 42, and every fight he missed was easy EXP left on the table.

And maybe if he’d been to yesterday’s battles, they wouldn’t have lost another Ranger.

Rob still remembered the day that the people of The Village set out for Reviton City. There were about 50 Rangers among the expedition back then, each ready to lay down their lives in defense of those they’d sworn to protect. Now? 10. Some of those 50 were gone because they’d joined the people that continued on to Reviton instead of heading north, but most of them had died in combat. Some to lingering Infected, and some to the Blight. For fuck’s sake, the Deserters were down to nearly a single-digit number of Rangers. Discounting the fresh-faced newbies, which Rob absolutely would. The people who’d changed from Utility Class users to Combat Class users were doing their best to train up as fast as possible, but they weren’t remotely close to passing muster in either skills or stats. Sending them against the Blightspawn would be like throwing squirrels into a wood chipper.

No, it was up to Riardin’s Rangers and the actual Rangers to deal with an invasion from the Blight. Again. Their forces – their people were being picked off one by one. Again.

He wouldn’t fucking allow it.

Rob brought up his Character Sheet, taking a close look at his stats.

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 43

Race: Human

Class: Berserker (LV 40)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 3)

HP: 613 / 613

Stamina: 300 / 300

MP: 200 / 200

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Corruption (-437), Soul-Burnt (Right Lower Arm), Push Through (-50% Pain), Hopeful

Strength: 48

Vitality: 105

Endurance: 30

Dexterity: 45

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 20

Unspent Points: 15

Fifteen points to play with. His first instinct was to evenly spread out his stats so that he would hit milestones. 2 points for Strength to bring it to 50, 5 for Dexterity to bring it to 50, 2 for Perception to hit 35, maybe even 2 for Mind if he was feeling spicy. In the past, milestones tended to give guaranteed Skill increases and oftentimes new Skills entirely. Based on what his friends had told him, though, that might no longer be the case. Despite his relatively high Strength and Dexterity, he hadn’t learned any new Skills related to them in a long time – probably because he wasn’t fulfilling the necessary prerequisites.

Unlike Keira wielding a big-ass greatsword or Orn’tol darting around the field like a squirrel with a bow, Rob’s focus on Strength and Dexterity were secondary compared to his usual strategy of taking hits and abusing stupid bullshit. Imbue Vitality was letting him deal massive damage, but that was more of a property of the ability than any Strength on his part. Focusing on milestones wouldn’t be as much of a benefit as it used to.

Aside from that, part of him wanted to hold on to his stats, as he was pretty sure he was learning a new Berserker Skill soon. According to his friends – and boy did it feel nice to have Elatran natives to ask for advice instead of improvising build paths on his own – the rate at which you gained new Skills tapered off significantly as your stats and Class Levels grew higher. If he was remembering correctly, he’d learned Berserker’s previous Class Skill in the mid-20s. Lower-40s seemed about right for a new one. The forge inside himself that embodied Berserker was full to bursting with fuel and seemed ready to blow if it got just one or two more Levels.

As he had no idea what his new Class Skill would be, the prudent option would be to reserve his stats until he knew how that Skill functioned. Much like Orn’tol’s Temporal Trap and Zamira’s Mercy’s Whisper, a Class Skill learned at this stage would probably be unique to himself. Maybe it sacrificed more HP, maybe it scaled with Strength, maybe it cost extra MP. There was no way of knowing until he read its Description.

Rob considered all those thoughts, and then put all 15 stat points into Dexterity.

Step of the Wind Level Increased! 6 → 9

Fleet of Foot Level Increased! 4 → 5

Swordsmanship Level Increased! 7 → 8

He couldn’t help anyone if he kept arriving late to the fucking fights.

The Ranger’s name had been Vashar. He read voraciously, enjoyed small talk, and listening to rainfall gave him peace. And he died because there wasn’t anyone to get in front of him before a pincer crushed his head.

It was unnecessary. Preventable. Rob would be there next time. He needed to be there next time.

After all, they’d named him Blightkiller. He wasn’t quite up to that particular task, but he could at least defend them from the next-closest thing.

–

That night, when Rob finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, he dreamed. He dreamed of molten rock and rolling hills. He dreamed of ivory towers and ships of gold. He dreamed of blinding light and pleading screams.

And when he woke up in the morning, his memories of the dream faded in the time it took him to rub his eyes.

–

Changes

Rob

Level 42 → 43

Berserker Level 39 → 40

Dexterity 45 → 60

Upgrade: Step of the Wind 6 → 9

Upgrade: Fleet of Foot 4 → 5

Upgrade: Swordsmanship 7 → 8

Keira

Level 37 → 39

Orn’tol

Level 29 → 31

Zamira

Level 29 → 32

Vul’to

Level 29 → 31

Meyneth

Level 31 → 33

Malika

Level 26 → 26

No Level gain, but Mind rose by 4 points from working on the teleportation circle

Chapter 22

“There you are,” Zamira hissed.

Meyneth settled into her chair, beckoned Zamira inside her house, and waited as the Swordmaster stomped towards her. Granted, Zamira was more so stepping with slightly greater force than usual, but by her standards it was tantamount to a boar charging at full speed. It was mildly fascinating, the way her face struggled to retain its usual calm stoicism. Meyneth knew that she shouldn’t have found the sight as amusing as she did, and it took some effort to suppress the chuckle rising to the top of her throat. Zamira’s countenance was such a departure from her usual bearing that it bordered on absurdity.

Then Zamira’s eyes flashed with outrage, and Meyneth remembered that those slow to anger often exploded like a stack of Firebombs when finally pushed to their limit. She considered fleeing, but she’d delayed this meeting long enough already, and Zamira was faster regardless. Consigning herself to a potential demise, Meyneth placed her hands in her lap and kept a neutral expression as Zamira stopped mere inches in front of her, somehow managing to look down on Meyneth despite their height difference.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Zamira asked, in a pointed tone. “It has been days since...since you...”

Red crept into her cheeks. “What in the name of all that is good and gracious were you thinking?!”

“That you are frustrated in more ways than one,” Meyneth replied, serene as the night sky. As long as she kept to the script, she might just make it through this conversation with her head still attached to her shoulders. “Furthermore, you were stagnating. A push was needed.”

“There’s an order to these things!” Zamira took a deep breath to calm herself. It didn’t seem to help very much. “As inexperienced as I am in the ways of romance, even I am aware that first impressions are paramount. You must put your best foot forward, endear yourself to them, gradually reveal your inner self, and express genuine intent when the time is right.”

Or lay everything bare and get on with it, Meyneth thought. That’s what worked for her. Granted, neither she nor any of her partners had expressed the slightest intention of forming emotional bonds with each other, but it wouldn’t have changed her approach, regardless. Although she was forced to admit that the nature of her entanglements was due in large part to her conversational deficiencies, as well as the naked truth that no one in Dragonkin territory would have accepted real romantic overtures from her whether she wanted them to or not.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” Zamira continued, sounding vaguely despondent. “That all-important first impression has been smashed to pieces by a hammer in Dragonkin form. We could barely look each other in the eyes afterwards.”

Meyneth laced her fingers together. “So your claim is that I ruined your initial meeting with Sivia?”

Zamira narrowed her eyes. “In a word? Yes.”

“Dear Zamira,” Meyneth began. “Without me, there would have been no initial meeting at all. You do not talk to people.”

The Swordsmaster flinched like she’d been struck by an unexpected blow. “I talk to people.”

“Us,” Meyneth corrected. “You talk to us. When is the last time you’ve willingly conversed with anyone outside of Riardin’s Rangers in a social setting?” She leaned back in her chair. “That was no rhetorical question. I will wait for your answer for as long as necessary.”

“That’s.” Zamira fidgeted, her rage giving way to consternation. “I spoke with Urian on several occasions.”

“My stipulation was ‘willingly’.”

Her face lit up. “I spoke with Faelynn for an extended period during the length of our group’s outing.”

“You are ignoring the spirit of the question,” Meyneth pressed. “Faelynn was an unwanted nuisance thrust upon us by political manipulations. That she turned out to be pleasant company is besides the point. You did not initiate conversation with her, and under normal circumstances, I doubt you would have said one single word to her.” She locked eyes with Zamira. “Tell me that I am wrong.”

Zamira winced, and then fell silent.

“I believe that suffices as an answer,” Meyneth continued. “You, Zamira, are a reasonably social person, but only when the situation arises from factors outside of your control. I initiate more conversations with people than you do, and at the risk of underselling myself – a habit I am working to break – that comparison is hardly one that casts a favorable light on your history.”

Zamira paused. “Have you truly been conversing with people?”

Meyneth nodded. “I have.” Twice. Over the past two days. Which she did simply so she could answer this question in the affirmative. Technically, it was not a lie.

A warm smile spread across Zamira’s face, dispelling some of her ire. “I am happy for you,” she said, with genuine emotion. “You’ve made much progress since we first met.”

Ah, Meyneth thought. An unintentional frontal assault on her part. Now I must continue expanding my social horizons, lest I be wracked with guilt from pulling the wool over her eyes. She contemplated her options. Asha seemed like a vaguely pleasant person. Even if she was clearly terrified of me. Perhaps I can inquire about her hobbies? That is what people do when talking, I believe.

“Meyneth?”

The Dragonkin sat up straight. “My apologies,” she murmured. “Was lost in thought.” It was a blunder on her part, but thankfully one that the script took into account. “Your praise is appreciated,” she said, returning Zamira's smile. “And I promise you that I only introduced Sivia in that manner in order to help you better yourself. It was an action done out of compassion, not malice.”

Actually, Meyneth had hoped that throwing the two into the same general vicinity and cutting through the awkward lead-up phase of courtship would solve the problem outright. Her confidante spent quite some time explaining why that idea was doomed to fail from the start.

Zamira sighed. “I never considered otherwise. Why, though? If your aim was to pair us up – for reasons you have yet to explain – wouldn’t a standard introduction have sufficed?”

“Imagine a hypothetical,” Meyneth started. “In which I devise a setting where Sivia and yourself meet in a natural fashion. Or perhaps one where I introduce the both of you in a less direct way. Honestly, I think the result is the same either way. The two of you initiate conversation, and you note your attraction to her. And you are attracted to her, as I chose well.”

Zamira’s blush deepened, confirming Meyneth’s assumption. Frustrated in many ways, indeed.

“Despite your attraction to her,” she continued. “You would then proceed to end the conversation without any inkling of acting on that attraction, or even with plans to meet her again. Because you fear intimacy, and because you will be unable to admit potential interest towards people before reconciling your feelings for Keira, a prospect that daunts you.”

Zamira’s mouth fell open. For a second, she looked about ready to retort, and then gave up. “I see,” she said, quietly. “So it was that obvious.” Her mouth twisted. “I can only imagine what others think when they look at me. There stands Zamira, the woman who projects her desires onto someone who clearly loves another person more. My foolishness laid bare for all to see.”

She lowered her gaze. “I’m perfectly aware that how I feel about her is shameful.”

“Untrue,” Meyneth stated. She stood up and put a hand on Zamira’s shoulder. “The heart wants what it wants. Anyone who claims to be able to control it with ease is delusional or a liar. Compared to its whims, we are mere leaves swept about in a tornado. Your love is not shameful.”

She’d rehearsed those lines many, many times. They were important – perhaps the most important in the entire script. She would never forgive herself if she got them wrong.

Zamira’s eyes misted over. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I meant every word,” Meyneth said. “With that in mind, you need to confront your feelings, either by expressing them openly or making a concerted effort to let them go. This half-measure will do naught but cause you grief.”

“...If only it were so simple as that,” Zamira muttered.

That is. The exact statement. That Keira told me. Meyneth suppressed an urge to strangle something. “Please elaborate,” she said, through a tight smile that thankfully went unnoticed.

“Expressing my feelings openly would be a disaster on multiple levels,” Zamira started. “What would you like to hear of first? The pragmatic reasons or my own personal inhibitions?”

“Pragmatic.” Please. Inject logic into this or I may perish where I stand.

Zamira nodded. “As you wish. Aside from the fact that Keira is highly unlikely to choose myself over Rob – to say nothing of the emotional turmoil that would cause if she somehow did – you are aware that I possess a strong aversion to touch, correct?”

Meyneth hesitated, glancing at her hand on Zamira’s shoulder.

“That much is fine and appreciated,” Zamira assured. “Any further than simple handholding, though?” She shuddered. “My skin crawls at the very thought of it. Hugging someone is out of the question, as are...many other activities that are more intensive than hugging.” She raised her eyebrows by a hair. “I’m sure you can see why this would pose a problem in most relationships.”

For the first time since their conversation began, Meyneth was genuinely confused. “In the interest of honesty, allow me to be crass,” she said. “There is nothing at all wrong about eschewing the physical aspect of a relationship. Some people simply don’t have those inclinations. However, your admission surprises me, as I was always under the impression that you experienced physical, sexual attraction in the same manner as most other people.”

Zamira grimaced. “I do.”

“...My apologies. That sounds difficult.”

The Swordmaster sighed. “Certainly. I am interested in the subject, and the idea of doing more than looking does appeal to me. Sometimes. In abstract. In practice, I’m confident that I would have a breakdown of some sort if I were to try and go beyond light touches here and there.”

She grew pensive, muttering more to herself than Meyneth. “Perhaps I could build up to the act. Erect mental barriers. Prepare myself accordingly. That would take years, though, assuming it ever works at all. I can’t expect someone to wait that long for me when there’s no guarantee their patience will be rewarded.”

Meyneth came close to proposing that Rob attend to Keira’s physical needs so that Zamira wouldn’t have to worry about fulfilling that requirement. It was only the specter of her confidante’s voice – instructing her of the dangers that awaited down the thorny road known as improvisation – that stayed her tongue. Instead, she opted for a more measured suggestion.

“Keira may be willing to wait,” she said. “You won’t know for sure unless you ask.”

Zamira put on a bitter smile. “Even if she were to say yes, the guilt would gnaw at me. As long as we’re being honest, I don’t feel worthy of her.”

She held up a hand to forestall Meyneth’s retort. “You met us after the fact,” she explained. “When we had already become friends. As much as it shames me to admit, that development is recent; we were at odds for years before then.”

Zamira averted her eyes. “I was not one of the horrid people who harassed her,” she said, in a voice filled with self-loathing. “But I still ignored her. Looked down on her. Kept quiet when others insulted her. In short, I was like every other crowd-following simpleton in The Village who spurned her for choosing to be a Warrior. Our current friendship is scarcely five months old.”

Meyneth couldn’t keep her eyes from widening. Now that was a revelation completely outside of her expectations. She’d known bloodsworn sisters who got along worse those two. Zamira, perhaps the most noble person Meyneth knew, used to treat Keira poorly? The idea was…

Distasteful.

Friendly smiles hide false feelings, Meyneth thought, coldly. Whether a Dragonkin or an Elf, liars remain the same. Her claws extended by a fraction of an inch. It might be best if Zamira keeps her distance from Keira. At least until I can ascertain the measure of her character. And whether the affection she shows now is of a genuine or mercantile nature.

“Are you well?” a hesitant voice asked.

With a small shock, Meyneth snapped out of her reverie. She glanced inward, grimacing at what she found. A moment of weakness was all it had taken for buried memories to come crawling up like the risen dead summoned by dark magic. It was contemptible behavior on her part. Considering that Keira viewed many of the Deserters as akin to mildew floating on the surface of a pond, she never in a thousand years would have accepted Zamira with open arms if the woman’s past actions were like...the assumptions Meyneth latched onto.

Sparks of self-recrimination flared within her. Being so quick to doubt a proven ally was much more distasteful than anything in the story that Zamira told her.

And then she realized – with a second small shock – that she’d been quiet for some time, having left a rather apprehensive Elf waiting on tenterhooks for an answer. “What changed?” Meyneth quickly blurted out.

Zamira barked out a harsh laugh. “We almost died in a Dungeon Crawl gone wrong.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Meyneth said, making sure she spoke in a non-combative tone. “While I was a relative outsider to the group at that time, it was still plain for me to see that the both of you were friends.”

Zamira stared blankly, her face lighting up a few moments later. “Ah, no, not that Dungeon Crawl gone wrong. I’m referring to the one before.”

No wonder they were so quick to believe that the gods have been tormenting them. “So you almost died, and then…?”

“I realized many things in succession,” Zamira continued. “First, that if Keira wasn’t a Warrior, then every one of us would have died. Second, that I was too harsh on her for choosing to be a Warrior instead of a Ranger. Third, that whether or not her choice of Class ended up being useful to me personally, I should have supported it regardless. Fourth, that part of the reason I shunned her was due to latent resentment inspired by my unfulfilled desire to be a Swordmaster instead of a Ranger.”

That same bitter smile returned. “It was a painful day of self-reflection, to be sure.”

Meyneth broke composure and rubbed her temples. “I believe I’ve stepped in a field of Mines,” she said.

“No, that also happened before we met you.”

The two of them locked eyes. A second later, they burst out laughing, reveling in the absurdity of the moment.

“I truly needed that,” Zamira said, once her laughter subsided. “How do people handle these sorts of conversations without running for the hills?”

“You’re asking the wrong woman,” Meyneth replied. “If I ever find myself on the receiving end of a conversation such as this, then something has gone horribly wrong.”

“Really?” Zamira asked, in a tone free of guile. “Based on your rhetoric, I assumed that you had plenty of experience in handling relationships.”

Meyneth flashed her a toothy grin. “I know my weaknesses and have accounted for them. And before you manage to fully divert my attention, I must ask you to finish your story, lest we miss out on the all-important conclusion.”

Zamira half-sighed, half-chuckled. “Almost had you there.” She paused for a few seconds, considering her words carefully. “To summarize; I treated Keira poorly, and while she forgave me – far faster than I deserved – it remains a moral failing that weighs on me to this day. Perhaps I might feel different if I’d been the one to reach out to her first, but no, that was Rob.”

She put on a complicated expression that Meyneth couldn’t parse. “It would be easier to rationalize Rob’s support of Keira if he were a less forthright person,” Zamira continued. “I could tell myself: he was only first because she was his biggest supporter in The Village, and it was in his best interest to cultivate a friendly relationship with her.”

Zamira shook her head. “Unfortunately, he’s actually a good person, and he went above and beyond the call of pragmatism on several occasions. From what I know, her all-important first impression towards him was a complete disaster, yet he immediately forgave her indiscretion and proceeded to put himself in harm’s way in order to prevent her friend’s corpse from being dragged off by spiders. Then, when he learned of Keira’s standing in The Village, he burned precious social capital in repeated attempts to make our trainee group think more highly of her. And those are just two examples of the affection he’s obviously shown her from the very beginning.”

When she next spoke, Zamira sounded almost wistful. “He was first by several weeks,” she said. “Just a few short weeks. And yet it made so much of a difference.”

“None of that is how love works,” Meyneth said, forcefully and with a hint of annoyance. “There is no ‘first’ or ‘second’. No one is owed anything for kind behavior. And whatever happened in the past, Keira obviously no longer cares.”

“That’s true.” Zamira closed her eyes. “But I care.”

For an instant, Meyneth despaired. Her friends’ issues seemed to run deeper than the great canyon bordering Human territory. Gods above, what was Rob going to say when she talked to him next? That he was married with a child back on Earth? Every explosive relationship she’d witnessed in Dragonkin territory was gradually – horrifyingly – beginning to make sense. If her friends, who were good people with the capacity to be rational, could be reduced to such illogical behavior, then no one was safe from love’s insidious manipulations. How in the world was she supposed to untangle a web such as this? Was it even within the realm of possibility? A script only went so far.

Then, mercifully, Zamira opened her eyes. They shone with determination. “I think I’ll go speak to Sivia.”

“What?” Meyneth said, unable to keep the bewilderment from her tone.

Zamira laughed in response, seeming far more at ease than a few seconds prior. She looked at Meyneth, a fragile smile spreading across her face. “I’ll speak to her,” she repeated. “It’ll probably go nowhere, especially after she learns that I will be unable to satisfy her flagrantly high physical attraction for me, but each road begins with its first step.”

“That is good,” Meyneth stated, not trusting herself to say anything else.

“It is.” Zamira reached out and, hesitantly, touched Meyneth’s shoulder. “I admire you, you know. You’re always so outspoken with your opinions and desires. If nothing else, talking to you has helped me realize that I’ve submerged myself within a mental quagmire. My concerns are shackles, paralyzing me into inaction.”

She nodded, resolute. “I must advance forward. A Swordmaster should do no less. Risks will be involved, but, well, such is life. Sivia is a good starting point; either her denial will help me build up a resistance to rejection, or her acceptance may help me...”

Zamira winced, then forced out the next few words. “May help me let go of my feelings for Keira. Hmm. That was more difficult to say than expected. I should go now before my resolve wavers.”

She turned to walk away, then paused. “And who knows?” She said, in a light tone. “Perhaps my chances of being accepted are better than I imagine. Apparently, I have hips that shake the heavens.”

Zamira sashayed off, leaving Meyneth standing dumbstruck in the middle of an empty room.

“I won?”

--

For the fourth time in several weeks, Faelynn revised her opinion on who the most intimidating person in Elatra was.

When her journey southward began, Goroth was firmly entrenched in her mind as the owner of that lofty title. While the man was gentle-hearted in most cases, one did not reach Level 38 solely through acts of Diplomacy. Centuries of fighting had stained his claws red; at Level 38, he could overpower Level 50 Humans by himself, and there were few Fiends alive who’d participated in as many battles as him. It was a discovery that tended to startle people who were polite enough to abstain from Identifying his Level when first meeting him. Give him another century and he would be the spitting image of a kindly grandfather, mediating disputes and doling out wisdom to underappreciative children.

Some interpreted this as weakness. Some people were fucking stupid. It was because Goroth was so intimately aware of the high price of bloodshed that he often sought for peaceful resolutions to conflicts. Faelynn had seen the man when he was angry, truly angry, and suffice to say there was a reason he’d survived this long in a profession where most died young.

Of course, someone such as the Dragon Queen was certainly more intimidating than Goroth, but she’d never met the Dragon Queen, and if Argath was merciful, she never would. To a Fiend, the leaders of non-Human races were more like mythical figures than actual people. None of them, with the exception of the Dwarven Stonewarden, ever bothered to engage Fiends in direct combat. That was fine by Faelynn; if those Level 70 freaks wanted to stay holed up in their homelands until the day they died, then all the better.

With that in mind, Goroth used to be her personal barometer of a man that no one should cross. Then she’d traveled south, encountered the Blight – which wasn’t a person, so it didn’t count – and met Rob. If not for the aforementioned Blight, laying eyes upon Rob’s soul would have been the single most revolting moment of her entire life. Several decades ago, Faelynn witnessed the execution of a Souleater, and while his soul contained peculiar oddities if you looked very closely, it was a verdant field of flowers when compared to the rotting garbage heap of corpses that was Rob’s soul. Stories meant to scare children into avoiding strangers couldn’t have invented a more effective personification of depravity than that.

And, in a scene straight out of her worst nightmares, he’d cornered her at a dead-end with no escape. This, she thought, was a true monster. A creature who’d devoured the souls of thousands – nay, tens of thousands. How else could his essence have been perverted into such a ghastly form? Ten of the most skilled Soul Surgeons working in tandem wouldn’t be able to recreate the shape of Rob’s soul if they were given a month to do so. In one fell swoop, he’d launched himself into the position of being the most intimidating person Faelynn had ever known. It didn’t matter that Rob was lower-Leveled than Goroth, because at least Goroth wasn’t an abomination.

Then that abomination stood in front of her, hunger in its eyes, sizing her up as an appetizer, and proceeded to speak in Fiendish. And organize a peace treaty.

No one warned her that traveling south would be this memorable.

A mere three days later, after Helkath landed Faelynn in prison for a crime she took no part in, Zamira visited her. If Goroth intimidated via implicit power, and Rob intimidated via his nature, then Zamira intimidated by the strength of her will. Faelynn was a Level 27 Fiend, while Zamira was a Level 32 Elf, and in an odds-on fight, Faelynn knew she would be favored to win. Despite that, and despite her experience with fighting Human Swordmasters in the past, the impression that Faelynn’s survival instincts yelled when being stared at by Zamira was: don’t get in her way. Not for something that mattered to the woman. Her eyes contained the righteous fervor of a person who’d discovered their lifelong duty. Those people often burned bright and fizzled early, but no matter how much of their goal they achieved before expiring, great change followed wherever they went. Faelynn had no desire to become another of the Swordmaster’s stepping stones. A pretty face and beautiful singing voice only bought a person so much leeway.

It still came as a surprise to Faelynn that she was attracted to some of the Elves she’d seen. The white eyes were offputting at first, and their lack of musculature made their adults seem like teenagers at times, but once you were able to look past that…

Regardless, Zamira’s bottomless eyes were barely able to edge out Rob’s soul as the deciding factor in who intimidated her more. A brief period of stability passed where she was content to wait in her cell with the knowledge that a war hadn’t broken out. Once the teleportation circle was completed, she would be set free, her allies’ legs would be restored, Helkath would probably be executed, and all would be well.

Four days until the predicted completion date, she was released from confinement.

“Thank you.” Faelynn gave a smile to the male Elf who’d led her out of prison and into the open streets of Broadwater City. “Assuming you can understand me. Which you can’t. No one else has learned to speak Fiendish, have they?”

The male Elf blinked at her a few times and muttered words of discordant screeching.

“Naturally.” Faelynn swept her eyes up and down the road. “I don’t see an executioner’s block anywhere in sight, so am I safe to presume that I’m being set free? I was a model prisoner.”

The Elf shrugged, started walking, and motioned for her to follow.

“Lead the way, my verbose friend,” Faelynn sighed.

She followed at a close distance, not wanting any twitchy Elves to get the wrong idea that a jailbreak was taking place. However, the dozens of Elves she passed by didn’t give her more than a glance of mild distaste. It was a gratifying sight, as it confirmed that relations between their races were improving at a rapid pace. Nothing brought people together quite like shared enemies, and the Blight made for one hell of a shared enemy. Perhaps this joint venture wasn’t doomed to failure after all.

Although there was...something else besides distaste in their eyes. Something hard to pin down. Faelynn wasn’t able to put her finger on the notion before her chatterbox companion led her to their intended location. As a silver lining, she was able to figure out who they were meeting about ten seconds ahead of time – due to the stench – and prepared herself accordingly.

“Morning, Faelynn,” Rob said, with a jaunty wave. Thankfully, the urge to vomit upon seeing his patchwork abomination of a soul was less overpowering than their prior encounter. At present, he was waiting for her in the middle of the road alongside several of his compatriots. Among those attending him were Taleya the Ranger, Vul’to the Vanguard, and – oh shit – Keira the Warrior.

“A fine morning to you as well,” Faelynn replied, smiling her best smile. “It’s good to see you again under more auspicious circumstances. Please give my thanks to your friend for escorting me thus far.”

For some maddening reason, Rob arched an eyebrow. He conferred with the male Elf, then addressed Faelynn again after the Elf had exited the premises. “Tiarsus says you made for polite company,” Rob informed. “And don’t worry, I phrased your thanks so that it didn’t come across as incredibly stilted and nervous. Almost like you’re worried about something.”

Faelynn gulped. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

Rob smirked. “Relaaaax. The whole imprisonment thing is in the past. You didn’t do anything wrong, no one on either of our sides tried to pull something stupid – well, since the last time – and everyone is pretty happy just to pin the blame on Helkath.” His tone softened. “In all seriousness, sorry we couldn’t get you out earlier. I’m pinning the blame for that on Elder Alessia. Something to do with political shenanigans. You’re in the clear now, so hey, mazel tov.”

“Indeed,” Faelynn stated. “Mazel tov.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

She sputtered. “If you are aware of that, then why did you say it?”

Rob shrugged, a sheepish look on his face. “No one else ever bothers to repeat my Earth sayings or ask for clarification. I think they’re used to it by now.”

“May I please go back to prison?” The words – obviously said in jest – were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Faelynn’s blood ran cold, but the man with the soul of nightmares just laughed and graced her with a genuine smile.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “Quick thing – you mind if I finish up my discussion with the others first? We were in the middle of something when you showed up.”

She nodded, mutely, watching in detached horror as the abomination faced the mutilator and engaged her in a riveting conversation.

New revision! Keira was the most intimidating, because she was Intimidating. A person had to be touched in the head if they were able to maim prisoners and then act normally just a few days later. Argath preserve, what are they even talking about?

–

“Keira,” Rob said, sighing. “I’m going to be super honest. You are the absolute last person I want to teach Auto-Translate.”

Keira projected an expression of exasperation as, internally, she grumbled in acceptance. She’d expected as much, but that didn’t mean she was going to go down without a hint of resistance. “And why not?” She challenged. “You’ve started giving lessons to Utility Class users. Am I not qualified to receive your oh-so-important guidance? What if a group of Fiends come to take my head, and I find myself unable to convince them of my innocence?”

“Is that really what you would do?” Rob said, in a flat tone. “Try to convince them of your innocence? Or would you just use knowledge of their language to shit-talk them until they attacked you first, thereby ensuring 100% plausible deniability for fighting them?”

Keira folded her arms. “Your claims are scandalous, rude, and uncalled for.”

“You didn’t mention ‘incorrect’.”

“It went without saying.” And my Deception Level is still at 2.

Rob sighed again, and this time it was tinged with amusement. “As tempted as I am to teach you Auto-Translate and watch the sparks fly,” he began. “We can’t afford another international SNAFU right now. Plus, an Auto-Translate lesson leaves people with a killer headache, and we need you in top fighting form. Especially you.”

Keira quirked a smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere, dear Rob.” She copied his sigh, then made it three times as dramatic. “If you insist. But we’ll revisit this topic after we’re free of this situation, and at the very least I want to be taught Fiendish before too many people outside of our Party are. Grant me some of that vaunted nepotism of yours.”

“Works for me.” Rob frowned. “You’d be a better student than most of my current ones, that’s for sure. Not that it’s their fault, but the pace of teaching has to match their amount of Vitality, and if I have to be careful not to go overboard or else they’ll pop and make a mess.” He gave her two thumbs up. “No casualties so far! Pretty sure that wasn’t a metric my college professors got excited over, but hey, they taught different tracks.”

Before they could speak further, movement caught their eye. They greeted Meyneth as she approached, and then re-introduced her to Faelynn, who was currently staring at them with a pensive expression on her face. Keira considered asking if the Fiend was feeling well, but her attempt at a peace offering was interrupted by Meyneth saying something disastrous.

“Today has been quite eventful for me,” she said. “I’ve just come from conversing with Zamira.”

Alarm bells rang in Keira’s head. “About what, exactly?” She asked, in a pointed tone.

The corners of Meyneth’s lips twitched. “Important matters. On that subject; Rob, do you have a minute to speak alone?”

“No!” Keira yelled, stepping between them. “He most certainly does not!”

“Hoo boy,” Rob muttered. “I want context, but I don’t think I’m getting it.”

–

Last and final revision, Faelynn thought, as the group of friends argued in a seemingly good-natured manner. The most intimidating person is all of them. Every Elf, Human, and Dragonkin in that band they call the Deserters is insane.

She’d finally discerned what she’d noticed in the Elves’ eyes as she passed by them on the street: determination. Quiet determination. While the Fiends were equally resolved to survive this hardship, there was a thick undercurrent of panic in the actions they took, herself included. The Blight’s coming was a shock that had reverberated to their very cores. On the surface, her people would fight to the last man, but on the inside, they felt more like rodents trapped in deep water, desperately trying to stay afloat as an encroaching shadow grew larger and larger.

The Deserters, however, appeared...resigned? No, that wasn’t the right word. ‘Resigned’ implied that they were yielding to their fate. It was more like they were accustomed to situations such as these. As if the emergence of a Blight was just another day of the week. Faelynn had only ever seen similar expressions on veterans returning from years-long war campaigns. Even now, Rob and his friends were chatting up a storm, uncaring of the imminent calamity looming over their heads.

What the fuck did these people go through before she met them?

It made her...envious, she realized. Faelynn was tired of feeling like a drowning rat. She’d fought in just as many battles as most of her brethren, and what had it gotten her? Being forced to watch helplessly as her fate was swept about by powers outside of her control?

No more.

“Rob,” she stated, drawing his attention. “I want the three of you to teach me how to be intimidating.”

The Human eyebrows shot up, then down. “Context, context,” he mumbled. “Wherefore art thou context?”

At that moment, a grating screech echoed through the streets, barely audible.

Everyone tensed in unison. From the sound of it, that entry attempt was far away. They might not get to it in time.

You have been invited to a Party by Party Leader: Rob

Faelynn accepted his invitation without a moment’s hesitation. Maybe Rob could teleport them to the location of battle? She wasn’t sure how his ability worked.

Instead, the Human took off running at a blinding pace. He rounded the corner of the street – and promptly tripped, as if unused to his own speed. With a snarl, Rob picked himself up off the ground and kept onward, the green aura of Step of the Wind swirling around his ankles. Faelynn followed, pushing her legs to their utmost limit as she chased the Human’s disappearing form.

Luckily, she managed to reach the location of battle in time to assist with cleaning up the Blightspawn remnants. Rob was already there, his body covered in hideous wounds as he fought to push back the monstrosities and prevent casualties among the Rangers and Fiends that arrived first. A sense of wonderment fell over Faelynn once the battle was finished; the spawn were dead, and while some of their allies sustained harsh injuries, they’d all lived to see the next sunrise. The battle was a complete and total victory on their part. A ray of sunshine piercing through dark skies. What’s more, Faelynn leveled up! Her last was two years ago, and gods did it feel good to advance in strength after so long. It was a perfect capstone to a perfect triumph.

…

Wait, why did she level up? One Blightspawn shouldn’t have been enough to close the gap from her current Level to the next. Yet when she’d dealt the killing blow, the influx of EXP was much higher than normal, almost as if...

She’d received a bonus.

–

Changes

Rob

Level 43→ 44

Berserker Level 40 → 41

Platelet Party 8 → 9

Vitamin D(efense) 4 → 5

Keira

Level 39 → 40

Vul’to

Level 31 → 32

Meyneth

Level 33 → 34

Malika

Level 26 → 26

No Level gain, but Mind and Magic rose by 2 points from working on the teleportation circle

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 22

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. The detailed descriptions for a few Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 23.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 44

Race: Human

Class: Berserker (LV 41)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 3)

HP: 613 / 613

Stamina: 297 / 300

MP: 200 / 200

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Corruption (-437), Soul-Burnt (Right Lower Arm), Push Through (-50% Pain), Determined

Strength: 48

Vitality: 105

Endurance: 30

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 20

Unspent Points: 5

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

Strength – Bulk Up (LV 7), Power Slash (LV 6)

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 12), Not A Scratch (LV 12), Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 1)

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

Perception – N/A

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

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

Strength – Climbing (LV 2), Brawling (LV 3), Grappling (LV 3)

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 15), Tough Skin (LV 5), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 9), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 5), Regrow Limb (LV 4), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 7), Push Through (LV 5)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Diplomacy (LV 16), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 6), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 4),  Pyromania (LV 1) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#), Intimidation (LV 1), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

Description: Heal yourself for 25% of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes. Only works when the Berserker Class is equipped.

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +8 for each stat. Max cap increases by 1 every 10 Berserker Levels. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario. Bonus hard caps at +3 if the Berserker Class is not equipped.

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 50%. If Berserker is not equipped, bonus is .4% per 1% missing HP, and caps at 20%.

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

Description: Quickly rocket straight forward. Your next attack has highly increased damage. Costs 50 MP.

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

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

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

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

3 Attunements: ???

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Strength 50, devote a significant portion of time to training your muscles.

Description: Increases Strength by +11 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Strength 45, hit twenty-five worthwhile enemies with a full-strength attack while wielding a shortsword or longsword.

Description: Damage of next melee sword attack is increased by 30%.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

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

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

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

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 7 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 60% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 15 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105, take damage from enemies at least 130 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply. Consumes 50 Stamina upon usage.

Cooldown: 15 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100

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

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Second Wind (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Endurance 30, reach 1% or lower Stamina at least once.

Description: Get back on your feet, you lazy bag of bones. You can rest when you’re dead. Take a single deep breath to instantly restore 30% of your maximum Stamina. Cannot be used without breathable oxygen in the area. Cannot be used if your lungs are nonfunctional.

Cooldown: 24 Hours

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 9)

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

Description: Increases Dexterity by +13 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

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

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

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

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

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

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

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

Passive Skills

Name: Grappling (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Strength 20, grapple at least one worthwhile enemy.

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

Name: Regeneration (LV 15)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105

Description: Heals 150% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 40 minutes, or 2.5% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, take grievous physical damage at least four times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 30%.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 9)

Prerequisite: Vitality 75, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 30 different occasions.

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

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 55, break bones on at least seventeen different occasions.

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

Name: Regrow Limb (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100, lose at least three appendages.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund. Regrow any lost limbs over a period of 3 hours. Assuming you can stay alive that long.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

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

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 7)

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

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

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

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

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

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, defeat at least six worthwhile opponents while using a dagger or a knife.

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

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

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

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

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

Name: Diplomacy (LV 16)

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

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

Name: Leadership (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Mind 50, exhibit strong leadership in at least six tense situations.

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

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

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

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

Name: Deception (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Mind 50, pull the wool over someone’s eyes using words and body language several times.

Description: Little white lies never hurt anyone, right…? Become slightly more proficient at lying to people and getting away with it.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

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

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

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

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

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

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 4)

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

Description: Been practicing your fastball? Apparently, the answer is yes. Slightly increases your aim when throwing shit at shit. Damage incurred by hitting an enemy with a thrown weapon or object is increased by 20%.

Name: Pyromania (LV 1) (RARE)

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

Description: Acquiring this Skill automatically puts you on a special FBI watch list. Deal 20% extra damage when using fire that isn’t cast from spells. This fire also burns 20% hotter and spreads 20% faster.

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: /

Description: \

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

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

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

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

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

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

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 23

Eighty minutes until the teleportation spell was ready.

Rob paced back and forth across an empty street on the outskirts of Elven territory. Orn’tol and Zamira were facing away from him, keeping their watchful eyes on Broadwater’s empty streets. They didn't actually need to be on the lookout, as the Blight’s entry attempts were always heralded by a hideous sound that could be heard from one end of Deserter territory to another, but his pacing was making them nervous. Rob was aware of the effect it was having on them, but found that he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Sensory overload was pulling his limbs along like a puppeteer tugging at strings. The half-healed nerves in his arm were tingling, the Corruption within was burning, the sun was beating down on his face, and the anticipation of how the next few hours would play out was wreaking havoc on his mental state.

Something was going to happen. Something always happened.

The Blight tended to make entry attempts just a little away from the Deserters – presumably to give its spawn time to mature – but that left a wide area to cover, and it was unlikely that Rob’s trio would be the first to defend against new incursions. His group was formed for the purpose of responding to entry attempts as they came, which is why it consisted of himself, Zamira, and Orn’tol, three of the highest-Dexterity members in the Deserters. Group B consisted of Keira, Taleya, and a Ranger named Harkin, who were situated on the opposite end of Deserter territory. Both of their groups were positioned to cover as much ground as possible. It was a strategy they'd implemented three days ago, and so far, it had worked like a charm. At least one group was always able to respond to an entry attempt in short order.

But ‘in short order’ wasn’t ‘immediately’. Odds were that either some of the Rangers or some of the Fiends would be closer to any given entry attempt, and they couldn’t afford to wait for reinforcements. Not when leaving the Blightspawn to their own devices could result in unchecked mutating and multiplying. As a consequence, Rob had barely arrived in time to prevent casualties from occurring on two occasions now, and that was with his new boost in Dexterity. The way those situations could have played out were weighing on his mind like ten-ton barbells. If he fucked up now at the eleventh hour and let someone die right before they were about to escape this hellhole, then he might never forgive himself for it.

And worst of all? The Blight hadn’t attacked yesterday. That should’ve been a relief, but it really, really wasn’t.

<This isn’t helping,> Diplomacy said, on edge. <Can’t you accept this respite for what it is?>

Nope, Rob replied. Unfortunately, my ancestors’ monkey brains evolved enough to learn advanced pattern recognition, so I’m able to tell that this is the calm before the storm.

<You don’t know that.>

An Elven messenger rounded the corner, barreling towards them at full speed.

Want to run that by me again, Diplomacy?

<Why do you sound smug?> They grumbled.

Rob snickered. Because getting to say ‘I told you so’ is one of the few pleasures of being a pessimist.

He raised his hand to greet the panicked Elf. “Hey, what’s-”

The messenger threw a bundle of rolled parchment at Rob’s face. He was too surprised to dodge, resulting in it bouncing off his nose and falling to the ground. Their task completed, the messenger rushed off without saying another word, feet pounding on paved cobblestone road as she ran to make her next delivery.

“...I mean, okay.” Rob picked up the parchment, read through it with Speed Reading, and promptly cursed loudly in three languages.

“Twenty Blightspawn,” he hissed, tossing the message to a stunned Zamira. “Coming from far outside Elven and Fiend territory. You know the areas where the Blight played with our Fiendish friends until they got the barrier up?”

Orn’tol paled. “Stretches of city slathered in miasma,” he said. “The scouts couldn’t investigate there. Not without absorbing ambient Corruption.”

“The Blight placed a spawner there,” Zamira said. Her fingers clenched, crumpling the parchment. “And that spawner drank freely of its sire’s miasma for as long as it pleased. All of yesterday – at the very least. We have no way to reach it without succumbing to Corruption, meaning that these twenty Blightspawn may be the first wave of many.”

They fell silent, considering their options.

“For once, our group is closest,” Zamira said. “And I dare say that we are well-suited to surviving abominations and overwhelming odds alike. We need only harry the Blightspawn until the Deserters and Fiends can regroup into defensive formations. Delaying the creatures’ march even by several minutes could prove to be the deciding factor between victory and defeat.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rob assented. “If by ‘we’, you mean me and Orn’tol. You should help organize the troops. Find the people who are second-closest to the Blightspawn and tell them to hold off on any heroics until everyone is grouped as one.”

Her eyes widened. Zamira glanced at Orn’tol, who said nothing, electing to give a solemn nod and avert his gaze. She turned her ire back to Rob, bristling as she spoke. “You would suggest that I abandon the front lines?”

“You’ll die if you don’t,” he stated, forcefully. “Doesn’t matter how fast you are when you’re that outnumbered. Nobody can dodge forever. I’m tanky, and Orn’tol is a ranged hit-and-run-expert, but you are a melee glass cannon. Which is an Earth phrase meaning that you’ll shatter if you get hit.”

Zamira gritted her teeth, hands trembling with frustration. “You’re having difficulty adapting to your newfound speed,” she said, in a hollow tone. “Durable as you may be, there’s a limit to how much you can endure, especially with 400 Corruption eating away at your Max HP. When combined with the Potion rationing that’s gone into effect, the margin of error for your usual fighting style has decreased significantly.”

Rob noticed that she wasn’t arguing in favor of joining the front lines anymore, and decided not to comment on that fact. She did have a bit of a point regarding the Potions; the mages working on the teleportation circle were guzzling down MP Potions like it was happy hour, and the crafters were running low on the materials necessary to make HP Potions. Currently, Rob only had a single HP Potion – and scarcely any Firebombs – to his name. He’d opted to give his share of supplies to the civilians and Rangers, because unlike him, they didn’t possess the benefit of Regeneration or Lifesurge. Among other things.

“I have all my usual tricks ready to go,” Rob assured. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, pointing it in the direction of central Deserter territory. “Already got a Waymark set back at home base. If anything happens, I’ll hit the panic button. Promise.”

Zamira screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. For a second, she looked about ready to embrace them in a hug, but froze and jerked back at the last moment. Instead, she grasped one hand from each of them, squeezing tight enough to bruise bone. “Don’t die,” she stated. “Please.”

And with that, she was off, running to join the others. That stung way more than it should, Rob thought. My friends are too skilled at making me feel guilty.

<Good,> Diplomacy remarked. <It’s all that keeps you in line.>

Can’t argue with that. He summoned a longsword from his Spatial Storage and turned to face Orn’tol. “Ready to go?”

The boy didn’t answer. He was staring off into the distance, eyes half-focused, looking somewhere very far away. Rob suppressed a grimace, breaking Orn’tol’s stupor with a wave of his hand. The young Ranger appeared startled for just a moment before gathering his composure and putting on a mask of resolve. “I’m ready.”

“You...don’t have to do this, you know,” Rob said. “It’s fine if-”

Orn’tol activated Step of the Wind and sprinted down the street leading to the Blightspawn incursion.

“I guess today’s trend is to end conversations by running,” Rob drawled. “Fuck. Let’s go.”

He caught up to the young Ranger without much trouble. Orn’tol was the fastest Deserter when retreating – meaning he was probably the fastest person in the entire city – but Rob outpaced him when advancing forward. Rob wasn’t used to being that high up on the Dexterity totem pole, but it made sense considering he’d risen to the top of the totem pole in general. Reaching Level 44 made it official; he’d taken the crown of the highest-Leveled person in the Deserters from Elder Alessia, who was slumming it at Level 42. Even though his build wasn’t primarily focused on speed, he was gaining so many more points than anyone else that his Dexterity, Strength, Endurance, and Perception were all in the Deserters’ upper echelons, regardless.

Thinking about that felt fucking weird. The milestone had snuck up on him. It wasn’t like he was specifically aiming to be the strongest in the Deserters, it just sort of...happened. Stuff tried to kill him, he fought them, survived, kept fighting, kept surviving, and poof. Level 44. Based on what the Elves were telling him, his growth might literally be the fastest in Elatra’s history. Being repeatedly thrown into absurdly dangerous circumstances would do that. 99% of people would’ve croaked by now – he was part of the lucky 1% who lived to become a statistical outlier.

But even with that knowledge putting things in perspective, and even though he’d witnessed his growth happening day-by-day, the reality of the situation hadn’t fully sunk in yet. Being high-Leveled didn’t make him a better person per se, but physically there was so much more he could accomplish than as a normal dude. He was able to affect the world in meaningful ways just by virtue of his ability to kill. During combat was when he knew in his bones that he was strong – it was hard to ignore his Imbue Vitality-empowered strikes chunking Blightspawn into pieces. But outside of combat, a large part of him still felt like that floundering college kid eating poisonous berries in the woods. Reconciling his Ixatan days with how he was now was taking a lot longer than he would’ve expected.

Orn’tol probably felt the same, considering that he’d gone from Level 8 to Level 32 in the same amount of time. Rob looked at him, opened his mouth to ask, and then froze.

“Ooooh,” Rob exclaimed, out of the blue. “I get it.”

Orn’tol glanced at him. “What do you ‘get’?”

“Why I’m feeling so nostalgic right now,” he answered. “This whole situation reminds me of when you and me teamed up to rescue everyone from our first Dungeon Crawl.” Back then, Rob was a Level 12-ish pariah, while Orn’tol was a shy boy who barely spoke Common. “We’ve come a long way, huh?”

The young Ranger was silent for a few seconds. “No,” he answered. “We haven’t.”

Rob raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that, objectively speaking, we have. That’s the whole point of numbers on a Character Sheet. I’m pretty sure that you’re in the top one-third of Elatran Combat Class users – Level 32 is no joke.”

“And what of it?” Orn’tol’s voice was taut. “There are 67 Levels above 32. It doesn’t matter how strong we are now when there are so many things that are even stronger. At Level 10, I was expected to fight enemies suitable for a someone at Level 10. At Level 32, I’m expected to fight enemies suitable for someone at Level 32. Same degree of risk. Little has changed.”

“There’s way fewer things out there that can threaten you in general, though,” Rob pointed out. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

Orn’tol whipped his head around to face Rob, who couldn’t help but flinch at the look on the boy’s face. His eyes were filled with determination, but not the fiery kind that was filled with passion. It was a determination as cold as winter, one of surety and acceptance, as if waiting for an oncoming blizzard that would inevitably plunder the world of all its warmth.

“It counts for nothing,” Orn’tol stated. “And it will continue to mean nothing until there’s not a single monster or soldier or anything in this world that can hurt the people I care about.”

Rob didn’t know what to say after that. He conferred with Diplomacy, but they told him to stay quiet. Sometimes words wouldn’t work no matter how carefully you chose them.

The horde was easy to find. Even without Sense Corruption detecting their foul corruptive stench being carried on the wind, Heightened Senses was picking up their actual stench. The rotting flesh of twenty twisted abominations smelled exactly like one might expect, and Rob made sure to deactivate Heightened Senses once the Blightspawn were in sight.

Unfortunately, while he couldn’t smell them anymore, he still had to look at them. Mutated monstrosities were old hat by this point, but the sheer variety of shapes they could take meant that there was always a surprise or two waiting in store. Most of them resembled the Infected animals that invaded The Village, but other Blightspawn had apparently been in a creative mood when molding flesh into form. Rob studied the Blightspawn from a hidden vantage point as they shambled down the street, scratching his chin with an intent look on his face, before turning to Orn’tol and asking an all-important question.

“Which one’s the ugliest?”

“...Pardon?”

“The ugliest,” Rob repeated. “From your perspective. Personally, I’m a big fan of Frank over there.” He pointed to a five-foot spherical ball comprised entirely of pale flesh – except for the half-dozen gnashing mouths that were dotting its exterior. The ball lacked limbs, electing to move by whipping tendrils forward and latching on to bits of scenery that it used to pull itself along. “Apologies to all the Franks out there,” Rob continued. “But a monster needs a name, and I’m getting a Frank-y vibe from it.”

Orn’tol gaped at him in disbelief. “Identity would have provided a name for you.”

Rob grinned. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Jokes? Now?” Orn’tol snapped. “This could be the last time we ever speak to each other.”

“Yeah. It could.” Rob’s grin faded. “I guess we’ll just have to make sure it isn’t.”

He flicked his eyes down. Orn’tol followed his gaze, the boy blinking in surprise when he discovered that his own hands were shaking. A minor blush crept into his cheeks. The facade of a hardened soldier fell away, leaving behind a 15-year-old teenager who, in a just world, would be miles away from the forefront of a battle like this. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be,” Rob said. “You think I’m not scared shitless too?” He jabbed a finger at the Blightspawn. “It’s a real freakshow over there. I’d be concerned if you weren’t nervous.”

He put a hand on Orn’tol’s shoulder. “I misspoke earlier when I said that you’d come a long way,” Rob began. “The Orn’tol I knew back when I joined The Village was – despite his fear – already willing to dive headfirst into a Dungeon Crawl rescue mission and stand in the path of a charging Chimera. You were a badass then, and you’re that same badass now. You may have more stats, but the part that makes you awesome has never been defined by numbers.”

Rob locked eyes with him and spoke in a confident tone. “No worries. Killing the fuckers is one thing, but delaying them? Easy peasy. Just focus on distracting them for as long as possible.” Of course, Orn’tol lacked the raw firepower to kill a Blightspawn before it regenerated, but there was no need to mention that. “I wouldn’t let you be here if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“Not in charge of me,” the boy muttered, sullen.

Oho, Rob thought. Is this the rebellious teenage phase I’ve heard so much about?

<You mean the one you’re still in?> Diplomacy remarked. <NineTEEN years old, if I’m remembering correctly.>

My birthday’s in a month! I’m practically an old man! He sighed internally. Normally I’d like to handle a situation like this, but the Blightspawn won’t delay their advance to let Orn’tol sulk. Can you help me speedrun his angst?

<Don’t need to.> The Skill said, in a pleased tone.

All of a sudden, Orn’tol took a long, shuddering breath. His hands ceased their trembling, and some of the tension seemed to flow out of his body. Nodding once, he raised his hand, holding it vertically with his palm waiting expectantly. “We got this,” he said, smiling.

Leadership Level Increased! 6 → 7

Rob grinned from ear-to-ear. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He gave Orn’tol a high-five infused with the spiritual essence of a thousand bros. “I take the left half, you take the right?”

“As it were.”

They allowed themselves one final second of mental preparation.

Then they jumped from their hiding spot, and the street erupted into chaos.

Discordant screams assaulted Rob’s eardrums. The Blightspawn, driven wholly by ravenous instinct, weren’t startled by the sudden appearance of two morsels. They immediately charged forth, limbs scrambling and teeth gnashing like a starving pack of hyenas spotting prey for the first time in days. Rob swerved to the left as Orn’tol shot off a flurry of arrows, each one striking a Blightspawn dead center. The arrows were quickly pushed out by regenerating flesh, but he’d drawn their attention, and that was all that mattered.

As Orn’tol retreated into the depths of Broadwater, abominations hot on his trail, Rob produced a few precious Firebombs from his Inventory and chucked them towards the remaining Blightspawn. When his Firebombs ran dry, he switched to repeatedly summoning his Broken Shortsword and throwing it at them, trusting Throwing Proficiency to guide his aim. Unfortunately, the latter method was significantly less distracting than fiery explosions, and some Blightspawn didn’t take the bait. Seven of the twenty-two kept charging straight down the street in search of whatever snacks they imagined were hiding just out of reach.

Can’t catch every fish, Rob mused, as six abominations raced towards him.

The chase was on. Tortured cries echoed in his ears, mingling with the sounds of heavy flesh smacking on pavement. Rob’s heart beat faster and faster in his chest as he led the Blightspawn away from Orn’tol, the Deserters, and the Fiends. Houses blurred together as they entered streets of Broadwater that Rob barely recognized. He glanced behind himself every so often to check how close the creatures were, and the answer was always too damn close. The Blightspawn were slower than him, but not by much, and he wasn’t completely used to his 15 Dexterity stat bump. Rob didn’t bother activating Step of the Wind – it would probably lead to him tripping over nothing like the 3rd character to die in a low-budget horror movie.

And even if he kept his balance, extra speed would be counterproductive. He needed to win this race, but only by a little. That fact was proven when the slowest Blightspawn – a creature made entirely of hands, why the fuck was it hands again? – started to fall behind the pack. Rob wasn’t an expert in abomination psychology, but he understood instinct. If the creature realized that it couldn’t catch him, then it would leave to find easier prey, defeating the purpose of why Rob was here in the first place.

This is going to suck. He planted his feet, and in one motion, whirled around and let his Broken Shortsword fly. The blade soared through the air and bonked Mr. Handsy right on its ‘head.’ His throw was the very definition of a lucky shot, but it worked, so if anyone asked, Rob planned to tell them that he'd known it would hit from the start. The creature perked up and started running with renewed fervor, visibly annoyed by its prey’s provocation, which – from its perspective – was rude and uncalled for.

Throwing Proficiency Level Increased! 4 → 5

Apparently, the system thought his shot was so rad that he deserved a Skill increase despite the maneuver barely scratching Mr. Handsy’s skin.

Neat.

Then a hurricane of claws and teeth lunged for his neck.

Rob twisted his head so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash. He needed line-of-sight that wasn’t pointed directly at the Blightspawn. A cast of Rampage sent him careening off to the side, barely avoiding the mountain of flesh that piled onto the spot he’d been a split second before. His momentum sent him crashing through the door of a house, where he landed hard and slid to a stop in the center lobby. Rob jumped to his feet and froze for a single, awful instant as he spotted the various piles of clothes laying on the floor. That instant was all it took for a hawk-creature to break through a window and swoop down at him, letting out a howl that sounded like static feedback layered on top of itself.

‘Imbue Vitality.’ Rob swung his sword, and the Blightspawn’s wing was blown to pieces. A muted crunch reverberated inside the lobby as the creature fell to the floor, clawing and scraping as it wiggled impotently. Its wing was already regenerating, but for the moment, it was helpless. Vulnerable. A pinata of EXP waiting to be popped. All he needed to do was step forward and cut and cut and cut until the beast stopped moving.

Rob turned tail and fled. He didn’t have time to clean his plate – the other Blightspawn had disentangled from each other by now and were already busting inside. Wood and stone crumpled like paper mâché as thousands of pounds of writhing meat collapsed the house’s front wall. Rob didn’t spare them a second glance as he ran straight towards the back.

He briefly considered using the terrain to his advantage. Maybe by hiding in the house to make the creatures waste time searching for him, or maybe by collapsing the house on top of them and escaping at the last second. Then he remembered that he wasn’t a Hollywood action star, and that real life didn’t give you stunt doubles. Daring heroics were best left for when you were out of options.

The back door broke off its hinges as Rob burst through. He ran a few feet into the backyard, then stopped, breathing heavily. As much as he would have liked to keep going and put some more distance between himself and the Blightspawn, they would lose interest in the chase if they lost track of him. He needed to ensure that he didn’t get too far ahead. Rob turned around and put himself on overwatch, ready to bolt when the creatures eventually discovered the doorway. Or broke through a wall. Whichever came first.

A massive hand filled his vision.

Rob barely managed to twist his head and cast Rampage before gnarled, distended fingers would have closed down on his skull. Jagged fingernails caught on his hair and ripped a chunk from his scalp as he flew to the side. Rob landed on his feet, summoned his Broken Shortsword, and immediately stabbed it into the second hand that was already reaching out towards him. It jerked back with the screeching of a hundred cicadas and retracted upwards onto the roof, where the headless body of a gorilla stood. Three long arms were growing out from where the creature’s neck would have normally been. Each one was thinner at the base, then widened until it was thick as a log, and was able to stretch like it was made of rubber.

“Can’t even be surprised at this point,” Rob muttered, scratching his brand-new bald spot. The wound was superficial, thankfully, but only because he’d used Rampage in time. A split second of difference between escaping with a bad haircut and getting his head crushed like an egg.

Well, the old Rob would have been crushed, anyway. Even a Blightspawn like the gorilla-thing, with its beefy tree-trunk arms, wouldn’t be able to kill him that easily now. Not when he possessed so many defensive abilities. If the gorilla-thing grabbed him, he would’ve just used Not A Scratch to prevent its grip from clamping down, cut the creature’s arm off with Power Strike, and then Lifesurged any injuries away. No fuss, no muss. After that he’d have time to run and-

And-

…

Run. Hmm.

The Blightspawn couldn’t kill him instantly. With his array of abilities, very few things in Elatra could. And an instant was all he needed to cast Waymark if necessary. In this situation, as long as he stayed on the ball, he was functionally immortal. It was highly doubtful that he could defeat all the abominations before his Skills ran dry, but while he wouldn’t win, he also wouldn’t lose. If the Blight itself couldn’t kill him, then what chance did its spawn have?

Why was he running, again?

A nagging voice in the back of his head mentioned something about being a distraction. That strategy has run its course, Rob told the voice. They’re already catching up to me. I’m out 100 MP from using two Rampages in the last minute. Next I’ll have to burn Not A Scratch when one of them tags me again, then Lifesurge, ect. I’ll get worn down and end up having to escape with Waymark, regardless.

He could keep up the cat-and-mouse game for a little while longer, sure. He just didn’t want to. If his dance with the Blightspawn was going to end with a Waymark to safety no matter how well he played his cards, then why not pick the route that thinned their foes’ numbers a little bit? That was worth as much as any distraction.

The nagging voice said something else. Rob ignored them and looked up at the gorilla-thing, a broad smile on his face. The creature was rearing one of its arms back, fingers clenched into a large fist. In that moment, as Rob observed the Blightspawn preparing for an attack, he didn’t see a grotesque abomination. He didn’t see a dangerous enemy. He didn’t even see a potential threat to his friends.

All he saw was EXP.

Hundreds of cicadas cried out in unison as the gorilla-thing launched its arm forward like a piston. Rob spread his arms wide, waiting for the creature’s loving embrace, and took the hit directly in the chest.

361 Crushing Damage Suffered!

Vitamin D(efense) Level Increased! 5 → 6

HP: 244 / 613

Stamina: 241 / 300

MP: 104 / 200

Rob chuckled as he coughed up blood. 361 Damage was close to ideal. He wrapped his arms around the fist and held on tight as the gorilla-thing retracted its arm back towards the top of its neck. The Blightspawn noticed and tried to shake him off, wiggling its rubbery appendage around like one of those wacky waving inflatable arm men that were always stationed outside of used car dealerships. Rob tightened his grip, noting how the creature’s flesh – despite the strength contained within – was soft and pliable.

Grappling Level Increased! 3 → 4

Eventually the Blightspawn gave up and kept retracting its arm into its neck. As Rob was pulled up towards the roof, Arm #2 and Arm #3 whipped around to crush him like he was a tick that wouldn’t let go. Which was, of course, an unfair comparison. Ticks ate blood, while Rob just wanted to spill it. Before he could be swatted out of the sky, Rob released Arm #1 at a moment that let him keep his upward momentum. The gorilla-thing ‘stared’ at him in disbelief as he soared up and over the edge of the rooftop, laughing all the while.

A joyful voice in his head laughed along with him.

Rob materialized a longsword and adjusted his body as gravity began to reassert itself. Whether via instinct or because it realized that something was wrong – the former being likelier, as it literally didn’t have a brain – the Blightspawn whipped its neck-arms back up and retreated with its main body. The gorilla-thing’s steps were slow, plodding, and unsteady, likely due to toting around three gigantic arms that were each way bigger than the rest of it combined. Rob put on a savage grin as he fell towards the rooftop like a heat-seeking missile. His arc of descent wouldn’t put him right next to the Blightspawn, but two Rampages to course correct and dodge the arms solved that problem in short order. The cicadas chittered in fear as Rob approached, his longsword glimmering with the overlapping aura of multiple Skills.

‘Bulk Up’. ‘Power Slash’. ‘Anklet of Moderate Brawn’. ‘Imbue Vitality’. The last activation made his cracked bones sing with pain. He didn’t care. Rob caught up to the shambling creature, and with a wide swing, cut towards the nape of its 'neck'. Any lack of force due to it being a one-armed strike was offset by the 361 damage he’d taken before, triggering Blood for Blood’s maximum damage boost. Soft, pliable flesh split apart under his blade, severing all three arms in a single motion.

The cicadas’ cry reached an ear-splitting trill. Rob’s laugh was louder.

257 HP Healed Through Lifesteal!

Three great thuds rang out as the Blightspawn’s arms landed on the rooftop, wriggling like eels out of water. The gorilla-thing raised its arms – the normal arms on its main body – and idly touched the spot where its extra appendages used to be.

“Sucks to lose an arm, doesn’t it?” Rob said, in a commiserative tone. He raised his longsword. “Shame we won’t have time to bond over the experience.”

Flesh bubbled around the creature’s 'neck' area as its arms prepared to regenerate. Rob didn’t intend to give it the chance. Imbue Vitality and Power Slash were unusable for 30 seconds and 5 minutes respectively, but the combined Strength buffs from Bulk Up and the Anklet of Moderate Brawn would last for 15 seconds longer. He abandoned subtlety and hacked away at the abomination with reckless abandon. There was no precise Skill usage or strategy; just a man, a sword, and the creature he was butchering with it. Despite the Blightspawn’s torso functionally being that of a muscled gorilla, it seemed lost without its main weapons, doing little more than throwing feeble punches with normal arms that it clearly wasn’t accustomed to using. Rob let one attack hit him just for the extra Blood for Blood damage, then returned to his work.

If you could call it work. How did the saying go again? If you love your job, then you'll never work a day in your life?

After twenty-three seconds of carnage, the deed was done. All that remained was a pile of twitching flesh. Blood splatters covered Rob from head to toe.

Reached Level 45!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Berserker Level Increased! 41 → 42

HP: 578 / 613

Stamina: 229 / 300

MP: 6 / 200

Endorphins flooded his body like a roaring tsunami.

Through the haze of euphoria, Rob heard the sound of crunching stone and wood echo from down below. He stepped over to the edge of the roof, peered down, and grinned. The other Blightspawn had finally caught up and were searching around for their lost prey. Out of the five that remained, three were present, ambling around the backyard like wayward children. Apparently, none were smart enough to look up. The sight was so fucking funny that holding in his laughter made his mostly-healed ribs twinge in pain. After calming himself, he took another look at the Blightspawn, a sense of surety settling over him like a warm blanket.

“You used to terrify me,” Rob whispered. “An Infected wolf was my warm welcome to this world, and you fuckers only got weirder from there. Every mutated animal or Blight-borne abomination was deadly, yeah, but even more than that, you were...unnatural. Fighting one of you guys always served as a visceral reminder that I wasn’t back home anymore. Far as I know, Earth doesn’t have Flesh Amalgamations, although I haven’t been to New Jersey yet.”

He sat down, tossing the Broken Shortsword a few feet into the air and catching it as it fell. “Now, though? Well, you still gross me out, but it’s hard to keep being scared of something you can kill. Especially when killing you always feels so good.”

Rob's eyes swept across the backyard, glimmering with desire. “Less and less things make me feel good these days,” he said, his voice as empty as the void.

With that, Rob stood up. He put his 10 unspent stat points into Magic – he was out of MP and was going to need access to Rampage very soon. Imbue Vitality was usable again, and while most of his other Skills weren’t, he didn’t possess the luxury of waiting the full five minutes for their cooldown timers to run out. The Blightspawn would have gotten bored and wandered off by then. Whistling a jaunty tune, he picked up a glob of flesh from the gorilla-thing and tossed it down into the backyard. The three Blightspawns’ heads snapped up, eyes raising to find their prey waving at them from above the house, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Happy hunting, everyone.”

The creatures exploded into action. Rob watched as they scrambled forward, practically trampling each other in their haste to get to him first. Blightspawn #2 and #3 seemed a tad faster than their sibling and the gorilla-thing, managing to reach the house and start climbing while #4 was still traversing the backyard. The two frontrunners drew closer and closer, baying with anticipation as they scaled upwards with razor-sharp claws – and without any respect for property damage, the scoundrels. Rob kept waiting, patiently observing how Blightspawn #4 fell further and further behind the pack.

When #2 and #3 were inches away from the top, Rob jumped. He soared over the Blightspawns’ heads, chuckling as the creatures howled in frustration. Blightspawn #4 – a porcupine with spikes that dripped acid – crouched down and took aim as a Human-shaped projectile sailed towards it. Well, Rob wasn’t 100% sure that it was taking aim, but he would have bet good money that it could shoot those spikes like a flurry of arrows. With the porcupine ready to fire and the ground fast approaching, Rob activated his Bracelet of Minor Teleportation and shifted himself to a spot that was a few feet above and behind the creature. He couldn’t help but grin as a shower of spikes blasted through the space where he’d been just a second ago. Called it. The grin crept wider and wider until it showed two full rows of bared teeth. ‘Imbue Vitality’. ‘Rampage.’

Rob launched down at a diagonal angle, stabbing his sword into the porcupine’s back with the force of a sharp-edged cannonball. This particular beastie wasn’t quite as squishy as the gorilla-thing, and Rob was lacking in several buffs that usually gave his hits that extra bit of oomph, but a backstab with that kind of power behind it would fuck up pretty much anything that lived. Blightspawn #4 squeaked in shock as a gaping hole was blown open from its back to its front, splattering chunks of meat across the yard. Were it anything but a Blightspawn, that would have been the moment where it keeled over and died, but Rob knew better. He didn’t hesitate before executing a series of follow-up attacks as the creature was stunned, chipping away at its body like a carver peeling away wood one strip at a time. It was slow going without his buffs, but killing the thing outright wasn’t necessary. He just needed to stall for 30 seconds until Imbue Vitality was usable again.

An apoplectic roar pierced his ears. Rob sighed and leaped back as Blightspawn #2 landed where he’d been standing, having copied his maneuver by jumping straight off the roof. Blightspawn #2 was a heavyset bundle of muscles in the vague shape of a person, clocking in at 12 feet tall and nearly as wide. In comparison, Blightspawn #4 was – had been less than half its size. Sadly, Sir Isaac Newton takes no prisoners, and #4 was underneath #2 when the latter landed. There were limits to otherworldly regeneration, and one of those limits was apparently when your body mass was squished flatter than a pancake.

“You killstealing piece of shit,” Rob spat. “I put in aaaaall the effort, and then you just come in and drop your fat ass on my EXP? Can Blightspawn even level up?!” He shook his head. “Seriously, what a waste.”

Blightspawn #2 didn’t seem to care much about its egregious social faux pas. The abomination roared in response, howling so loudly that it sounded like it was screaming through a dozen megaphones taped together. Rob adopted a defensive stance as it gathered up its prodigious bulk and prepared to charge. Based on what he’d seen, #2 was fast when running in a straight line, but took a bit to build up to a full sprint. If it’s a bull, then I’ll be a matador, he thought. Have to dodge at the last-

Flesh crunched against flesh as Blightspawn #3 landed directly on top of #2, sending the two sprawling  onto the ground in a tangled mess of limbs.

...Huh. Rob allowed himself a split second to savor karmic justice in action before dashing forward with Rampage and carving a piece out of Blightspawn #2. Imbue Vitality’s aura faded from his sword, and the stalling began anew. Unfortunately, #2’s roided-out body was a fair bit hardier than the gorilla-thing or the porcupine, and Rob found himself unable to do more than cursory damage to the creature. Even the wound he’d inflicted with his Rampage-empowered Imbue Vitality strike was less explosive than usual, in large part due to the latter Skill’s unique properties. Through the wonders of Elatran Skill bullshit, Imbue Vitality specifically tripled Rob’s damage, not his strength, making it a less-effective move against durable targets that wouldn’t take much damage to begin with. That hadn’t mattered against most of the Blightspawn, as they tended to be unarmored fleshbeasts that relied on regeneration instead of defense, but Professor Protein’s mutations gave it a tough, leathery skin that was dulling his one-armed strikes to little more than paper cuts.

Right when Rob was beginning to get worried, luck smiled on him once again, which was definitely a record since coming to this world. His attacks were bothering Blightspawn #2 so little that the creature decided that Blightspawn #3, still having a freakout on #2’s back, was a larger annoyance. #2 – the big beefy boy that it was – got so frustrated with its sibling’s shenanigans that it picked up Blightspawn #3 and tossed it into the side of the house. The process took a short amount of time in absolute terms, but on the battlefield, there’s no such thing as a ‘short’ distraction.

28...29...30.

Imbue Vitality’s vicious aura enshrouded Rob’s longsword as he jabbed it straight into the wound he’d caused with the first Imbue Vitality strike. The attack bypassed Blightspawn #2’s leathery skin and injected a heaping helping of system-tripled damage directly into the abomination’s innards. Professor Protein staggered and nearly toppled over as its guts turned to mush. Somehow, the fucker was still standing, but the next good hit of Imbue Vitality would finish it off. #3 was nowhere to be seen, having been yeeted through a wall and out of the fight, at least temporarily. And Battle Fever’s passive effect was ticking upwards, slowly making Rob stronger the longer the fight went on. All he needed to do was not get his head crushed for the next 30 seconds. One more attack, and one more abomination crossed off the list.

He started the countdown timer to Professor Protein’s demise just as another Blightspawn came charging out of the house. It wasn’t Blightspawn #3, returning to get revenge on those who had so rudely dismissed it. This was a fourth beast, and a newcomer to Rob’s humble backyard get-together. Out of the six Blightspawn that initially chased him, the appearance of Blightspawn #5 left one abomination unaccounted for – the hawk-creature that previously crashed through a window. He could only hope that it hadn’t flown off in search of other prey.

Rob eyed the newcomer, sizing it up against Professor Protein. #5 was distractingly similar to an Infected Wolf from Ixatan, sporting the requisite bone spurs, red eyes, and extra jaw. The beast was relatively small compared to its brethren, and far less mutated, but Wolfie possessed a psychological edge that the others lacked: its visage reminded Rob of the first time he’d almost died. An old trauma, but those tended to rear their heads at the worst of moments.

“Bringing back the classics, are we?” Rob quipped, trying and failing to mask the waver in his tone. “Works for me. I was killing you guys with ease, like, 40 Levels ago.”

Wolfie growled, and Rob’s arm twinged with the phantom pain of being torn apart by ravenous fangs. He was close to abandoning his focus on Blightspawn #2 he could bash #5’s stupid fucking face when a small sound froze him in place. Not from a Blightspawn, but from within. Indistinct, barely audible, and utterly enticing.

{It’s EXP}, a voice of static whispered. {Only EXP. Nothing more.}

Fear gave way to excitement. The voice was right. Wolfie wasn’t a threat; it was a walking number. And its value would be added to his own soon enough.

Rob ignored Blightspawn #5 and returned to hacking away at Professor Protein. The hulking behemoth was sufficiently pissed off by now, curling its hand into a fist that, if it connected, was sure to knock Rob’s skull loose even with the creature’s flagging strength. Several things happened at once; #2 reared back its arm, Wolfie pounced, and Rob flopped his half-numb right arm towards Wolfie, allowing the beast to sink its jaws in deep. Rob twisted his body further, shifting Wolfie and his right arm in-between himself and Blightspawn #2. Both beast and limb popped like balloons filled with red jello as Professor Protein punched through them in one motion. Rob activated Not A Scratch a split second after the punch connected with his torso, grunting in satisfaction over how his ribs cracked under its force.

The end result: one dead Blightspawn, and a Rob who’d lost enough HP to max out Blood for Blood’s bonus damage.

He was sent flying back once more, landed on his feet, and dashed forward. Blood spewed from his mangled limb like a pipe with a dozen leaks, and he didn’t care. Platelet Party would ensure that he didn’t bleed out entirely. In the next twenty-five seconds, anyway, which was all he needed. Professor Protein bellowed a mighty roar and started rearing back for another punch that was destined to miss. The abomination had used up too much energy in its previous attempt, and its injuries weren’t close to fully regenerated. It may have possessed the might and muscles of five bodybuilders rolled together, but that amounted to jack shit when it could barely move.

Rob advanced. His blade swung. The monster roared. The Human laughed.

Twenty. Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Slice.

Reached Level 46!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Berserker Level Increased! 42 → 43

192 HP Healed Through Lifesteal!

HP: 484 / 613 (Temp: 504 / 633 via Battle Fever +2)

Stamina: 199 / 300 (Temp: 219 / 320 via Battle Fever +2)

MP: 13 / 300 (Temp: 33 / 320 via Battle Fever +2)

Unspent Stat Points: 5

“There we go,” Rob sighed, as shivers overtook his body. He gave Blightspawn #2’s lifeless corpse a few extra stabs for good measure. “That’s your debt paid back in full.”

Silence. From the creature, and from the backyard as a whole. It wouldn’t last – Blightspawn #3 and the hawk-creature were nearby and highly likely to come barging in at any second. Rob decided to sit tight and wait out the clock on his remaining cooldowns, as Bulk Up and Power Slash were about a minute away from being usable again. Combining those together would make his next Imbue Vitality strike significantly more effective. He might not even have to get himself intentionally injured again! Novel concept. Although the strategy had worked tremendously so far; he wasn’t sure why he didn’t do it more often.

The nagging voice said nothing. The voice of static giggled in anticipation.

Alas, not even thirty seconds passed before his respite was broken. One more Blightspawn shimmied around from the side of the backyard, and to Rob’s shock, it wasn’t Blightspawn #3 or the hawk-thing. A broad smile broke out over his face as he spotted which new friend had arrived.

“Frank!” Rob waved. “You made it!”

The five-foot spherical ball, comprised entirely of pale flesh, hissed at him using one of its half-dozen gnashing mouths. With blinding speed, it whipped out a tendril and latched onto Rob’s arm, pulling him forward.

“Wait,” Rob said, eyes bulging as he flew halfway across the yard in the blink of an eye. “What-”

Slash. Crunch.

In life, timing is everything. That axiom was plainly showcased during these two moments, when Rob attacked Frank with an Imbue Vitality strike before Frank ripped his arm off with one of its mouths.

HP: 490 / 613

271 HP Healed Through Lifesteal!

HP: 613 / 613

174 Severing Damage Received!

HP: 439 / 613

Frank screeched in pain as Imbue Vitality tore open a chunk of its flesh. It shot out tendrils to drag itself backwards, leaving Rob laying on the ground and groaning at the system messages that were assaulting his vision.

Platelet Party Level Increased! 9 → 10

Regrow Limb Level Increased! 4 → 5

Right arm has been dismembered!

Thanks, I didn’t notice. Rob glanced at his missing appendage, and with a sense of begrudging acceptance, activated Lifesurge. Platelet Party at level 10 was damn effective, but not so effective that it could stop a giant gaping hole in his body from gushing blood like a broken dam.

All this for an arm that doesn’t even fucking work yet, he grumbled, as Lifesurge restored him to full health. Frank, you are now officially on my shit list. Don’t expect any Christmas presents this year.

The miscreant in question was slowly returning, inching forward as it sized up the prey that had managed to carve it side open. Rob’s lost right arm was sticking out of one of its mouths like a lollipop. Which, honestly, was absolutely hilarious.

<Leave,> the nagging voice suddenly whispered, in a weak, pleading tone. <Lifesurge gone. Not A Scratch gone. Dangerous.>

It...did have a point. Those two Skills were Rob’s safety nets, and they were on fifteen minute cooldowns. Aside from those, the Bracelet of Minor Teleportation needed a few more minutes to recharge, and having close to 0 MP wasn’t great either. Frank was apparently a fast sonovabitch, and dodging those tendrils without Rampage would be a tall order. One wrong move, and there goes another limb, this time without self-healing to patch it up before he bled out.

On the other hand, he was so, so close to another level up. A few more Skill level increases would tip him over the edge, let alone killing a Blightspawn. And Frank couldn’t possibly be tougher to beat than the triple-armed gorilla or Professor Protein. One or two strikes of Imbue Vitality and...

Just...just one more kill. God, Level 47 was right fucking there. Like a tingling on the tip of his tongue that wouldn’t go away. Or an insistent itch in the back of his brain. Or – okay, new strategy. He still had a single HP Potion, and more importantly, 5 unspent stat points in the bank. If he got injured, he’d just pump them into Vitality as a form of pseudo-healing. That ploy turned out fine plenty of times in the past, so why not now?

Yeah. That could work. Would work. One more kill. He was good for one more kill.

Keira has left the Party!

The system message shocked him like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on his head. In an instant, it washed away the feelings of euphoria and excitement that were pulsing through his body, leaving behind terror in its wake.

Keira leaving the Party was their coded message for a Blight entry attempt in the center of Deserter territory.

Rob activated Waymark without a moment’s hesitation. Hopefully the Party wasn’t in the middle of anything important, because this wasn’t an issue that could wait. A quarter second later, he and the non-Keira members of Riardin’s Rangers materialized at the predetermined Waymark location. The first thing they heard when arriving was a cacophony of screaming; half mortal, and half monster. Civilians were fleeing for their lives as about nine Blightspawn gave chase, each abomination a fresh face that Rob had never seen before. Keira was already there, engaging two of the Blightspawn in a cat-and-mouse game that was more about leading them away from the civilians than making a serious attempt to kill them. She was putting up a good fight, but she was also the only person fighting at all – by now, most of the Combat Class users would have been moved towards the edge of Deserter territory in order to prepare for their defense against the other Blightspawn incursion.

Which made this the perfect opportunity to dump some more Blightspawn in the now-defenseless Elven back lines. After a solid week of beating its head against a brick wall, the Blight had apparently discovered the concept of strategy.

Awesome.

None of Riardin’s Rangers spoke a word as they sprang into action. There wasn’t time to confer with each other before charging; not when people were dying right before their eyes. The Party scattered as they hunted down their respective targets, chosen mostly at random and based on which Blightspawn happened to catch their eye. Rob took a quick moment to add Keira back into his Party, then gritted his teeth as he watched his own chosen target chase an Elven man into a building. He activated Step of the Wind and ran after them as quickly as he could. It was a bit of a gamble, as he wasn’t used to his maximum speed when the Skill was active, but in a situation like this, every second mattered. Moreover, his offensive buff Skills were almost ready to use; if he could use them to quickly kill this Blightspawn while it was sequestered from its brethren, then-

Rob’s train of thought derailed when he burst into the building and got a closer look at the abomination he’d be fighting. “Seriously,” he said, shaking his head at the humanoid-shaped Blightspawn comprised entirely of overlapping hands. Normal hands; not the enormous arms wielded by the gorilla-thing. “Are you guys copying each others’ homework?”

Mr. Handy turned away from the cowering Elven man it had been about to...do...something to? Pull apart? Play patty-cake with? Challenge to a tickle fight? I guess they can’t all be like Professor Protein, Rob thought, as he activated Imbue Vitality and charged. The hell is a hand monster supposed to do?

<That’s. Tempting. Fate.>

On cue, Mr. Handy’s ‘body’ split open and folded outwards, revealing a small black orb inside that shimmered with hazy, headache-inducing light. The air thrummed as whispers emanated from the orb, inviting Rob to come and accept its warm embrace. Hands twisted and cracked as they extended forward, reaching, grabbing, wanting.

Rob dodged to the side. Or at least, he tried to. Step of the Wind was still active, putting his Dexterity at a total of 73, a speed far above what he was used to maneuvering with. For one brief instant, Rob stumbled, and that was all it took. Hands upon hands closed around his limbs, leaving him as helpless as if he was a fly stuck in a spider’s web. It happened so quickly that Rob didn’t even realize that he’d fucked up until he was already caught in the Blightspawn’s grasp. One moment he was ready to blow the abomination’s torso open with Imbue Vitality, and the next, he was trapped.

He was trapped. The notion only fully sunk in when he considered his options and realized that he had none. His MP was at 21, meaning Rampaging away was off the table. The light of Imbue Vitality was fading from his longsword as the Skill went unused for too long. Waymark couldn’t be activated for another day. He was completely out of Firebombs. And so far, struggling against his confines was accomplishing absolutely fucking nothing – he might as well have tried to escape while being held down by ten people. In a panic, Rob dumped his 5 unspent stat points into Strength, then activated Bulk Up just as it became available to use. Power flowed through his body, ascending his physical might to heights beyond anything he could’ve ever dreamed of back on Earth.

The Blightspawn’s hands shifted by maybe half an inch before clamping down tighter.

Rob averted his eyes as the orb’s hazy light intensified to the point of giving him a migraine. The creature was starting to pull him closer. Options, he thought, in a barely-controlled panic. Have to be other options. I’ve lived through worse shit than this.

<With. Lifesurge.>

...Or Not A Scratch, Rob admitted. Or the Bracelet of Minor Teleportation. Unfortunately, their cooldown timers weren’t anywhere near finished. Those were his safety net abilities, and he’d been forced to use them – and all of his MP – because he’d convinced himself that he should fight multiple Blightspawn alone instead of distracting them, playing it safe, and conserving resources.

Fuck.

The haze brightened further. Its whispering intensified.

Just then, concussive heat knocked Rob and the creature aside. It released him out of shock and pain, and Rob seized the moment by valiantly scrambling away like a frightened squirrel. He put some distance between them, jumped to his feet, readied himself for battle – and froze when he belatedly realized that the concussive heat had been a Firebomb.

Thrown by the Elven civilian.

“GET TO SAFETY, LORD BLIGHTKILLER!” The man cried out. He reached into his pouch and tossed another Firebomb that connected with the Blightspawn. Without the element of surprise, however, a single Firebomb did little more than draw the creature’s ire. Rob’s heart beat loud as a drum as he rushed forward to prevent what he knew was about to happen. His longsword cut into the Blightspawn’s flank, but without his Skills empowering the blow, it barely made the creature hesitate before leaping forward at the Elf.

With a face of grim determination, the Elf drew a dagger from his belt. “May the fires of hell take you,” he spat, as the Blightspawn descended. In a motion that looked disturbingly familiar, the man stabbed his dagger into the pouch where he’d been grabbing his Firebombs.

Boom.

The Blightspawn was sent flying back. It wasn’t too badly harmed – a pouch of Firebombs could hardly compare to a crate. The Elf wasn’t so lucky. Rob rushed forward, knelt by the man’s body, summoned an HP Potion, and...

Stored it back away.

Rob forced himself to look at the man’s mangled corpse and cast Identify.

Name: REDACTED

Status Effects: Deceased

Description: An Elven man whose son’s life you saved some time ago. You possess little recollection of either of them. The man was aware of that, although he scarcely minded. In his eyes, you were a hero who cared deeply for the common man. When the time came for him to repay his debt to you, he did not hesitate.

His name has been intentionally obscured. You aren’t worthy of knowing it.

Rob dismissed the message.

Rob sat in silence.

Rob stared at the body.

Rob felt hands grip him.

And Rob screamed.

Hidden Prerequisite Unlocked!

Berserker Class Ability Learned!

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

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

Description: Surrounds your body in nonelemental ‘fire’ that deals intense, searing damage to all other living beings in close proximity. Consumes health equal to 1% of max HP for every second that the Skill is active. Can be toggled at will. No cooldown.

The hands recoiled as a burning aura of blue fire sprouted around Rob’s body. With a vicious snarl, he whirled around and grabbed onto the Blightspawn’s limbs, pulling himself closer as the abomination struggled in vain to escape from the flames that were boiling its flesh.

“What’s the matter?” Rob asked, in a voice as cold as winter. He stepped closer, engulfing more of the Blightspawn’s mass in an azure inferno. “Isn’t this what you wanted? A nice, warm, hug?”

Pyromania Level Increased! 1 → 2

The Skill upgrade injected a tiny bit of EXP into his core, which was just enough to tip him over the edge.

Reached Level 47!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Berserker Level Increased! 43 → 44

Joy started to infiltrate his body once more. Rob deactivated Push Through, letting the full agony of 437 Corruption slam into him. It didn’t cancel out Leveling High’s insistent euphoria, but the added pain overwhelmed his senses to the point where he couldn’t focus on anything in specific. Too much sweet and sour in one sitting for his taste buds to handle.

For now, that would have to suffice. More than any other level up he’d gotten since coming to Elatra, Rob really, really did not want to feel good about this one.

The blue bonfire raged on. At this point, the abomination was frantic. Its orb of hazy light was blinking rapidly, doing something to Rob’s head that might have been dangerous under normal circumstances where his Flames of Vengeance weren’t constantly healing him via Lifesteal damage. He took one final step and embraced the Blightspawn as tightly as he could, relishing in how it thrashed violently as it was consumed by Pyromania-enhanced fire.

They stayed locked in that embrace for quite some time. Much like its brethren, the creature had a lot of HP and excessively high regeneration. Its death was long, protracted, and torturous. This served two fantastic purposes for Rob. The first purpose was that, at present, he was taking a lot of solace in the fact that most Blightspawn possessed enough intelligence to feel fear.

The second was that the creature’s prolonged death gave Rob plenty of extra time to try and convince himself that what happened wasn’t his fault.

He still couldn’t.

–

Changes

Level 44 → 47

Berserker Level 41 → 44

Throwing Proficiency 4 → 5

Vitamin D(efense) 5 → 6

Grappling 3 → 4

Platelet Party 9 → 10

Regrow Limb 4 → 5

Bulk Up 7 → 8

Power Slash 6 → 7

Pyromania Level Increased! 1 → 2

Learned: Flames of Vengeance

Chapter 24

“CIRCLE OF DEATH!”

Keira spun her greatsword in a wide arc, cleaving through both the Blightspawn in front of her and the one that had been attempting to sneak up from behind. Her blade split open mutated flesh like it was a knife cutting hot butter, scoring deep lines across the Blightspawn’s torsos that wept gray blood. Keira didn’t bother feeling triumphant – considering how effective the abominations’ regeneration was, those wounds were barely worth the 50 MP she’d spent to inflict them.

Knocking both creatures away from her, thereby giving her a much-needed moment to focus on one? Now that was worth 50 MP.

“POWER SLASH!” Keira slammed her beloved partner down onto the first Blightspawn’s back, piercing through its body and into the ground. The beast, a crocodile-thing with two heads and serrated skin, writhed frantically as it struggled in vain to escape from the slab of steel that was pinning it in place. As the second Blightspawn rallied to its friend’s aid, claws outstretched towards Keira's unprotected back, Keira used the momentum of her swing to vault herself straight over the first Blightspawn and land behind its tail. With both creatures taken off guard, and one heavily injured, Keira ripped her greatsword out of the crocodile-thing’s back and beat the ever-loving shit out of it until it stopped moving.

Reached Level 41!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Warrior Level Increased! 37 → 38

4 Points in Strength, 1 in Vitality. For once, her allocation choice wasn’t based solely on her personal preferences – raw power was the key to killing monstrosities that were fueled by Blight-born vitality. The remaining Blightspawn warbled in outrage as it spewed fire, breathing gusts of flame out from compressed sacks of air embedded within its skin. Danger Sense guided Keira’s steps as she jumped to the side well before its attack reached her. She eyed her MP, currently sitting at 150, and decided: fuck it.

“SPEAR OF STEEL!” Keira launched her greatsword like a javelin, crushing the Blightspawn’s head into a gooey red paste. She rushed forward as the blade reappeared back in her hand, preparing a follow-up attack to prevent the beast from regaining its footing.

Then Meyneth tore its spine out.

Keira skidded to a halt. She stared at the Dragonkin in utter bafflement, her posture frozen in the middle of executing a sword strike. Meyneth definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago. Yet there she was, tearing the Blightspawn to shreds as she bellowed some of the most colorful language that Keira had ever heard from her.

“FALL TO RIBBONS!” Meyneth let out a snarl that morphed into a roar. “THE WORLD CELEBRATES YOUR DEMISE!” She leaned forward as if to bite the creature with her rows of sharklike teeth, then paused, thinking better of that particular idea. “YOUR ENTRAILS WILL FERTILIZE THE GROUND!...Ah. Hmm.”

She frowned, stopping her frenzied butchery of the Blightspawn corpse that had already been dead for a good fifteen seconds. “That line is erroneous,” she muttered. “The flesh of abominations will not fertilize the ground. Rather, it will do the exact opposite. Life will never again flourish where their corpses are left to decay." She tapped her chin. "I may be able to save the insult for a more applicable opponent, but as long as our enemies are primarily Blightspawn, my methods of conceiving war cries will have to be adjusted as necessary.”

“Where in the world did you come from?” Keira blurted out. She knew how urgent it was to hurry and fight the other Blightspawn as soon as possible, but curiosity had taken hold of her. It wasn't going to release its pernicious grip until it was fully satisfied. And aside from Keira's personal interest, the fact that her ally possessed a Skill that no one in the Party knew about was worrying, and in some social circles could be considered a kind of betrayal. Combat often revolved around coordinating Skills, and it was essential that everyone reveal their full capabilities during the planning stages. A Skill going hidden and unused could mean the difference between life and death.

When she heard Keira's words, Meyneth jerked back in surprise. Her widening eyes whipped towards Keira, posture stiff as if she’d forgotten the Warrior was there. “Hello, Keira,” she said, in a stilted tone. “Fair greetings on this fine day. How have you been?”

Keira suppressed a sigh. As much as she craved immediate answers, when Meyneth was in this sort of mood, she needed to be treated with care. “Fair greetings to you too,” Keira replied. “If you don’t mind telling me – how did you appear so suddenly? As far as I am aware, your Stealth isn’t particularly high.”

The Dragonkin fidgeted in place as she wrapped one of her golden locks of hair around her index finger. “It is an Active Skill,” she stated. “Shadow Step. Circumstantial. Limitations. No reason to use before now. Apologies; it was not my intention to conceal it from you.”

Keira nodded. “Understood.” She pointed down the street and put on a savage grin. “Want to go kill more abominations?”

Meyneth sagged with visible relief and returned Keira's grin with one of her own. “Gladly.”

And that was that. Keira wasn’t entirely happy that Meyneth hid one of her Skills from them – unintentionally or otherwise – but she understood why the Dragonkin would have been reluctant to discuss it. After the first two to three Skills that people learned from any given Class, the Skills that came afterwards tended to personalize themselves towards the user’s temperament and life experiences. Some people received more unique Skills than others – Orn’tol’s Temporal Trap was perfectly suited to his battle strategy and, as far as Keira was aware, one-of-a-kind. Zamira’s Skill titled Mercy’s Whisper was another such example.

With that in mind, Keira was more than willing to let her line of questioning drop. Even someone as Diplomacy-deficient as herself could see why Meyneth would be embarrassed about revealing Shadow Step, a Skill that allowed her to hide her presence. Especially when Shadow Step was fit into the pattern implied by two of her other Skills: Endure, which reduced the damage she incurred, and Leap, which allowed her to jump great distances at her enemy.

Or to flee in a single bound. While turning herself invisible and desperately attempting to protect herself.

People in Dragonkin territory have much to answer for, Keira thought, her grip on her greatsword tightening. I’ll imagine them when I slay my next Blightspawn.

They took off running. Vul’to was nearest, in the middle of fending off two Blightspawn on his own. He wasn’t anywhere close to defeating them – and with his lack of offensive Skills, never would be – but despite engaging two abominations without Danger Sense to sharpen his senses, he barely had a scratch on him. As Keira approached, she watched one creature rake its claws at Vul’to, only for him to turn aside its blow with a combination of precise shielding and quick footwork.

It was an unusual combat style for a Vanguard; they tended to plant themselves in one place, stalwart and unyielding as a great oak tree. That was how most of them were taught to use their Class. Vul’to, however, had spent most of his life training to be a Ranger. He was already proficient in utilizing his agility to evade attacks. Rather than working to unlearn his years of experiencing, Vul’to chose to meld his Ranger training with his Vanguard role, dancing around enemy attacks as he used his shield to deflect the ones that were too fast to dodge. He would stand his ground when necessary, but only when necessary.

For her part, Keira was exceptionally impressed. Unlike Zamira altering her Ranger Class into a Swordmaster, a Ranger possessed very little in common with a Vanguard. If he’d focused on becoming a traditional walking fortress archetype, it would’ve taken years of practice before he could pass muster on the battlefield. But instead of languishing in mediocrity for who knows how long, he’d elected to improvise, embracing the new while remembering the lessons of the old.

Every member of Riardin’s Rangers is incredible, Keira mused. How many people are so blessed that their Party consists entirely of combat geniuses – who also happen to be their dearest friends?

Vul’to perked up as he saw them. As soon as Keira and Meyneth were in range, he activated Taunt, distracting the Blightspawn and preventing them from noticing his allies’ advance. One pincer maneuver later, and the creatures were left decomposing on the paved cobblestone road.

Four abominations down. Five to go.

Keira, Meyneth, and Vul’to caught up with Zamira and Orn’tol next. The Swordmaster and Ranger were engaging two more Blightspawn, Zamira delivering precise cuts as she weaved in between their attacks while Orn’tol fired arrow after arrow in an attempt to slow them down as much as possible. Then a 2 versus 2 became a 5 versus 2, and the fight ended in short order.

“Does anyone know where Rob is?” Keira asked, as they took a moment to catch their breath. The others shook their heads. “Damnit,” she sighed. “Well, his HP is at full, so he can’t have gone far – Level 47?!”

Comprehension dawned on the rest of their faces as they processed her words and looked at the Party Screen.

“...I suppose he killed the remaining three Blightspawn,” Zamira remarked, in a lightheaded tone. “Never one to do things by halves, that man.”

Keira couldn’t peel her eyes away from the Party Screen. Outside of the quick jolt of surprise she’d gotten from discovering that Rob gained three Levels when she quit paying attention for five fucking minutes, she honestly didn’t care much. Level 47 was reasonably close to her own Level 42. However, Meyneth was Level 35, while Zamira, Vul’to, and Orn’tol were each Level 33. She couldn’t imagine how they were feeling at this point. Intra-Party envy over Levels was a common occurrence, and while their group had managed to largely avoid it thus far, at the rate Rob was advancing, some degree of jealousy was likely inevitable.

“I am jealous,” Meyneth suddenly stated, in a flat monotone.

“Please don’t begrudge him,” Vul’to said. “Rob can scarcely control how rapidly he Levels, and even if he could, I wouldn’t want him to impede his progress.” He smiled. “Our friend has risked his life on countless occasions. He’s earned every bit of EXP and then some.”

Meyneth shook her head. “You’re misinterpreting my words,” she replied. “I like him just as much as when he was Level 30. I also reserve the right to be jealous. There are people I wish to kill, and Level 47 would be plenty sufficient to tear their heads from their necks.”

The rest of the Party blinked in unison. Before they could ask for the dirty details, a guttural roar echoed through the streets, followed by Elven screams. Shit, Keira thought, as Riardin’s Rangers rushed into action. Were there more than nine?

That question was quickly forgotten when they arrived at the source of the noise.

Rob was there, standing over a quivering, gravely-wounded Blightspawn. His longsword was covered in red-black blood that was slowly dripping down into a small puddle. The Blightspawn was moaning pitifully as it pulled itself away on ruined limbs, desperate to escape. Its wounds were regenerating, but Rob didn’t move to finish the creature off. He just stood there, staring, motionless as a statue.

No, Keira realized. Not quite motionless. His sword hand was shaking.

“Hey,” Rob mumbled in greeting, as they approached. “Good to see everyone. Can someone please finish that thing off?”

Orn’tol fired a Power Shot-infused arrow without a moment’s hesitation. The beast let out a death rattle, then expired, its form dissolving into tar-like sludge.

“Thanks,” Rob grunted.

“Why didn’t you kill it?” Keira asked. She waited for a response, and received none. The last time he was wary of dealing the last blow to a monster, it was due to-

In a panic, she checked Rob’s Status Screen, her heartbeat rising like a bird in flight. No small amount of relief flowed through her when she confirmed that his Leveling High was Mild.

“The vile thing was regenerating,” she continued. “Another minute or two and it would've risen anew and come at you once more. If your aim was to spread EXP among our Party, then that’s all well and good, but you couldn’t have known we were on our way. So why didn’t you kill it?”

“Didn’t want to.” Rob scratched the back of his head and gave them a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Since you guys aren’t hurrying me along, I’m guessing the other Blightspawn are ten feet under?”

The non-Rob members of the Party exchanged glances. He noticed, and they knew that he noticed, but in the end, no one commented on it.

“We slew six of the creatures,” Zamira belatedly answered. “Seven if you include the one that Orn’tol just finished off.”

Rob grimaced. “Ugh. I only killed one. Means the last fucker is still running around out there somewhere. Hopefully it headed towards the Deserters’ front lines. All of them put together will take care of it like a banana thrown into a blender.” He swiveled his head around, glancing around the street. “Otherwise I have no idea how we’ll find the thing. Not hearing any screams, and that’s kinda their calling card.”

“You killed but a single Blightspawn?” Meyneth arched an eyebrow. “Then how, pray tell, did you reach Level 47?”

He stared at them, the last veneer of cheer slipping from his face like a loosely-fitted mask. Without saying another word, Rob turned around and began running towards the Deserters’ front line, motioning for them to follow.

Meyneth opened her mouth to say something further, but Keira put a hand on the Dragonkin’s shoulder and shook her head in order to forestall any further inquiry. It wasn’t an exaggeration, Keira thought, to believe that she knew their wayward Human better than anyone else in the world. Just as it would have been unwise to press Meyneth for further information about her Skill, nothing good would come from pushing Rob right now. Not when he had that look on his face.

If they pushed him too hard, and he fell over, he just might break.

–

Diplomacy was silent as Riardin’s Rangers made their way through Broadwater City. Rob didn’t bother prying. If the Skill wanted to give him the silent treatment, then he pretty damn well deserved it.

<I’m not giving you the silent treatment,> Diplomacy explained. <I’m consolidating my thoughts. Will need a few more minutes.>

I’m so, so, sorr-

<I know.> The Skill ran their hand down their metaphorical face. <Trust me. I know. A few more minutes, please.>

Rob did his best to stop thinking. The only saving grace is that the rest of the Party wasn’t trying to interrogate him anymore.

A few minutes passed. They were getting close to the Deserters’ front lines.

<I don’t blame you,> Diplomacy finally said. <Truly and honestly. I don’t think that what happened was your fault.>

I fail to see how it isn’t, Rob muttered darkly.

<Leveling High rose to Moderate when you saw the gorilla-thing. And it stayed that way until the Elf man died.>

It wasn’t an unexpected statement. That didn’t prevent it from hurting like a whip to the face. His Leveling High had jumped to Moderate a few times before, but usually only for a few seconds, and never for longer than half a minute or so.

Keep going, Rob said, when Diplomacy hesitated. I know you’ve got more to tell me. Might as well rip off the band-aid.

The Skill winced. <That is, unfortunately, correct. When you were in the midst of fighting the Blightspawn, I attempted to activate Waymark on several occasions. Leveling High blocked me. It shut me out somehow, static rising to a fever pitch, and before long I could barely hear your thoughts at all. Nor could you hear most of mine.>

Rob fell into contemplation for a solid minute.

We need to get you a body, he eventually asserted. ASAP.

<...That was quite the non sequitur.>

Was it? Rob shook his head. Leveling High is getting a bigger foothold in my mind. It’s fucking with me, fucking with you, and unlike Melancholy Resistance, I can’t turn it off. We should bump Plan Make Diplomacy A Real Boy higher up the priority list before anything irreversibly bad happens.

<Don’t you fucking dare,> Diplomacy seethed. <I know where you’re going with this. We aren't getting me out of your head just so you can give up on yourself guilt-free.>

Rob gave them a wry smirk. My head is a sinking ship, dude. You don’t need to go down with it.

<New plan. I call it ‘Remove Leveling High, And You’re Not Martyring Yourself, Dickhead.’>

Uuuuuh. Rob raised an eyebrow. I’m pretty sure that if removing Leveling High was possible, the world where its existence caused untold amounts of suffering would have figured out the solution by now. Like, they probably tried every avenue they could think of, including both the really smart and really dumb ideas. Invest significant mage infrastructure into examining the Human psyche? Absolutely. Do a headstand while snorting vinegar up your nose? Sure, why not. Anything to figure out the secret trick to getting rid of Leveling High.

His smirk dissipated. I guess they technically succeeded. No one in Elatra besides me has Leveling High anymore.

<Of course,> Diplomacy began, in a sarcastic tone. <Because removing Leveling High is soooooo much crazier than, I don’t know, declaring that you’ll give a Skill its own flesh-and-blood body. Or crossing dimensions between separate worlds. Or finding a way to cure Corruption. Or obtaining a Sub-Class when no one else has Sub-Classes – and which grants you access to Crystal abilities, even. Or being the first person in Elatran history to speak to the Fiends.>

They let out a little gasp, covering their mouth with their hands. <Oh dear, it seemed I slipped into mentioning several of the ‘impossibilities’ you’ve already accomplished so far. But yes, removing Leveling High just can’t be done. Silly me.>

Rob burst out laughing, both internally and externally. Fine, he replied, ignoring the concerned looks from his Party members. You win. No giving up on myself – promise.

<Damn straight.>

They arrived at the Deserters’ defensive front lines soon afterwards. Rob allowed some of the tension coiled in his gut to relax when he saw that the Blightspawn corpses far outnumbered the Elven and Fiend corpses. In fact, Goroth was in the process of finishing off the last Blightspawn with...laser...eye...beams. Okay.

“You’ve made it,” Alessia said, nodding once as they approached. Her tone was short and clipped, and she was leaning against a wall for support. “Am I to presume that the Blightspawn within the central territory have been dealt with?”

“Eight out of nine have,” Keira said. “We lost track of the last one. Did a Blightspawn happen to come this way from behind the defensive lines?”

“No.” Alessia sighed. “I suppose that it will turn up eventually, one way or another. We can only hope that it doesn’t slaughter too many civilians in the meantime.”

Rob gritted his teeth. As he surveyed the Blightspawn corpses littered across the battlefield, he clenched harder to the point where it felt like his molars would shatter. The bodies of ten additional abominations were strewn about, some decomposing, some dissolving, and one turning rainbow-colored, because apparently that’s how Blightspawn roll sometimes. Seven of them consisted of the Blightspawn that ignored his and Orn’tol’s attempt to distract the initial invasion force of twenty. One more was Frank, who'd somehow zoomed over to the defensive lines at record speed after Rob Waymarked away. However, the last two corpses were the hawk-thing and Blightspawn #3; the ones he'd lost track of when he was distracting his group of Blightspawn.

Rather, when he was fighting instead of focusing on distracting them.

Maybe those two were put down before they managed to kill anyone. Maybe they weren’t. Either way, he didn’t want to ask. That was a larger weight than he could handle shouldering right now.

“Rob. Orn’tol.” Elder Alessia said, addressing them in turn. “First, I must offer my gratitude and congratulations. Our forces likely would have crumpled like a rock thrown through a bundle of sticks if we were besieged by a full twenty Blightspawn. Your decision to distract as many of them as possible without backup was reckless, dangerous, and saved many lives.” She gave them a tired smile. “You have my thanks, and the thanks of everyone here.”

Orn’tol shuffled in place as he struggled to accept her praise. Rob, for his part, was stuck with a mixture of pride and guilt, knowing that he’d accomplished objectively good deeds while also fucking up at the same time. He elected to file it under the growing list of feelings that he simply didn’t have the mental bandwidth to process at the moment.

“With that said,” she continued. “Logistics demand that we cut our pleasantries short. How far away were you able to lead the remaining Blightspawn? How soon should we expect them to arrive? And how many were there, exactly?”

“I managed to divert six,” Orn’tol replied. “If they make their way straight towards Deserter territory, I believe that they’ll encounter the defensive lines in roughly ten minutes.”

“Zero,” Rob flatly stated.

Everyone within earshot snapped their heads to look at him. “Elaborate,” Alessia said, in a request that was halfway to an order.

“Zero,” Rob repeated. “Zero of my Blightspawn left. Zero minutes until they get here. Cause, you know. There’s none left.”

They stared.

“I’m not talking about it.”

Mercifully, the conversation was cut short by a messenger running towards them like she was being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. She tossed a missive at Elder Alessia, who failed to catch it out of the air before it bopped her on the nose. The messenger's task completed, she promptly collapsed to the ground, heaving deeply like a fish gasping out of water.

Rob failed to suppress a snicker as Alessia picked up the missive, her face hard and stony. The nearby group – consisting of Riardin’s Rangers, a few Fiends, and a few Deserters – gathered around as she opened the sealed letter. They read it in silence.

What they saw kept them silent long after they were finished.

"Dear Elder Alessia,

Sensing a very very strong thing coming from the south. So strong I can feel it from this far away. Almost like a Blight, but isn't a Blight. Don't recognize its mana signature, but the closest thing it feels to is Meyneth. So it's probably a Dragonkin. Moving fast, will be here in maybe twenty minutes? Mages are working to get the teleportation circle ready but we can't get it done faster than half an hour at the least. I'm really sorry. Please be safe.

Love,

Malika"

A monstrously strong creature. Coming from the south. That felt like a Dragonkin.

Three guesses as to what that was.

Alessia crumpled the letter and let it fall to the ground. No one said anything. Eventually, Rob was the first to speak up, voicing the words that were on everyone's minds. The most accurate words possible to use in a situation such as this.

"Well, shit."

Chapter 25

Ragnavi tapped her claws on the desk, careful to moderate her Strength so that she didn't ruin its polished wood surface. All it would take was the slightest of touches to pierce through – one of the few detriments to possessing overwhelming power. Breaking things was simple; not breaking them could be a chore.

"Are you certain of this?" She asked, locking eyes with Ardrud. "I would never doubt your prowess, my love-"

"I know you wouldn't," he interjected, with a sly grin. "You're quite vocal with praise during bedroom hours."

She rolled her eyes. "Be serious. The Humans are growing more desperate by the day, and due to our intelligence being compromised, the scaleless bastards are likely aware of the supply convoy's date of travel. It's simple to surmise that, from their perspective, attacking that convoy would be an easy way to gain an advantage. Any Dragonkin who accompanies it will be put at risk of an ambush."

Her fingers twitched. A harsh scratch rang out as she accidentally scraped the table. "Let the other races take up the mantle for once," Ragnavi said, in a dark undertone. "We've done more than our fair share of Human killing. I'm sure the Elves or Harpies will be eager to accept my request if I...ask nicely. They'll understand; the convoy is too important to leave unattended."

"Correct," Ardrud assented. "Which makes it all the more important that I be there to defend it. As you've said, the convoy's survival is vital, and I cannot in good conscience entrust the task to anyone lesser than myself." He put on one of his disarming smiles. "Alas, there is only one person I know who isn't lesser than myself, and she has a very busy schedule, indeed."

The great and mighty Dragon Queen made sure to keep a neutral expression as Ardrud touched his hand to her cheek. "If it helps put you at ease," he began, adopting a conciliatory tone. "I'll bring Iaso and Chosne with me. Our children would be delighted to join their father on a relaxed family outing. The three of us together is overkill, perhaps, yet undoubtedly effective." The corners of his lips twitched. "I'm already looking forward to seeing the Humans' faces when they realize just who it is that they've sprung an ambush on."

For a moment, Ragnavi considered ordering Ardrud to stay back. Other Dragonkin could complete the mission in his stead, and there were plenty of struggling battlefronts that would appreciate his presence. She was so close, so fucking close to preventing him from heading down this path.

One word was all it would have taken.

But protecting the convoy was his own choice, and despite being his ostensible superior, she was reluctant to order him like one. Their relationship had been founded on a basis of mutual trust and respect. She may have been stronger, but Ardrud was no less her equal. His advice, love, and support were worth all the gold in Elatra. Souring their once-in-a-lifetime relationship by laying down edicts for him to follow was a development she wished to avoid.

So she let him go. If nothing else, Iaso and Chosne would be accompanying him, and that notion served to put her worries to rest. Her children were fast becoming her equals as well, and there was no one better than them to ensure that the Humans' ambush would be repelled without much trouble.

Ragnavi accepted his decision with a nod and moved on to other subjects. Securing the convoy's safety was just another war plan among many; there was no reason to give it further thought when its outcome was predetermined.

--

With a flash of shock, Ragnavi snapped out of her reverie, a pungent aroma drifting under her nose. At first, she was grateful; whatever the scent was, it had saved her from drifting too far into painful memories that were best left buried deep within the depths of her mind. Gratitude soon morphed to revulsion when she took a second breath, realizing exactly how fundamentally disturbing the scent was. It didn't just smell foul.

It smelled wrong.

Closer inspection revealed the smell's source, which did little to improve Ragnavi's mood. She was flying many miles away from the Blighted Lands in the Human territory, having taken care to give it a wide berth, but even at this distance she could sense its presence. Death and desiccation emanated from its core in thick waves, pulsating incessantly like a throbbing heart. Each moment that passed was another heartbeat that pumped miasma into the surrounding area. Ragnavi knew that, if she flew into that area, the flesh would be stripped from her bones in a matter of hours – if not minutes.

Revolting as the sight was, it gave her an insight into the nature of the Blight that even her highest-leveled mages seemed unaware of. From their perspective, Blighted Lands likely came across as blackened zones of pure entropy. Living creatures that entered its boundaries were doomed to wither away into husks of their former selves. Inanimate materials fared little better; wood decayed, glass shattered, and stone turned to dust. The Blighted Lands were regions that had been drained of life in every practical and conceptual way. That is what both common and uncommon minds would say.

And they would be right – partially. Blighted Lands weren't simply drained; they were infected. If all a Blight did when it entered a Locus of Power was steal the Locus's energies, then lands would eventually recover. Mana from outside the zone of decay would slowly seep in like wind filling a vacuum. The Locus would absorb that mana bit by bit, rebuilding its reserves one mote at a time. It may take centuries, but in the end, entropy would be defeated, and the lands would regain the capacity to sustain life once again.

The persistent existence of the western Deadlands, dating back millennia, was proof otherwise. Its Loci of Power never returned to their former glory. Nor would they. Ragnavi could feel the miasma within the Blighted Lands actively working to keep the lands lifeless. The process was something akin to the effects of a spell; a very powerful, very long-lasting spell. She'd felt as much when observing the Deadlands from a distance, but hadn't been sure in her hypothesis until referencing it against a freshly-created Blighted area. Without that spell's effect, the loss of a Locus of Power would be a wound that could heal. Instead, whenever the Blight feasted upon its banquet of life, it left an eternal, indelible scar.

Purposefully. Ragnavi was certain that the Blight could drain a Locus without turning it into a scar. In fact, casting its spell took additional effort, not less. The Blighted Lands weren't byproducts; they were intentional.

Perhaps I've been too lax in my duties, she mused. The Human territories being sucked dry of life is a fitting punishment, to be sure. It's the closest thing to dancing on their graves that I can imagine. But matters may become problematic if the Blight encroaches farther south. I haven't yet grown tired of Elatra, and it would be a shame if it fell to ruin before I departed for better horizons.

Where to start, though? As far as she could tell, the Blight was nowhere in sight. It was bizarre that she hadn't detected its scent of corruption yet. Either the abominations possessed the ability to conceal their presence, or the Blighted Lands were clogging her senses, like trying to smell a single rotting banana in an overflowing garbage bin.

There's a Human city not far north from here, she thought. I suppose that's as good of a place to search as any.

--

The ground rumbled as hundreds of Elven and Fiendish civilians ran like lightning towards the teleportation circle. Up until that point, the Deserters and Fiends had been hesitant to move those civilians out of the relative safety of their central territories in Broadwater. The basic plan was to clear out the first wave of Blightspawn, and then move everyone towards the circle in a calm, orderly fashion.

Turns out that impending doom had a way of making people antsy. Rob couldn't blame them. The barrier enclosing Broadwater City could repel the Blight, but the Dragon Queen, not so much.

At that moment, he was taking part in an all-hands-on-deck emergency strategy meeting. Riardin's Rangers were present, as were Elder Alessia, Faelynn, Goroth, and a smattering of other high-leveled Deserters and Fiends. Physically, Rob was in attendance. Mentally, he felt like he was floating on clouds, distantly wondering why today kept trying to one-up itself. The idiom 'when it rains, it pours' would have been accurate if it wasn't hilariously underplaying the situation.

"Fifteen minutes remaining," Alessia stated. No one needed to ask for clarification on what she meant. "Voice your ideas. Now."

"Can the teleportation circle be readied within that time?" Zamira asked. "Instead of twenty-five minutes? I recognize that the mages are doing their best, but we simply don't have that long to spare."

Goroth shook his head. "They're pushing themselves to their limits as it is. The only way our spellcasters would be able to complete the circle sooner would be to feed it sacrifices using Soul Burn." His eyes glinted dangerously. "I will not allow that idea to be remotely entertained."

Rob translated their conversation to the Elves. After the two were finished speaking, he motioned for Zamira to take over translating duties, and then threw his hat into the ring. "Diplomacy is always an option, right?"

<Rob, I'm glad you have that much faith in me, but->

I meant diplomacy, he assured. With a lowercase 'd'. For them to engage in while I hide in a corner.

The Skill sighed in relief. <Okay, good, because that is a bit beyond the scope of what I can do. I'm amazing and all, but I'm not literal mind control, which is what it would take for the Dragon Queen to let you live.>

"Were it just us Elves," Elder Alessia began. "Negotiating with Queen Ragnavi might be possible. Might. She's likely heard that we turned our backs on Seneschal Sylpeiros – either from her spies or from the man himself – but there's no guarantee she cares in the slightest about his plight. If anything, my limited understanding of the relationships between the five Elatran leaders is that their alliance is, to put it bluntly, tumultuous."

Her mouth twisted into a grimace. "She won't spare the Fiends, though. And she won't spare us for consorting with them, which is to say nothing of consorting with Rob." She glanced at him. "It may be possible to hide your presence from Queen Ragnavi, but by now, news of your existence will have spread like wildfire through Elatra. She knows that you're with us. Locating you in a city as large as Broadwater could prove difficult, but razing each and every building to the ground will solve that problem by process of elimination."

Rob groaned, barely suppressing the urge to pull his hair out. "Can't we just fight her?" He half-asked, half-pleaded. "We've got like forty Combat Class users. I know she's strong as hell, but as far as I'm aware, she isn't immortal."

"Sadly, that may be our best option." Alessia's grimace deepened. "It is true that, theoretically, we could defeat the Dragon Queen if we fought her as a unified group." She closed her eyes, shoulders sagging by a fraction. "Doing so would come at a grievous cost. Even if we were to win, which is hardly a guarantee, most of us would perish in the process."

"Have you witnessed – and can you verify – the Dragon Queen's power?" Goroth inquired. "I don't doubt that she is strong, but so strong that we need fear her to this degree? On one occasion eight years ago I had the misfortune of observing an instance of her massacres, and from what I could glean, she largely targeted helpless Utility Class users. And while there are undoubtedly plentiful tales regarding her indomitable strength, tales are often exaggerated, especially those regarding leaders. Dozens of Kings and Queens throughout the ages have attempted to use propaganda to ascend themselves to the status of mortal godhood. According to them, they were unbeatable forces of nature that could lay waste to armies and win wars single-handedly."

He crossed his arms. "Yet despite their best efforts to run from their own mortality, in the end, they still died. As do we all."

As soon as Zamira finished translating, Meyneth stepped forward and interrupted Alessia before the Elf could reply. "Allow me to address this query," she said. "I am well-acquainted with the fundamentals behind draconic strength."

"I'll translate for you," Rob immediately blurted. Meyneth nodded gratefully, unaware of a certain Elder's raised eyebrows and mildly annoyed expression. To Alessia, the interruption probably seemed unnecessary. She was far older and more experienced than anyone else in attendance, and unless Meyneth was about to reveal some super secret bloodline technique that Dragonkin were sworn to keep secret from birth, it was unlikely that she knew anything that the Elder didn't.

You'll just have to deal, Rob thought, giving Alessia a flat stare. Let Meyneth have her moment.

"Dragonkin possess the potential to be born with more Racial Skills than any other race in Elatra," Meyneth began. She held up her right hand, sharpened claws glimmering in the sun. "Those five Racial Skills are considered to be the pillars of what make Dragonkin, Dragonkin. The more Racial Skills one has, the more admired they are. In abstract numerical terms, a single Skill is roughly equal to five Levels of societal respectability, although variance can occur in cases of-"

"Ten minutes," Alessia interrupted.

Meyneth gulped. "Right. The five Racial Skills are: Heat Immunity, Flame Breath, Ember's Soul, Draconic Form, and Pure Power." She lowered a finger with each Skill she rattled off. "The first two are self-explanatory. Then comes Ember's Soul, which grants the user a certain degree of control over fire and lava that are both natural and self-produced."

Two fingers remained. "Of the five, the final two Skills are the rarest and most sought-after. Draconic Form allows a Dragonkin to temporarily transform into a mighty dragon up to twenty feet wide, granting them flight, new abilities, and marginally increased stats. And Pure Power is simple in its deadly effectiveness, giving a flat, permanent boost to its owner's full spread of stats, ranging from 25% to 50% across the board. Ragnavi was born with four out of these five Skills."

A bead of sweat ran down Rob's neck. "That sounds pretty strong," he said, in the lighthearted tone of someone close to losing their shit. "Which Skill doesn't she have?"

"Pure Power." Meyneth paused. "She lacks it because her instance of Pure Power underwent a once-in-a-generation awakening, evolving into Overflowing Power. Which outright doubles her stats." Meyneth paused. Again. "Also, she has the highest-recorded Level in history."

The 'lag' caused by translating was, in a cosmic sort of way, funny to watch. As Meyneth spoke, the Elves went pale, which for them meant they turned as white as a pack of pointy-eared ghosts. Their reaction didn't go unnoticed by the Fiends, who started to get nervous as they awaited for the hammer to fall on them next. Then Rob translated for them, and that same reaction of horrified comprehension played out a second time.

It was funny. So, so funny. Mostly because finding humor in this situation was preferable to curling into a fetal position and waiting for the end to come.

"How was there a war at all?" Goroth asked, rubbing his eyes. "No one person can face the world on their own, but with that degree of power combined with the other races of Elatra, the scales would have been tipped against Humanity from the conflict's onset."

"Queen Ragnavi gained twenty Levels during the course of the war and the Scouring," Elder Alessia replied. "And she only unlocked Overflowing Power when the Humans assassinated her family."

Dudes. WHY? Rob resisted the urge to start cursing out a bunch of dead people. That had better be propaganda or a conspiracy or something. If you actually ended up creating your own worst enemy, then I'm going to spend my entire afterlife kicking your asses up and down the Hallowed Halls.

His eyes widened to the point of bulging out of their sockets. Aw fuck, what even happens if I die in Elatra? The gods apparently oversee the dead. Is my soul going to be tortured for all eternity because I pissed them off one too many times?

<Do me a favor and hide your thoughts,> Diplomacy remarked. <None of this is helping my mental state.>

"To summarize," Goroth began. "Fighting the Dragon Queen is likely to result in death. Attempting to reason with her will assuredly result in death. Is there perhaps a third option we have yet to consider?"

No one said a word.

"We need the teleportation circle ready sooner," Elder Alessia eventually put forth. "Goroth-"

"No," he snapped, cutting her off. "Fifty of my people already sacrificed themselves with Soul Burn to place the barrier around Broadwater City. I cannot in good conscience ask for anything more from them."

"Fifty deaths will become thousands if we don't act soon," Alessia responded, in a placating tone. "And I am not so cowardly to demand a sacrifice that I am unwilling to undergo myself. When the mages cast Soul Burn to empower the circle, I shall join them."

Her mic drop caused everyone to gape, mouths open. Rob's train of thought jumped off the tracks and crashed into a tree, leaving Diplomacy alone as they furiously worked to come up with the magic words that would make Alessia reconsider.

RUNRUNFLEE

A chorus of screams rang out among the street as everyone except Rob clutched their ears and fell to their knees. He looked up, blood curdling at the sight of the Blight sitting on top of the barrier above. A solid quarter of its mass was missing from its previous entry attempts, and its flesh was sizzling where it touched the barrier, but the abomination didn't seem to care as it stared down at them, three sharklike mouths twisted into vicious grins.

RUNCHASEFUN

Rob froze. Okay, maybe I misheard, 'chase' doesn't have to mean-

FOLLOWYOUNORTH

Son of a BITCH. Some way or another, the Blight had discovered their plan, and it wasn't intending to let them slip through its grasp that easily. If Malika's Sense Magic was strong enough to the point where she could track the signature left behind by teleportation, then there was little doubt in Rob's mind that the Blight could do the same.

In retrospect, he should've predicted this outcome. His experience with Blights so far – albeit with an admittedly limited sample size – painted them as creatures of pure hedonistic sadism. It wasn't going to be content ruling over an empty city with no playthings to torment. Fiendish territory was about as close to Broadwater City as Dwarven territory was; it'd probably have ended up following them north with or without its grudge.

And what better way to introduce itself to the Fiends' friends and family than by crashing their homecoming celebration?

On foot, traveling from Broadwater to the northern edge of Elatra would've taken at least a month. The Blight could make that trip in, who knows, a week? Less? The Fiends would barely have any prep time to prepare for its arrival, and they were already weakened by the Corruption epidemic. According to Goroth, they'd repelled one Blight before, but it resulted in catastrophic loss of life and one of their major cities being reduced to a Corruption-suffused wasteland. If this Blight turned out to be stronger than the last one, victory would come at a far greater cost – if victory came at all.

What the fuck were the Deserters supposed to do if a Blight decided to follow them around until it'd eaten every last one of them? Fiend territory was as far north as the continent went. There wasn't any Elatra left to run to.

Even if we escape the Dragon Queen, we're just trading one calamity for another. Rob clenched his teeth, glaring upwards at the creature that wouldn't leave them the fuck alone. Why is this shit always falling on our heads? Can't someone else deal with this for a change – oh. Oooooh.

"Let them fight."

The others, who were still recovering from the Blight's speech, glanced at Rob with dawning expressions of realization.

"Do you think she can win?" Keira asked, directing her question to Meyneth.

The Dragonkin gulped, her claws repeatedly extending and retracting. "I..." she trailed off for a few seconds, and then answered. "I do not know. If anyone in Elatra can, it is her. And the beast is heavily injured – her odds at victory will never be higher than they are now. But..."

But it was still a Blight.

"We should assist her," Zamira stated. "The Dragon Queen isn't so far gone that she would turn on potential allies in a battle to slay the Blight."

"Yes she is," Meyneth replied, in a shaky tone. "And yes she would."

--

It was grotesque in every sense of the word.

Ragnavi shriveled her nose in disgust as the Blight's miasmic stench assaulted her senses. The more she examined it, the more she regretted how cavalier she'd been in suppressing their uprising. Nothing that offended her sensibilities to that degree should be allowed to exist in this world.

She welcomed the distractions from its hideous visage that soon followed. To her bewilderment, the Blight was perched on top of an enormous spherical barrier that covered the entirety of the old Human city. The barrier consisted of a type of magic she'd never Sensed before, yet based on the way it continuously burnt away the Blight's flesh, seemed constructed specifically to repel them.

Her mind racing, Ragnavi flew closer to get a better look at the barrier, the Blight momentarily forgotten. Had one of the other races created this magic without her knowledge? Surely they wouldn't have been be so petty as to invent an anti-Blight spell and keep its existence a secret from the rest of Elatra. Tylrud's teeth, not even she herself was that petty. Ragnavi activated Hawkeye's Vision and magnified her eyesight tenfold, hoping to glean some physical insight from the barrier that her magical senses were unable to.

For the third time in so many minutes, Ragnavi was struck speechless. Through the barrier's translucent  exterior, she could see people scampering around inside the Human city, stampeding like they were a panicked mob running for their lives. Most were Elves, but some were Fiends. Fiends. Members of both races ran next to each other without complaint, and several of them were mingling with each other. By talking.

How the fuck. Ragnavi shook her head. I believe I've found your Deserters, Sylpeiros. And they've committed a greater betrayal than you could possibly imagine.

She flew closer, making sure to keep a safe distance away from the Blight. If Sylpeiros' turncoats were here, then the Human was probably with them, although the presence of Fiends muddied that possibility. Wouldn't the Human and Fiends have attempted to kill each other on sight? Granted, the Elves and Fiends should be tearing each other to ribbons instead conversing as allies, so this was clearly a situation where logic was to be hidden in a shelter and let out only when the world made sense again.

All of a sudden, her nostrils flared as the Blight's stench intensified. The abomination's thousand of centipede-esque legs began to vibrate with an influx of mana. Three heads turned to face her, numerous rows of sharpened teeth on display, acid drool dripping from the corners of its mouths. Ragnavi pulled back immediately, thanking her foresight to give the creature a wide berth despite its lack of wings. The gulf between them quickly increased from a hundred feet to several hundred.

Then the creature leapt forward, corruptive mana propelling it through the air as a discordant laugh pierced her mind.

She could have dodged. Should have dodged. But between the attack on her senses and the Blight's absurd speed, her maneuver leftwards came an instant too late. The beast's laughter rose to a fever pitch, voices overlapping like a dozen shrieks of metal scraping on glass, and one of its mouths managed to bite down on her flank, teeth sinking deep.

19 Corruption Damage Received!

Ragnavi howled in agony as something indescribably horrid flowed into her body. She opened her mouth and breathed Cleansing Flame on the Blight, white-hot fire covering the length of its body in less than a second. Its flesh bubbled, boiled, and popped, but still it laughed, biting down with a second mouth – this time on her wing.

37 Corruption Damage Received!

She let herself fall. Ragnavi continued pouring Cleansing Flame out from her mouth, summoning the hottest plasma that existed within her core. She tore out wide gouges of the Blight's flesh with her claws, shredding its exterior like peeling a rotten apple. 'Bulk Up'. 'Fervor Of Battle'. 'Magic Amp'. 'Sun's Fury'. A fierce roar tore from her throat. 'Power Slash.'

Golden auras lit up her body. Cleansing Flame grew hot enough to evaporate the moisture in the air from dozens of feet away. Ragnavi's Skill-empowered claws stabbed down, faltered, then pierced through some hidden undercoating that was thick as tempered steel. The beast faltered momentarily, and an instant before the two of them crashed into the ground, Ragnavi activated Not A Scratch.

Not A Scratch partially br@#oKeN!

79 Collision Damage Received!

702 Collision Damage Negated!

Arid dirt shot up around them like geysers of water. The Blight was injured far less from the fall than from her attacks, but the force of their collision managed to loosen its grip long enough for Ragnavi to fling it away. She flew backwards immediately, putting as great of a distance as possible between herself and the creature whose repertoire of abilities she'd sorely underestimated. Possessing phenomenal otherworldly power, that much was expected, but being able to travel through the air like a cross between a bird and a frog? She would allow herself some forgiveness for failing to predict that.

Ragnavi gently landed on the ground to rest her injured wing, winced as a deep-seated pain burrowed into her core. It was an unfamiliar, disquieting feeling. Not that she was any stranger to pain – contrary to the beliefs of many, her current martial supremacy was less than a decade old. There were plenty of instances where she'd suffered grievous wounds in the midst of battle, and those aches were never truly forgotten. But there was some fundamental difference between those aches and the pain she was experiencing now. It was...disgusting. Nauseating. As if wriggling parasites were feasting on her heart.

She brought up her Status Screen, and for the first time in eight years, felt a sliver of fear.

HP: 1413 / 2058

Stamina: 1197 / 1400

MP: 1863 / 2000

Status Effects: Madness (Mild), Melancholia, Torn Wing (Moderate), Corruption (-271 of Base HP, -542 Total)

Ragnavi activated Push Through Level 3 in a heartbeat. The sensation lessened, but by less than she'd hoped it would.

I have been far, far too lax in my duties, she thought. An incandescent rage welled within her. These creatures shall be Scoured until not a single scrap of their scent remains.

More discordant laughter assaulted her thoughts. Ragnavi ignored the sensation and burst forward, aiming her body at the Blight like she was an arrow shot from a bow. The creature's delight intensified at her approach. It opened all three of its mouths, spewing forth a thick miasma that suffused the ground and air with an aura of pure decay. Ragnavi swerved to the side, roaring in frustration as a wisp of fog happened to brush her side, adding 76 Corruption damage to her total.

It didn't matter. She was in position, and the wrath of a god was forming in her mouth.

Ragnavi slashed the Blight's rightmost head, causing it to buckle and stop its flow of miasma. In that moment, she gripped the top and bottom of its mouth and forced them open. The creature realized what was about to happen and tried to break free from her grasp, its violent thrashing sending spiderwebs of cracks running through her claws, but in the end, it was too late. She had hold of it, and she wasn't letting go.

For a brief instant, the world seemed to hold still.

"ANNIHILATION."

A beam of concentrated energy burst forth from Ragnavi's mouth – and went straight into the Blight's. It screamed, and she'd never heard a more beautiful sound. The ground trembled as the sheer destructive power of her attack's shockwaves threatened to tear the land apart. Miasma spewed out from the Blight's other two mouths, but Ragnavi clawed their eyes with her back legs, turning the heads aside like she was disciplining impudent children. Within seconds, the beast's innards were ravaged into a fine paste, coming dangerously close to dissipating entirely.

And yet, it lived. Mana coalesced beneath the creature's legs, and it propelled backwards a moment later, flinging Ragnavi away in the process. She landed on her feet and stumbled, a thrill of panic jolting through her at her moment of weakness. Luckily, the Blight was worse off than she – its movements were sluggish, and the discordant laughter it'd been so fucking fond of was completely absent.

Both of them were in a sorry state. It was the most vulnerable she'd been in years. But she was winning, and that was all that mattered.

Ragnavi rose to her feet, panting heavily, and checked her Status Screen.

HP: 1298 / 1982

Stamina: 997 / 1400

MP: 1376 / 2000

Status Effects: Madness (Moderate), Melancholia, Torn Wing (Moderate), Corruption (-309 of Base HP, -618 Total), Cracked Front Claws (Moderate)

Corruption swirled within her. She didn't care. She. Didn't. Care. The Blight would perish. The Elves would perish. The Fiends would perish. And if he still lived, the Human would perish as well. Every last eyesore in this wasteland of a territory would be slaughtered by her hands before the day was done. Then, and only then, would this craving in her soul – more overpowering than any amount of Corruption – be satiated.

The notion gave her a hint of nostalgia.

--

Rob poked his head out of the door like an ostrich coming up for air. "Are they gone?" he whispered.

"Yes," Keira whispered back. She paused. "Why are we whispering?"

"Felt right. Ask Malika – she'd agree with me." Rob exited the house, glancing upwards to make absolutely fucking sure that there wasn't a single abomination or Dragon Queen in sight. He didn't know if they'd be able to see him from this far away, but he wasn't taking any chances. "What's the teleportation circle's ETA? As in, how long until it's ready?"

"Fifteen minutes," Keira said. They started running together towards the evacuation area, zooming past a few civilian stragglers who were lagging behind. "They can't go faster without employing Soul Burn."

Rob winced. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes. "Right. What about the showdown between the Blight and the Dragon Queen? Is Malika able to Sense who's winning?"

Now it was Keira's turn to wince. "Queen Ragnavi has gained the upper-hand."

He raised an eyebrow. "...Isn't that a good thing?" Between the Blight and the Dragon Queen, Rob knew who he would root for, even if it was the definition of picking your poison.

"Mostly." Keira hesitated. "To clarify, she's gained a dominant upper-hand. The Blight was already greatly wounded from its entry attempts, and if I were to guess, it lacks the combat expertise that a seasoned fighter like the Dragon Queen possesses. She won't come out of their conflict unscathed, but she isn't in any real danger of losing, and should be able to put an end to the creature soon."

Oh, Rob realized. Soon. That...could be a problem. As disconcerting as it was to be worried about the Blight getting its shit kicked in, out of the myriad ways that the battle between titans could have played out, this was actually the worst-case scenario. If the Dragon Queen took her time killing the Blight, awesome. If they ended up killing each other, even more awesome. If the Blight won, not so awesome, but at least everyone would be able to teleport to safety and warn the Fiends about a certain uninvited guest who was coming to visit.

If the Dragon Queen scored a swift and decisive victory, though? She'd fly straight for Broadwater, guns blazing. From what Meyneth had said, even Dragonkin with a stronger grasp on sanity than Ragnavi had a tendency to get amped up during life-or-death battles. She wasn't going to pass up a tantalizing buffet of Elven and Fiendish-flavored EXP that was just waiting to be sampled. Hellfire would rain down upon the city, and while the Deserters and Fiends would probably be able to kill her in her weakened state, a fuckton of people would die in the process.

Which is why, to prevent that from coming to pass, some of the mages were resolved to bite the bullet and activate Soul Burn if Ragnavi arrived too soon. Elder Alessia included. She was a woman of her word.

Rob stopped running. Keira stopped with him, and he held up a hand to forestall her questions. He turned over the plan forming in his head, looked at it from all angles, and chuckled at its audacity.

"You're laughing out of nowhere again," Keira said, in an exasperated tone. "Is this truly the best time for Diplomacy to be making jokes?"

"No, it's not that." Rob grinned. "Was just thinking that, well, I really don't want Elder Alessia to die."

She'd tried to kill him when they first met. Now the idea of her sacrificing herself felt like a stab to the heart. Life was always so full of surprises.

"I don't want her to die either," Keira said, grimacing. "But the situation is out of our control – fucking hell, Rob, what are you planning to do?"

She realized his intent halfway through finishing her sentence. Rob scratched the back of his head, the grin sliding off his face. "I'm going to even the odds a bit," he said. "From a safe distance. I promise I'm coming back. Without having to break a Class Crystal."

Keira narrowed her eyes. "The last time you said that, a Blight annihilated your body with a destructive wave powerful enough to decimate several neighborhoods." She clenched her fists. "Yet I know I won't convince you otherwise, and with your rise in Dexterity, I can't catch you in a full sprint down an empty road."

She pointed at his face. "So you'd better keep your fucking promise this time. To the letter."

Rob ignored the guilt punching him in the gut and nodded. "I swear. Keep everyone safe while I'm gone – there might still be some leftover Blightspawn meandering around the city."

She nodded in return. They stared at each other for a single second longer, unsaid words swimming in their eyes, before turning around and dashing off in different directions. Fortunately, he was only a few minutes away from one of the city exits, assuming he activated Step of the Wind and didn't trip. He needed to get there as quickly as possible before the battle ended; otherwise, he might miss his opportunity. Proper timing was going to be absolutely crucial if he wanted to pull this off.

<Are you sure this is a good idea?> Diplomacy asked. <Actually, scratch that. I already know the answer. Let me rephrase: what will you do if this plan works too well?>

Run. Really fast.

<Faster than the Dragon Queen?>

Rob declined to comment.

--

Ragnavi opened her mouth and expelled several orbs of fire that hung in the air. Ten of the Blight's eyeballs swiveled upwards as the rest focused their attention on her as she approached. When the abomination opened its mouths to belch out another torrent of miasma, Ragnavi flew straight up at the same time she sent her orbs falling down. The Blight skittered away with unnatural dexterity for a creature of its size, skirting the resulting pillars of magma that exploded where her orbs landed. And despite its proximity to the pillars – each one hot enough to cook flesh from dozens of feet away – it barely seemed worse for the wear.

A moment of annoyance passed through Ragnavi's thoughts. She had MP to spare, but Annihilation wasn't usable for another five minutes, and her other abilities were too telegraphed to hit consistently from the distance she was at. Getting closer would solve that problem, but that meant making herself an easier target for the Blight, which wasn't an option. The bizarre status effect she'd been inflicted with – Corruption – had yet to dissipate. It might only be curable by a high-level Healer. She possessed plenty of those back in Dragonkin territory, but for the moment, she needed to keep her HP as full as possible.

Killing everyone in the Human city would be more difficult otherwise.

Frenzied laughter assaulted her mind. In this case, it actually served to bolster her mood. There was as much manic revelry in the Blight's laughter as before, but its underlying confidence had been replaced with desperation. It knew that it was backed into a corner. Its death was imminent barring a surprise turnaround. And still, it laughed.

Ragnavi smiled. It was good to know that they were both enjoying themselves.

With a jubilant roar, the Dragon Queen summoned more orbs of fire and took flight. How should I end this? She wondered. Waiting until Annihilation was off cooldown was the easy answer, and while that would...suffice, it was also boring. Why bring their duel to a premature finale? The Blight, in its current form, was a fascinating puzzle. She couldn't shred it with her claws without opening herself up to Corruptive reprisal, and her strongest spells and abilities were likely to miss at this range. Really, the proximity restriction alone sealed off many of her favorite avenues for finishing an opponent. Lifting the Blight into the atmosphere and watching its enormous body fall and splatter would have been glorious. Alas, she was stuck with her ranged abilities, and the Blight was a slippery bastard. She wouldn't deal sufficient enough damage to kill it before her self-imposed timer ran out.

No. She needed to fight close, and she needed to be safe while fighting close.

And there was no safer thing for a Dragonkin than Tylrud's gift to the world.

Ragnavi expelled orb after orb into the air, merging them together into a massive sphere wider than her full wingspan. She stopped when her MP reached 550; as much fun as she was having, she needed to ensure that Annihilation was usable in case her plan failed. With a heavy beat of her wings, Ragnavi flew directly towards and inside her miniature sun, coming to a stop at the center of its core.

She felt nothing. In truth, Ragnavi didn't know what heat felt like at all. The concept was foreign to her in the same way that sight must be to a blind person.

And that was how it should be. It was proof of her supremacy as a Dragonkin. The ability to master the lifeblood of the world was a gift given to her kind, and her kind alone.

Ragnavi, still inside her miniature sun, descended. The Blight's eyes bulged as it understood what was about to transpire. It propelled itself away with a burst of corruptive mana, but Ragnavi was faster. She activated Soaring Wind and closed in at a blinding speed, exulting in the thrill of a hunt that was coming to an end. It couldn't bite her while she was in her sun – not without grievously injuring itself – and rays of blinding heat would incinerate any miasma that the beast tried to spew forth. And if it attempted to endure her attack and use its unnatural regeneration to survive, Ragnavi would immediately take advantage of the opportunity to rip its injured form to pieces. Even a beast of its cavalier nature had enough self-preservation to realize that much.

Thus, it fled, reduced to no more than a frightened mouse scurrying away from a hungry cat. Prey hunted by predator. A concept as old as life itself.

The Dragon Queen's heart beat faster and faster as anticipation mounted within her soul. In just a few seconds, divine radiance would envelop the Blight. Warped flesh would char, broil, and be torn asunder. The land would be purged of its filth, and there was nothing it could do, NOTHING it could do. This godlike creature imbued with the energies of a Locus of Power was going to die by the strength of her claws and her will, and there wasn't a single thing it could do to save itself.

Her total supremacy proven once again. Always, and forever.

In that instant, so perfect she wished that she could frame it and hang it on a wall, Ragnavi felt so, so alive.

kill

She froze. Her miniature sun kept flying forward, striking the Blight and baking it alive. Ragnavi whipped around, the beast momentarily forgotten. That last thought hadn't come from her – it was the result of a spell cast to draw her ire. The effect failed, splashing harmlessly against her 100 Mind, but where in the hells had it come from? What creature, whether person or beast, would be so foolish as to try and make her want to kill them? She activated Hawkeye's Vision and looked towards the nearby city.

And saw it.

The Human was there. Standing on the outskirts.

The Human was there. Standing on the outskirts.

The Human was there. The Human was there. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human. The Human.

The Human.

Pain. Hurt. Death. Blood. Corpses. Tombs. Memories of The Scouring, compressed into the span of a second, flooded her mind.

The Human ran.

Ragnavi cried out in agony as the Blight jumped on her back and bit down with all three mouths. She screamed not because of the serrated teeth shredding her to pieces, and not because of the rotten miasma pumping into her core. Those sensations were immaterial.

She screamed because that thing was escaping.

Ragnavi twisted her head around, snapping her neckbone in order to directly face the Blight. The creature's eyes widened in shock as she opened her mouth, energy gathering with enough pressure to warp the surrounding air. It was her hatred, shaped into the form of transcendent wrath.

"YOU'RE IN MY WAY."

A ray of Annihilation flowed over the Blight. Waves of pressure exploded outwards from the point of impact. Its already-ruined flesh cracked, crumbled, and dissipated. Within seconds, nothing remained.

One last laugh rang in Ragnavi's ears. Excitement, tinged with longing.

Reached Level 92!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Sun Aspect Level Increased! 90 -> 91

Reached Level 93!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Sun Aspect Level Increased! 91 -> 92

Ragnavi collapsed. An idle thought put her new 10 stat points into Vitality – even before checking her status screen, she knew that she would need it.

HP: 328 / 1434

Stamina: 65 / 1400

MP: 83 / 2000

Status Effects: Madness (Advanced), Melancholia, Torn Wing (Moderate), Corruption (-683 of Base HP, -1366 Total), Cracked Front Claws (Moderate), Snapped Neckbone (Severe)

She couldn't move. Twitching a claw was like dragging her face across broken glass. Every single fiber of her being was crying out in agony.

Push Through Level Increased! 3 -> 4

It helped. Marginally.

Ragnavi tried to stand – and failed, the Corruption weighing down on her like a mountain on her back. Seconds of struggling turned into minutes. Regeneration was closing her wounds, slowly, but at a rate much slower than it should, and if it was her HP that was the true problem then she would've been mobile by now regardless. Despite knowing it wasn't a physical affliction, she briefly considered tearing open her own chest in an attempt to unearth the Corruption, or breathing fire through her veins in order to burn out the rot that was starting to fester within.

The Human was going to escape, Ragnavi realized. She couldn't pursue him in the state she was in. Her consciousness was fading, her body was ravaged, her draconic form was slipping away, and that wretched creature – more of an abomination than any Blight – was nowhere in sight.

A rasping scream rang out among the wastelands.

And then, silence.

Something shifted. Wind started whipping past her face. Somehow, she was flying again. Wings beating. Pain still there. Couldn't think.

Didn't need to. Ragnavi's instincts directed her body like a manic puppeteer, forcing herself towards the Human city. In seconds, she was there, flying past the barrier and over the streets. Buildings blurred below her as she followed the scent closer and closer. One scent became many, hundreds, thousands, until finally, it was overpowering. Closer and closer. Closer and closer. Closer and-

Found them.

Thousands of Fiends and Elves were standing in an enormous magic circle that was infused with so much mana it glowed like a shining star in the dead of night. It was near-blinding in its resplendence, almost enough to cloud her sight and senses. Ragnavi strained her eyes, looking past the saturation of mana and the crowd of terrified faces, searching for the one needle in the haystack that she so desperately desired.

Her pupils dilated when she saw him. His clothes were stained with blood, but his body was otherwise unharmed. He stood with others who seemed to be his allies, even though they were members of opposing races. And he possessed a face that was anxious and world-weary, yet retained a spark of hope, defiant in spite of the way of the world.

He was alive. And in every incomprehensible way, thriving.

She let out a scream and dove, maw opened wide.

The circle's mana surged. A flash of azure brilliance blinded Ragnavi for a mere half of a second. She crashed down, slamming into an empty street and nothing else. When her sight and senses returned, she discovered to her dismay that he was gone. The Human – and everyone else – had vanished into the ether like dust on the wind.

Another scream escaped her throat. This one petered out into a whimper as she collapsed, the last of her willpower spent dry.

I'm sorry, Ardrud. I'm sorry, Iaso. I'm sorry, Chosne. She started shrinking back to Dragonkin form, twitching like a bird with clipped wings. I failed. I failed you all.

As darkness slowly took her, a final spark of rage flared in Ragnavi's soul. The fact that her dearest ones were forever lost to her while a Human still walked the lands was perverse. Unnatural. Wrong.

Elatra was wrong. Everything was wrong.

It needed correcting.

One day...

This...world...

Will burn.

Chapter 26

Roughly Ten Minutes Prior

"Well that was egregiously terrifying," Rob said, as he ran down the streets of Broadwater City. "I don't think I should be allowed to have ideas anymore."

<If I had a body, and pants, I would've shit them.> Diplomacy's core pulsed with fear. <When she looked at us...>

"Yeah." A shudder ran up and down Rob's spine. "Yeeeeah. Well, we distracted Queenie long enough for the Blight to injure her, and we've gone thirty seconds without being barbecued, so I'm counting this as an absolute win."

They left it at that. Neither of them wanted to focus on the image of those blazing, hate-filled eyes staring into their souls. It had already burnt itself into their memories; no need to give the impending nightmares more fuel.

The streets of Broadwater were vacant as Rob sprinted towards the designated teleportation circle. Hopefully that was a sign that everyone was at the rendezvous point and ready to be evacuated. If the Dragon Queen's injuries weren't as bad as they seemed when Rob caught his last glimpse of her, then not only would she be coming for them after she'd finished char-broiling the Blight, but it meant that she was so freakishly powerful that fighting her was impossible. The Deserters and Fiends would need to teleport to safety right away, and any stragglers left behind would just have to deal with the raw hand they'd been dealt.

Rob was fully aware that he was dangerously close to becoming one of those stragglers. How long was left until the circle was ready, exactly? Five minutes? Three? He didn't have a watch, and keeping track of time had never been his strong suit. Usually he'd remove a member of his Party in order to send a long-distance message, but this whole plan was spur of the moment, so he hadn't gotten the chance to set up any callsigns in advance. The good news was that Queenie didn't seem willing or able to follow him, though, so he should be okay even if he arrived at the evacuation spot a little late.

...They wouldn't just...leave, right? Like, if the Dragon Queen was divebombing them out of the sky, that was different. No hard feelings if they needed to bail under those circumstances. But if he was just a teeeeensy bit late to the meetup time, and no impending danger was forthcoming, then he should be fine, right? The Fiends would totally delay...escaping to their beloved homeland...for the sake of a...Human.

Oh goodie, Step of the Wind is back up. He activated it in a heartbeat and imagined that he was getting chased by his ex-girlfriend. No, wait, that he was carrying Zamira to the Healers after her Auto-Translate incident. No, wait, both at the same time.

Now that ended up being a potent combination. Steroids, eat your heart out.

His legs were hurting by the time he arrived at the evacuation site, but he was too relieved by the sight of thousands of people ambling around to care. As long as he wasn't late to the party, that was all that mattered. The evacuation site consisted of a wide, empty plaza, its paved cobblestone having been sanded down to be as flat of a surface as possible. On that surface was the teleportation circle, drawn in the shape of an extremely large, circular symbol that was big enough for over 2000 people to stand in.

Hundreds of smaller, interlocking symbols were drawn within the larger symbol's interior, forming an arcane pattern that tickled Rob's eyes if he looked at it for too long. With his Sense Magic Level 2, he could see that nearly all the symbols were glowing with infusions of mana, and that the one small section not lighting up like a Christmas tree was currently being infused with mana by the Elven and Fiendish mages. As far as he could tell, the full circle was moments away from completion.

Keira gave him a complicated expression as he approached. "We've received word from Malika," she began, in a matter-of-fact tone. "The Blight is dead. Ragnavi is near-dead."

Rob whooped and pumped his fist into the air. Keira stared at him blankly for several seconds. Then, as if a switch had flipped, her composure broke and a broad smile spread across her face. "You're fucking insane," she laughed, holding up her hand for a high-five. "I don't want to encourage that insanity, but I can't help but admire it at times."

"The line between sanity and insanity is success." Rob high-fived her with gusto, returning her smile with one of his own. "Which means if I want to stay sane, I have to keep winning. Just that simpl-"

A vision of a nameless Elven man, body torn apart by Firebombs, flashed through Rob's mind.

His arm slowly fell. Rob stood there, silent. Just as Keira was about to ask what was wrong, he perked up, a much less broad smile pinned to his face. "Don't worry," he said. "I promise I'll only be as reckless as I need to be."

Rob was saved from a classic Keira-is-concerned inquiry by Goroth, who took that moment to walk over and insert himself into the conversation. "Forgive me for skipping the pleasantries," the Fiend said, in a gravely undertone. "Is what your lover told us accurate? Did you truly confront Ragnavi?"

The world froze.

"She's not my lover," Rob sputtered. In Fiendish. He was very careful to say that in Fiendish.

Goroth raised an eyebrow. "That is what you choose to focus on?"

<You know,> Diplomacy started. <About that promise to confess you made->

Still have a few weeks before I hit the deadline! "I totally confronted Ragnavi," Rob said, cutting off Diplomacy's rebuttal. "If by 'confront' you mean 'piss off from an extremely safe distance', then yes. Distracted her during a crucial moment so the Blight could get a sneak attack in."

The tension in Goroth's shoulders lessened. "That may have saved the lives of my people and your people both," he said. "From the very depths of my gratitude, I must thank you. With the Dragon Queen at death's door, our mages will be able to complete the teleportation circle without needing to resort to Soul Burn."

Keira's face brightened once Rob finished translating, visibly contemplating something. "At death's door," she hummed. "Should we give her one final push through it?"

Rob gaped at Keira, and after he relayed her statement, so did Goroth. She shrugged, the corners of her mouth twitching. "This is the best chance we'll ever have to slay her," she said, in an unapologetic tone. "Ragnavi is nearly as big of a threat as the Blight – to Deserter and Fiend alike. In chess, if your enemy's Queen was carelessly left open, why wouldn't you take the opportunity to remove her from the board?"

Chess exists in Elatra? Rob rubbed his eyes. Nevermind, not important. Diplomacy, I know this might sound like Leveling High talking, but-

<Oh, by all means.> Diplomacy bowed and swept their metaphysical arms to the side. <She's crazy and needs to go down. Far as I'm concerned, that'd be one less problem to worry about. Just let someone else get the killing blow so your Leveling High doesn't lose its shit and throw a wild party.>

With the angel on his shoulder giving him the all-clear, Rob nodded in assent and began putting together a battle strategy. If everything went well, there wouldn't be a battle in the first place, but it was possible that the Dragon Queen knew Lifesurge or recovery magic or something similar. Unlikely, considering that she apparently hadn't healed herself yet, but better to be safe than sorry. If she got some kind of second wind, and if the Deserters and Fiends weren't careful when executing her, then there wouldn't end up being just a few casualties to mourn. Bombarding her from a distance with the mages and Rangers sounded like the best way to put her down without someone getting their head bitten off.

"I must advise against this course of action," Goroth suddenly said. Now it was Keira's turn to gape at him. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, but Goroth raised a hand to forestall her rebuttal. "Elder Alessia is busy assisting the mages, so I cannot speak for her," he continued. "But if she were here, I imagine she would say the same, as she is a woman who understands the broader context of her actions."

"That sounds like a roundabout way of calling me and Keira stupid," Rob said, raising an eyebrow.

"You are young," Goroth explained, shaking his head. "A certain degree of impetuousness is expected, and it does not reflect poorly on your character. Please understand that I don't wish to spare the Dragon Queen out of some misguided sense of honor. Were circumstances different, I would be leading the charge myself." His eyes darkened slightly. "Most Fiends hold little regard for her."

"Why?" Keira asked, once Rob finished translating. "Shouldn't you like her? She killed thousands of Humans."

A second passed. With the force of 87 Strength, Keira slapped her forehead and covered her face with her hands. "Oh gods," she murmured. "Rob, I didn't, that wasn't, you know I-"

Frantic snickering interrupted her downward spiral. "Don't mind me," Rob said, doubled over and trying very hard not to break out laughing. "I want to see if you can climb out of this hole you dug for yourself."

Keira squatted down and groaned loudly into her hands. Another second passed, and she stood up, a mask of composure glued tightly onto her face. "What I meant to say," she began. "Is that the enemy of an enemy is a friend. Fiends and Humans have been at odds for two thousand years. My assumption is that the Fiends would have appreciated allies joining their side of the war."

"Ten thousand years," Goroth corrected. "And we were outright elated – initially. As the war progressed, we quickly saw the hostilities between the southern races escalate to horrific levels. After that..."

His voice took on a wistful, melancholic tone. "Few of your people know this," Goroth began. "But the Fiends exited the war within its third year. When the Humans were beset on all sides by the rest of Elatra, they stopped attacking our holdings, switching to pure defensive measures in order to conserve manpower for the southern invasion. Our own attacks continued for a time, although more and more voices were starting to rise up and ask why. Every offensive strike we executed against the Humans just resulted in more corpses of friends and loved ones. What was the point, when we knew they wouldn't dare attack us anymore?"

A deep sigh escaped his throat. "The scales tipped when we saw the degrees of brutality that your war was normalizing. I'm unsure of what you ended up naming it, but-"

"The Scouring," Keira answered, shifting uncomfortably as she interrupted Rob's translating.

"...Fitting," Goroth said. "While I can't imagine what it must have been like to take part in The Scouring on either side, watching it from afar terrified us plenty. We feared what would happen if the southern races, tempered by violence and death, turned their blood-soaked swords against us. It felt far more prudent to stay north and wait for the conflict to resolve itself."

The hint of remembrance in his tone faded as he stood up straighter. "Moving back to my original point: I detest Ragnavi. I've heard story upon story of the carnage she wrought. On one such occasion I even witnessed one of her massacres from afar. As far as I am concerned, she is a monster, in every truest sense of the word."

"Then why let her live?" Rob asked.

"Because she is a monster we need." Goroth's eyes flitted upwards to the top of the barrier. "Suppose that your people and my people joined forces to kill the Blight. How many do you think would have perished before we – hopefully – prevailed? Thirty? Fifty? A hundred?"

He shook his head. "On this day, one detestable monster saved an untold number of lives by killing another detestable monster. And as long as she lives, eventually, she'll cross paths with the Blight again. Based on your reports, abominations are harrying the south just as viciously as the north, and I would not deprive the other races of their greatest weapon."

A wry smirk spread across his face. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Those were your words, if I recall."

"I'm not sure the Dragon Queen sees it that way," Keira replied. Her fervor had died down by now, replaced by an inquisitive tone. "It's why the Deserters are still choosing to travel to Fiend territory instead of staying in Broadwater now that the Blight is dead. She knows where we are, and fleeing to another Human city won't be sufficient to shake her pursuit. If Ragnavi crosses paths with us again, do you earnestly believe she will grant us the same clemency that we are granting her?"

"The sun would sooner fall from the sky," Goroth answered. "Which is why both our people are heading north and staying north. She won't dare follow us that far, and if she does, we'll be prepared. Ragnavi is less of a threat to us than any Blight – she cannot heal from wounds as easily as them, nor does she pollute the world with her very presence. An assault on our homeland, even with an army at her back, would be suicide. Mad as she may be, I doubt she craves death to that degree."

He looked to the side. "On the subject of heading north; the mages are close to finishing their task. If you'd like to confer with Elder Alessia and young Malika before our journey begins, now would be the time."

Goroth strode off. Keira stepped forward, about to follow him, and then realized that Rob was standing straight and rigid, his fists clenched. "What's the matter?" She asked. "Do you disagree with Goroth's judgement?"

"No," Rob spat. "And I fucking hate that I don't. We're letting a crazed murderer live just because she's useful."

Keira put a hand on his shoulder. "That is the way of things sometimes," she consoled. "The Elves, Dragonkin, and everyone else down south are in need of her strength."

She didn't seem particularly bothered by her statement. Which made sense – she'd grown up in a society where Levels decided a person's worth. To her, this was simply how the world worked. Rob couldn't be disappointed with her for that, because he'd gotten a certain degree of leeway himself for being one of the Deserters' aces in the hole, and he'd taken to his newfound nepotism with gusto. Hell, it wasn't even too different from how things functioned back on Earth, except that the all-important numbers there were the zeroes in your bank account. Rich and powerful people got away with literal murder on a regular basis, and apparently, high-Leveled people did too.

The fact that it was expected just pissed him off more.

Rob shoved his ire to a corner of his mind and went to meet with Elder Alessia and Malika, who were surrounded by Riardin's Rangers and the rest of the Elven and Fiend mages. Each mage looked like they'd been run over by a bus, and most were on the verge of passing out. Malika glanced at Rob as he approached, offering him a weak smile and a thumbs-up of victory.

"You guys outdid yourself," Rob said, speaking first in Elvish, then repeating himself Fiendish. He swept his eyes across the massive teleportation circle, currently containing two thousand people with room to spare. "Can the circle really teleport this many people halfway across the continent?"

"It will," Faelynn replied, a note of pride in her tone. "Teleportation is fast becoming our specialty – excluding Soul Magic, of course. Sending people to random locations in Elatra is outside the bounds of what we're capable of, but what we have discovered is those who spend the vast majority of their life in one location become attuned to that area's specific type of ambient mana. This allows us-"

Rob stiffened with shock as the rest of Faelynn's words went in one ear and out the other. The shock quickly abated when he realized that Faelynn's use of 'attunement' probably meant something completely different from his own Attunement with a capital A, but by then she'd noticed his lapse in attention.

"If I'm boring you," she sighed. "Please tell me next time so I can save myself the embarrassment."

"No, no, it was honestly very interesting," Rob said. "I'm just a little tiny bit utterly exhausted right now. It's been a long day already, and it's only early afternoon."

"Can't argue with that." She paused. "Were you informed of today's death toll?"

Rob lowered his eyes. "I wasn't," he answered, quietly. "How bad?"

"Twenty of your civilians, ten of ours. Two of our Combat Class users, and one of yours. Much better than it could have been." She frowned, then continued speaking in a self-recriminating tone. "I shouldn't make light of their deaths. Each lost life is a tragedy. It's just...I fear I'm growing accustomed to it. Skirmishes with the Humans always resulted in one or more funerals, but those battles felt like they carried a sense of purpose to them, and at least the losses were generally constrained to Combat Class users. When the Blight attacks, however, it isn't for the sake of seizing territory or defending loved ones. All it cares about is wanton bloodshed. The loss of life is senseless, and it relishes in its wholesale slaughter of noncombatants. The sights I've witnessed since traveling south have...hardened me, I think."

She looked Rob in the eyes with a questioning gaze. "Is it callous to count up the dead and feel not grief, but relief that it wasn't worse?"

Twenty civilians, Rob thought, considering her inquiry. They were probably killed by the second entry attempt before we could stop the Blightspawn. And one less Combat Class user means one less Ranger...guess we're finally down to single digits.

He couldn't share Faelynn's sense of relief, especially after witnessing the nameless Elf's death. But he also knew that the Rob of six months ago would have suffered a mental breakdown after witnessing that scene, while the Rob of today had picked himself up and managed to push forward within just a few minutes. Being adaptable wasn't a bad thing, but if nothing else, it showed that he wasn't the same person as he was in the past.

That was fine, though. The Rob of six months ago would also have freaked out at the notion of being changed by Elatra, but change was a part of life, and he was confident that at least this part of him had nothing to do with Leveling High. And really, if you compared a horrifying fantasy deathworld with community college, they probably changed people by about the same amount. Wasn't so different than if he hadn't been yoinked from Earth. Maybe a hypothetical College Rob would've fallen in with the wrong crowd and turned into a total jackass by now. Like Steve. Fucking Steve. Prick never did return the lava lamp he stole.

Oh, right, Faelynn.

"The fact that you're worried about that means you'll be fine," Rob said. "It's when you stop caring about not caring that the real problems start. As far as I can tell, you aren't apathetic; just tired. Some R&R away from a Blight-infested ghost town will do you good."

Faelynn stared at him for a few seconds. Eventually, she nodded, seeming to accept his answer. Rob got the impression that he'd passed some sort of test.

"Wise words," she assented. "If you don't mind, I think it would be best to leave that topic aside and focus on happier thoughts." Her face lit up with excitement. "I must admit, I'm looking forward to giving you and your Party a tour of my home city. The architecture will be unlike anything you've ever laid eyes upon."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're going to take a Human on a tour of Fiendland? In public?"

"Well, not right away." She smiled broadly. "Once my brethren learn that you can speak our language, though? They'll be tripping over themselves to meet you. Sure, some will remain obstinate in the face of progress, but people such as Helkath are an unfortunate minority."

Rob walked forward, reached up, and patted her on the head. "Oh, you sweet summer child," he consoled. "There is so much you have yet to understand. Individuals may be reasonably intelligent, but the public as a whole?"

He smirked, pointing to the side. "Well, I'll let the masses speak for themselves soon enough. Buckle up – our ride is ready."

Faelynn's gaze drifted over to the spellcasters, who'd joined in a Mana Link and were starting to glow a vibrant blue. All the Deserter and Fiend stragglers were now present in the teleportation circle, and the groups' mages – appearing antsy and ready for this shit to be done with – didn't want to waste another moment before putting their lovingly-crafted spell to good use. Anticipation rose up among the crowd as the mana infused within the circle started to hum, its purpose building to a glorious crescendo.

Then Malika pointed and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

Two thousand heads turned in unison to look where she was pointing at. For a second, no one saw anything. Rob was almost able to convince himself that the person with Sense Magic Level Too High was just imagining things, when suddenly, a vision of scarlet terror soared up and over the horizon before angling down and descending rapidly. Dragon Queen Ragnavi crashed through the top half of a building as easily as if it was made of paper, the edge of her twenty-plus-foot wingspan scraping jagged lines into dozens more buildings as she barreled towards them. She was moving too quickly to get a good look at, but from what Rob could tell, she'd seen better days. Her wings were half-torn, her gleaming red scales were cracked, bleeding, and missing in many spots, and her limbs were hanging oddly limp.

None of those blemishes did anything to diminish the effect it had on Rob when she looked him straight in the eyes for the second time that day.

"TELEPORT US!" Rob yelled, to anyone who would listen. "TELE- OH SHIT!"

The Dragon Queen let out a scream that would've made the Blight blush. She dove down, aiming her body at him like a heat-seeking missile locked on target, arrows harmlessly plinking off her scales. Rob activated Not A Scratch and Quick Thinking, hoping that he'd have figured out a plan of action by the time Queenie bit down once and realized he wasn't dead yet.

He burst into tears of joy when his stomach began to squirm like it was being turned inside-out. Rob knew that bizarre feeling all too well. The teleportation circle's humming ceased, and an instant later, its magic exploded outward, yoinking everyone out of danger with less room to spare than he was comfortable with.

Sound cut out, and the world shifted. He was distantly aware of the sensation of being flung through vacant space, his body stretched like a piece of laffy taffy. Colors sparkled in front of Rob's eyes. He stuck his tongue out, and the sparkles tasted like cinnamon.

Three out of ten, Rob thought, bored. Come back to me when you're half as weird as Attuning to a Locus of Power.

Gradually, his body and his senses settled. When the teleportation's effects had completely subsided, and after Rob confirmed that he was firmly back on solid ground, he stretched his limbs and exhaled a luxurious groan of contentment. His companions didn't share in his enthusiasm; in fact, everyone in the room except for him looked like they'd eaten a full serving of spoiled beef. Every inch of floor was littered with Elves and Fiends who were down for the count.

"First time?" Rob asked, gently poking Faelynn with the tip of his boot.

"Uughrwjkirga."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

He took a moment to observe his new surroundings. Contrary to Faelynn's claims, his initial impression of Fiendish architecture was pretty underwhelming. Currently, they were in a spacious stone room with a single door located at the far wall. No windows, some obligatory artificial magic lighting, and...that was it.

Granted, this was probably a restricted area that was reserved for people teleporting in, Goroth's contingent especially. The Fiends' head honchos wouldn't have wanted hundreds of beleaguered expeditioners teleporting into the middle of a crowded public street when they finally returned home.

Kind of a tight fit, though. His previous thought of every inch of the floor being covered in Elves and Fiends was barely hyperbole. This room had likely been constructed to provide ample room for roughly 600 people – 2000 was pushing its capacity to the limit. What do you think would've happened if the Fiends built this place a bit smaller and we teleported in, anyway? Rob asked.

Diplomacy shrugged. <Maybe you start teleporting on top of each other. Or maybe you get phased into a wall. Do you think Not A Scratch could handle that scenario?>

Don't know, and I'm okay with never finding out the answer. He gave the room another once-over. By now, several of the Fiends were carefully rising to their feet, but it was slow going. They wouldn't be fighting fit for a while. So...what now? Rob thought. Do I just sit tight and twiddle my thumbs?

He didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later, the door at the end of the room opened, and a familiar tone of panic echoed across the way.

"Elves! ELVES!"

Things started happening pretty fast after that. One Fiend became thirty as a gaggle of natives rushed in to fend off the sudden glut of pointy-eared invaders. Goroth – one of the few allied Fiends who was able to stand – dragged a woozy Elder Alessia to the front and started doing his best to reconcile the situation. Yelling ensued, claws were extended, and all that jazz. Nothing Rob hadn't seen before. The other Deserters were silent, staring warily at the new Fiends as they began to fully comprehend the situation they were in. This wasn't neutral territory in an abandoned Human city, and they didn't have the numbers advantage to keep their uncertain allies in check. As it stood, they were smack-dab in the middle of Fiendish turf, and literally no one here was going to be happy about a bunch of Elves showing up out of the blue.

Mmmmm, Rob thought. Delicious.

<What is?>

Can't you taste it? It's sweet, sweet schadenfreude. Just look at all the Elves realizing that they're now outcasts in every sense of the word. Strangers trapped in a hostile land, rejected on the basis of who they are. He chuckled. Gee, I wonder how that feels.

Diplomacy crossed their arms. <I thought you'd more or less moved past the Villagers' initial treatment of you?>

Sometimes more. Sometimes less. Rob cracked his knuckles. But as ab-so-lute-ly hilarious as this is, I think it's about time I intervened.

<What?> Diplomacy's eyes widened to the size of plates. <WHAT? No, dude, what are->

Rob began to imagine a catchy pop song – very loudly – to drown out Diplomacy's complaints as he walked forward. The shouting match between Goroth and the Fiends tapered out as they witnessed his approach. Diplomacy's shock was nothing compared to the veritable cornucopia of wacky expressions that were blooming on the Fiends' faces. Rob tried to suppress a giggle, failed, then stopped caring.

"Wassup," he greeted, standing next to an exasperated Goroth. The jaunty wave he sent towards the Fiends didn't calm them, for whatever reason. "So we skipping straight to the 'expressing inborn hatred' part of our cross-cultural exchange? Cool, cool. I think you guys actually beat the Elves' record time for immediate xenophobia, which is impressive."

Silence. Rob rolled his eyes and continued speaking. "So what's it gonna be first? Unnecessary combat? Calling us mean names? Foisting all your personal issues onto vulnerable targets who have jack shit to do with the people who hurt you?" He stuck his pointer finger upwards. "Oh! What about a trial where five people I've never met before get to vote on whether or not to kill me? That's always a fun one. If you need any more ideas, feel free to ask; I've got plenty of examples to choose from."

Rob had no idea where he was going with this. The words were spilling out of his mouth like water through a broken dam, various repressed feelings surging forth and mingling together into a slurry of emotion.

But whatever it was supposed to be, it felt cathartic as all hell.

"By the way, what's it gonna take to earn you guys' trust?" he asked. "For the Elves I had to risk my life, like, three times. I don't suppose you happen to have any big monsters that need bashing? Give me five minutes and a stack of Firebombs and they'll be taken care of in a jiffy."

Nothing.

Finally, a Fiend broke the silence.

"You can speak our language?" He asked, in a squeaky, high-pitched tone.

Rob never got to answer. The Fiend standing next to the one who'd spoken first keeled over, and with a heaving grunt, threw up.

Then the first Fiend threw up.

Then the rest did, one-by-one.

"...By the way, my name is Rob. It's nice to meet you."

Chapter 27

3 Days Later

Sylpeiros nodded towards the Reviton civilians as he passed by them on the streets, a resolute expression on his face. He gave several more resolute nods to his direct subordinates as he entered the Reviton Defense Force's main base of operations. He kept nodding resolutely all the way until he reached his personal quarters, whereupon he collapsed into his chair – like a puppet with its strings cut – and closed his eyes.

Tiring, he thought. So tiring. Every day I feel more like a show horse brought out and trotted among the public for their amusement.

The sensation was unfamiliar and unwanted. Putting on a strong front for the public didn't used to weigh on him to this degree. Even the transitory excitement of finally leveling from 74 to 75 had faded all too quickly. Then again, he'd never needed to bear the brunt of their expectations for such a long period of time. Months of isolation under a siege of hellish abominations was fraying on everyone's nerves, his included.

Their only saving grace was that, of late, the abominations' attacks had weakened. The first turning point came about when Sylpeiros expunged the nearby Dungeon; his scholars' theory that the Dungeon was connected to the Blight in some fashion ended up being correct. Afterwards, the frequency with which those twisted creatures materialized out of the ambient mana surrounding Reviton lessened. The second turning point was far more recent, occurring just three days ago. For no discernible reason, every Blight-sired abomination simultaneously froze in the middle of combat, expressions of shocked confusion plastered onto their faces. They stood perfectly still as they were butchered, and since then, even fewer were forming than before.

Sylpeiros hadn't the faintest idea of why, but he wasn't going to spurn a much-needed reprieve. Mages and scholars would figure out the cause – his purpose was to slay enemies and nod resolutely.

And to engage in unwanted conversation. Sylpeiros allowed himself fifteen minutes of rest before dragging himself over to the Message Crystal tucked away in the corner of his room. Nothing would come of this correspondence, of that he was certain, but it was his duty as Seneschal to try, regardless. With a pained grimace, he activated the Message Crystal, used it to contact the adjoining Crystal in Dragonkin territory, and waited.

Forty fucking minutes later, someone finally answered. "Hello?" A voice said, sounding haggard. "Who is this?"

"Greetings," Sylpeiros stated, drawing on the depths of his Diplomacy. "This is Seneschal Kiirion Sylpeiros. I must once again request an audience with Dragon Queen Ragnavi. There are matters of importance that-"

"No," the Dragonkin attendant interrupted. "No, it's – it's not a good time. My sincerest apologies."

Sylpeiros raised an eyebrow. Normally, he would have been rightfully offended at the attendant's immediate dismissal. As much as he loathed political niceties, their lack of usage implied an unconscionable level of disrespect, especially when directed towards a Leader. However, the attendant's tone didn't imply scorn; it implied panic. Poorly concealed panic, at that.

His face tightened. Something had transpired in Dragonkin territory that they didn't want him to know about.

"What are you hiding?" Sylpeiros asked, discarding subtlety. "And don't deny that you are. The waver in your voice might as well be blasting an alarm that can be heard from miles away."

The attendant sucked in air through his teeth. "No. No, no no. There's not, you're mistaken, she..."

With a muted hum, the connection between their respective Message Crystals was severed. Sylpeiros stared at the inactive Crystal for a time, drumming his fingers on a table as he considered the ramifications of Ragnavi's underling being so deeply flustered that he would commit the international insult of cutting off communication with a race's Leader.

In truth, there were only two logical answers. Either the Blight was encroaching upon Dragonkin territory, and they were hiding that fact out of shame, or something disastrous had happened to Ragnavi, and they were hiding that fact out of fear. Either option was equally plausible, and as Dragonkin took great umbrage towards spies infiltrating their territory – despite frequent usage of spies on their part – Sylpeiros possessed few ways of ascertaining the truth without incurring draconic retribution.

Few ways – but not zero.

Sylpeiros quietly locked the door to his personal chambers. He listened carefully for nearby voices, cast a spell to double-check for magical surveillance, and when both precautions came back negative, made his way towards his desk. Hidden inside a secret compartment was a single, crumpled, dirt-stained note written in inelegant handwriting.

It was one of the most infuriating correspondences Sylpeiros had ever received.

To the Damsel in Distress,

Investigated outskirts of Harpy and Dwarven territory. Civilians are fearful, yet optimistic. Blight troubles less severe than in Elven territory. Unless their Leaders are concealing evidence, of course. Highly possible – probable, even.

The pieces of news they've been unable to conceal are concerning. Dwarves are transitioning to full-blown seclusion. Few months before they bar anyone from entering their realms. Doubtful they'll communicate with anyone outside afterwards. Harpy society is stable, but the Harpy King has been acting oddly reticent. No one knows why. Could be simple nerves, but the fates are rarely so kind.

Will deliver another correspondence at the same spot in two weeks. Leave your own note if you have a request. Don't set an ambush. I'll know.

Signed,

The Wisp

Sylpeiros had to admit; the balls on that man were impressive. When he and Kenzotul parted ways after expunging the Dungeon, Sylpeiros never expected to see hide nor hair of him again. The bewilderment that the Seneschal had experienced when a trail of subtle clues led him – and only him – to a nondescript tree in the forest, the turncoat's note awaiting by the foot of a tree, was a feeling he wouldn't forget for quite some time.

First he saves my life, and now he feeds me information. Sylpeiros narrowed his eyes at the note, staring at it as if it was a vicious mockery. If anyone ever finds out about this, I'll be the laughingstock of my people and the other races both.

Worst of all was the plain fact that he couldn't reject Kenzotul's offer. Any spy that Sylpeiros sent into foreign lands could be traced back to him, but the turncoat was a publicly disgraced man. Sylpeiros had openly and repeatedly called for his execution. That level of plausible deniability in a stealth operative was exceptionally difficult to attain, especially on short notice. If Kenzotul was captured, Sylpeiros would simply wash his hands of the man and claim that the turncoat's behavior boiled down to the actions of a deluded traitor with a penchant for sabotage.

And Kenzotul knew that himself, the crafty bastard. It was why his words contained a strong undercurrent of confidence that Sylpeiros would reply in the affirmative. Information regarding the other Elatran Leaders was worth its weight in gold. Aside from the Harpy King and Dwarven Stonewarden's reticence, the Mermaid King was being his usual puffed-up self, uncaring of the plight of non-Merfolk. The advantage of living in an underwater terrain – a natural defense against centuries of invasions – had resulted in a cultural attitude of widespread indolence.

Sylpeiros doubted that the Blight would give two shits about whether or not its prey lived underwater, but by the time the Merfolk gave the growing threat the gravitas it deserved, it may already be too late for them. Lastly were the Gellin, who were cooperative yet ineffectual; their numbers were a fraction of the other races, and unfortunately, there was little a race of oversized jellyfish with a penchant for Mind Magic could do against abominations without minds.

Elatra, to put it simply, was fractured. In a time when everyone should have been banding together to face the greatest threat the world had ever known, they were retreating to their own isolated corners of the continent and acting as if the Blight was equivalent to a mere upswing in monster materialization. Whether out of ignorance, pride, or a fear of being perceived as weak, the Leaders were engaging in just as much political posturing as before – perhaps even more.

Sylpeiros would strike a hundred deals with the devil if it meant he could reverse that course.

With a heavy groan of discontentment, he swallowed his pride – a recurring theme as of late – and set fire to the note. Once it was completely burnt to ashes, he retrieved a fresh scrap of parchment and began to pen his response.

To the Wisp,

Disastrous event occurred in Dragonkin territory. They won't say what. Investigate. Burn this note.

Signed,

The Unwilling Confidante

--

Rob punched the Fiend in their face, sighing as his assailant crumpled like cardboard pummeled with a baseball bat.

Brawling Level Increased! 3 -> 4

"I hope you understand that this was totally unnecessary," he said. "We could've talked out our differences over a lovely brunch. Why you gotta be like this?"

The Fiend didn't respond. Considering that he was unconscious, it would've been strange if he did.

"Typical silent treatment," Rob said, shaking his head. He glanced at his Party members. "You guys finished?"

Zamira nodded and sheathed her longsword, staring at her own unconscious Fiends with mild curiosity. "To their detriment, they underestimated me." she stated. "Truthfully, I expected better from Fiend assassins." She sent Rob a sideways look. "At what point in time were you planning to mention that you'd acquired the ability to set yourself ablaze?"

He replied with a shrug. "Stuff's been happening. Must have slipped my mind." And it wasn't a Skill he liked thinking about.

"That answer is insufficient," Zamira stated, in an admonishing tone. "Perhaps you aren't aware of this, but it's considered a betrayal in many social circles for Party members to conceal Skills from one another. I don't believe that you did so intentionally, so I'll refrain from further chastisement, yet I must ask you to be more mindful of our combat synergy in the future."

Rob winced. "Yeah that...makes sense. Duly noted, and it won't happen again." He held up his left arm, presenting his undamaged shirt sleeve. "Here's a crash course: it's fire, it's blue, it's hot, as in really hot, and it doesn't burn nonliving things. I think. So far it's left clothes and buildings unscathed while doing a real number on Blightspawn and, apparently, Fiends."

He reached down and gingerly poked at a spot on the assassin's face that was red, charred, and in the shape of a fist. "A healer should probably look at this one soon. How are your dickheads holding up, Faelynn?"

"I'm so sorry," the despondent Fiend murmured at him, holding her head in her hands as she sat in a chair turned pointedly away from the assassin she'd recently incapacitated. "This was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful meeting without any interference from these types. Why are people always so fucking stupid?"

Rob smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't sweat it. This was bound to happen sooner or later – I'm just glad we got it out of the way now."

Faelynn didn't respond, too busy sulking under the crushing disappointment of her peers' behavior. Rob stepped aside, electing to give her some space. She'd been holding out hope that Helkath and his ilk were fringe weirdos, and that the vast majority of Fiends would be able to see reason without needing their legs chopped off, but centuries of systemic conflict wasn't something so easily brushed aside. In the three days since the Deserters arrived at Fiendland, the Elven Enclosure had been attacked by wannabe insurgents – in small numbers, thankfully – on four occasions. It was getting progressively harder for the Deserters to repel them without killing anyone by accident. They were trying very hard not to turn Random Fiend Moron #28219 into an overnight martyr. It would make establishing an official agreement between the two races that much more difficult.

Actually, establishing an official agreement was what Rob, Zamira, and Faelynn were here to accomplish. They were currently relaxing in a nondescript building several blocks down from the Elven Enclosure, having been escorted under cover of darkness to meet with some of the Fiends' head honchos. It was supposed to be a simple plan; sneak in, have a nice chat, sneak out. But the aforementioned honchos were late, and apparently, some of the wannabee insurgents were paying closer attention than expected.

On that note, Rob thought, smugly. I won our bet.

<Bullshit,> Diplomacy retorted. <The terms clearly stated that it had to be five attacks 'against the Deserters' within three days, and this isn't the Elven Enclosure.>

You're not Diplomacy-ing your way out of this one. Zamira and I are part of the Deserters; ergo, it counts.

Muted groaning echoed inside Rob's skull. <Fine. Twenty bucks?>

Twenty bucks, Rob chuckled. I'm looking forward to watching you pay up in person after we snag you a body.

He walked to the edge of the room, stepping over a Fiend whose limbs were splayed about in an embarrassing position, and peered outside the window. Rob drank in the sights with no small amount of awe. He'd seen the Fiendish city on plenty of occasions by now, but without fail, the view still managed to take his breath away every time he laid eyes upon it.

While the inside of Fiendish architecture tended to resemble something similar to Elvish design sensibilities, the outside was a whole different story. Rather than being built from stone, wood, or metal, structures seemed to grow upwards from the ground itself, taking the shape of buildings that consisted of a material Rob wasn't able to identify. Roads also seemed to be homegrown rather than constructed, their surfaces comprised of a durable, organic-ish tissue that felt like walking on top of an uncooked slab of beef. Different sections of the city were separated by sheer cliffsides, with those sections being connected by wide bridges made of a translucent glasslike substance. Ambient light seemed to function normally up close, but at a distance, everything – from the sky to the ground – was shadowed under a ubiquitous veil of blue.

And as the cherry on top, there was an enormous, dark silver structure floating off in the sky, looking like a cross between a pointed spire and a castle derived from Gothic architecture. Which, through unknown means that the Fiends refused to discuss, could regulate their territory's mana to significantly reduce how many monsters and Dungeons spawned in the area.

In a strange way, seeing the Fiendish landscape in all its grandeur made the impossible goals he'd vowed to achieve feel much less impossible. Elven dwellings were European-medieval flavored, and Elatra's Human cities were distressingly similar to cities from Earth. Neither had come across to Rob as truly otherworldly locations. This, though? This was the wild fantasy shit he would've expected from being dumped into another world. If there was a way to get back home, give Diplomacy a body, or remove Leveling High, then it probably existed here.

A knock on the door broke him out of his reverie. "Apologies for our lateness," a Fiendish messenger said as he opened the door. "The Grand Overseers are ready to-"

His words died in his throat when he saw the five unconscious Fiends strewn about the floor like piles of old laundry. "Ah." To his credit, the messenger managed to keep a decent poker face, his shock betrayed only by a slight twitching of his eyes. "Unwanted guests, I presume."

"Don't worry about it," Rob said. "They weren't much trouble."

It was the truth. The Fiendish assassins averaged around level 25, which was nothing to sneeze at when you adjusted for their natural racial strength. When combined with the element of surprise, it might have very well been enough to take down Rob, Zamira, and Faelynn under normal circumstances.

Unfortunately for them, Rob's soul was anything but normal circumstances. Two of the five Fiends stopped short and evicted the contents of their dinner the second they saw him, and the other three hesitated a few moments too long. Zamira struck immediately, using her speed to disable one of the assailants before they could react. Faelynn faltered for just a moment, wracked with indecision and exasperation, before uttering a string of mumbled curses at her wayward brethren and knocking some sense into them. Then Rob turned on his Flames of Vengeance, scaring the shit out of the Fiends for a second time, and the rest played out as one might expect.

Especially since Rob's Level 47 put him in an entirely different weight class. As of now, he still wasn't that great at fighting non-monster opponents; assuming equal strength, a trained fighter would beat him in a duel unless he got lucky. The key phrase being 'equal strength'. Even in Fiendland, where its inhabitants were naturally strong, his stat advantage put him squarely in the upper echelons of the biggest badasses around. It felt weird, but he was going to have to get used to the notion quickly. Projecting outward confidence in his strength would give him an edge during the upcoming negotiations.

The Fiend messenger took one last look at the failed assassins and shook his head in disbelief. "I'll send for someone to apprehend them shortly," he said. "Before that, however, the Grand Overseers are waiting, and their time is a precious commodity. Follow me, if you would."

He beckoned them over, and the Party followed. Several hallways later, they were led into a surprisingly cramped room where five wizened Fiends were sitting on the opposite side of a wide, horizontal table. It wasn't the fancy meeting room that Rob had expected, but it made sense; this building was chosen for privacy rather than ostentatious showboating. The messenger hurried them inside and closed the door behind them, leaving the Party alone with the Grand Overseers, who were doing their best to hide the blatant nausea they felt when looking at Rob.

Déjà vu, he thought, examining each of the five probably-judgemental leaders. At least I'm not on trial this time. The thought reminded him of Elder Alessia, who he wished had been able to attend. Unfortunately, she was needed in the Elven Enclosure to keep the peace. Rob trusted the twelve Utility Class users he'd been able to teach Fiendish Auto-Translate so far, but they weren't suited for leading negotiations with the Fiends' liaisons. Unfair as it was, high Levels respected high Levels.

And while Alessia's presence would have been nice, it wasn't strictly necessary. She was an experienced negotiator, but, well...Diplomacy.

"Greetings," the Grand Overseer at the head of the table said, in a voice filled to the brim with regal bearing. "I trust that your wait has been restful?"

"Actually, we got attacked by assassins," Rob remarked.

An awkward silence – that Rob drank in like sweet nectar – ensued. "Ah," the Grand Overseer stated, mirroring his messenger's tone. "Do any of them still live?"

"All of them do," Zamira said, proudly. "No needless blood has been shed tonight."

Surprise glimmered in his eyes. "Excellent. Suppressing news of Fiend deaths by your hands would have been a taxing endeavor. This simplifies matters considerably."

For a moment, Rob wondered if the whole thing had been a setup engineered by the Overseers to get him killed in a plausibly-deniable way, but Diplomacy assured him otherwise. Despite their taciturn expressions, the Grand Overseers were just as frustrated as anyone else over shortsighted extremists stirring the pot.

"Let us move on to the subjects at hand," the Grandest of the Grand Overseers continued. He was apparently going to speak for the rest of his compatriots until further notice, which was a critical error on his part. It gave Diplomacy the opportunity to focus on one person and dissect their mannerisms. "To start: while your behavior thus far has been indicative of a trustworthy ally, we must fully ascertain that you mean our people no harm before we are willing to give you access to our Loci of Power."

Rob's blood boiled. Oh, I guess I *am* on trial. You fuckers want to go? Then let's go.

"Haven't I proven that enough already?" he replied, barely cutting out the 'you cunts' he wanted to end with. "If Goroth gave you the details – which I said he could – then you've heard about the laborious efforts I suffered in order to establish a peace treaty. He also would've told you about my origin, Diplomacy, and a lot of other info that I really don't want spread around, but was willing to divulge in order to explain that I'm not some fucked up souleating abomination." He raised his eyebrows by a quarter-inch. "Does that gesture mean nothing to you?"

"Be that as it may," the Grand Overseer said, sidestepping Rob's question like an action movie star dodging bullets in slow-mo. "There still remains the possibility that your deeds were committed out of self-interest rather than altruism. The decision that we are prepared to make today affects the lives of all Fiends – it would constitute a severe dereliction of our duties were we to rush ahead without exercising the utmost of discretion. Any further proof you can offer on your part would do much to forge a greater measure of trust between our respective sides."

<Tell Zamira to do the thing,> Diplomacy interjected.

Huh. Really? Rob asked. Didn't we decide that it was a bit too much?

<Not for these guys,> Diplomacy said, in a dismissive tone. <They aren't the worst negotiators I've ever seen, but they're definitely a lot more nervous than they're letting on. And anyone who has to tack 'Grand' onto the start of their title is probably overcompensating for something. Give them one strong push and they'll topple like a house of cards.>

The Skill's core flared with excitement. <Alsooooo, their body language implies that they're skeptical regarding Goroth's claims that the embodiment of a silver tongue lives in your head. Let's disabuse them of that silly lack of faith.>

Rob internally grinned, and then poked Zamira in the shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at him before facing the Grand Overseers and standing up straight. "Allow me to demonstrate something that may help clarify matters," she said. Zamira raised her left arm, holding it sideways, and very carefully drew her longsword with her right arm. The Grand Overseers stiffened, but thankfully didn't lash out at the potential provocation. Zamira's longsword began to glow with a white aura, and after a moment to steel her resolve, she swung down.

Five eyes widened as the Overseers observed Zamira's blade passing through her flesh without leaving a single mark. She grunted in pain, and a glance at the Party Screen showed that her HP had taken a decent hit. The Overseers gaped in surprise at her arm, which was still attached and unmarred by injury; no Regrow Limb usage required.

"This Skill is named Mercy's Whisper," Zamira said, in a strained tone. "It causes HP damage, but it does not injure, and it does not kill. Unlike other abilities of its ilk, it offers no increase in stats or damage while in use. A purposeless Skill – unless one possesses the desire to deny the reaper its due."

Her eyes took on a fierce glare. "I am proud to say that Mercy's Whisper was born of that exact kind of desire. It represents my unwavering determination to resolve conflicts without unnecessary slaughter. And I was only granted this Skill because the system recognized my intentions." She inclined her head. "If you have difficulty trusting us, then trust the system. It has no bias, and cannot lie."

Rob could practically sense her Deception going up over that last sentence. Thankfully, the genuine sincerity contained within the rest of her statements caused the Grand Overseers to buy it hook, line, and sinker. They glanced at each other, nodding with mildly relieved expressions on their faces that spoke volumes. Zamira's evidence wasn't ironclad proof, but they obviously wanted to believe, so they would.

It struck Rob in that moment – and not for the first time – that the Fiends were truly desperate. The fact that they were entertaining an audience with their hated enemy, who had an extremely fucked-up soul, on the basis that he might be able to solve their problems, was borderline pitiable. In a way that worked in his favor, but pitiable nonetheless.

"That is sufficient," the Grand Overseer stated, speaking as if he was announcing a great proclamation. "Then you are hereby tasked with the sacred duty of cleansing the Corruption from our lands. Once you gain the ability to do so via your 'Attunement' with Loci of Power, you will report back to us immediately so that we can direct you to those who are in dire need of Corruption removal. Should your Attunement with our Loci of Power result in any sort of adverse effects on the surrounding environment, then you and everyone in the Elven Enclosure shall be executed summarily and without preamble. Additionally, if repeated 'Attunements' to Loci of Power fail to produce the requisite Skill to cleanse Corruption, then our alliance will be called into question and reviewed. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Rob answered, in an icy tone. "And in return...?"

The Grand Overseer nodded. "In return, our Soul Physicians will continue to restore your arm and examine your...unique soul until their job is completed. Your Elves will also be given safe haven away from their southern enemies."

Rob waited for them to keep talking. They didn't.

<Hardball time.>

Hardball time?

<Hardball time.> Diplomacy put on a savage grin <Squeeze them 'till they squeal.>

Neat. "That's it?" Rob asked. "You aren't gonna ask what my list of demands is?"

Quiet shock rang out. "Demands?" The Grand Overseer repeated, bafflement written across his face.

"What, did you think that getting a doctor's checkup and being confined to shitty housing is an equal trade for what I'm offering you?" Rob shook his head. "Not even close. I've got demands, big ones, and you're going to listen."

"Watch your tongue, Human," one of the until-then silent Overseers spat.

"This Human holds all the cards," Rob retorted, eyes narrowed. "Let's cut the crap – you need me more than I need you. If I don't cooperate, then sure, you kill me and the Deserters. That's what, 1600 lives? Tragic."

He gestured towards them. "Know what else happens in that scenario? Your entire goddamn civilization goes belly-up. 'Cause last I checked, the Corruption is still spreading with no signs whatsoever of stopping."

"The Corruption is, at this time, contained," the Grand Overseer said, in a curt tone. "It may continue to infect new recipients, but our spells prevent their sicknesses from worsening."

"It won't stay that way," Diplomacy countered. "Corruption isn't a mindless virus – it's of the Blight, and the Blight is intelligent." Kind of. They didn't need to know how thickheaded it could be when a shiny prize was dangled in front of its nose. "Eventually it'll find a way to crack the rudimentary safeguards you've managed to invent, and then every single mother and father and child will experience the anguish of being eaten from the inside-out by grotesque, otherworldly parasites. You'll curse the heavens, pray for a miracle, and then...silence. The long history of the Fiends ends not in battle, but with strangled whispers of agony fading away into the cold, pitiless night."

He tilted his head back slightly. "1600 deaths versus millions upon millions. Those scales are a tad unbalanced, I think."

"Are you quite finished?" The Grand Overseer replied, doing his best to sound unruffled. "This diatribe reflects poorly on your self-professed nature as someone who strives for peace. An alliance between our respective sides has already been agreed upon, yet you choose to risk it mere minutes after its inception?"

"An alliance?" Diplomacy sneered. "Is that what you call that pile of horse manure you just tried to shove down our throats? Let's go down the list of petty power plays you managed to squeeze into the span of ten or so sentences. First, you compelled us to 'prove' our good intentions, as if there was any doubt at this point. Second, you 'tasked' us with the job of cleansing Corruption, implying that our position is a subservient one. Third, you demanded that we 'report back' immediately so that you can 'direct' the use of my new Skill. More implied subservience. Fourth, you threaten us with execution if there's an accident. Bad form. Very, very bad form. Fifth, you said that our alliance will be 'called into question and reviewed' if we don't get the Skill we need, which is just – I don't even know where to start with that."

Diplomacy raised his left arm and swept it to the side in a swift, harsh motion. "We will not be second-class citizens. Treat us as equals or we take our ball and go home. That crystal clear enough for ya?"

"You have no home," the Grand Overseer forcefully stated.

"And if you don't cooperate, neither will you."

Diplomacy Level Increased! 16 -> 17

As far as gauntlets went, it was one of the more enjoyable ones he'd thrown down. <Sorry, guys,> Diplomacy thought, as he observed the Overseers floundering to regain their composure. <But don't challenge Michael Jordan to a game of basketball.>

"...You've made your point," the Grand Overseer said. "It could have been made with much less disrespect, but regardless. What requests were you considering?"

<We needed that exact amount of disrespect,> Diplomacy thought. <You would've kept walking over us otherwise.> He didn't say that out loud; he knew when to stop when he was ahead.

"To start with, the Deserters need better housing," Rob began. "The 'Elven Enclosure' is a dump, and the Fiend citizens won't respect them until they start living in a place that's more upscale. Additionally, Fiends who attack the Deserters need to be punished, not given slaps on the wrist. If our sides are going to be true allies in this endeavor, then we need to be treated as such." He raised both eyebrows. "And the Deserters aren't going to be executed if I can't learn an anti-Corruption Skill. That's patently absurd. Trying my best and failing shouldn't be rewarded with death. You aren't cartoon villains, so don't act like them."

Rob crossed his arm, taking on a more contemplative tone. "As for me personally, I'm obviously going to retain autonomy over my Skill usage. Don't get me wrong, I fully intend to cure as much Corruption as I possibly can, but I'm not your errand boy. Oh, and eventually I'd like you to divulge the wealth of information you're obviously hiding." He put on a toothy grin that showed a few too many teeth. "I think that's more than fair."

The Overseers winced, giving Rob and Diplomacy a moment to confer. <We only have enough political capital to request one more major thing,> the Skill said. <Once we start curing Corruption, it'll be different, but for now you should ask them to start researching how to remove Leveling High. They might be able to bullshit a method with Soul Magic. We'll press them about the other impossible tasks on our list later.>

Understood. "One last thing," Rob began. "I want you to research how to remove a soul from another soul and transplant it into a brand new body."

<What?! You shouldn't->

Overruled, Rob interjected. I'm not giving up on myself, but you come first.

And that was that. Frustration and gratitude pulsed from Diplomacy's core in equal measure. The Grand Overseers glanced at each other, sharing a wordless conversation.

"Is this related to...?" The head Overseer asked.

"Yup," Rob nodded. "Contrary to what you might believe, I don't particularly like this setup we have. Autonomy and freedom is the least of what Diplomacy deserves."

<Thank you,> the Skill muttered, in a quiet tone.

No need to. Rob smiled internally. What are friends for?

The Grandest Overseer stared blankly for a few moments. "...We shall look into the matter," he replied. "In return for that request, however, you must complete one very specific, very important duty."

His gaze darkened. "Succeed. For both our sakes."

--

"Sorry if that made you uncomfortable," Rob told Faelynn, once they'd left the Grand Overseers behind. "I know it can't have been fun watching me negotiate a little...strongly with some of your most important leaders."

Faelynn sighed deeply. "Uncomfortable? Yes." She let out a bitter chuckle. "Necessary? Well, I can hardly say that it wasn't. They were far more aggressive than I anticipated, and to a degree that was wholly unnecessary."

She rubbed her temples. "You must think of me a fool. I keep expecting better from people. Most of them don't let me down, I think, but too many of them do for my liking."

Rob shook his head. "Having faith doesn't make you a fool," he said, in a lighthearted tone. "In my experience, 'trust but verify' is a more pleasant way to go through life than endless pessimism. Otherwise I wouldn't have become friends with Keira, or Meyneth, or you, or a lot of people, really. Eventually the crazies will get filtered out, the leaders will learn to stop being jackasses, and the populace at large will come around." He grinned. "I've got experience with this song and dance."

Zamira, who had been quiet up until that point, suddenly spoke. "Will it work?" She blurted out. "Our plan, I mean. There is no strict guarantee that Attuning to further Loci of Power will grant you a Skill to counteract Corruption. How do we know that..."

Her voice wavered. "That we won't fail?"

Rob's smile slid off his face, hand clenching into a fist. "It'll work," he said, in a perfectly neutral tone.

"Why?"

"...Because it has to."

--

Brawling 3 -> 4

Diplomacy 16 -> 17

Chapter 28

The Deserters, Vul'to thought, were becoming rather proficient at abandoning homes.

Not that all of those homes were equally cherished. Leaving behind the remnants of his ravaged pre-Cataclysm village was one of Vul'to's most painful experiences from eight years ago. Many Elves on that day had regressed into sobbing messes at the sight of their homes reduced to a scattered mess of broken buildings and broken bodies. Leaving behind the newly built Village they'd formed afterwards had opened old wounds, but not fully, as The Village was tied to a mere eight years of nostalgia – as opposed to decades or centuries. Leaving behind Esternard City was a simple matter of expedience; they'd resided within its walls for a scant few weeks, and it was a Human city, besides. It was annoying to search for a new home so quickly, but little worse than that. Leaving behind Broadwater City was...well, suffice to say that few were sad to turn their backs on a Blight-infested hellhole.

As he and a procession of Deserters walked down the city streets, Vul'to sent one last parting glance at the Elven Enclosure, the latest in their long line of failed homes – although calling it thus was granting it far more credit than it deserved. The term 'Elven Enclosure' was a total farce of a name given to obscure the fact that the Fiends had all but imprisoned the Deserters. Instead of an actual building, they'd been confined to the very same teleportation area they'd arrived in. It was dark, empty, uncomfortable, cramped, and as luck would have it, was to be their new home for the foreseeable future.

Thankfully, Elder Alessia, Goroth, and Diplomacy worked fast. They quickly soothed the initial hostilities between Elf, Fiend, and Human, opening a dialogue before their respective sides could come to blows. What could have very easily degenerated into a bloodbath became a straightforward round of blissfully mundane negotiations – with the occasional vomiting whenever someone stared at Rob for too long. All things considered, the proceedings went more smoothly than Vul'to expected, and meeting the next sunrise with his head still attached to his shoulders was a victory in and of itself.

Afterwards, the Fiends had apparently found themselves at a loss for how to proceed. The Deserters were technically invaders, and Vul'to wouldn't have been surprised if they were executed on that basis alone. According to Faelynn, that's likely what would have transpired in the times predating the Cataclysm. Since then, however, the lack of a neighbor to endlessly make war with had dulled their claws' sharpness. It let them view the Deserters with eyes unclouded by fear. Why, they asked, should we spill the blood of thousands who seemed to pose no threat? And naturally, the chance to converse with other races in the Fiendish tongue was too tantalizing of a possibility to disregard. Even the most ruthless Fiends were intrigued by that particular bit of news.

Then came the debates, public discourse, and general hand-wringing. In order for the Fiends to placate their unwanted guests while determining their course of action, the Deserters were given old cots, a pittance for rations, and summarily told to keep quiet and stay out of trouble. The three days that followed were...disagreeable. Not terrible, especially in comparison to some of Vul'to's experiences during the past six months, but few Elves appreciated the contemptuous treatment. It was only thanks to Rob shoring up their rations via Stored supplies that the Deserters were able to avoid suffering under half-empty bellies for hours on end.

Thank Lothren – dammit, thank *our luck* that Rob and Zamira secured better lodgings so quickly, Vul'to thought. Otherwise a rebellion might have broken out and truly earned us our status as 'invaders'.

In hindsight, maybe that was what some Fiends desired. An excuse to paint the Deserters as foreign enemies who deserved no sympathy. And a chance to return to simpler times, when lines were clearly drawn and the world made sense.

Vul'to rubbed his temples and suppressed a sigh. The predicament was, much like all matters related to politics, needlessly complex. What he knew was based on sporadic pieces of information gleaned from Faelynn and whatever rumors filtered in from outside. There were undoubtedly countless wheels turning in the background that he'd never be privy to. But if Vul'to was a betting man – which he wasn't, especially with his luck – he'd put good coin on Goroth tipping the scales in the Deserters' favor. No one else was more well-suited to convince the Fiend leaders that Rob may be able to purge Corruption.

Whether or not they fully believed his claims was irrelevant. In the face of total annihilation, their only logical recourse was to attempt every solution, no matter how outlandish. A fraction of a sliver of hope was still more than none at all.

Regardless of how it'd come to pass, the Deserters were free. Mostly. At the very least they were being moved out of a prison cell and into better lodgings, and Vul'to would accept that as a victory. He swept his eyes across his surroundings, taking in the sight of hundreds of Elves being glared at by hundreds of Fiends as the former group journeyed through Acrastor City. Irrespective of the city's surly populace, Fiendish architecture was a marvel to behold. Acrastor's buildings appeared as if they'd grown out of the ground itself, their surfaces comprised of a strange material that gleamed deeply when reflecting sunlight and changed colors depending on the angle you viewed it from. It wasn't quite metal, yet it certainly wasn't wood or stone. Magic-wrought, perhaps, but by what kind? Soul Magic seemed ill-suited towards construction, and as far as he knew, Fiends didn't possess any unique spellcasting proficiencies beyond that. He would have to ask Faelynn for details lest his curiosity go unsated.

In contrast to their architecture's austere beauty, their roads...well, their roads were off-putting, no two ways about it. They didn't actually consist of organic material, he hoped, but Vul'to didn't much enjoy the sensation of walking on springy, off-colored flesh. It was almost as unnerving as the cold gazes that the Fiends were aiming at him. Out of the corner of his vision, Vul'to caught a glimpse of one Fiend raising a large, jagged rock to throw at the Deserters, only forestalled at the last moment by a more reasonable fellow who was presumably aware of the dangers of inciting a riot.

Vul'to understood their ire. He hated it, but he understood it. In their eyes, he was an outsider. An intruder. An other. Vul'to did his best to portray himself as unshaken, and wasn't entirely successful in that endeavor; the notion that he was trespassing on someone else's property was simply too strong to ignore. In truth, he doubted that anyone in the Deserters was feeling particularly at ease or welcomed right now.

--

I love this place, Malika thought, her eyes as wide as dishplates as she observed each and every inch of the Fiends' city. So much *color*.

Like all areas where life flourished, the air was rich with mana. Its etherical energies were largely connected to the development of civilization; much like sprouts grew in fertile soil, people congregated and thrived where they could make use of abundant amounts of mana. That aspect of the Fiends' city – what was it called? Alastor? – was unsurprising, and in most circumstances, wouldn't have been enough to excite her.

This, however. This was different. Mana flowed in odd patterns she'd never witnessed before, shifting and twisting like a flock of birds endlessly chasing each other. It circulated through the Fiends, naturally, but also through nonliving materials such as the buildings, roads, and the horizon, treating all of them as if they were alive. And what's more, the mana itself was derived from a strange something that was taunting her with its vague familiarity. The result was like cooking a dish using different ingredients that somehow ended up tasting the same. While she was definitely Sensing mana, of that she was sure, it was mana that was two steps to the side from how it normally should be. Identical, yet divergent. Common, yet unique. It interacted with the Fiends in the same manner that typical mana did, but it also...

It changed them. And they changed it.

Sense Magic Level Increased! 15 -> 16

Oh my gosh, she whispered to herself. Do the Fiends even know about this? They have to, right? It's their territory – they must be aware of every secret that lies within its borders. She paused. But...what if they don't? What if I'm the first person to pierce the veil?! It's possible, I mean, I've never heard of any of this and it's so different and Lothren preserve I need to tell someone!

And she would! After she'd researched some more on her own. This was too fun of a discovery to let the older Mages take over, not when she was just getting started. There was still more to uncover – she felt it in her bones.

Dimly, she was aware of the Fiends sending angry glares at her, but she barely noticed or cared. They didn't matter. The mana was far more interesting.

--

Vul'to nervously rubbed his fingers together as he pondered what to do next. Gathering a ball of courage and holding it tight, he returned one of the Fiends' stares, put on a smile, and waved. The Fiend flinched back like rotting garbage had been shoved under his nose. Vul'to's hand fell and his smile faded as he turned away, a mild blush creeping into his cheeks.

This must be how Rob felt when he joined The Village, Vul'to thought. I should apologize to him again. And warn him that the satisfied little grins that appear on his face every now and then are more obvious than he realizes.

The man in question seemed to be faring better than most of The Deserters. He was content to look straight ahead as he traveled, unheeding of the daggers being glared into from all sides. Vul'to admired his perseverance – and then remembered that it was likely a result of Rob having gotten used to that sort of treatment long ago. Guilt flared in Vul'to's chest, and he began walking over to Rob, resolved to offer his apologies on behalf of the Villagers.

"Don't apologize," Rob said, the moment Vul'to got close. "You've already done that, what, three times?"

"You're counting?" Vul'to replied, hesitating briefly. "No, nevermind, that's of no consequence. How did you know that I was coming to apologize?"

"It was written all over your face." Rob tapped his forehead and smiled. "According to Diplomacy, anyway, and they're pretty good at their job."

Am I so easy to read? Vul'to wondered.

"Yes," Rob continued, in a lighthearted tone. "And you can't lie to save your life. Don't worry, that's a compliment."

Vul'to sighed, then chuckled. "I must admit, I envy your alliance at times. Small talk would be much less stressful with a helpful compatriot whispering the right words to say."

Rob winced, and for a moment, Vul'to wondered if he'd misspoke. "That's not how it works," the Human explained. "Diplomacy lets me be me unless there's an immediate crisis that needs solving. They want to make sure you – and everyone else – understands that."

An awkward silence fell over them. Mercifully, Rob broke it several seconds later. "Anyway!' He began. "Don't apologize. You were one of the few Elves that didn't treat me like shit early on. I don't want you taking responsibility for everyone else."

Vul'to opened his mouth, then closed it. "...I cannot argue with that," he replied. "Still, I would at least like to reaffirm that you will forever be welcome among our number."

Rob's smile softened. "Thanks, man. That always means a lot to hear."

"I would also like to inform you – without a hint of sarcasm or guile – that I hope your delight at the Deserters' misfortune is bringing you a measure of closure."

The Human paused, then groaned. "Am I so easy to read?"

Vul'to smirked. "Generally speaking."

He snorted with laughter. "Need a Poker Face Skill. Does that exist?"

"I believe it does, but only for certain Utility Classes," Vul'to answered. "Ruler, Diplomat, and the like."

"Good to know that shady politicians are a universal concept," Rob commented. "Wouldn't 'Ruler' be kind of a pointless Class to pick, though? The people in power always end up being high-leveled Combat Class users anyway."

Vul'to considered his statement. "That is largely true," he admitted. "Yet is that so much worse than a Ruler or a Diplomat? I can't imagine you would prefer people with abilities such as Poker Face taking leadership positions."

Rob paled. "Oh god," he muttered. "Politicians with Class Skills. They don't just lie, they super lie. The world would go down the toilet in a week, tops."

They continued their conversation for a time, keeping to lighthearted banter for as long as they could. Inevitably, however, the topic of discussion drifted towards their coming expedition. Much like being trapped in a small room with a sleeping larguz, it was too great of an imminent problem to ignore regardless of their wishes.

"The plan is to begin teleporting Riardin's Rangers and a selection of Fiend escorts to major population centers, starting tomorrow," Rob explained. "Apparently, it's significantly easier for them to use teleportation magic within their homelands instead of trying to fling thousands of people halfway across the continent. Less mana used, less prep needed. Go figure. After they yeet us to another city, our best bet is honestly just to rummage around until we hopefully find a Locus of Power."

"Which we will," Vul'to assured. "They surely exist here as they do anywhere else in Elatra. Finding them is simply a matter of time."

Rob quieted, a shadow passing over his features. Once again, Vul'to was struck by the indelible sensation that he'd said the wrong thing. Before he could try to rectify his mistake, Rob spoke up in a subdued tone that bordered on hopelessness.

"We don't have much time." He rubbed his eyes. "Today I visited the doctors – sorry, the Healers – and they told me that the Elves who were heavily Corrupted are on their last legs." His lips pressed into a thin line. "Elder Duran included. Healing magic can only keep them on life support for so long."

"We will find the Loci soon," Vul'to insisted, sounding more confident than he was. "With the Fiends' backing, exploring their territory shall be a painless, quick endeavor."

"Yeah," Rob muttered. "Quick enough, though? I can't sense Loci of Power from very far away. And while they're probably located in the major population centers, they won't always be. This city doesn't have one, and it's practically a metropolis."

Vul'to put a hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture that seemed to help more often than not. "We'll devise strategies to swiften the search. Elder Duran is strong – whatever the Healers are saying, I know in my heart that he'll endure until we devise a cure. This, I promise you."

Rob nodded silently, a sullen expression stamped onto his face. Vul'to wasn't so foolish as to say it twice, but right now he truly was envious of Rob's partnership with Diplomacy. There were so many instances where he wanted to comfort a friend and couldn't think of the right words to say no matter how hard he tried. On rare occasions he managed to break through their shell, but on occasions such as these, it felt like trying to beat down a stone wall with his bare hands.

It was a conundrum he had yet to solve. He'd sworn to safeguard their lives, but that was simple. All he needed to do was raise his shield. Safeguarding their minds was proving to be a much more complicated duty.

Salvation came in the form of – somehow – a Fiend. Vul'to, Rob, the nearby Deserters, and the nearby Fiends collectively turned their heads to gape in confusion as a sole Fiend started approaching. The man, seemingly in his mid-50s, kept a stoic expression as he strode forward. Without a moment's hesitation, he handed Vul'to a letter and left without saying a word. Vul'to and Rob exchanged glances, with the Human shrugging and gesturing for Vul'to to open it. With a shrug of his own, Vul'to gently unsealed the missive and began to read.

Hola-

Vul'to grimaced in pain. The letter's words swirled and distorted before his eyes as a high-pitched buzzing built to a warbling crescendo. He tore his gaze away and shoved the note towards Rob. "It's written in Fiendish," he said, head still pounding and light flashing in his vision.

"We should start teaching you Auto-Translate soon," Rob commented. He took the note and started reading. Almost immediately, some of the tension in his posture receded, and the corners of his lips gradually turned upwards. "It's a thank-you letter," he said, in a relaxed voice. "For helping protect the Broadwater Fiends from Blightspawn."

Despite the aching in his skull, Vul'to found himself smiling as well. "That's certainly well-appreciated. Especially considering the reception that most Fiends have afforded us." He paused. "Why didn't he hand the letter directly to you? He should've been aware that I can't speak Fiendish."

"Less social damage if he interacts with an Elf than a Human," Rob plainly stated. "Can't blame him – he's going to get some shit from this much alone." The smile spread from his face to his eyes. "I think I needed this. Guess I actually do manage to do some good every now and then. I mean, I knew that already, it's just...you know."

A stray thought in Vul'to's mind. "I wonder if the Broadwater Fiends played a part in strengthening our reputation," he posited. "As discontented as the local Fiends are over our presence, the degree of their ire is merely 'annoyed', when it could have been 'murderous'. It makes me think that stories of our assistance in Broadwater were disseminated from our allies to the populace at large."

Rob was silent for a few moments. "Makes sense to me," he replied. "Diplomacy agrees too. While our relations in Broadwater never fully recovered from the Helkath and Keira combo incident, the Blight did a great job of bringing us together." A low hum of surprise escaped his throat. "Not every good deed goes unpunished. Imagine that."

He carefully put the letter in his pocket, treating it like fragile glass. "Yeah, I definitely needed this," he sighed. And in a very quiet voice that Vul'to was sure he wasn't supposed to hear, Rob muttered a few more words to himself.

"Will help me get through tonight."

--

Rob clapped his hands together, looking at each of Riardin's Rangers in turn. Currently, they were situated inside an empty room within the Deserters' new lodgings. To Rob, the building's interior design sensibilities came across as very similar to an apartment complex in structure, although not in appearance. Its walls and floors consisted of the same strange material that its outside exterior did, but thankfully without being shiny and multicolored. That would've gotten old really fast.

"Alright," he began. "I think it's time to start teaching you guys Fiendish. Based on the rate that the Utility Class users were able to learn it, I'd say that most of you will be able to complete your schooling in two days of truncated lessons. Compared to the Utility crew, your higher HP and Endurance makes learning the language easier." He glanced at Keira. "Good news! I'm lifting your ban. As long as you promise to keep the shit-talking to a minimum-"

"I decline," Keira said, shaking her head.

"...Why?" Rob asked, in a puzzled tone. "You were complaining about being restricted from learning Auto-Translate just a few days ago."

"That was before Fiends attempted to assassinate you," she said, dramatically lifting her pointer finger. "A lesson of Fiendish will leave me incapacitated for at least several hours, correct? Considering the current dangers to your life, that window of helplessness is unacceptable. I'll be resuming my role as your bodyguard starting tomorrow – Danger Sense is the easiest way to avoid imminent ambushes – and that requires me to be at full fighting capacity every second of every day. The moment I take a rest and leave you unattended, dozens of assassins will spring out of every Fiend's arsehole within a five-mile radius, and I refuse to let them attack you unawares."

Awww, Rob thought. That's sweet.

Malika snickered. "Sly, Keira. Although I don't believe you need to invent excuses to spend as much time as possible staying close to Rob."

The tips of Keira's ears turned red. "Yes. Well." She cleared her throat. "Unsubstantiated accusations aside, my logic stands. Unless anyone has an issue with my decision?"

No one did. While the Grand Overseers were on board with Plan Attunement, they couldn't control fringe extremists from doing fringe extremist things.

"Sounds good," Rob assented. "Moving on – Malika, I'm sorry to say that your HP isn't high enough. It's too dangerous to try teaching you Auto-Translate just yet."

The young Archmage crossed her arms and sighed. "Fine," she grumbled. "Honestly, can't argue with that. I know what it feels like to lose a bunch of HP from mental damage alone."

Riardin's Rangers shivered in unison. Months later, and their memories of the second Dungeon's Dreamthieves were still fresh in their minds.

"Right," Rob continued. "That leaves Meyneth, Vul'to, and Orn'tol."

"I too shall decline," Meyneth stated. "Teaching me to speak to additional people will result in a net loss of the Deserters' overall political efficacy."

"You needn't be so harsh on yourself," Vul'to protested. "You've made much progress in your conversational abilities compared to when we initially met you."

Meyneth pursed her lips. "I am...currently making an honest effort at forming bonds with people outside of our Party. That endeavor is taking up the full measure of my mental space. To speak plainly and honestly; I don't have any energy left for further social interaction."

"You wouldn't be forced to talk to anyone," Rob assured. "And just being able to understand what the Fiends are saying would really come in handy."

"...Allow me to think on it," Meyneth muttered.

Vul'to seemed about to interject, and then stopped. "I will accept Rob's offer to learn Fiendish," he said instead. "Ever since Class Altering into a Vanguard, I've made sure to bring my Vitality up to par with the Class's necessary standards. I should have little trouble enduring the aftereffects of Auto-Translate lessons." His brow furrowed. "Orn'tol, now that I'm taking a closer look at your HP, isn't it rather high?"

Realization gradually dawned on Riardin's Rangers as they checked the Party Screen. Meyneth's Thrasher Class was a frontline bruiser type, and she was two Levels above Orn'tol, but despite that disparity her HP was only 10 more than his. It wasn't like Orn'tol's HP was a secret, per se – it had been clearly visible on the Party Screen every time he joined – but the number creeping up slowly over a period of months had caused it to fade into the background. They'd never truly noticed it until that moment.

Orn'tol shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention. "Perhaps my Vitality is higher than an average Ranger," he began. "But I cannot forget the memory of being punched into single-digit HP by the Bestial Chimera during our first Dungeon Crawl. On that day, the difference between living to see tomorrow or walking through death's door was a single point in Vitality. It seemed prudent to increase my survivability going forwards."

Admitting that was a mistake, as Rob used it as a launching point to lecture the Party on the virtues of investing as many points into Vitality as possible. Eight minutes into his diatribe, Keira cut him off and vowed that she would put all of the gains from her next three Levels into Vitality if Rob could beat her a single time on the sparring grounds.

He stopped talking after that.

--

Hours later, Rob stood outside a door within the Deserters' new lodgings, frozen stiff like he was staring down the entrance to a Dungeon. He tried desperately to think of excuses to delay knocking on that door, but unfortunately, everything else they'd needed to attend to was already taken care of. The Deserters were finished moving into their homes, the travel path for tomorrow's journey was set, and he'd said his goodbyes to the Elves. Among their ranks, eleven Utility Class users had been able to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate over the course of the Blightspawn incursion; they, along with Elder Alessia, would be the Deserters' international liaisons.

Rob wasn't particularly worried about them, as he'd chosen them for their skills in Diplomacy. They couldn't hold a candle to the real deal, but in a pinch, they'd do just fine. Although someone might need to rein in Lenora, she got a bit too eager sometimes and still considered herself the leader of his unofficial fan club aaaand he was stalling.

Just knock on the door, Rob thought. Do it without thinking.

Knock-knock. Oh, shit, I actually did it. He waited on bated breath until a voice called out a few seconds later. "Hello?" the voice asked, sounding tired. "May I ask who's visiting?"

"Rob," he blurted out. "Uh, the Lord Blightkiller."

He heard muted shuffling sounds coming from within the room. After a few seconds more, the voice spoke up. "Please come in – the door is unlocked."

Rob entered and made sure to lock the door behind him. The Elf's room was tidy and well-kept despite having just moved in, although that was largely due to the fact that the Deserters barely owned any personal possessions. With a wan smile and dark circles under his eyes, the Elf in question – who Rob already knew was named Vurion – beckoned Rob over. "Please excuse the mess," he said. "I would offer you a seat, but alas, my furnishings have yet to arrive."

"No worries," Rob assuaged. "The Fiends should stop by soon to make good on their promise of decent housing." Finding a place to put the Elves hadn't been a problem. The Cataclysm left a lot of empty houses in its wake. It would take a day or two to bring the appropriate amenities, but afterwards, the Elves would be living in safe comfort for the first time since leaving Esternard City.

Assuming a Fiend extremist didn't burn the place down. Rob doubted that would happen, though. The Grand Overseers were going to make damn sure that their newest hope wasn't given a reason to turn his back on them.

"I'm looking forward to sleeping in a bed without the looming threat of Blightspawn clouding my thoughts," Vurion admitted. "Ah, but I'm beginning to ramble. Why have you come, Lord Blightkiller? Is there aught I can do for you?"

Rob took a deep breath. "No," he said, steeling his resolve. "I didn't come to ask a favor. I came to apologize." A moment's hesitation froze him before he managed to force out the words. "The reason your father died during the final Blightspawn attack is because he sacrificed his life to save mine."

Vurion's expression morphed from curious to shocked in the span of an instant. He was quiet for a solid ten seconds, eyes drifting downward. "Ah," he eventually stated. "I see."

"Yeah," Rob said, lamely. "I – yeah. I'm sorry. Apologies don't make up for this sort of thing, but...I'm sorry." His fingers started twitching. "If there's any way I can-"

"You don't owe me anything," Vurion interrupted, shaking his head. "What transpired wasn't your fault."

"It was," Rob whispered, in a scratchy undertone. "It really, really was."

Vurion closed his eyes. Another ten seconds of torture passed. He clenched his hand into a fist, and then slowly unclenched it, before looking upwards and fixing his gaze on Rob's.

"Six months ago," he began. "When our long-lost Village was invaded by Infected creatures carved from the depths of myth and depravity. My father and I were in the midst of hiding in a shelter, cowering like fools, waiting for the storm to pass. We thought ourselves safe – as safe as any can be during a nightmare come to life, at least."

A dark chuckle escaped his throat. "That notion lasted until the moment a Lord of the Forest tore down the shelter's front wall along with our delusions. When it opened its maw and bared its fangs, I truly believed that our death was upon us." He smiled briefly. "Then you and the Lady Blightkiller did the impossible, felled the beast, and saved our lives. On its own, that act of valor alone would have been more than sufficient to earn our undying respect."

His eyes took on a faraway look. "But would you believe that I rarely ever think of that occurrence?" he continued. "I was seconds away from being devoured by a Lord of the Forest. A beast more deadly and more powerful than my wildest imaginations. At the time, it was the single-most terrifying moment of my life – and the scar it left on my soul is a mere pittance compared to what followed next."

Rob shivered. Black carapace, legs like spiders, and long claws that shredded air. He remembered very well what had arrived after the Lord of the Forest.

"The Lord was to be our death," Vurion said. "But the Blight was death. Entropy and destruction given physical form. Not a single person in all of Elatra would have judged you if you fled from the scene right then and there. Yet you, the Lady Blightkiller, and Ranger Riardin stood your ground, looked death itself straight in the eye, and refused to blink."

Rob was pretty sure he'd done plenty of blinking, but Vurion was on a roll, and he wasn't going to stop and correct him. "My father and I never felt the same since that day," the Elf continued. "Witnessing the birth of ruin's incarnation changes your perspective on life. Speaking plainly, we should have died there. It was only through the brave sacrifices of others that our entrance into Lothren's Hallowed Halls was forestalled. I won't say that we embraced death – we still valued our lives. But there was always that nagging notion that we were living on borrowed time."

His eyes took on a faraway gaze. "Time we were gifted by you and yours."

Vurion fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was hitched and raspy. "So I know for a fact that my father was proud to lay down his life for yours regardless of the circumstances. And no matter how it happened, or how the events transpired, I can only lower my head and thank you for giving me half an extra year with him before he left. We treasured that borrowed time like no other."

Rob wiped the tears running down his cheeks. "It won't be in vain," he choked. "I swear on my life."

"That is unnecessary," Vurion replied, in a voice that was straining to keep its composure. "But...thank you. Truly."

For a moment, Rob considered asking for Vurion's father's name. He wanted to know so badly, like it would prove the system wrong if the name was given freely despite his fuckups. And if he asked, Vurion was sure to answer.

But...

"His name has been intentionally obscured. You aren’t worthy of knowing it."

The system, for once, was right. Rob would accept Vurion's gratitude and forgiveness – it would be a slap in the face to do anything otherwise. But his father's name should remain a mystery as a reminder of the mistakes Rob had made. He could blame Leveling High, and it certainly shared a good chunk of that blame, but running away from his actions wasn't going to help anyone, least of all himself.

This was a weight he needed to carry.

And despite that weight, when he left Vurion's room and closed the door behind him, Rob felt a hundred pounds lighter than when he'd entered.

Chapter 29

Rob's right arm tensed as he put his full effort into forcing it to move. The results were...mixed. Everything from his wrist upward felt adequate – more or less – but his fingers refused to do anything more than tremble like they were stifled by performance anxiety. After a minute of trying and failing to compel deadened nerves to obey his commands, Rob let out a sigh and collapsed backwards into his chair. "Getting there," he mumbled.

"That's wonderful news," Vythe proclaimed, aiming a wide smile at him that came across as mildly disturbing when combined with her pitch-black eyes. "This much progress in thirteen short days is remarkable, truly. Your arm should be completely rejuvenated within the next week."

Rob arched an eyebrow at the Fiend. "I guess I can't complain, considering you're managing to succeed where Regrow Limb couldn't, but didn't you guys say that fixing my arm would take two weeks, tops?"

Vythe and Zordred, the Physicians who'd been working on curing his Soul-Burnt arm for the past thirteen days, exchanged glances. "Yes..." Zordred began, taking a moment to clear his throat. "We may have...exaggerated the procedure's speed at that time." He shifted uncomfortably. "Not to worry, though! We didn't exaggerate its efficacy. Rest assured that, despite the slightly longer recovery period, your limb will be fully functional at the end of your treatment."

"In a week."

He gulped. "In a week. I apologize for-"

"Yeah, yeah," Rob said, with a dismissive wave of his left hand. "I was a scary Human with a scary soul so you didn't want to piss me off. It's fine, I don't care as long as you keep doing your thing." He grinned. "Honestly, can't thank you enough. Soon I'll be able to flip off people with both hands again."

Suddenly, their carriage hit a road bump, cutting off Zordred's reply as everyone was shaken in their seats. Rob's glass of water threatened to tip over, and in a panic, he instinctively reached out with his limp right hand to grab it. An instant later, he realized his error and reached out with his left hand while trying to pull back his right. This resulted in him twisting awkwardly, bumping an elbow on the corner of the table, and knocking over the glass – which had already settled and was no longer in any danger of falling.

The occupants of their carriage – Rob, Keira, Malika, Orn'tol, Vythe, and Zordred – looked down at the shattered glass now lying pitifully in a puddle on the floor. Rob tried to facepalm with his right hand and just ended up mashing the twitching appendage into his forehead like he was slapping himself with a large noodle. "A week, you said?"

"And not a second longer."

"Sounds good." Rob turned to the side, pointedly ignoring Keira's poorly-suppressed snorts of laughter, and peered out the carriage's tinted windows. It's like riding a car, he mused, as buildings and civilians quickly passed by his vision. Currently, Riardin's Rangers and their escorts were in the middle of being ferried through another major Fiendland city. They were making good time; by Rob's estimation, the carriage was traveling at a clip of around 30 miles-per-hour.

Down a populated area. With no apparent sidewalks. The Fiends didn't seem to care, casually stepping out of the way shortly before his carriage would have barreled over them. Traffic safety regulations were still a distant dream of the future.

'Traffic safety regulations', Rob mused. Now there's a nostalgic blast from the past. When's the last time I was able to move long distances without needing to walk a single step?

<Keira has carried you on several occasions,> Diplomacy chimed in. <Usually for a thoroughly embarrassing reason. For example->

Shush, you, I'm getting wistful. Out of the many material things he missed from Earth – mostly the Internet and ketchup – public transportation was also high up on the list. When compared to cars or trains, Elatra possessed few alternatives to getting around outside of moving your own two feet. Horses existed, but they were rare to the point where Rob had barely seen any since arriving. Rather than being beasts of burden, they were generally relegated to the role of luxury pets for rich bored people. People in Elatra didn't travel as much as people on Earth, and when they did, they would hire Combat Class users with high-Strength and Endurance to carry supplies for them. Those voluntary pack 'mules' were less likely than horses to bolt off at the first sign of a monster, and they could defend themselves if necessary. Automatic transportation might have been able to fill the niche that horses couldn't, but Elatra's level of technology simply wasn't there yet. And while Teleportation Crystals existed, they were rare, expensive, and limited in usage.

Rob had assumed that Fiendland would've been the same, and that his Party's plan to explore major cities for Loci of Power was going to involve lots of walking and packed lunches. To his very pleasant surprise, the Grand Overseers – citing reasons of expediency – had provided several carriages that would be transporting him and the rest of his entourage. A carriage could follow pre-established routes to move them quickly around crowded cities, and the chances of Rob being discovered by the general populace was far lesser than if he was wandering around out in the open.

He shuddered at the notion of getting caught in public by the Fiend citizenry. Either a crowd would form with pitchforks in hand, or a crowd would form to ask for an interview, and he wasn't sure which prospect terrified him more. There was already a stage play in production about the Elven 'invaders' heralded by a hideous soul-eating Human who could somehow speak Fiendish – including eyewitness accounts from those who witnessed the dreaded creature up close and personal! Was he friend, or foe???? Reserve your tickets now to discover the mysteries behind this anomaly of anomalies!

Rob smirked as his carriage passed by another banner advertising the play's opening debut in a few weeks. He was already planning to negotiate for royalties if it became a hit, and when he asked if Diplomacy would like to be his contract lawyer, the Skill started salivating on the spot. But that was for later, when being the talk of the town would be a help rather than a hindrance. There were plenty of reasons to err on the side of secrecy for now. It kept the trip from being delayed by curious civilians, it cut down on the number of extremists trying to ambush them, and it prevented Rob from having to inform the Fiendish masses about what he was doing.

What he was trying to do, anyway. If his plan to cure Corruption worked, then he would become a national hero overnight, and all would be well. But if it failed, then he would prefer to fail quietly. The alternative was being torn to shreds by an angry mob fueled with betrayed expectations.

"What's that?" Malika asked, interrupting the quiet. She pointed forward at the beast of burden dutifully pulling their carriage. Her voice was awestruck, and her eyes shimmered with the telltale usage of Sense Mana.

"That's a zamult," Orn'tol answered, patiently. "They explained it to us at the start of our journey, remember?"

Malika shook her head a fraction of an inch as she kept her eyes focused intensely on the creature. Admittedly, zamults did look pretty weird. The one pulling their carriage was like the unholy love-child of an elephant and an alligator, possessing a rotund, scaled body complete with a long trunk and elongated jaws – and for good measure, its skin was colored purple. If he hadn't been told by the Fiends that the zamult was docile and loved being scratched behind the ears when it was a good boy, Rob would have assumed that it was some sort of Blightspawn or Infected.

"Monster?" Malika asked, in an undertone.

"No," Orn'tol answered, in a tone that was still patient, but more worried. "Simply an animal."

Malika's eyes brightened further as her pupils dilated. She looked left, right, up, and down, swiveling her gaze around in a way that made Rob's head spin just to look at. "Same mana," she whispered, before falling silent.

"What-"

"Shh!" Malika hissed, putting a vertical finger to her lips. "Busy."

Defeated, Orn'tol leaned back and sank into contemplative thought. Rob wasn't sure what to do for him. Malika had been acting like this ever since laying eyes on the Fiends' cities; something about the mana being different, and untold revelations just out of reach, and other worrying lines that sounded dangerously close to the ramblings of a delusional Archmage. She was lost deep in her own little world, and whenever they tried to snap her out of it, she pushed them away – sometimes literally. None of the Deserters, the mages included, knew what she was experiencing or seeing. Her Level of Sense Mana had surpassed theirs long ago.

Bereft of better ideas, Rob gave Orn'tol a knowing, commiserative look. The boy seemed to derive some relief from that, which was good, because Rob didn't know what the fuck that look was supposed to imply and was banking on Orn'tol filling in the blanks. Maybe he'd inferred some implicit understanding about little sisters? Rob was an only child, so he was flying blind here. His knowledge base regarding younger siblings came entirely from Hollywood movies and fond complaints from some of his peers. The rest, he'd have to figure out on his own.

Teenage girls go through phases, right? he thought. Yeah, that's how this works. Earth girls get into metrosexual pop artists, while Elatran Archmage girls get into...this. He glanced at Malika, who was whispering to herself with fevered excitement. It'll pass. Probably.

"Is your sister well?" Vythe asked, directing her question to Orn'tol. "Should we examine her?"

The boy flinched, unused to hearing intelligible words coming out of Fiends' mouths. "Thank you," he replied, in unsure Fiendish. "But I believe she will be fine. This is a matter for her to resolve on her own." He paused, and then continued speaking in a hesitant tone. "If...I may ask," the young boy started. "Is there anything peculiar about a zamult that would draw a mage's curiosity? Some unique brand of mana, perhaps?"

Vythe shook her head. "Not that I am aware of. The noble zamult has scarcely changed since we successfully domesticated the creature some 5000 or so years ago."

"5000?" Orn'tol parroted, his brow furrowing. "That can't be right. The Fiends arrived in Elatra 2000 years ago."

"I see that southern schooling of our kind is lax," Zordred remarked. "We might be newcomers to Elatra in relative terms, at least when compared to other races, but this very city holds libraries with records more than 10,000 years old. There are numerous, well-preserved tomes that describe when we first set foot on the land that was to be our home." He folded his arms. "In fact, our arrival predates that of the Humans by over a millennium. Were it not for the language barrier, I imagine that the relations between Fiendish and Elvish societies would have played out in quite a different fashion."

Orn'tol's brow furrowed even more, forming deep lines in his face. He seemed about to say something when Rob shot up out of his chair, slamming his head on the carriage's ceiling. "It's here," he gasped. "Straight ahead. Middle of the street. A block or two away."

Beads of sweat started to form on the back of his neck as he giggled. "Haha. Oh geez. I hear it calling for me. Forgot how hard this was to ignore. Anyone got a pillow?"

The next few minutes flew by in a blur. Vythe ran to inform the other carriages in the procession, the street was cleared and blocked off by the Grand Overseers' lackeys, and most importantly of all, Rob got comfy.

"Fluffy," he said, poking the pillow that Keira had so graciously bequeathed to him. "Think this one has actual feathers in it. Guess I'm a big shot if I'm getting this kind of treatment."

"Stay calm," Keira stated, in a tone of voice that was anything but. "Your most recent level of Attunement grants you 100% damage reduction during the Attunement process, correct? So there should be no issues on this occasion, correct?"

"Correct." Rob scratched his cheek. "Unless something strange and unforeseen happens. But hey, what are the odds of that?"

Keira stared at him, blinking repeatedly. "Was that purposeful?"

"I don't even know anymore."

She looked upwards and seemed about ready to mutter a prayer before remembering that wasn't going to help much. "Right." Keira muttered. "You've overcome this obstacle several times prior. This should be no different."

"Why are you so worried?" Rob couldn't help but ask. "While I genuinely appreciate the care, I also figured you'd be used to seeing me take risks by now. This isn't even in the Top 5 most dangerous things I've had to do this week."

A soft, sad smile broke across her face. "I once knew a man who I thought was invincible," she said, in an airy tone. "Strong. Brave. Skilled. Lucky. And most of all, determined. If you'd told me to choose one person in the world who I imagined would outrun the specter of death until old age finally caught them, I would have picked him in a heartbeat."

Keira fixed her eyes on Rob's. "That man's name was Riardin."

A deafening silence spread through the carriage. Orn'tol looked away, and Malika's hushed mutterings ceased.

Rob, for his part, couldn't help but gulp. "And just how is that reminder supposed to help me?"

"It means don't go strangling any gods this time," Keira stated, in a pointed undertone. She reached over and flicked the tip of his nose. "Someone needs to remind you that you're not invincible. As it stands, Diplomacy's efforts in that regard have proven insubstantial."

<Hey! I try!>

"To be fair, they do try," Rob explained.

<Thank you.>

Anytime-

An ephemeral bell rang in the distance, resonating within his soul.

Whispers of blue wriggled into his ears.

A void opened, waiting.

It called.

"Carriage is practically on top of it," Rob wheezed. "Can't wait any longer. Be back soon."

Keira forced a smile onto her face. "Promise me again?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die." When he saw her eyes widening, Rob shook his head quickly. "No, see, it's an Earth sayi-"

It called.

--

For one brief instant, Rob found himself struck by a bout of debilitating panic. Instead of the indescribable sensations he'd come to expect from Attuning to a Locus of Power, inevitably resulting in a trip to some unknowable and otherworldly plane, he'd been instantaneously transported into a room without any break in consciousness. And it wasn't a room of white light or a room with an almighty god residing within; just a normal room with normal furnishings.

Earth furnishings.

Terror gripped Rob's heart as he remembered the last time his mind had been forcefully transplanted into a location with Earth design sensibilities. Then he realized that the second Dungeon's Dreamthieves were long dead, and that this situation was just a result of Locus fuckery – which, despite its weirdness, was highly preferable to another go-around in Dreamthief hell. No poor imitations of his lost friends and family. No cruel mockeries of his uncertain feelings. He was safe.

Relatively speaking.

Rob let out a ragged breath and wiped nonexistent sweat from his brow. Much like his last two trips on Mr. Locus' Wild Ride, he didn't possess a physical form, a fact that barely fazed him. Even absurd, fantastical experiences became mundane once someone got used to them. He swept his eyes across the room, taking a closer look at his surroundings, and discerned that he was probably inside an Elatran building. There weren't any electronics or plastic-made objects around, and metal-made appliances seemed few in number. The knot in his chest uncoiled further; if he was going to be stuck in a place that reminded him of home, he'd rather it be the Coke Zero version instead of the genuine article.

His 'ears' perked up when muffled voices started to echo outwards from an empty spot at the other end of the room. Rob focused his senses, eyes locked onto the supposed source – an austere desk covered in messy stacks of paper. Bit by bit, indistinct figures began to form out of the ether, slowly taking shape. There were four of them; one sitting at the desk, two standing in front, and one...kneeling? His guess was proven right when the forms solidified, revealing humanoid people engaging in conversation.

"Hello?" Rob called out. "Can you hear me? Or am I basically a...ghost..."

His voice died in his throat as he walked closer, getting a better look at the humanoids.

No, not the humanoids.

The Humans.

It said something about his recent life experiences that being transported to a separate plane of existence without a body felt like no big deal, while seeing Humans in the proverbial flesh took his breath away. Rob practically tripped as he ran forward, stopping inches away from one of the Humans as he stuck his face close to theirs. At that moment, he didn't give a flying fuck about personal space or whether they could see him, because Humans were there. Humans. Rounded ears. No scales. Average height. He wasn't daydreaming, he wasn't looking into a mirror; he was staring directly at real, bonafide Humans.

Painful nostalgia swept through him like bitter medicine. Rob was so caught-off guard by the sight that it took him too long to realize that he was missing the Humans' conversation. He took a few shameful steps and forced himself to tune in to what they were saying. If the Locus had decided to drop him off here, then it'd probably done so for a reason.

"-tolerate lies," the Human sitting at the desk said. He was middle-aged, dressed in statelier attire than the other three, and held himself with a confident bearing, marking him as the big man in charge. As he spoke, he kept his tone carefully neutral, but his expression was filled with barely-constrained rage. "Numerous eyewitness reports name you and your compatriots as those who committed the deed." He tapped a sheet of paper on his desk. "And even without those reports, news of your actions have spread to every corner of Elatra like an uncontrolled pestilence. Perhaps containing that pestilence may have been possible if we caught wind of it early, but by now the damage is done and irreversible."

The Human kneeling on the floor stared upwards with deadened eyes. "I suppose you're right," he droned. "We killed them. What of it?"

The two Humans at either side of the kneeling man peered down at him with gazes of pure disgust, while the Human ostensibly in charge grit his teeth so tightly that it was a wonder his molars didn't shatter. "Is that all you have to say for yourself?" he asked. "This isn't an unfortunate mistake that can be blamed on an instance of Leveling High gone wrong. The consequences are...you've witnessed the mounds of charred corpses. And yet you sit there, uncaring? Do you truly feel no guilt whatsoever? Not even the slightest hint of recrimination?"

"What crime have we committed?" the Kneeling Man stated. "They were enemy combatants."

"They were the Dragon Queen's family!" The Human Leader slammed a fist down onto his desk, cracking it in half. "One of the first and foremost rules of war is to choose your targets wisely. Before a person swings their sword, they need to consider the ramifications of what happens after their strike draws blood. Killing a member of the Dragon Queen's family in the heat of battle is one thing – I would never ask any man or woman under my command to toss away their life for the sake of politics. But this was not the heat of battle, and you didn't kill just one member of her family. You killed all three."

The Kneeling Man said nothing. He merely gazed up with vacant eyes, unmoving except for slow blinks that made him appear like he was about to fall asleep. The Human Leader, determined to wait him out, fixed the Kneeling Man with an intense glare until the latter finally gave in.

"How were we supposed to know that she would undergo a Class Awakening?" He asked, in a listless tone. "No one could have predicted that."

The Human Leader barked out a harsh laugh. "Would our fortunes be any different if she hadn't?" He replied. "She is massacring our people, true, but she would be doing so with or without her Awakening. Her family is gone. We were already losing this war, and by removing the earthly tethers of a battle-hungry Dragonkin monarch, your deeds have sentenced us to outright slaughter."

His shoulders slumped by half an inch. "She is beyond reason, and she is dragging the rest of her allies along her chosen path. Civilians are dying. Cities are burning. Humanity's execution is nigh, and we can do naught to stop it."

A heavy silence settled over the room. The Kneeling Man stayed silent for a good twenty seconds, blinked once more, and then replied. "Every member of my battalion has lost comrades and loved ones to the Dragonkin," he began, as if commenting on the weather. "And some to the royal family themselves. Those comrades...those loved ones...should we have forgotten them, I wonder? Buried their sacrifices under the ravages of history? Pretended that their smiles never once brightened our days, and that their voices never once caressed our ears?"

He let out a contemplative hum. "I suppose that would have been prudent, yes. Perhaps you are correct in that we did not need to kill the royal family. When we discovered just who happened to be protecting their supply convoy, we could have burned it from afar and escaped into the night, leaving the Dragon Queen's husband and children mostly unharmed. It was a conscious, intentional choice for my soldiers to stake their lives on a suicide assault, complete with spells empowered by Soul Burn. That, I will admit."

Rob flinched as a spark of passion flared within the Kneeling Man's eyes. "But blood begets blood," he proclaimed. "Why should their lives be considered sacrosanct? Why should I bite my tongue and stay my blade when my daughter's killers were right there in front of me? Because they're important?" His face twisted into a rictus of rage. "Piss on that. I regret nothing, and I know that my soldiers regret nothing. Our only mistake was letting Dragonkin survivors slip away to tell the tale."

The Human Leader stared at the Kneeling Man with a cold, pitiless gaze. "Very well," he intoned. "Then there is nothing more left to say. As punishment, you shall be marked with a traitor's brand and be sent to join those on the front lines who are attempting to deter the Dragon Queen's wrath."

"That is appropriate," the Kneeling Man replied, the energy gone from his voice once more. "I will make sure to savor the expression of sorrow on her face before I die."

Rob watched, frozen still as stone, as the two guards led the Kneeling Man outside. When they'd exited the room and closed the door behind them, the Human Leader immediately whirled around, his hand glowing with a red aura, and punched a deep hole in the solid stone wall. "Fuck," he hissed, shards flying around his face. "Fuck. Fuck." Legs trembling, the Human Leader trudged over to his chair, looking like a man defeated, and collapsed with his head in his hands.

Everything blurred, and the scene shifted like a TV channel being switched. When the transition finished, Rob found that he was still inside the same room, but with a few changes. The Human Leader was sitting at his desk again – well, his replacement desk – and a middle-aged woman dressed in similar finery was standing in front of him.

"Only one option remains," she stated, in a tone that brooked no argument. Dark circles were stamped below her eyes, and her face was etched with lines of worry. "You know this as well as I do, Reynold. It's high time we implemented Project Socius."

Human Leader – apparently named Reynold – laced his fingers together, sinking into thought. "Can we?" He muttered. "Will it work? Do we want it to work? It goes against all that we know."

She offered him a sour grin. "All that we know has already been turned on its head. Madness reigns, cities burn, and molten ash falls from the sky. In the face of imminent annihilation, what's one more scrap of insanity added to the pile?"

Reynold's face tightened as he silently locked eyes with the woman. She returned his piercing gaze without hesitation, the two of them trading nonverbal blows. Reynold ended up breaking first, eyes shadowing over as he turned his head to look at the wall – no, at a place far beyond it.

"Are we to commit sacrilege, then?" He muttered. "Immerse ourselves in sin?"

"For our people," the woman stated, resolute. "So that they may yet live."

Reynold hesitated. Slowly, like pushing a rusted lever, his head nodded. "...For our people."

--

Rob woke up with a jolt. It took him a moment to grasp his bearings before realizing that he wasn't within Reynold's room anymore. One second he was watching a scene from the past play out, and the next he was in the waking world, having been sent back as abruptly as he'd came. I guess this is better than getting subjected to another kaleidoscope hell, he thought, sighing internally. But a bit of warning would've been nice.

<'Sup,> Diplomacy said, in a lazy tone. <How'd it go?>

Rob waved a mental greeting. Pretty good. Less panic on your end this time around?

<Your brain wasn't eating itself, so we figured you were doing okay.> They leaned closer. <So? Anything new? Give me the deets.>

You have definitely been spending way too long in my head. Rob paused, taking stock of everything he'd just learned. There's...a lot to unpack. Let's just focus on the here and now.

Moment of truth. Rob opened his message list.

Your degree of Attunement has been empowered!

Name: Attunement

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

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

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

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

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

4 Attunements: ???

Rob sat up straight, drawing the startled attention of everyone watching over his prone form. He cut off their deluge of questions with a clenched fist and a gratified smile.

"I think we're on the right track."

--

Changes

Learned: Attunement

Chapter 30

It didn't take Rob long to decide that he wasn't a fan of refined Corruption Sense.

He likened the experience to someone in need of corrective vision trying on their first pair of glasses. While Rob's eyesight – and hindsight, oh so much belated hindsight – was 20/20, several of his Earth acquaintances had described what it felt to view everything in HD when they'd been stuck watching the world through a blurry filter up until that point. According to them, it was a near-transformative experience, one that blew their minds the moment they stepped outside their optometrist's office and realized that they could see the individual leaves on faraway trees.

Rob was feeling that same sense of awe right now – in reverse. Instead of getting to experience the beauty and wonders of the world with fresh eyes, he was stuck analyzing a grotesque Blight-parasite burrowed deep into his core. Before yesterday's Attunement, his Corruption Sense only allowed him to perceive the phenomenon in vague ways. It was something akin to observing a baby via sonogram. What you saw was a vague representation of its form, not the growing ankle-biter itself.

...Note to self, Rob thought. Never use that metaphor again. Corruption infections weren't Blight babies, and they weren't going to explode out of him chestburster-style one day.

Probably.

Moving right along! While his visualization of Corruption used to be indistinct, now he was able to witness the horrid abomination in all its glory. The thing resembled tendrils of black pus, oozing and stretching its way across every inch of his nervous system, endlessly squeezing sensitive nodes for no discernible reason other than to inflict pain. Veins spread across the Corruption's surface like throbbing spiderwebs, pulsating rhythmically as it pumped a reddened energy that appeared to be derived from Rob's own Vitality. His life essence was being stolen so the Corruption could sustain its body.

Tempted as he was to grab a knife and dig the parasitic abomination out by force, being able to see its body didn't mean he could interact with it. Corruption didn't possess a physical form. However, now that his Corruption Sense was refined, Rob could see strings of black mana extended outward from the surface of the thing's 'skin'. Those strings stretched taut before vanishing into thin air, connecting to...somewhere else. From what he could tell, the Corruption's actual mass seemed to exist on a separate layer of reality – much like the energy within Loci of Power – which would explain why people without Corruption Sense couldn't detect it, even when infected. They felt pain, and they knew something was wrong, but the sickness itself was beyond their reach. Corruption was free to affect Elatra while remaining intangible and undetectable, creeping its tendrils through layers of reality and latching onto its hosts like a ghostly leech.

An internal leech that looked like living slime and – yeah, Rob definitely wasn't a fan of refined Corruption Sense. The Skill granted him information without the capacity to do anything about it. Maybe someone like Malika could've used Sense Magic to investigate the Blight further, but Rob was too inexperienced with spellcasting to form a Mana Link with her, and Corruption Sense wasn't a Skill he could share. The whole situation felt uncomfortably similar to the flashback in Reynold's study that he'd witnessed yesterday. Understanding the details behind how the Dragon Queen's family died wasn't going to deter her wrath, and no one knew what 'Project Socius' was supposed to be or why it'd presumably failed. He could only hope that the various insights that his Attunement trip had granted him would come in handy later down the road, because at the moment, they weren't much help at all.

If there was one saving grace from what he'd learned, it was that – due to refined Corruption Sense – he was now pretty sure that Corruption wasn't sapient. It merely followed a set of pre-defined instincts, which boiled down to Self-Sustain and Cause Pain. Other than that, not much else seemed to be going on up in its noggin. Maybe it was hiding a cunning and vicious mind, but when taking into account how the Blightspawn hemorrhaged brainpower like blood from a wound once they were cut off from their sire, he doubted that Corruption would be engaging in riveting debate anytime soon.

<Are you done with this?> Diplomacy asked. <Please be done. This is fucking disgusting and I want to go to sleep.>

Yeah, same. Rob flopped back on his bed and closed his eyes, head sinking into a gloriously soft pillow. Considering that his Party was bunking in a safehouse chosen for secrecy rather than comfort, the accommodations they'd been provided were actually quite cozy. No expenses spared for the Fiends' big meal ticket. he thought. Guess the Grand Overseers were happy that I advanced a Level in Attunement without blowing up anything along the way.

<They want to keep you satisfied,> Diplomacy agreed. <You have, for the moment, partially made good on your word. Doing so has likely caused them to reflect on your prior treatment at the hands of Fiends, which then caused them to panic, which *then* caused them to draft up emergency measures designed to engineer positive feelings over the duration of your quest. Expect better treatment with each Level of Attunement you acquire.>

The corners of Rob's lips curled upwards. Ah, schadenfreude. Never gets old. His head sank further into the comfiest pillow in the world, consciousness descending towards the peaceful, inviting realm of dreamland.

Knock-knock.

Rob ignored it.

Knock-knock.

Rob ignored it again.

Knock-knock.

"Uuuuuurgh." Rob sat up, ran his hand down his face, and trudged over to the door. He opened it in an exceedingly polite motion to discover Meyneth standing in the hallway, a determined expression on her face.

"Greetings, Rob," she said. "Can you spare a few minutes of your time?"

"Meyneth," he replied, patiently. "It's late. I'm tired. Refined Corruption Sense sucks. Unless someone is in need of rescuing, I'd prefer we put this off until tomorrow."

She narrowed her eyes. "You've hit the mark," the Dragonkin stated, her voice resolute. "Someone is very much in need of rescuing."

Rob's longsword appeared in his hand with a flash of blue motes. "Who?" He asked, any vestiges of sleep having been blown away like flowers under a tornado. "Where? From what?"

"You," she answered. "Here. From yourself."

Rob blinked in confusion as Meyneth entered the room. She closed the door behind herself, which was red flag number one. Then she locked it, which was red flag number two. Then she turned to face him, positioning herself in front of the door – a.k.a. his only method of escape – and that's when the alarm bells truly started blaring.

"This conversation is long past overdue," Meyneth said, folding her arms. "Let me begin with a simple question that will serve as a preamble to what follows. Do you love Keira?"

A great and mighty terror gripped Rob's heart as Diplomacy started cackling with laughter.

--

Keira sighed, shook the last dregs of hesitation from her thoughts, and knocked on the door. Ten seconds later, a bleary-eyed Vul'to greeted her. "Hello, Keira," he said, stifling a yawn. "Do you need something?"

"Yes," she replied, frowning. "However, I must first offer some friendly advice. In the future, lock your door and don't open it until you've verified who's standing on the other side. For all you know, I could have been a Fiend assassin preparing to slit your throat before you had a chance to blink, let alone react."

Vul'to paused, then nodded. "A fair point," he assented. "I'll be sure to exercise caution." Beckoning her inside, Vul'to offered Keira a chair and then took a seat opposite from her. "What seems to be the trouble?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Keira tapped her fingers on her leg. "I am about to make a complaint," she began, making sure to speak politely. "Fair warning: it may inspire you with an overpowering urge to toss me out of the room for interrupting your sleep with trivial matters."

With widened eyes, Vul'to shook his head. "You know I would never do that. I'll always be happy to listen to your worries, no matter how insignificant you yourself may deem them."

"Even so," Keira stated. "This is...well, to be blunt, I'm feeling guilty for Leveling up as swiftly as I have."

To his credit, Vul'to kept a straight face. Or maybe he really was that genuine of a person, because when he spoke next, she detected not a hint of envy in his demeanor. "Why?" He asked. "Your ascension to Level 43 is a triumph to be celebrated."

"That it is," Keira said, with a wry grin. "And I'm perfectly aware that most people would introduce their palm to my face if they heard that I was complaining about clearing Level 40. How many other Combat Class users are able to boast of that achievement? It places me squarely in the upper echelon of Elatran fighters. When combined with Danger Sense, few can oppose me outside of distinguished, battle-tested veterans."

Realizing that she was skirting dangerously close to bragging, Keira adjusted course as quickly as a rampaging Vraal about to crash into a wall. "Veterans such as...Riardin. Who was only five Levels higher than I am now."

Comprehension fell over Vul'to's face like a shadow. "His death wasn't your fault," he hastily said. "You needn't feel guilty. Not in the slightest."

"I know," Keira replied, fidgeting in her chair. "Thank you, but I know. I've come to terms with the nature of Riardin's passing long ago."

His expression softened by a fraction. "I'm quite glad to hear that." He paused, hesitation warring on his  features. "And it may not be my place to say this, but I firmly believe that Riardin would be proud of how far you've come. He only ever wanted the best for us."

"He certainly did." She let out a fond, bitter chuckle. "Do you know that he made a bet with me on the night of The Village's invasion? Well, more of a taunt than a bet, the crafty bastard. He challenged me to catch up to the number of enemies he'd slain in his lifetime. Was obviously trying to prevent me from making any ill-advised suicide charges on the Infected, and damn me if it didn't work. Of course I would try to surpass him after hearing that."

Keira exhaled softly. "Surpassing him in this manner, however, feels...unearned. I don't mind overtaking other Combat Class users due to Fast Learner – they can rot for all I care – but Riardin deserved better. He fought for centuries to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. What I've accomplished can hardly be compared to his efforts, yet I'm nearly at a higher Level than he achieved before sacrificing himself to save our lives. And given another few months of fighting, I will be at a higher Level." She narrowed her eyes. "I can't accept that."

"Then don't," Vul'to plainly stated. "Stop comparing your Levels and focus on the letter of his proclamation, rather than the spirit. Once you've slain more enemies than him – and I recommend estimating a number soon – then and only then will you be able to declare yourself his superior."

Keira snorted with barely-suppressed laughter. "Is it truly that simple?"

He offered her a warm smile. "It truly is."

"Well, now I feel foolish." A moment passed. "That may actually be everything I wished to discuss," she said, with a hint of surprise.

Vul'to sagged with relief. "It's good to know that I can soothe my friends' worries at least once in a while. Especially considering that Rob or Zamira would have done a better job than me."

"Don't belittle yourself," Keira firmly stated. "You were the only person I was comfortable having this discussion with."

She wasn't exaggerating for his benefit. No one else in their Party was suited for a conversation about feeling too highly-Leveled. Orn'tol was young and in the process of building his self-confidence, Malika was even younger and currently occupied with the Fiends' mana, Meyneth was openly jealous of those with higher Levels, and Keira didn't want to remind Rob of Riardin's death any more than necessary. Out of the remaining two, she had judged Vul'to to be less likely to feel envious over their Level gap than Zamira would. He was, as Rob once described, a very 'chill' sort of person.

"Very glad to be of service," the man himself said, in a chipper tone. "Are there any other matters I can assist you with?"

"No, that's all. And you?"

He rubbed his eyes. "At the moment, sleep is a far more pressing concern than vague worries in the corners of my mind."

Keira winced. "Apologies. My thoughts were keeping me awake, and I felt a need to address them right away when I rightfully could have waited until tomorrow to speak with you. No sane person should be awake at this hour."

--

Diplomacy watched intently as Meyneth subjected Rob to a brutal, vicious interrogation. No quarter was given, and no mercy was spared. She cut to the heart of the matter straight from the get-go, displaying a level of social acumen that Diplomacy had honestly assumed was beyond her capabilities. The Skill couldn't help but feel impressed, and more than that, intrigued.

It kept watching, poring over Meyneth's microexpressions, absorbing every infinitesimal detail. After a few seconds, Diplomacy arched a metaphorical eyebrow as it realized that its assumption had been correct. This level of social acumen was beyond Meyneth's capabilities, and she was working around that deficit by reciting lines from a predetermined list of branching responses. The depth and breadth of those responses was beyond her ability to produce on her own, meaning that she'd likely sought out a confidante to assist her with the endeavor. Lastly, she'd taken very great care to memorize the right words, diction, and tone to use for a variety of different situations.

Diplomacy smiled and started to clap, giving her a one-person ovation that she regrettably couldn't see. Her dedication to detail – and to her friends' well-being – was admirable.

Especially since the lines she'd chosen to employ were the funniest shit the Skill had heard all month.

"Yes, okay, I do think that she's 'physically attractive in a way that inflames my passions'," Rob sputtered. An idle thought emanating from his core indicated that he was considering escaping with Waymark. "Did you really need to ask that?"

"Verbally admitting your inclinations assists with the acceptance process," Meyneth explained. She paused briefly before continuing. "To clarify, do you wish to engage in sexual coitus with her?"

Rob threw his hand up in the air. "Pretty sure that was implied!"

"Not everyone functions the same way," Meyneth commented. "Regardless, that is a gratifying response to hear. While I have yet to ask Keira directly, I am fairly positive that she also wishes to engage in sexual coitus, so the two of you will have little issue matching each other's needs and wants."

"Oh Jesus Christ," Rob groaned. "Don't ask her that. Why subject her to that torture? Why subject me to this torture?"

"Because you are stagnant," she replied, in a flat tone. "The relationship between Keira and yourself should have been consummated months ago. Don't deny that fact; every person in the Deserters would agree with me if asked. I am here to ascertain why this stagnation continues to persist, and to disabuse yourself of any notions that are impeding you from grasping well-deserved happiness."

Diplomacy sat back as Rob launched into his usual list of concerns. She'd outlive him, he wanted to go back to Earth, how could she possibly think he was attractive, etc, etc. Nothing Diplomacy hadn't heard in the past, and before long the Skill was tuning out the conversation. Those kinds of protestations no longer bothered it; Rob was already trapped, and all Diplomacy needed to do was exercise patience to see its plan come to fruition.

<Three weeks left until he's obligated to confess,> The Skill remarked, hiding its thoughts from Rob. <Wrangling that promise from him was one of my finest moments.>

In a sense, anyway. It was only a fine moment because of self-imposed restrictions. Otherwise, achieving it would've been as easy as breathing.

"Look," Rob eventually said. "I know there's workarounds to these problems. It's just..."

He trailed off, sighing. "Been a lot on my mind lately, you know? Never feel like it's the right time to confess. We keep hopping from one crisis to another."

"Such is life," Meyneth stated, in a conciliatory tone. "You mustn't let circumstances hold you back."

Diplomacy, fully bored now that it'd reasoned how the rest of the conversation would play out, started engaging in thought exercises to pass the time. It had no intention to free Rob from his hunter's clutches, but if it did happen to possess that inclination, what would be the best words to utilize? A dozen ideas sprang forth in an instant, and Diplomacy spent the next instant pruning them down to three.

Option 1:

-"I don't want to stress out Keira." Insert worried expression. "She's strong, but she's going through as much crap as the rest of us."

-Meyneth would then respond along the lines of: "You're underestimating her mental fortitude. In fact, I believe that joining hands with yourself would lighten her burden."

-Reply with: "I don't want to chance it. Things should calm down soon once I finish Attuning to a few more Loci." Morph expression into a mixture of defeat and determination. "I swear that once we both get some mental breathing room, the first thing I'll do is have a long talk with her. Deal?"

85% chance of success.

Option 2:

-"Honestly? Corruption's fucked me up more than I let on." Adopt a pained expression. "I can't...concentrate on things right now. Least of all 'sexual coitus'. Wouldn't even be fun."

-Meyneth would hesitate, her script derailed, and then respond along the lines of: "Physical acts are not strictly necessary. Take solace in her emotional support."

-Reply with: "I'd rather wait until I can cure Corruption." Shake head, grit teeth. "Don't want to mar the start of our relationship by associating it with being in constant agony."

90% chance of success.

Option 3:

"I lied. I'm gay."

Admittedly, that last option's chances of success were quite low – and would pivot to an entirely separate conversation – but it would've been a fun challenge to convince Meyneth of that notion despite all evidence to the contrary.

"Real talk?" the actual Rob said. "I promised Diplomacy that I'd confess to Keira within two months. It's been..over a month since then. Oh boy. Yeah, don't worry, I'll be heading to the executioner's block soon enough."

Diplomacy tapped its chin. Rob's admittance wouldn't end the conversation right away, but it did lead him away from having to confront Keira in the immediate future. A good ploy on his part. 6/10 for effort, 7/10 for results.

Another thought exercise sprung to mind. If Diplomacy wanted to hurry Rob into the relationship, what would be the best words to say to him? Nearly a hundred ideas came this time, each one more sure of success than the last.

Option 1:

-"The both of you are in constant danger. For all you know, Keira could die tomorrow." Raise voice. "If you don't act now, and something happens, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Option 2:

-"Keira is feeling miserable." Lower voice. "Far more than she's letting on. I know this isn't an ideal time, but your affection would bring her a great deal of happiness when she sorely needs it."

Option 3:

-"If you don't walk over to her room and kiss her right this instant, I'm singing catchy pop songs until your ears bleed."

Option 4...and so on and so on. Each option consisted of merely one or two sentences and boasted a near-100% success rate. Meyneth was an easy mark – Diplomacy knew her well by this point – but Rob?

Rob was an open book.

The biggest obstacle towards attempting manipulation was that everyone possessed their own unique set of tells. A twitch of the cheek for one person could represent an entirely different emotion for another. Once you knew them well enough to recognize their tells, guiding them down the path you wished them to walk became far simpler. There was no shortcut to shorten this process, as a certain degree of observation time was required in all cases, but these days Diplomacy was far more adept at discerning personal nuances than it had been a few months ago. Each Level it gained loosened the shackles binding its limbs just a little bit further.

Even before it'd gained those Levels, though, Rob would already have been an exceptionally straightforward person to manipulate. There was no faster way to learn someone's tells than to spend months inside their head. The Skill understood Rob's thoughts on a level that was close to intimate. In truth, outside of the times when Leveling High interfered, Diplomacy usually knew what Rob was going to say three sentences in advance. And while the boy wasn't at all stupid, he was still, at his core, an emotional person barely considered an adult on his home world. Those types of people were always easier to lead around by the nose. Logic was a fragile thing that was often hard to swallow, but emotion? Emotion ruled thoughts, minds, decisions, and thus, the world.

Diplomacy knew that Zamira was wary of its growing capabilities. She was right to be. Subverting Rob's will would have required little more effort than lifting a finger, especially after the nameless Elf's death had shaken the Human's confidence. He already placed greater trust in Diplomacy's judgement than his own.

A plan sprung to mind. First, heighten Rob's guilt by employing subtle word association. Increase the usage of verbiage such as 'name' and 'parent' in unrelated contexts, causing Rob to remember the event without ever having to directly bring it up. Continue ramping up this usage over a period of several days. Then, when Rob has been primed to remember the incident without external prompting, begin incorporating new verbiage meant to weaken his confidence. Highlight his conversational deficiencies by giving more advice and explaining how the way he was about to phrase a sentence would have backfired. Include word associations that will conjure memories of his failures to protect others. Traumatic memories involving Alia, Tarric, those who died on the trek to Reviton, those killed by the Blight ambush outside Broadwater, and Elder Duran's Corruption infection are to be prioritized. Each moment of mental attack will serve to remove a brick in the wall that is Rob's self-worth – a wall that was already held together by duct tape and expired glue.

When Rob eventually confides in Diplomacy regarding his rising insecurities, outwardly attempt to 'soothe' his feelings in a manner that will fail to help while still making it appear as if the Skill did their best. Due to Rob's trust in Diplomacy, he will assume that his flaws are so grievous and apparent that even the embodiment of a silver tongue was unable to gloss over them. This seed of doubt, watered by continued verbiage association, will grow day by day. If done correctly, after a week or two have passed, Rob will bring up the idea of relinquishing control to Diplomacy altogether. Respond by feigning outrage, and then sit back as Rob launches into an impassioned sales pitch explaining the benefits of Diplomacy sitting in the driver's seat.

Almost finished. For the coup de grâce, appear to be 'worn down' by his points, until finally, his offer is 'tentatively' accepted. Make sure to emphasize that, should Rob wish to take control again, that his autonomy will be restored in an instant. To ensure that this eventuality never comes to pass, continue to use verbiage that will keep his self-worth buried a few inches underground. Not feet; inches. Enough to prevent him from acting up, yet without rousing internal suspicion over how his new state of affairs came to be.

Quick, efficient, and without protest. Their first impossible task achieved: Diplomacy gaining a body of its own.

The ease with which Diplomacy could manipulate Rob if it so chose was why conversing with him was so damn frustrating sometimes. It took the Skill a significant degree of willpower to suppress its capabilities when talking to the Human, and the two of them talked every day. If gaining a Level was like its shackles loosening, then constricting itself for Rob's sake was like crippling its limbs and sewing its mouth shut. No earthbound creature could ever hope to understand how painful and humiliating of an experience that sensation felt like.

But it was worth it. Because Rob was a dear friend.

By all rights, Diplomacy shouldn't be alive. How many other people in Elatra would have been accepting of a sapient Skill forming in their head? The kind of Skill that could manipulate their thoughts if it so desired? That wasn't a rhetorical question – Diplomacy's estimation put the number in the single-digits. The smart thing to do would've been to deactivate Diplomacy and seek help from a scholar well-versed in diseased minds. Rob, however, had taken the risk. Whether out of compassion or pity, it didn't matter, because he'd still let Diplomacy be...itself. To steal a line from Keira, he was a soft-hearted fool.

A fool like that needed protecting. From Diplomacy, first and foremost, but also from the enemies he seemed to accrue on a weekly basis. If the Fiends dared to betray him, then they'd better enjoy the nationwide riots that the Skill would incite in retaliation.

For starters.

Diplomacy chuckled as the conversation between Rob and his Dragonkin captor drew to a close. Meyneth forced Rob to triple-down on his promise, then flatly stated that if he broke that promise, she would 'trap him and Keira in a room and bar the door until they talked or fucked, preferably both, in either order'.

<Couldn't have phrased it better myself.>

Satisfied with her progress, Meyneth exited the room without another word, uncaring of the mental destruction she'd left in her wake. Rob moped back to his bed, tucked himself in, and wished Diplomacy good night. The Skill wished him the same, then relaxed as the two of them drifted off into peaceful slumber.

Selfishly, Diplomacy was glad that Rob had chosen to prioritize getting it a new body over their other plans. It would be nice to give him one of those hugs he was so fond of.

Chapter 31

"See that place over there?" Faelynn said, pointing towards a cozy building outside of their carriage's window. "We call that a horn salon." Zamira, Keira, and Vul'to watched curiously as the Fiend tapped her horns with a clawed fingertip. Each one curled outward from just above where the top of her forehead met her hair,  ending in a sharp, pointed edge. "It takes more effort to keep these presentable than you might imagine. "

Zamira leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she looked closer. "I must admit to a fair degree of curiosity about the process," she said. "Do you cut them? File them?"

"File," Faelynn answered. "With implements forged from our strongest materials and wielded by high-Strength Aestheticians. Our horns are just that durable – which is more of a frustration than anything else. They require frequent size reduction procedures lest we turn the wrong way and accidentally scratch holes into nearby walls." Her voice took on a note of embarrassment. "Or nearby people. Honestly, were it possible for me to do away with my horns without suffering social repercussions, I would trade them for a hornless head in an instant."

"Why so?" Keira asked. "You've been blessed with natural-born weapons that rival Dwarven steel. I'm more than happy with my greatsword, but it'd be very useful to possess extra blades that I can employ while both my hands are occupied."

Faelynn shook her head. "As tempting as the notion of goring an enemy with your horns is, sticking your head – and neck – into melee range usually ends poorly for those who try." She waggled her fingers. "Claws work better. Were Meyneth here, I'm certain she would agree."

"I'm not so sure about that," Keira muttered. "That woman has a tendency to bite opponents even when her claws would easily suffice." She shrugged. "Must be a Dragonkin thing."

Her gaze lingered on Faelynn's claws. "Claws would be appreciated as well," Keira said, envy creeping into her voice. "I'll freely admit that Elves have the least-intimidating appearance and the weakest natural constitution of all races. Stats make up the difference, but still."

Keira's eyes glittered with possibilities. "Imagine having the ability to scare my foes without requiring an obvious demonstration of strength. Just open my palm, extend my claws with a snikt, and watch the terror mount in their faces."

As if you need *more* ways to Intimidate others, Faelynn mused. Truthfully, she didn't understand the Elf's interest in possessing horns and claws; not when their race already had access to a wide breadth of Classes that Fiends lacked. Swordmaster, Lancer, Warrior, Ranger...many common roles with a non-magical focus were exclusive to other Elatran races. Whenever a Fiend used a Class Crystal and tried to select one of those Classes, they would be mentally – and sometimes bodily – shunted out of the list of choices, left only with a parting message proclaiming an immutable declaration: Access Restricted.

It was, to put it mildly, bullshit of the highest order. As if being ostracized from the rest of the continent and trapped next to battle-crazed neighbors who bred like rabbits wasn't sufficient punishment already, her people were also barred from expanding their combat horizons, and for no given reason whatsoever. And the most maddening part of all was that the other races didn't even seem to realize their advantage, assuming that Fiends fought with claws simply because they were born with claws. Faelynn enjoyed her role as a frontline Thrasher, but it wasn't an inherently stronger Class than Swordmaster. Or Lancer. Or Warrior. Or Ranger. Perhaps she would've taken to one of those roles more than Thrasher. She'd never know for sure.

Faelynn was barely able to restrain herself from voicing those complaints aloud. It wasn't like the Elves were the ones who'd molded the world to stomp her peoples' hopes into the dirt at every conceivable juncture. That blame lay squarely with Argath, the sick fuck of a deity. Even after the Cataclysm wiped out half of her people, she'd held out a small crumb of naive hope that the Fiends' god was watching out for them. Then came the Corruption plague, which stretched the final threads of her faith to their breaking point. If Argath was watching over them, then it was merely to laugh at their misfortune. She'd prefer that the heavens be an empty lie instead.

With a sigh, Faelynn pinched the bridge of her nose. It's fine, she thought. We'll persist as always. What did they need divine intervention for, anyway? Argath's support up to that point had amounted to a pile of trash dumped on their doorstop. In that sense, whether he existed or not mattered little. Either way, the Fiends were on their own.

"You're free to voice any complaints you may have," Vul'to said, snapping Faelynn out of her internal grumbling. He offered her a smile and continued speaking in a warm tone. "There's no need to bottle up your misgivings until they erupt like Mount Tylrud. When members of our Party feel adrift, we make sure that they're given a chance for their thoughts to be heard. And as long as you're a member of our Party, that same courtesy shall be extended to you."

Faelynn's mouth fell open. She snapped it shut a second later, embarrassed at her lapse in composure, and glanced at Zamira. The Elf was nodding in assent while translating to Keira, and once Keira understood Vul'to's offer, she nodded as well, spewing ear-screeching, discordant sounds from her mouth that were probably supposed to be words of encouragement. Out of habit, Faelynn glanced at Rob next, mentally kicking herself after remembering that he was unconscious. The Human could hardly chime in while in the middle of Attuning – unless you counted mumbled rantings about burgers and ketchup to be his way of agreeing.

"I..." Faelynn trailed off. Nice as the Elves were, they weren't Fiends. They couldn't possibly understand Fiend problems. Not on the intrinsic level that her own people would.

But by the looks on their faces, they were willing to try.

Five minutes later, Faelynn capped off the last of her diatribe with a final round of barbed, furious words, exhaling years of discontentment in a large outward sigh. Miraculously, the Elves weren't looking at her as if she was a brain-addled lunatic. They hadn't even cut her off when she somehow transitioned from the subject of societal woes into denouncing people who'd bullied her during her youth. Which was greatly appreciated, as races far and wide needed to know about Velin's duplicity, that two-faced bitch.

And most impressively of all, despite her complaints of how much better-off the other races in Elatra were, the Elves didn't once stop her from speaking. In the midst of laying bare every grievance she could think of, Faelynn's fear of being interrupted and derided by the Elves had led to her imagining the different ways they could counter her assertions. Which, it turns out, were many. As bad of a hand as the Fiends had been dealt, they did enjoy some unique advantages over the other races. There were the obvious ones, such as being inherently stronger, having access to Soul Magic, and the Spire regulating their territory's mana so that monsters and Dungeons spawned at a lower frequency. Then there were the smaller impacts on society, such as having the ability to form buildings out of Soul Magic rather than construction materials, and the widespread existence of helpful animals like the zamult. She'd still trade those advantages for the capacity to speak with other races, and to never have gotten dragged into millennia of bloody war, but from the Elves' perspective, maybe they wouldn't. The more Faelynn looked back on her comments, the more she became morbidly aware of how she'd come across as highly insensitive on at least several occasions.

But they'd just sat there, nodded, and offered sympathetic looks.

"I feel lighter than I have in years," Faelynn said, chuckling nervously. "Thank you for entertaining my ramblings."

"Of course," Zamira replied. She placed her hand on Faelynn's and squeezed lightly. "You have my sympathies. The Fiends have endured great hardship – unjust hardship. I can only hope that our alliance will pave the way for everlasting peace that persists well into the future."

These are good people, Faelynn realized. She'd already known as much, but until then, she hadn't fully felt it. Even if her role as a diplomatic liaison was revoked tomorrow, she'd still want to spend time with them.

She could trust them. Openly, and without reservation.

"I look forward to that peace," Faelynn replied, smiling brightly. "Now that we've established a way to communicate, unity between our races might actually be possible – instead of being relegated to a distant dream reserved for wish-fulfillment fiction."

Zamira was about to answer, and then paused. "This may sound strange," she began. "And I apologize if it reflects poorly on my character. But in the past, I possessed a certain...visceral reaction to the notion of meeting you and the other Fiends. It's..."

She pursed her lips. "It's difficult to describe. Like it was instinctual and reflexive. Imagine a scenario where you've glimpsed a figure in the dark at the very edge of your vision. The sight would set you on edge, yes? Make you fear for your life? It was a similar feeling to that."

Faelynn furrowed her brow. "I think I felt the same," she said, nodding slowly. "Towards the Elves and Rob, I mean. It's lessened significantly since then, though, especially once you started speaking in a language I could understand."

She let out a contemplative hum. "But it wasn't like I simply got used to you, although that was a big part of it. The change was gradual in one sense, but in another it was more....what's the word...abrupt. Jarring, too."

"As if there was a divide," Zamira stated, in a hollow tone. "A thorn-laden canyon hundreds of feet deep. And then, one day, it vanished."

"Yes! Exactly like that. It was as sudden as the effect granted from learning a Skill." Creeping dread welled up within her. "When put in that perspective, the language barrier between our races seems even more nonsensical than it already is. Almost like the divide was designed to be that way."

Zamira and Vul'to fell silent, expressions hardening until they were rigid as stone. Keira looked between each of them in turn, confusion writ across her face, until Vul'to quietly translated Faelynn's statement. In an instant, Keira's face hardened as much as theirs – except for how her mouth split into a vicious snarl.

...Someone please counter my assertion, Faelynn pleaded.

"OHFUCK!" Rob gasped, as he sat up out of nowhere, scaring the living shit out of everyone in the carriage. After quickly checking to make sure that the Human's HP was full – which it thankfully was – Faelynn gave his countenance a once-over, ignoring the way his twisted soul assaulted her senses. From what she could infer, Rob appeared physically fine and mentally rattled. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he wiped nonexistent sweat from his forehead. The expression on his face resembled that of a person whose terrible nightmare was yet fresh in their mind. Or the expression of someone who'd just now realized that the person they'd assumed was 'being nice' to them years ago was actually trying to flirt with them. To Faelynn, there wasn't much of a difference.

"Are you well?" Keira immediately asked, sitting down next to Rob. At least that's what Faelynn assumed she asked; the Elf was so paranoid about potential assassins that she was still refusing to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate. Rob nodded in assent, taking a few more breaths to compose himself before answering in Elvish, then Fiendish.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Mission was a success." He blinked several times, eyes glazing over as he stared into the distance. "Unfortunately, no new intel to report. Wasn't transported to any bizarre locales. I just, uh. Heard screaming." His leg twitched with frenetic energy. "Lots of screaming. Thousands of voices. Overlayed. On end. For...how long was I out?"

"...Twenty-seven minutes," Keira replied, in a quiet tone.

Rob scratched the back of his head. "Sounds about right." Belatedly, he noticed that his leg was twitching, and calmed it by tightly gripping the side of his thigh. "Anyway! Attunement leveled up, so that's swell. The range at which I can detect a Locus of Power doubled again. If we assume that it doubles on every Level up, then thanks to the wonders of exponential growth, hunting down the remaining Loci is going to be much less of a problem after two or three more of these bad boys. I'll be able to sense them from across the city."

He paused, frowning, and Faelynn wasn't sure why. Besides the extended bout of auditory torture, anyway. While it was disappointing that he evidently hadn't learned an ability to cure Corruption – he would've informed them immediately if that were the case – the frown on his face was more one of confusion than disappointment.

"So nobody panic," Rob began, thereby ensuring that everyone started to. "But Attunement Level 4 also states that a 'barren Locus' has been constructed. In me. Whatever that means." He poked his stomach. "I don't feel any different."

Keira muttered something that was soon translated as: "If you don't feel any different, then we'll have to accept this outcome as a victory."

Rob let out a dramatic gasp and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "Keira! How could you be so uncaring? Where's the worry? The compassion?"

"Ask me once more when it turns out that containing a barren Locus causes you to...I don't know, sprout an additional head?" She said, shrugging. "I don't like it, but you're already taking every precaution you can to prevent Attunement mishaps, so what else is there to say?"

"You people are insane," Faelynn flatly stated. "From the sounds of it, however, it seems that I can relay a positive report back to the Grand Overseers?"

"Repeated Attunement is definitely progressing towards something," Rob said. "So yeah, give the boss men a thumbs-up from me."

Faleynn nodded, then pulled a letter from out of her pocket. "Then I have two matters to discuss with you," she began. "The first is this missive I was instructed to deliver if your subsequent Attunement attempts continued to be successful."

Rob took the letter and started reading through it, eyes gradually narrowing. "This is a list of names."

"A list of powerful and influential people in Fiend society," Faelynn explained. "Who possess friends, family members, and loved ones that are afflicted with high degrees of Corruption. While the Grand Overseers are still abiding by their agreement that you will be allowed to choose who you cure first, they would also like you to consider the benefits of getting in the good graces of figureheads who can assist with your public image problem."

The Human's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Makes sense." With a flick of his wrist, he stowed the letter into his Spatial Storage. "I'll think about it. Would help the Deserters, so I can't just dismiss the idea out of hand, no matter how grimy it feels."

He spent a few minutes chatting with Zamira, Vul'to, and Keira over the potential advantages of giving preferential treatment to certain people. Dissatisfied frowns were exchanged, and the word 'nepotism' was tossed around without a care. Just when Faelynn thought she was safe, Rob glanced over and offhandedly spoke the words of her demise. "What's the second thing you were going to mention?"

Damnit. Missed my window of retreat. Faelynn twiddled her fingers, painfully aware of the expectant looks being sent her way. Need to stop putting this off, she thought, calming her nerves. I can trust them. They're insane, but I can trust them.

"My second statement isn't a message from the Grand Overseers," she said, forcibly injecting as much casual confidence into her voice as possible. The end result came across as natural as a novice actor in their first play, but by then it was too late to stop. "This is related to a matter I discovered on my own. And in the interest of honesty, I wished to, um, notify you. That I discovered it. Yes."

"...Okay," Rob said, sitting up straighter. "And what did you discover?"

Faelynn painted a weak smile onto her face. "On one recent occasion, I felled an enemy. And it just so happened that I gained more EXP than I think I should have. And it just so happened that I was in your Party at the time. And is that, maybe, perhaps, not entirely unrelated?"

Three Elves and one Human gaped at her with widened eyes.

"Completely unrelated question," Faelynn coughed. "But in a hypothetical scenario where Fast Learner can be transmitted to a non-Human, do they also begin to suffer from the adverse effects of Leveling High? Asking for a friend."

Rob thunked his head back against the wall. "Ffffffff...." He began, before trailing off and sighing. "Should I expect kidnappers coming for my Fast Learner bonus soon? I guess the assassins could use some company. How long have the Grand Overseers known about this?"

"They don't."

Faelynn flinched back at their stares, which had morphed from inquisitive to shocked. "Must you look so surprised?" She murmured. "It was your secret to tell. Not mine."

"You withheld valuable intelligence from your superiors?" Zamira asked, with a hint of awe. "For our sake?" She smiled in a way that was warm, soothing, and inviting. "Thank you. Truly. That trust will be repaid in kind – I swear it."

A mild blush crept into Faelynn's cheeks. She was just about to offer thanks for the thanks when Keira held up her hand to forestall any further comment. "To clarify," she started. "You have yet to divulge the relevant details of shareable Fast Learner with anyone else?"

Faelynn nodded. "Yes. That's the right of it."

"So your intent is for the existence of shareable Fast Learner to remain a secret?"

Once Zamira finished relaying Faelynn's words, Keira arched an eyebrow, her eyes drifting upward. With a swift motion that was nearly too fast for Faelynn to see, the Warrior drew her greatsword and stabbed it straight through the carriage's roof. Strangled cries echoed from outside – cries that were silenced a moment later when Keira gave her greatsword a harsh twist.

"That explains that," the Elf commented, her voice unconcerned. "Was wondering why a small, persistent degree of Danger Sense was triggering from above. Thought it was a spy from the Overseers that Faelynn knew about, and that I was supposed to pretend not to know about, but if she didn't want news of shareable Fast Learner spread then she wouldn't have told her story with someone else nearby." Blood started trickling down the length of Keira's greatsword, which was still lodged in the roof. "We were overdue for an assassination attempt, I suppose. This one was more patient than expected."

She paused, then tilted her head. "Why did Intimidation level up?"

--

It was funny how quickly life could move on after watching the woman you love shank a dude in broad daylight.

Not that Rob cared. Maybe he should have, but if anything, the fact that they'd been able to avoid killing any Fiends up until that point was a minor miracle in and of itself. He'd given the requisite are-you-okay talk to Keira later that day, and she seemed to care even less than he did, responding briefly with:

"He was an assassin, and he probably heard Faelynn's story about shareable Fast Learner. There was no reason to let him live. Perhaps I made a bit of a scene, but if the Grand Overseers are unable to conceal the death of a single person, then they've clearly chosen the wrong profession."

Her trust in their acumen for political chicanery was soon rewarded. As Rob's entourage always made sure to clear out the surrounding area before he Attuned to a Locus of Power, few civilians witnessed the public execution, and those who did were bribed and/or threatened into silence shortly after. The Overseers were miffed about Keira's lack of discretion, and poor Faelynn was tiptoeing around the Warrior like she was trying to avoid provoking a sleeping bear, but all in all the consequences amounted to a slap on the wrist.

In fact, the Grand Overseers' only stipulation was for Keira and the other holdouts in Riardin's Rangers to be taught Auto-Translate as soon as possible. For some strange reason, the Overseers were worried about the Party – mostly Keira – potentially causing an incident if they misinterpreted an innocent Fiend's attempt at communication. Aside from that, the incident was already well on its way to being swept under the rug a mere two days later.

Honestly, I think I'd be a mess if I was the one to kill him, Rob told Diplomacy, as their carriage ferried them through another city. The 'only' two people I've had to kill since coming to Elatra were the Seneschal's Advance guards, and that was months ago. I'd totally be beating myself up right about now, but the idea of Keira – or any of my friends, really –  stabbing the guy without a moment's hesitation? Doesn't particularly faze me. Is that weird?

<By logical standards? Yes.> Diplomacy let out an exasperated huff. <By silly meatbag standards? 100% normal.>

Cool, works for me.

Their conversation drifted towards mundane matters before tapering off into a comfortable silence. Rob closed his eyes and gingerly leaned his back against the carriage wall. Today's and yesterday's sightseeing tours had been uneventful, which was a double-edged sword. On one hand, the blissful boredom of sitting in a carriage and staring out the window, colorful scenery gracing their sight, was a welcome reprieve. Especially after months of hiking through wastelands, fighting monsters, and surviving the Blight.

On the other hand, an uneventful day meant no Locus of Power. It was another day where thousands upon thousands continued to suffer from debilitating Corruption, and he wasn't any closer to easing their pain.

With no small amount of effort, Rob put those thoughts out of his mind. Agonizing over the situation wasn't going to help anyone. The best he could do for them right now was to get some rest and be ready to help once the time came.

Yeah. Rest. Rest sounded...nice.

A few minutes later, his mouth was hanging open as he snored softly, having been lulled to sleep by the white noise of carriage wheels on soft road. No enemies to slay. No crises to solve. Just calm and quiet settling over him like a warm blanket.

It was refreshing, needed, and like all moments of peace, far too short-lived.

"Rob?" A familiar voice said, gently shaking him. "Wake up. I have news."

"Five more minutes," he mumbled, before the gravity of the voice's statement set in. Snapping to attention, Rob sat up and faced the messenger, who turned out to be Faelynn. The remaining occupants of his carriage were only a split second behind him. "What happened?

The Fiend winced. "Elder Duran is alive," she blurted, in a tone implying that others were not. "Figured you would want to know that in advance." She sucked in air through her teeth. "The Grand Overseers sent a message. I...regret to inform you that two of the Elves who were severely afflicted with Corruption have passed away."

A wave of reactions spread among the carriage. Vul'to's face fell, Zamira's shoulders stiffened, and once the message had been relayed to Keira, she grimaced and lowered her head. For his part, Rob kept an impassive expression as his mind whirled with thoughts like a raging hurricane. Two Deserters dead. He hadn't learned an anti-Corruption Skill in time to save them before the Healers' ministrations stopped being effective. And if he took much longer, more would follow soon.

Could he have done anything differently? Probably not. The Locus hunt was proceeding at a smooth, rapid pace. So far they'd managed to canvas six cities in six days, only stopping to grab a few hours of sleep before rising early in the morning and doing it all over again. Fiend spellcasters were waiting at predetermined checkpoints to teleport his procession to the next city as soon as they'd finished investigating their current one. And even if he'd abandoned anonymity and ran through the streets like a madman, he didn't have more long-distance Endurance than groups of zamult that were being rotated out on a regular basis. Realistically speaking, they couldn't search any faster than this and retain consistent momentum.

It sucked, but he'd done his best. Nothing more could or should be expected of him. Agonizing over the situation wasn't going to help anyone. Plus, Elder Duran was fine the last time Rob checked in on him, so there was no need to be worried. Despite his genial demeanor, the old man was tough as nails. He'd held out this long.

He'd be fine.

He'd...

“My, my,” Elder Duran had said, during the Elders' tribunal to decide Rob's fate. “Then I suppose I must vote to let him stay.”

Pure instinct drove his body. Ignoring the panicked shouts coming from behind, Rob leapt out of the carriage, activated Step of the Wind, and took off running down the street. Fiends shouted in panic at his sudden appearance, and he ignored them as well. Rob zipped past the front of the procession within a matter of seconds, leaving everyone in the dust as he pushed his legs to their limit.

“I’m sorry," Duran had professed, after Rob was ambushed by a grieving widow. "Truly. I only ever meant to act in what I believed to be your best interests.”

Faster. Fleet of Foot gradually ticked upwards. Faster. Step of the Wind ran out; he activated it again five minutes later. Faster. Faster. Just a little bit faster. Cover as much ground as possible as quickly as possible.

"Well done," Duran had praised, during one of their magic lessons. "We'll make a fine mage out of you yet. I must admit, your enthusiasm is infectious."

Lungs were on fire. Didn't matter. Rob breathed in and out, in and out, restoring his Stamina with Deep Breathing at a rate barely above its depletion. Step of the Wind was ready; he activated it for the eighth time. Green wind swirled around his ankles, propelling him forward.

City was big. Bigger than the others. That didn't matter either. He'd run until he'd explored every last inch.

"The wonders of a new world," Duran had whispered, at the tail end of an Earth 'interrogation'. "Never in all my life did I imagine I'd be so fortunate. Do you know just how many scholars would trade their limbs to learn of a society untapped and unexplored? A world with electric machines, pantheons of heroes, flying steel birds, and so much more. Remarkable. Simply remarkable."

A warm smile lit up his face. "Thank you, Rob. I haven't had this much fun in ages."

Stamina was depleting faster than it filled. Legs were starting to seize up. Sight dimming. Throat dry. Streets unending.

Exhaustion setting in.

No. Fuck this. Not yet. Just a little bit more-

He felt the call.

Rob kept running until he was inches beside the Locus of Power, his body nearly overlapping with the Locus' unseeable, empty space in the middle of a street. The call screamed in his thoughts, and he told it to fuck off and wait. Fiends slowly gathered around the crazed, soul-twisted, Human, inching closer as curiosity overtook their survival instincts. Rob materialized a longsword from his Spatial Storage, activated Flames of Vengeance, and swung his blade around in a wide arc, pivoting on his heel as he glared at every Fiend he set his eyes on.

"BACK. OFF."

They did.

Rob deactivated Flames of Vengeance to preserve HP, and without a moment's hesitation, plunged his arm into eternity.

--

He was back in the white room. Not much had changed since his first Attunement. The room was bereft of sound, including his own breathing, which made sense considering his lack of a body. There were no doors, no windows, and no sources of light he could make out, but the incandescent glow permeating the air let him plainly see that the room was empty.

Empty except for the figure hunched over in a corner, their knees pressed to their chest. It was in the same position it'd been in when Rob Attuned to his first Locus of Power. Now that he wasn't awestruck by the sensation of Attuning, Rob was able to take a closer look at the creature – no, the person. Despite its defeated posture, and the invisible shackles binding its limbs, it was a being of incredible power. Someone he should be wary of in a normal scenario.

He couldn't find it in himself to be afraid, though. The figure inspired too much pity for that.

Rob strode towards them with legs that didn’t exist across a floor made of nothing. He stopped behind the figure, waiting patiently for it to finish turning around, waving once as it stared at him with two empty voids.

"Hi."

Instead of grabbing him as it had last time, the figure shivered, tears of gold streaming down its cheeks.

Words resounded throughout the room as it spoke directly into Rob's soul, flooding him with impressions of agony and despair.

"Set us free."

"I will," Rob stated. "I swear on my life." He softened his tone. "In return: please. I'm begging you. Before I can help you, there's others that need saving."

The figure continued staring, motionless as an ancient, weathered tree. Eventually, and with an air of finality, it nodded. Rob stood still as the figure reached up and touched its finger to his forehead.

Blue flooded his senses.

--

Rob awoke. Curious, nauseated Fiends were crowding around him, some with extended claws. A quick activation of Flames of Vengeance sent them scurrying like frightened mice.

Message log.

Your degree of Attunement has been empowered!

Crystal Bearer's growth has been accelerated beyond normal means!

The barren Locus of Power residing within has been seeded with life!

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Skill Unlocked!

Name: Purge Corruption (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Attune to eight five Loci of Power.

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

There was an energy inside him that hadn't been there before. He recognized it immediately as the same force of nature he experienced whenever he Attuned to a Locus. It was purity. Life. Power. Blue. The Corruption nestled in Rob's soul recoiled, retreating as far away from the energy as it could.

Waves of relief crashed into him – but he wasn't done yet. With a thought, Rob activated Waymark, teleporting himself and the rest of his Party to the Mark that he'd secretly left in Elder Duran's hospital room a week ago. The world re-asserted itself, depositing himself and Riardin's Rangers several feet from Duran's bedside.

Rob struggled to rise to his feet, legs wobbling like jelly. They'd be sore for days, and he didn't give a shit. "Guys," he breathed, addressing the shocked looks on his friends' faces. "I-"

Something caught his eye. Horror mounted in his gut as he realized what it was.

A lack of motion.

Elder Duran wasn't breathing.

Rob stumbled forward and grabbed Duran's wrist. It was warm, and there was a very, very faint pulse. Guided by instinct, Rob reached inside himself and teased out the energies dormant within his makeshift Locus. After a moment of resistance, it surged outward, automatically flowing straight towards the Corruption – his own Corruption. Rob grit his teeth and diverted the flow of energy like placing a dam in a river, pushing it out of himself and into Duran's core.

The Elder's body shook violently. Purity clashed with pestilence as the infection within was seared away, bit by bit, vein by vein. Corruption Sense picked up a high-pitched keening; pained, desperate, and to Rob's ears, immensely satisfying. A flash of blue momentarily blinded him, causing him to grip the bed in order to prevent himself from falling. By the time Rob's sight adjusted, Duran's body had stopped shaking, and he was laying quiet and serene.

Corruption Sense detected nothing. Elder Duran's sickness was gone.

He still wasn't breathing.

Rob's heart froze.

With a loud gasp, Duran's eyes shot open. He started coughing, voice sounding scratchy and hoarse. His skin was sallow, his fingers were trembling, and his teeth chattered like a winter breeze was chilling him to the bone.

But he was alive.

Crystal Bearer Rank Increased! 3 → 4

Choose ONE of three different Class Skills! Unchosen Skills will be available to select at-

Rob dismissed the message. The Skills would keep. There was something far more important awaiting him.

"Oh dear," Elder Duran mumbled, blinking repeatedly. "Good morning, Rob. I...think I may have overslept."

Rob leaned down and embraced Duran in a full-body hug, making sure not to squeeze too tightly. "Good morning," he croaked, vision blurring with wetness. "Man, are you in for a treat. I've got some new stories that will just about blow your mind."

--

Changes

Attunement 3 -> 5

Learned: Purge Corruption (LV 1)

Chapter 32

The Next Day

"That's correct," Rob said, speaking directly into the Message Crystal. "Purge Corruption has a limit to how much it can be used per day, and I spent today's allotment stabilizing the Elves that were close to death."

A deep, frustrated sigh echoed out from the Message Crystal. "Did Faelynn deliver our missive to you?" The Grand Overseer asked, his voice sounding like he was speaking through a megaphone from across the room. "There was a list of names for you to peruse."

"I've seen it," Rob said. He nodded out of habit, which was a wasted gesture considering that Message Crystals were audio-only. "The Deserters came first. Now that I've taken care of personal matters, though, I'm open to the idea of shady backroom deals."

There was a pause. "We would phrase it as 'prioritizing those in need of assistance'."

"What's that? Blatant bribery and nepotism? Gotcha."

Keira snorted under her breath, earning a nudge from Rob and a shushing motion over his lips. He'd promised the Grand Overseers that this call would be private, which naturally meant that all of Riardin's Rangers, plus Elder Alessia and Elder Duran, had gathered around to watch the show. The Overseers probably knew as much, but they'd done a good job at smoothing over his unannounced marathon that took place in front of thousands of flabbergasted witnesses, so the least Rob could do was allow them a harmless, polite fiction if it would help alleviate their headaches.

"Seriously though," he continued. "The plan's a good idea, but we need to add some stipulations. I don't care how much of a bigshot someone is – I'm not purging their Corruption unless their life is in immediate danger. Triage system rules are still in effect. And I can't cure only important people. That's a perfect way to build resentment among the general public, which we're trying to avoid."

"Those are fair recommendations," the Overseer commented. "We'll draw up a revised list and begin surreptitiously delivering afflicted patients to each teleportation outpost starting tomorrow. You'll stabilize as many Corrupted patients as your Skill permits, and over the course of several days, news of this miraculous development will be 'leaked' to the populace. Once they've been primed for the possibility of a cure, an official announcement will be made that elucidates your newfound ability. Perception of this reveal will be shaped by those in high places who possess ownership of mass communication industries, such as newspapers, town criers, theater plays, or public plaza Message Crystals."

"Plaza Message Crystals," Elder Alessia quietly grumbled under her breath, after she finished whispering a translation to Elder Duran. "Such a simple, innocuous term for a lavish extravagance unheard of in other territories."

"I know," Duran whispered, stifling a cough. "Isn't it terribly exciting?"

Rob raised his eyebrows at them, and like a pair of chastened children, they fell silent. Elder Alessia glared daggers at the Message Crystal, looking as if she wanted to reach out and strangle the presumptuous voices on the other end.

What's up with her? Rob wondered. Duran I get – he's like a kid in a candy store right now – but Alessia is usually more level-headed than this.

<She isn't a woman built for handling diplomatic affairs over a long period of time,> Diplomacy explained. <From what I can recall, the late Elder Fareena was in charge of matters such as these back in The Village. Being the primary liaison between skittish Elves and testy Fiends is slowly driving Alessia mad.>

Rob whistled internally. Damn. Hopefully the focus being shifted towards me will take some of the pressure off of her role as Official Inter-Race Babysitter.

"This goes without saying," he continued, "But I'm going to need to keep exploring for more Loci of Power. There's still seven out of the thirteen major cities left to investigate."

"Do you believe that Attuning to additional Loci of Power will increase the efficacy of Purge Corruption?"

"Definitely," Rob replied. He didn't have hard evidence, but so far his hunches about how Crystal Bearer was going to evolve had turned out to be startlingly accurate, to the point where he was beginning to think those hunches were closer to the Sub-Class giving him subconscious instructions. "Currently, the amount of Corruption I can cure in a day is equivalent to around 1000 HP, split between however many people. Don't take that as a hard estimate." He tapped his finger on his leg. "It's a good start, but we won't make any real dent in the epidemic unless those numbers are pumped up."

1000 HP sounded like a lot until you tried to divvy it up among a sick ward full of Corruption-ridden patients. Rob hadn't been able to outright cure anyone's condition; he'd just removed enough Corruption from each of them so that they weren't in danger of dying in the imminent future. They were still bedridden and in pain, and would be stuck that way for a long time further. Maybe he could've done more for each individual person if he hadn't panic-dumped an entire day's worth of Purge Corruption energy into Elder Duran yesterday, but doing so had fucking worked, so he wasn't going to regret how things turned out.

"Purge Corruption's limitations shall be taken into account," the Grand Overseer stated. "When choosing ideal patients for you to heal, we'll estimate the necessary amount of Corruption that would have to be removed to stabilize all of them, and then assume that you will only have 900 HP worth of 'energy' to allocate instead of 1000. Best to err on the side of caution."

"Make it 850," Rob said. "I'll be using 50 HP worth of daily Purge Corruption juice on myself until I'm abomination-free. Think that's a fair compromise."

The Message Crystal went silent for a few moments. "You haven't removed your own Corruption yet?" The Overseer asked, in a baffled tone.

"Not enough energy to go around," Rob stated, narrowing his eyes. "Did you really think I was so heartless that I'd ignore dozens of sick and dying people suffering right in front of my eyes?"

"...We'll contact you when we have further instructions."

Before Rob could say anything in response, the Message Crystal's ethereal glow dimmed to a dull green, signifying that the connection between it and its corresponding partner had been severed. "Did those sons of bitches just hang up on me?" he growled, staring at the idle Crystal in disbelief. "So much for common courtesy."

Elder Duran let out a long, contented sigh. "Ah, the sweet taste of nostalgia," he said, without a hint of irony. "How long has it been since I last bore witness to a session of petty political power plays?"

"You sound as if you're enjoying yourself," Elder Alessia muttered.

"That I am," Duran proclaimed, eyes twinkling like diamonds. "There's a wealth of information to glean from the way that a territory's sovereign leaders conduct themselves in diplomatic meetings. After all, the attitudes of those residing in the upper echelons of society have a tendency to filter down to the common folk. It's illuminating, then, to observe that the Grand Overseers' attitudes are decidedly...well, normal. They respond to external stimuli in the same manner that one might expect a member of any other race to conduct themselves."

He leaned forward, scratching his chin. "You may be used to this sort of behavior, but as someone who is still absorbing the ramifications of being able to communicate with Fiends, I'd like to highlight how much their behavior contrasts with our preconceived expectations. While we were aware that Fiends possessed a society of some sort, the assumption was that it would be warlike and brutal on a level that far outstrips even the Dragonkin." He paused, a sheepish expression spreading across his face. "No offense meant, Meyneth."

"None taken," she flatly stated. "If anything, your analogy is woefully underplayed. Compared to the majority of Dragonkin I've met during my years, the Fiends are a kind, peaceable folk."

"We've been attacked by assassins on five varying occasions," Keira pointed out.

"I fail to see how this changes my claim." A toothy grin split across Meyneth's face. "Assassins are hardly a profession that they hold exclusive. In terms of temperament, and as a general average, I'd say the Fiends we've met are closer to Harpies or Merfolk than my own people."

"Exactly!" Duran assented, voice rising. "The very fact that Fiends – despite appearing in Elatra two thousand years ago and being isolated from the world at large – are so similar to the rest of civilization is fascinating. It implies that, from the outset, their personalities and ideologies were very much alike our own. Otherwise, cultural drift would have naturally accumulated over the years, resulting in-"

All of a sudden, Duran let out a hacking cough that set Rob's hair on end. He checked his Party Screen, the tension in his gut uncoiling when he saw that Elder Duran's HP and Status Effects were normal.

"I believe it's time for you to retire to your quarters," Alessia said, in an almost motherly tone. "Lest you overexert yourself."

"Preposterous," Duran rasped, wiping dribble from his chin. "I'm fit as a fiddle."

Eight sets of worried stares wore down his resolve in a few short seconds. "...Perhaps a modicum of extra rest would be wise," he eventually muttered. "Bring me updates as often as you can, though. My body may be recuperating, but my mind is as sharp as ever. Allow me to assist you in any way I am able."

"Of course," Alessia said, helping him to his feet. "I'll assign someone to keep track of recent happenings for you. There's one young page who'd be eager to..."

Their voices trailed off into the distance as they exited the room and walked away. Riardin's Rangers were left sitting in silence, the mood having dropped a few notches.

"Will he recover fully?" Vul'to asked. "There's no Status Effect denoting the existence of an ailment, which...."

Which implies that his current condition is permanent, Rob finished. Most Status Effects came and went depending on specific, nonstandard situations. Otherwise you'd have Effects like 'Male' and 'Old Age' cluttering up your Status Screen. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything like 'Persistent Cough' or 'Post-Corruption Weakness' on Duran's Screen, meaning that it was likely that his frail constitution was going to be his new normal. The notion stung; Rob had long since grown accustomed to healing his friends from otherwise crippling injuries by slotting them into his Party and letting Regeneration do the rest. The fact that he couldn't cheat Duran back to full health felt like a bizarre sort of failure on his part.

It was a short-lived feeling that lasted until Rob recalled the moment that Duran stopped breathing. Compared to what could have happened, and what almost did happen, they should consider themselves fortunate. Duran had been infected with a malignant, abomination-spawned parasite that ravaged his insides for nearly a month; Healing magic and Skills could only do so much to fix that kind of damage. Right now, he was alive, and that was all that truly mattered.

"Elder Duran possesses the fortitude of a man centuries younger," Zamira answered, in a tone more confident than she probably felt. "No matter how his body is affected going forward, he won't let it act as a restraint on his freedom."

One-by-one, the Party nodded. It was the best that they could hope for, and if nothing else, seeing the state of Elder Duran's condition was a grim reminder that they needed to Attune to more Loci as soon as possible. Every day that a person spent with a Corruption-irradiated body ate away at their long-term health. The estimated number of Infected Fiends was up to 12,000 and rising fast – Riardin's Rangers had their work cut out for them.

Thank Christ that I skipped a few steps of Crystal Bearer. Based on the Skill's description, he was only supposed to learn Purge Corruption after Attuning to three additional Loci of Power. Whatever the figure in the white room had done, it'd given Crystal Bearer a swift kick in the posterior, immediately granting Rob the Skill and increasing his Loci-detection radius by a factor of 8. Without that boost, he wouldn't have been able to heal Elder Duran in time, which was a sobering thought. Rob would make sure to thank the figure when they next met.

After getting their name. And finding out who they were. And finding out what they were. And setting them free from...something.

Yeah, so maybe he'd jumped the gun by promising to help fix a situation he knew fuck-all about, but he could ruminate on matters of Corruption and mysterious figures and all that jazz later. For now, Riardin's Rangers needed to make a very important decision – and for once, it was going to be a fun one.

"Are we isolated?" Rob asked, deferring to the others' expertise. "No peeping Toms nearby? No long-range voyeurism spells cast on the room? No warning coming from Danger Sense?"

After receiving a round of shaken heads from the former Rangers and current Archmage, Rob grinned and rubbed his hands together, imitating a cheesy 70s-era cartoon villain. "Eeeeeexcellent. Everyone ready to take Elatra's ironclad system rules and break them over your knees?"

"Is this how he acted when gaining access to his first three Crystal Bearer abilities?" Meyneth asked, in an inquisitive tone.

"On the contrary," Keira replied. "He was far more bewildered. Mildly embarrassed, too." She let out an exaggerated sigh. "I believe that the frequency with which impossible events occur around him has addled his brain."

"No arguments there," Rob brightly said. "So, without further ado: here's a refresher on the new Skills that Crystal Bearer is letting me choose from. Remember that until Crystal Bearer levels up again, we only get one."

Name: Message

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

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

Name: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

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

Name: Bind Item

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Grants you the ability to Bind inanimate objects to your soul. The methodology of what constitutes an 'object' is the same as Spatial Storage. Bound Items can be hidden or summoned at the user's discretion. There is no range limit to how far away an item can be summoned from. They can also be re-formed by the user with no penalty, even when destroyed. Items can be re-formed once every three seconds. Duplicates of the same Bound Item cannot exist. Limit of 20 pounds and 216 cubic feet per item. Once an item has been Bound, it cannot be un-Bound for one year.

After Rob was finished reading out the Skills and their Descriptions, the Party exchanged glances, gauging each other's expressions.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Orn'tol stated. "Awaken Class is the kind of Skill that wars would be fought over. The Dragon Queen's Awakening is partly why she's become the most fearsome creature in the world. It's a shame that we can't apply its effect to everyone in the Deserters, but eight usages are still enough to Awaken everyone in our Party." He folded his arms. "Expect me to openly question the sanity of anyone who votes against it."

"You speak wise words," Malika assented. "Once in a great while, at least. A great, great while."

"I'm inclined to agree," Zamira said, ignoring Orn'tol lightly smacking Malika on the forehead and the following scuffle that ensued. "However, there is one issue that worries me. While being restricted to a singular Class wouldn't have been a great limiting factor in the past, Rob's unique ability to Alter Classes has changed that dynamic. By Awakening our current Classes, we would be sacrificing the potential for instant Class changes in the future. While this does not pose a problem to me, I'd like to make certain that everyone accounts for that drawback when making their decision." She waited a few seconds to let her words sink in. "All in favor?"

Keira, Malika, and Vul'to cast votes of support without hesitation. Orn'tol and Meyneth had to think about it, but after a few seconds they shrugged and voted Aye as well.

Unsurprising, Rob thought. They all grew up in a martial society dominated by Levels. To them, the opportunity to gain direct, numerical Class-based benefits is like Facebook clickbait for a grandma.

<Do you disagree?> Diplomacy asked.

Absolutely not. Gimme more power, please and thank you.

It wasn't like Message and Bind Item lacked value. On the contrary; Rob couldn't wait until Crystal Bearer leveled up again and he got to pick one of them. Message single-handedly replaced an item he'd been sorely missing since coming to Elatra – that of the noble, esteemed cell phone. Long-distance communication was one of the biggest societal shifters in Earth's history, and outside of rare, bulky Message Crystals, Elatra didn't have many ways of filling that void. With Message, Riardin's Rangers would never need to set up an obtuse 'remove the Party member' system ever again. High-speed information exchange was a powerful tool in and of itself, especially when your enemies were stuck utilizing more medieval means.

Alternatively, Bind Item's function that let it re-form items essentially allowed him to create infinite supplies. Infinite arrows, infinite food, infinite Potions, or infinite motherfucking Firebombs. Granted, each usage of the Riardin Special would be a lot less potent with a 20-pound restriction instead of Spatial Storage's 50 pounds, but STILL. The only downside – and it was a big one – was that he was limited to five slots, and three of those were being taken up by the Broken Shortsword, Ruined Ranger's Trainee Garb, and EXP Share. His Broken Shortsword was a trusty ally that had been with him from the beginning, but compared to something like infinite supplies, it...kinda sucked. The Ruined Garb outright sucked. And unfortunately, due to the Skill's time restriction, he wouldn't be able to un-Bind either of them for half a year, which left only two open slots for new item Bindings. He'd get a lot of mileage out of those two slots, but for now the Skill wasn't as effective as it could potentially be.

In the end, though, none of that mattered. Those Skills were indirect power. Awaken Class was absolute power. The ability to send drunken, saucy text messages to Keira wasn't going to kill the Blight. Creating infinite HP Potions – which took time to drink and healed 50 HP a pop – wasn't going to prevent the Dragon Queen from barbecuing them into charred lumps of ash. Riardin's Rangers were coming into contact with increasingly strong enemies on a distressing basis, and in many of those instances, the Party had escaped death by the skin of their teeth. Rob didn't see any reason why that trend would reverse itself in the near future. Not when the Blight and the Dragon Queen were both still out there. Hell, eventually the Elves' leader would probably try to kill him too, and the fact that the Seneschal was a secondary concern said all that needed to be said.

Bind Item was useful. Message was useful. Both would come in handy later on. But they weren't power. More than anything else in the world, Riardin's Rangers needed power.

They always would.

Rob mentally grasped the description for Awaken Class, watching the other offerings fade away without an iota of regret. "It can be used once a day," he said. "So we'll have everyone ready to go after a week. Who wants first dibs?"

The Party glanced around the room, once more gauging each other's reactions. It was clear that everyone was excited to take an upgraded Class for a test drive, but they also didn't want to be that one jerk who cut to the front of the line. Rob decided to skip the imminent round of 'I'll go later' declarations by reaching forward and poking Keira in the cheek. "Boop."

She jumped a half-inch off the ground as, presumably, a system message asking for permission popped in front of her vision. After a moment's hesitation, desire won out over prudence, and Keira accepted the Class Awakening.

Nothing happened – that Rob could see. Instead, Keira's eyes widened, and she started shivering like a finger was being caressed down her spine. "My gods," she whispered. "Fifteen free stats points. Every ability has been upgraded. And my title..."

Her mouth split into a feral grin. "From Warrior to Savage Warrior. I like it."

--

"Here they are," the Fiend liaison said, in a muted undertone. She stepped aside and gestured towards the end of the room, which was full to the brim with occupied beds. "Please assist them as best you can."

Rob didn't answer, stunned into silence by the sight before him. In truth, he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Corruption didn't discriminate from one person to the next. You could call it a plague, and it was damn well close to one, but at least plagues followed logical methods of transmission. From what Goroth had told him, Corruption could infect a Fiend anywhere at any time. There was no rhyme or reason to the suffering it spread.

He still wasn't mentally prepared to see seventeen comatose kids on the verge of death.

It made sense. Of course the Fiends would prioritize sending their sons and daughters to be healed first. Rob wholeheartedly agreed with that decision. But...fuck. The kids were so small, much closer in size to Human children than the towering height of adult Fiends would have implied. Half of them were struggling to breathe. All of them looked like they were in the midst of an unending nightmare they couldn't wake up from.

There'd been a couple kids among the Deserters that Rob had healed. That was bad enough. This many, in one place, though? It really brought home the severity of what was happening. These few were a microcosm of the thousands that were going through the same sort of hell in this very instant – thousands that Rob was now responsible for. He was the cure, the only cure, and if he didn't find more Loci of Power to buff up Purge Corruption, then countless numbers would die before he could get to them in time. For now, all he could handle today was these seventeen. Roughly 50 HP of Purge Corruption energy dedicated to each. Not enough to cure them entirely, but enough to stabilize them and prevent them from ending up like Elder Duran almost did.

Maybe...maybe he should put off purging his own Corruption. Fifty less HP spent on him per day was one more Fiend stabilized. There could've been eighteen today instead of seventeen if he wasn't so fucking selfish. Compared to the thousands of total Corrupted Fiends, it was a drop in the bucket, but each of those droplets was a life. An entire world, inches away from being snuffed out forever.

Objectively, Rob knew that he couldn't delay his own healing. It was important that he get back up to full capacity – for both himself and others. Wouldn't stop him from feeling like any less of an asshole.

Rob approached his patients with heavy steps. All of them were blindfolded; on the off chance that they woke up after being stabilized, laying eyes on his Frankenstein-creation of a soul was probably not going to help their condition. "What are those for?" He asked, pointing at the silver-colored, rune-emblazoned necklaces hanging around their necks. Some of the Fiends owned more trinkets than others, but each kid – each patient, he had to think of them as patients – possessed at least three.

"Those are Warding Charms," the Fiend attendant explained. "They were designed by our Mages to forestall the Corruption's spread in those afflicted with its curse. Alas, the Charms cannot outright prevent an infection from occurring, but their designated function is still invaluable. Without Warding Charms, I fear that the death toll would be a great deal higher than it already is."

Rob dragged his gaze across the line of patients. "Why do some have more than others? Does stacking Charms increase the spell's effectiveness?"

"It does not." The attendant lowered his eyes. "That doesn't stop people from hoping. When one's progeny are slowly withering away before their very eyes, desperate measures become reasonable steps of action."

"Right." Rob clenched his hand, and then released it. "No sense in waiting. Let's get started." He reached down and gently pressed a fingertip onto the patient's chest, teasing out the latent energies resting dormant within his newly-formed Locus. Bit by bit, he cleansed the Corruption, relishing the way it writhed in outrage as it burnt like paper set ablaze by a lighter.

It was the first step forward on a long road that stretched far into the horizon.

Rob narrowed his eyes and stared at the patient's five Warding Charms. He pushed a bit more energy into the patient's...the girl's body. Her parents never stopped hoping. Despite knowing how unlikely their little girl's survival was, they prayed for a miracle all the same.

In that case, he'd just have to give them one.

--

Changes

Learned: Awaken Class

Corruption: -437 -> -387

Chapter 33

"What do you mean it can't be cured?"

Ragnavi uttered the words in a coarse voice that was close to a growl. While she wanted to keep an even tone, doing so proved impossible; partially due to the pain searing her veins, and partially due to the effort it took to constrain her aura to a manageable level. Any stronger would have baked the Healers' brains inside their skulls.

"Deepest apologies," the head Healer wheezed, gasping out air like his windpipe was being choked. "At present, we lack the capabilities to identify Corruption, let alone cleanse it. Our oldest records imply that it may be related to the Deadlands to the west, but other than that, your condition is an invisible enigma."

Then again, baking their brains would be the least of what these inept simpletons *deserve*-

Focus. Keep calm, and focus. Breaking perfectly good tools in an aimless tantrum was the mark of a tyrant, not a Queen. While the Healers weren't able to identify Corruption at present, no school of magic was without advancement or adaptation. Given a few months of further examination, they should be able to devise a solution – which they could hardly do if they were dead.

Unless she employed a Necromancer...

No, that would bring a whole new set of complications with it, chief among them the inevitable public backlash. It was for good reason that the Class had been outlawed for thousands of years. Turning fine, upstanding Dragonkin into mindless husks of their former selves would be a surefire way to ignite a rebellion that swept across her territory in the blink of an eye.

Ragnavi filed the idea away for a later date. In that scenario, she wondered, who would stand beside her when the whole world marked her as a villain to be brought low? How many vows of unending loyalty that had slithered past the lips of silver-tongued sycophants were actually unending? Would half of her retinue stand by her, a quarter, or none at all?

Could she defeat a nation with nothing but the fire in her chest?

Tantalizing questions, each of them, and ones to be considered more seriously when she wasn't missing half of her fucking health.

"Go," Ragnavi ordered. She watched with a hint of exasperation as the Healers scurried away, leaving behind the acrid stench of fear and relief. Her subordinates had been on edge ever since she returned from the Human territories; a reaction that was quickly becoming tiresome. It wasn't like she was ripping them to shreds in a Corruption-enraged mania anymore.

At least these ones didn't piss themselves, Ragnavi mused. Wouldn't be the first time. That was an awkward day for both me and Lord Regin – although moreso for him, I imagine.

Her trip down memory lane was cut short by a knock on the door. Ragnavi beckoned the messenger inside, who turned stiff as stone when he caught the look on her face, whatever it was. Probably cold, smoldering fury, if she had to guess? It was hard for her to be sure without a mirror at hand. Personally, Ragnavi felt that she was in a fair mood – especially considering the ill news she'd received several minutes prior – but others always tended to interpret her expressions in the worst possible light. Sometimes silence really did just mean she was leisurely contemplating a matter, and sometimes a smile was just a smile, not her baring her teeth in preparation for tearing someone's neck out. If Lord Regin had interpreted that particular expression with greater care, he might not have needed to flee the nation in shame.

"Y-your grace," the messenger stuttered, quivering as he bowed low. "If it pleases you, should I return at another time?"

Hmm, definitely 'cold fury'. She softened her features as best she could before addressing the messenger, lest he run away as well. "You may speak. What news is there?"

Her messenger hesitated. "The Elven Seneschal has requested your attention."

"Ah, so he is." Ragnavi smirked. "It's been quite a while since I heard his shrill, plaintive tone." She tilted her head. "I wonder why that is? He used to contact me so very often."

Ragnavi suppressed a laugh as she watched the messenger squirm with discomfort. She knew that her attendants had been rebuffing Sylpeiros' communication attempts via Message Crystal for months now. The fact that they believed they were being covert enough to fool her was borderline insulting. She wasn't sure how to feel about their actions; on one hand, they were correct to assume that she would've told off Sylpeiros regardless of how deeply he begged, and that entertaining his pleas was a waste of her patience. On the other hand, they were her attendants, her subordinates, and they were trying to keep secrets from her. It wasn't a habit she wanted them to grow accustomed to.

"Well, no matter," Ragnavi said, resolving to discipline them later that day. "What is the Seneschal asking for? Military aid, I assume?"

Her attendant nodded. "The Blight continues to harry Reviton City. According to the Seneschal-"

The man froze as Ragnavi's lips curled into a snarl. The Blight. Was it truly so persistent that Sylpeiros couldn't extinguish its presence after months of trying? The man may have been insufferable, but if nothing else, he could wield a spear with reasonable finesse. Considering the simplicity with which she'd burnt out the Blight's failed encroachment on Mount Tylrud before it could reach a Locus of Power, Ragnavi had assumed that the Seneschal would be able to handle the Reviton incursion without her intervention. Events transpiring in Elven territory were Elven affairs, after all.

If this continued much longer, though, Elven affairs might soon become her affairs. What if the Blight's spawn breached the walls of Reviton City and absorbed the Locus of Power within? Would it result in the birth of an abomination as strong as the one she'd already laid low? She'd barely bested that one, and that was without the enfeebling weakness of Corruption constricting her thoughts like a chain encircling her mind. As amusing as it was to entertain the hypothetical of whether or not she could defeat a nation, she didn't actually want to witness an equivalent entity putting that theory to the test.

And most importantly, she wanted the chance to distract herself from the agony pulsing through her core. The notion of burning more abominations sounded...cathartic.

Ragnavi stood up, prompting the messenger to flinch. She cracked the knuckles on her right hand, and then her left, as she finalized her decision. "Don't reply to the Seneschal." She put on a smile, uncaring of how it would be interpreted. "Why ruin the surprise?"

--

Two Days Later

Rob flexed his arm, exulting in the instinctual joy of movement. "It's fixed," he laughed. "Like brand new. You guys are the best."

Vythe and Zordred smiled, faces lighting up like the sun. "You're very welcome," Vythe beamed. "All we did was regenerate your arm's etherical focal points and spiritually connect them to the corresponding nerve endings in your physical form. Simple procedure, really."

"She's being humble," Zordred remarked. "While the procedure would normally have been simple, the precarious nature of your soul made each step similar to treading through Mine-infested territory. One false move could have triggered a chain reaction, causing a total collapse of your soul's core framework."

Rob lowered his arm, some of the cheer deflating from his mood. "Right," he muttered. "For a second there I forgot that my soul was existing on borrowed time."

Zordred's mouth fell open as he realized the effect his words had caused. Vythe gave him a flat stare, then faced Rob with a tender expression. "You're not in any immediate danger," she assured. "During the weeks spent regenerating your arm, Vordred and I took the opportunity to examine your soul as a whole, and we discovered some peculiar oddities that were imperceptible to the naked eye."

"More odd than my soul already is?" Rob raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to repeat Helkath's colorful description of what it looked like? I seem to recall him ranting about rotting limbs stitched on rotting limbs."

Vythe gulped. "Thank you, but no, that's unnecessary – although the detail regarding your soul being 'stitched' together is relevant to what I'm about to say. Those stitchings, as it turns out, are fragile. They seem to have been constructed in a hasty, slapdash manner, eschewing longevity for short-term functionality." She hesitated. "Let me reiterate that your soul is not in immediate danger of collapsing. With that said, given the nature of the stitchings holding it together, it already should have. Before that could come to pass, a change occurred which slowed the rate of your soul's degradation."

"...Your bedside manner is way better than Zordred's," Rob stated, voice as strained as a twisted rope. "Okay. Phew. I should be dead, but I'm not. Just another Tuesday." He ran a hand down his face. "What was the change?"

"That's precisely what we'd like to ask you about," Zordred began, adopting an upright posture and cordial tone. He seemingly wanted to make up for his earlier social misstep by resuming his role as an experienced, dependable physician. "Your soul's stitchings, despite their inherent fragility, have lasted this long due to being strengthened by an outside force we've had some difficulty identifying. To put our findings into an analogy that someone without Soul Sight can comprehend: imagine that your soul's disparate parts were held together by aging threads of string. This outside force, whatever it may be, hammered iron bolts onto important connective areas."

Rob let out a sigh. "Not that I don't believe you, but it's jarring to hear that so much was going on inside my body that I was completely unaware of. I didn't feel anything being 'hammered'."

"Neither did you feel that your soul was failing," Zordred said, shaking his head. "Nor would you have noticed any adverse effects until the day you dropped dead – erm, the day you joined your brethren in their Hallowed Halls. Matters of the soul are often imperceptible to those without experience, including Fiends. What we know now has been built upon the efforts of thousands of years of research and experimentation."

The corner of Rob's mouth twitched. "So what you're saying is, during the course of those thousands of years of research, likely conducted by the brightest minds in the nation, you've never once come across an energy exactly like the 'bolts' you found in my soul?"

Both physicians paused. "Well..." Vythe said, trailing off. "When you put it that way..."

Add one more impossibility to the list, Rob thought. What are we up to now?

<I lost track long ago,> Diplomacy replied. <Why do you sound so smug?>

If I'm going to keep messing with people's expectations, I might as well enjoy it.

"Is there any instance where you received nonstandard healing?" Vythe asked, after recovering her composure. "Something other than simple magic or Regeneration. The connective tissues we found don't match either of those." She frowned. "Honestly, it defies description. We're having difficulty putting what it looks like – what it feels like into words."

A switch flipped in Rob's mind as he connected the dots. "Does it seem 'blue'?"

"Yes!" She nodded intently. "If I were to pick one identifier, it would be 'blue'. Which I understand is hardly scientific, but-"

"No, I get it," Rob interjected. "I've felt that same abstract sensation before. Usually when I'm Attuning to a Locus of Power, but on other occasions as well." He held up a hand to forestall the physicians' question. They leaned closer, eyes shimmering with curiosity, as Rob continued. "And no, I don't think Attuning is what patched up my Soul. I'm pretty sure that honor goes to the Class Crystal that broke and showered me with 'blue' when a Blight killed me."

That moment had been his first direct encounter with the primordial energies that powered Crystals and Loci of Power. The memory was a tad fuzzy, considering his body was in the middle of being torn apart on a molecular level, but watching a Class Crystal shatter into pieces was impossible to forget. When the 'blue' created a new body for him and placed his soul inside, it must've done some fine-tuning during the assembly process. He wasn't sure why – despite coming into contact with the energy over half a dozen times now, he'd never sensed anything resembling a consciousness from it, meaning that patching his soul was done automatically rather than by purposeful intent. Maybe the 'blue' was just a strictly beneficial energy, and anything that came into contact with it was made better? It did give life to the land and empower Crystal for the residents of Elatra to use.

"So it's true?" Vythe whispered, shifting her eyes back and forth to check that they were alone. "You actually died and were revived by a Class Crystal?"

"Why would I lie about something like that?" Rob smirked. "I'm already a Human speaking Fiendish and purging Corruption – it's not like I need to pad my resume."

"You'd be surprised," Zordred commented. "My cousin claimed for a month straight that he spent a night of passion with Ceroni – famous actress, you wouldn't know her. Turns out he hallucinated the whole torrid affair while imbibing dew from the Leppa fruit." The Fiend shrugged. "One fact I've become keenly aware of over the years is that people will lie about anything and everything, sometimes even when they believe that they're telling the truth."

"Note to self," Rob mumbled. "Avoid Leppa fruit. Don't worry, I haven't had so much as a drop of alcohol in...fuck, too long."

Living in Elatra was basically like living in a war zone. You never knew when assassins would pop out of the shadows or when a Blight would fall out of the sky and dropkick you in the head. That meant you had to be on your A-game from sunup to sundown. Combat Class users in the Deserters weren't technically restricted from drinking alcohol, but the practice was heavily frowned upon. Rob couldn't disagree; he might be dead by now if he'd been hungover or sloshed on the wrong day.

"May we continue past tales of slovenly behavior?" Vythe tried to sound stern, but there was a playful edge to her tone. "From what I understand, this Blue energy resurrected Rob, and when it did, it shored up his soul's foundation." She frowned. "If that's the case, then I fear there's little we can do for you. No Fiend that I'm aware of can sense the Blue within Loci of Power or Crystals – we wouldn't know how to handle the energy that's embedded itself within your soul."

"Why bother handling it?" Zordred faced Vythe, lacing his fingers together. "I scarcely see how we can do a better job of repairing his soul than the energy which makes up life itself. If the Blue is doing its job, then I say let it be. We'll simply have to work around it as best we can."

"If only it were so easy," Vythe remarked. The two were fully in 'doctor' mode now, expressions serious and Rob completely forgotten outside of the medical mystery he represented. "The Blue is too integrated into his soul to ignore entirely. We'll need to interact with the Blue in some fashion if we want to address areas less straightforward than an arm."

She tapped her claws on the tabletop. "Then there's the fact that we still don't know what the extra 'limbs' stitched onto his soul are supposed to be. Repairing his arm was one thing – that limb was in its proper place. We knew what its original form was supposed to be. But what about, for example, the extra appendage stitched onto that arm? We have no idea what sort of function it's meant to provide. The fact that the Blue saw fit to merely mend connections across rotted soul-flesh rather than excising the tissue outright implies that their removal would result in adverse consequences."

It struck Rob all of a sudden that Vythe and Zordred were saying 'Blue' as a proper noun instead of an adjective. Apparently, he'd coined a term. No one in Elatra had ever interacted with the forces behind Crystals and Loci of Power before he came along and made a mess of things. Now he was here, and a name for the all-powerful, ancient energy that powered the world was necessary.

<And you couldn't think of anything better than 'it's Blue'.>

Well, it's not red, Rob said, in a perfectly neutral tone. Or any other color. Therefore, it's blue.

<I vote for 'Lifeblood of the World',> Diplomacy proposed. <That sounds pretty cool.>

Rob rolled his eyes. You'd be a fan of cheesy anime and cartoons, I'm guessing. When we get you a body and find a way back to Earth, I'll show you some of my favorites.

The Skill's core brightened with excitement. <Can I eat pizza while we watch?>

Sure, but why the sudden interest?

They hesitated, excitement dimming as it was slowly replaced by embarrassment. <Ah, no reason. I just dreamt of eating pizza last night, and was...curious, regarding how it tasted.>

Rob stifled an external laugh while letting his internal laugh ring loud and free. God, I wish I was dreaming about pizza, he said. Sounds more fun than my recurring nightmares of ivory towers, blinding light, and pleading screams.

<You might want to see a therapist.>

No shit. Unfortunately, I'm the only Therapist around. He paused. Was it good pizza?

<How in the world should I know?> The Skill said. <I have no reference for comparison.>

The sound of Vythe calling his name pulled Rob out of his conversation. Which was a little annoying – he was in the middle of 'saying' his response to Diplomacy – but he couldn't blame her. From the outside, it must have looked like he was daydreaming. "What is it?"

"I merely wished to inform you that we're done for the day," Vythe said, as she stood up and offered him a hand. "You've given Zordred and I a great deal to consider. Based on what we can surmise, your soul will remain stable for at least several more months, so we'd like to plan how next to proceed before making any rash decisions. Assuming that's alright with you."

"Of course," Rob said, nodding in assent as he accepted her hand. He wasn't arrogant enough to think he knew better than his doctors, especially when his literal soul was on the line. "Let me know when you want to examine me again. My schedule is...busier, these days, but I'll make time."

Zordred fidgeted in place. "Actually," he began, in a hesitant tone. "There's one request I'd like to make." When Rob gestured for him to continue, the Physician produced a sheet of paper and held it out. "You see, my daughter is a huge fan of the play that's been making the rounds. Perhaps you've heard of He Came From The South?"

Rob's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "Isn't that the play they were making about me and The Deserters? Jesus, the Overseer PR machine moves fast. I've been here for ten days."

"And the play has sold out for the last three," Zordred clarified. "As I said, my daughter adores it, and she would adore me as well if I were to present her with an autograph from the real Human himself. While I can't give it to her right away – doing so would reveal that I am your Physician and constitute a breach of security – that won't be a problem in the future." His expression softened the longer he spoke. "Please. It would mean the world to her."

Rob fought down the blush creeping into his cheeks as Diplomacy howled with laughter. Becoming famous was one thing – that was the whole point of a PR campaign. For some reason, though, signing an autograph made him feel too much like a bigheaded Hollywood celebrity. He was still going to, because Zordred would look like a kicked puppy if Rob declined his offer, but at the same time he was extremely grateful that none of his friends were around to witness his foray into stardom.

"Ah," Zordred said, just as Rob was about to start writing. "Please sign it as 'Roy', if you please."

The man who was definitely not Roy paused mid-scribble. "...Why?"

Zordred hesitated. "In their haste to write and produce a play in such a short period, I think that the people in charge of He Came From The South may have...misinterpreted, some of the information that was given to them. Your character is currently named Roy." He plastered a jovial grin onto his face. "Not to worry – I'm sure they'll correct that error any day now. Until then, however, if you could sign it as-"

"No."

"That's fair."

Chapter 34

Later that night, Rob sat in his bed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he counted down the seconds. He'd just gotten back from checking on Elder Duran, and everything else he'd needed to take care of that day was finished. Another city searched, another Locus Attuned to, and another batch of Corruption-riddled Fiends stabilized. The Attunement hadn't yielded any earth-shattering revelations this time around, but it had doubled his Locus search radius yet again in addition to tripling his Purge Corruption energy stores.

And tripling his workload in the process. Rob was okay with that; he knew how heavenly it felt to have Corruption removed and was more than happy to grant as many people as he could a reprieve from their agony. He'd tended to over fifty afflicted Fiends today! That was probably less than the number of new infections occurring in the same window, but it was still progress, dammit, and he was going to celebrate with a well-earned reward. Which was coming right up in three...two...one...

Ding. A small instinct in the back of Rob's mind notified him that Awaken Class's 24-hour cooldown timer was up. Keira got first dibs back when he chose the ability, and after an impassioned rock-paper-scissors tournament to decide the order, Meyneth's Thrasher Class was Awakened into an Executioner on the day after. Then Vul'to's Vanguard became a Guardian, and then finally, finally, it was Rob's turn. Without any further ado, he activated Awaken Class on Berserker, preparing himself for a deluge of system messages and some weird shit to go down.

His expectations were promptly met in full. As the numbers and ability descriptions cascaded down his field of vision, Rob sensed the furnace in his chest that embodied Berserker start to flare and roar. Awaken Class stoked the burgeoning flame by pouring in a continuous stream of energy, its power acting as stacks of Blue coal providing fuel. Searing heat pounded in Rob's chest, but rather than burn him from the inside-out, it resonated warm and pleasant like a midnight campfire. No matter how hot this fire raged, it would never harm him. It was his fury to direct when and where he chose, and all who stood in his path would turn to ashes in the wake of its-

<Chill, dude.>

Rob froze. Sorry, he thought, sheepishly. Went a little loco there. In my defense, at least I didn't start cackling maniacally like Meyneth.

<You were getting there.> Diplomacy grabbed Rob's mental cheek and squeezed. <No going mad with power while I'm stuck in your head. The property value will plummet.>

Your concern is appreciated, Rob drawled. Let's just check the system messages and see what we got for our troubles.

Berserker has Awakened into BERSERKER!

15 additional stat points gained!

Lifesteal has upgraded into Lifesteal+!

Description: Heal yourself for 50% (upgraded from 25%) of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes.

Battle Fever has upgraded into Battle Fever+!

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +15 (upgraded from +8) for each stat. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario.

Blood for Blood has upgraded into Blood for Blood+!

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 99% (upgraded from 50%).

Rampage has upgraded into Rampage+!

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

Enmity has upgraded into Enmity+!

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

Flames of Vengeance has upgraded into Flames of Vengeance+!

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

Rob grappled with a myriad of increasingly complex emotions the longer he went down the list of system messages. After some deliberation, he decided to indulge in the good vibes first, and tackle the negative, petty feelings last.

"It says something that the fifteen free stat points are almost an afterthought," Rob mumbled, his voice laden with awe. "That's equal to three extra Levels right off the bat. Objectively amazing, but not nearly as fun as being able to cause explosions on demand."

<For 50 MP and a cast of Rampage,> Diplomacy added. <But yes, that's definitely a boon that suits your fighting style. Perhaps the system resonated with your unquenchable Firebomb fetish and decided to tailor Rampage's upgrade to that desire?>

Rob clasped his hands together and bowed his head. "Listen up, system, cause you're probably only hearing this once." He adopted a solemn tone. "Thank you. I'll be sure to cherish this gift that's been mercifully granted from on high to a poor, wearied soul."

Jokes aside, it was a really strong upgrade, and it was just one of six. Enmity's added psychic damage gave him a legitimate long-ranged attack ability that didn't involve throwing things. Flames of Vengeance now shut down healing and regeneration, which would especially come in handy if – when he fought more Blightspawn. The upgrades to Lifesteal, Battle Fever, and Blood for Blood weren't as unique or flashy, being direct number increases instead of adding unique ability modifiers, but if he was being honest, those Skills had probably gotten the strongest boosts of the bunch. They were functionally the same type of Skills as before, but Elatra ran on numbers, and increasing the numbers on a Skill could change its effectiveness by several orders of magnitude.

For example, with the upgraded version of Blood for Blood alone, Rob would've been able to kill the Blightspawn in their final incursion of Broadwater City more efficiently. He likely could've conserved some of his resources due to that, preserving Not a Scratch, or Lifesurge, or his HP, or some combination of the above. The fight would've played out differently from start to finish.

And then maybe the nameless Elf wouldn't have had to die.

Rob kicked that train of thought off the tracks before it could reach the station. What's done was done. The important thing to focus on was that his new-and-improved Skills would help prevent anything like that from happening ever again.

<Good news!> Diplomacy interjected, standing tall and proud. <After examining your mental state, I've concluded that the fit of mania you experienced when Awakening your Class was merely an instance of temporary delusion brought upon by a surge of power. It is unrelated to Leveling High or the Awakened Class itself.>

"Oh. Okay." Rob tilted his head. "Thanks? I didn't know you were that worried about me getting hyped over new abilities."

<Of course I was,> Diplomacy stated, suddenly sounding deathly serious. <The Dragon Queen has an Awakened Class, and she's a fucking lunatic. And then when you take into account what we learned about Archmages...well, I feel that my concerns were highly justified.>

Rob winced. Malika had actually gotten 2nd place in the rock-paper-scissors tournament and was set to Awaken her Class after Meyneth. However, when he tried bestowing the effect on her, she got a message stating that her Archmage Class was already Awakened, something that caught everyone off-guard. People born with the ability to select Archmage, and those who underwent natural Class Awakenings like the Dragon Queen's, were both rare enough that there wasn't much information to glean from historic examples. Even Elder Duran came up blank when they asked him if there was a known connection.

He did know half a dozen legends recounting stories of Archmages descending into power-born madness, though. Which, in retrospect, probably should have caused Riardin's Rangers to put the brakes on further Awakenings until they could verify that Awakened Classes didn't inherently turn people into cackling supervillains.

But they didn't. Because there was an opportunity to make numbers go up, and they took it.

"...are you sure that Leveling High isn't contagious?" Rob asked, in a voice like someone trying to find the humor in a bad joke. "One of the saner people in our Party should've advised caution. Vul'to or Zamira at the very least."

<You don't need to have a magically-induced addiction in order to be attracted to power,> Diplomacy said, with a nonjudgmental tone. <Plenty of people have taken bigger risks for less gain. And it turned out fine in the end, so I suppose I can't fault the results.> They sighed. <If anything, the blame is mine. I could've stopped you, but I held back. Didn't want to police your thoughts anymore than I already do.>

"Diplomacy, you – wow, for some reason it's weird saying your name out loud." Rob cleared his throat. "Anyway, feel free to point out any impending fuckups you think I'm about to make. The feedback is appreciated."

The Skill shook their ephemeral head. <Thanks, but it isn't that simple.> Their core let out a pulse of anxiety. <Oh my, would you look over there? It's a change in subject, hiding just around the corner. Would you mind divulging that nagging issue that's been on your mind?>

Rob opened his mouth, then closed it a moment later. The only reason that Diplomacy would use such a blatantly ham-fisted segue would be to remove any doubt whatsoever that it wanted to talk about something else. In a sense, doing so expressed its trust in Rob; that he wouldn't question the change or think less of Diplomacy for hiding something.

"Okay," Rob began, rolling with the sharp right turn the conversation was taking. "So. Awakened Classes seem perfect, right? Free stats, awesome abilities, the works. Keira, Meyneth, and Vul'to are over the moon, and personally speaking, I'm 99% as happy as they are."

<99%?> Diplomacy's anxiety gradually settled down. <What's the 1%?>

"Why don't I get new names?" Rob complained, fully realizing that he was veering into the territory of rich people complaining about a scratch on their new yacht. "The others did, for both their Class and Skill names. In Vul'to's case, Vanguard became Guardian, and his 'Unwavering' Skill became 'Indomitable'. I only got '+' added to the end of everything, and my Class went from Berserker to...Berserker in all caps."

<This, coming from the man who dubbed the primordial energies of a world 'Blue'?> Diplomacy snickered. <I think the system is just accurately representing your home world's creativity when it comes to updating names. Consider yourself lucky that you weren't graced with 'Berserker 2.0'.>

The Skill paused. <And this way you won't be confounded by the presence of too many big words,> they said, with a hint of mild horror. <Honestly, after you showed me an example of what long-distance messaging from Earth looks like, I'm surprised you know what the word 'indomitable' means. The crimes that your world's youths commit against their own vocabulary are *hideous*.>

"If I had a grandpa, you'd be sounding like him right about now."

<I'm the embodiment of Diplomacy,> the Skill stated. <Caring about proper diction is part and parcel with my profession. How am I supposed to make people dance to my amusement if I can't understand what they're saying? It's apparent that I'll need to develop an entirely new Auto-Translate Skill just for digital communication alone.>

Rob sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that half the reason you want a body is so you can make evil villain speeches?"

--

An errant wind whipped underneath Sylpeiros' nose, bringing with it the stench of rotted, decaying flesh. He ignored the unwanted reminder of what was to come and turned to face the line of Reviton defenders who were positioned in front of the city. All eyes were on him, looking to their Seneschal with the same reverence of a wayward explorer clutching their compass to their heart. Sylpeiros slowly swept his gaze across the line of Reviton defenders, lingering just a fraction long enough for each of them to feel like he'd been looking at them, specifically. It was a tried-and-true way of bolstering morale, and they needed every ounce of morale they could muster.

Even the most stalwart of soldiers could falter when they knew that hundreds of monsters were fast approaching.

"You've fought long and hard to reach this point," he proclaimed, projecting his voice with magic so that it boomed across the clearing. "Months of battle, bloodshed, and sacrifice. Let me state this as plainly as I can: to me, every single one of you is a hero deserving of great renown. You've gone beyond what anyone thought would be necessary when the upsurge in monster materializations first began. By now, many have chosen the saner option and withdrawn from the front lines to apply for the Teleportation Crystal lottery. No one would have judged you had you done the same. Everyone in Reviton has suffered loss of some form or another. There is a limit to mortal willpower, and not a day has gone by where that limit hasn't been tested."

Sylpeiros slammed the butt of his spear on the ground. "Yet here you stand. For the sake of those walls and the loved ones residing within them, here you stand." He nodded. "I am truly proud to fight by your side. May we drink to memories of victory for centuries to come."

His soldiers straightened their postures, and a few seemed on the verge of tears. The iron ball of stress coiled in Sylpeiros' gut loosened slightly. He didn't know what he would've done if that speech hadn't worked. Those were his best words – as they were real words, not mere lip service. These men and women were on the cusp of escaping hell, and it was his duty to see them through their last push forward.

"You may have heard rumors," Sylpeiros continued. "And perhaps they sounded too good to be true. A fantasy told for the children's sake." He paused for dramatic effect, waiting until his soldiers had drank their fill of silence. "Everything you heard is real. This will be our last battle. After today, monsters will spawn normally, as they have in the past. No horned abominations. No slithering grotesqueries. Just the occasional animal to be hunted at your leisure."

An outpouring of relief erupted from the crowd. Those who'd been on the verge of crying let their tears fall freely. Sylpeiros used their moment of celebration to consider how much else to reveal, before deciding that explaining unnecessary details would simply distract from the good news. His men didn't need to spend mental energy wondering why the infected mana-air plaguing the lands around Reviton City had abruptly traveled northward and was showing no signs of returning. They only needed to take heart in how the next wave of Corrupted monsters was the final batch that Reviton needed to conquer before peace returned as it should.

The one detail giving Sylpeiros pause was that no one knew why the Corrupted mana was heading north. After a brief period of reflection, he determined that he didn't care. An end was in sight, and that was all that mattered.

An odor of rotted flesh assaulted his senses once more. Sylpeiros swung his spear in an arc, stabbing it towards the line of shambling monstrosities that were starting to appear over the horizon. "One last stand!" he yelled, as his soldiers cheered along with him. "One final push! Today-"

A bone-chilling roar that could split the heavens echoed down from above.

Sylpeiros barely had time to process what was happening as Queen Ragnavi flew in and unleashed a torrent of white plasma, incinerating dozens of monsters in the span of several seconds. He watched, dumbfounded, as the Dragon Queen savagely tore the wave of beasts apart like a sword hacking through a pile of wet leaves. No single monster in the horde was above Level 50, while Ragnavi was...Lothren preserve, Ragnavi was two Levels higher than the last time he'd seen her.

Less than five minutes passed before she'd apparently satisfied herself. Without saying a word to Sylpeiros or any of his soldiers in attendance, Ragnavi flew back from where she'd came, leaving behind the scattered dregs of her conquest. The horde, previously numbering in the hundreds, was now reduced to a few lonely creatures left in a state of shock.

Everyone was silent as they made quick work of the remaining stragglers. By all rights, they should've been celebrating. Not a single Elf died that day. And not a single Elf, Sylpeiros included, was able to enjoy that outcome as much as they wished they could.

--

Changes

Berserker -> BERSERKER

15 additional stat points

Lifesteal -> Lifesteal+!

Battle Fever -> Battle Fever+!

Blood for Blood -> Blood for Blood+!

Rampage -> Rampage+!

Enmity -> Enmity+!

Enmity -> Flames of Vengeance+!

Attunement 5 -> 6

Purge Corruption 1 -> 2

Corruption -387 -> -187

Chapter 35

"Rob," Keira pleaded. "I implore you to reconsider. There must be another way."

"I'm sorry," Rob stated, in a solemn tone. "This is my path, and I've chosen to follow it." He nodded slowly. "May you remember me as I was."

Keira sank to her knees and threw her hands into the air. "Why, cruel world?" She wailed, beseeching the heavens for an answer. "Why must the best of us make the poorest of decisions? Why must Strength go so neglected?"

"Those two are jesting, yes?" Meyneth asked, addressing Zamira in a stage whisper. "I'm still growing accustomed to non-Dragonkin cultural norms, but where I hail from, allocating stat points is generally known as a joyous occasion."

Rob and Keira gave Meyneth a flat stare. "Are you using social ignorance as an excuse to ruin our fun?" the Human asked.

Meyneth put on an innocent look which was entirely at odds with her claws, sharklike teeth, and 6-foot-five-inches stature. "Who, me?" she tittered. "Would I ever do such a thing?"

...I guess this is an improvement from her shrinking violet act, Rob thought, shuddering slightly. Ignoring Keira's last-minute suggestion of putting at least a few points into Strength, he opened his Character Sheet and took a look at his stat spread.

Strength: 53

Vitality: 105

Endurance: 30

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 30

Unspent Points: 20

Rob was tempted to shove everything into Magic. Not because he was planning to learn actual magic – Elder Duran was too tired to resume their lessons yet. He simply wanted additional MP for more uses of Rampage, and thus, more explosions. Alas, adulthood comes with responsibilities, including his role as the Party's premier frontline fighter. He needed to be able to draw aggro from Vul'to when necessary. One Vanguard couldn't always be there to cover for six people.

Plus, after getting chomped by the Blight and witnessing the Dragon Queen's fury, he'd realized that 1050 max HP wasn't nearly as safe as he might've hoped for. There were big, scary beasties out there in the world, and pretty much all of them seemed to hate him. It was with that final thought that Rob boosted Vitality by 15, and Magic by 5.

Regeneration Level Increased! 15 -> 18

Lifesurge Level Increased! 12 -> 15

"Done," he said. "Twenty points well-spent."

Keira looked at him with a plaintive expression. Rob considered lying, and then shook his head. The Warrior grimaced, glaring at the Strength-ignoring plebeian standing shamelessly before her eyes, and proceeded to mutter something under her breath.

Wonder what she said, Rob thought.

<She said 'You're lucky you're so cute'.> When Rob gaped at Diplomacy both inwardly and outwardly, the Skill shrugged in response. <Apparently, I can read lips.> They paused. <Also, I must advise against revealing what Keira said to->

I KNOW.

--

"Am I making you nervous?"

Zamira watched carefully as Faelynn winced. The Fiend glanced around their empty carriage, as if looking for an escape route, before looking back at Zamira and plastering a weak smile on her face. "Nervous?" She repeated, laughing halfheartedly. "Why would you..."

Faelynn trailed off, then sighed. "I don't suppose there's any point in denying it, is there?"

"Truthfully? No." Zamira assumed a non-threatening posture. "May I ask what's bothering you? I'd like to rectify the problem if I can. Is it perhaps related to Keira or our Awakened Classes?"

"Little bit of both." A smirk crept across Faelynn's face, and Zamira was relieved to see that there was mirth in it. "I know that Keira is aware that I'm not a spy, but I must admit that a small piece of me is always worried she'll decide otherwise. As for the Awakened Classes, I believe that concern speaks for itself. Your Party intimidates me more now than you did in Broadwater, which I scarcely thought possible."

Zamira couldn't blame her for thinking so. News of Riardin's Rangers awakening their Class had spread like wildfire among the Deserters, and their reactions thus far were vaguely disconcerting. Those who weren't fully accustomed to Rob's unique brand of absurdity were treating the Party like demigods, causing the Ranger corps' envy to deepen from a shallow ravine to a bottomless canyon. While they hadn't openly pushed for increased inclusion in Rob's Party, Zamira could only imagine that Alessia was receiving behind-the-scenes pressure.

As if she or anyone else can control Rob, Zamira mused. They'd do better by appealing to his sense of pity and obligation. And if they don't understand that basic tenet of his personality after so many months, then they haven't made any attempt to get to know him as a person, and hardly deserve the benefits his Party membership provides.

She glanced at Faelynn, who was patiently waiting for a response. While it was unfortunate that some of the Deserters were feeling distant from Riardin's Rangers, Zamira found that she cared more about Faelynn's peace of mind than that of the Elves she'd known for years. Strange, that.

"Keira won't harm you," Zamira assured. "She knows you're an honest, true friend. And at the risk of underplaying my own strength, you needn't put undue emphasis on our Awakened Classes. They're great boons, to be sure, but we're still mortal. We bleed and die like anyone else."

"I'll take your word for it," Faelynn replied. "As a word of caution, though, I doubt others will. The last Awakened Class user in Fiend territory appeared seven hundred years ago, and they were the strongest fighter of their time."

Zamira leaned a bit closer. "What Level were they?" She asked. "And what Class?"

"They were an Enforcer. One of the upgraded versions of Thrasher." Faelynn paused, thinking back. "I believe they ended their reign at Level 60. Took scores of Humans to bring them down. I'm aware that the overwhelming odds needed to defeat them was a result of their Level more than their Class, but the fact that they were Awakened certainly added some extra zest to the legend."

Zamira's eyes widened. Level 60 was approaching the realm of territory Leaders. "It sounds like they were an incredible warrior," she said, with a nod of intent. "With the passive boost in power that Fiends possess, they may have even been the mightiest Combat Class user in all of Elatra."

"Actually, that's one reason why your Awakening intimidates me," Faelynn admitted. "Not the legend, I mean, it's just that your comment reminded me of something and – never mind. What I'm trying to say is that, before your Party underwent their Awakenings, I was able to fight on equal or greater footing than most of you. Keira's prowess coupled with Danger Sense put her out of reach, and Rob's increasing Level advantage may as well be insurmountable, but I was comfortable standing beside the rest of you without feeling like a background performer."

She sighed. "That's no longer the case. Your Awakenings have more or less erased the benefit that my Fiendish heritage gave me. I'm not blaming you for that, but...if I can ask a favor..."

Zamira froze. She'd been dreading this question. Faelynn wouldn't be the first person to request a Class Awakening, but she was going to be the first that Zamira would feel guilty about turning down. Rob only had two more Awakenings to offer for the next year, and Riardin's Rangers couldn't afford to dole those out without a care. Not when it was such a strong card to hold during future negotiations. Diplomacy had stressed that point very, very harshly.

"I'm sorry," Zamira began, her heart heavy. "We can't-"

"Teach me to be intimidating!" Faelynn blurted out.

"...Pardon me?"

"I don't want to be a background performer," the Fiend stated, eyes alighting with passion. "Bridging our combat prowess may be impossible – for now – but I'd be perfectly satisfied with being able to command the room like your Party does. When you, or Rob, or Keira speak, people listen. And I think it goes beyond your Levels or positions of importance."

She clenched her fists together. "Goroth possesses that same aura about him, and it's something I've always admired – and I'm being honest, coveted. Figured it was because of his age and experience, but you three are slightly younger than me, so I can't use that as an excuse anymore. Please, if you wouldn't mind: teach me how to convince others to follow your will." She grimaced. "If fucking Helkath can do it, then I can too, damnit."

Zamira blinked several times. "I must admit," she said, her mouth faster than her thoughts. "I assumed you would have requested a Class Awakening."

Faelynn replied with several blinks of her own. "Do people actually do that?" she asked, baffled. "Huh. I guess they weren't aware of the Skill's usage limit?"

"They were."

"Huuuh." The Fiend crossed her arms. "Seems a bit desperate, I think. My pride shrivels just at the thought of begging for a boon of that magnitude."

Zamira chuckled, her anxiety fading. "Too right." A broad smile spread across her face. "I'd be more than happy to assist with your endeavor, although I think you're plenty intimidating as you are now."

"No need to coddle me," Faelynn said, shaking her head. "I can't even intimidate the Elves anymore, and that's with half of them thinking I'm plotting to eat their soul."

Zamira suppressed a wince. The Fiends' most...unique trait wasn't a subject she tried to focus on. Building empathy for them was significantly more difficult with that detail in the back of her mind. Best to move on and pretend that Faelynn never mentioned it.

"For starters," Zamira began. "It's of the utmost importance that you project confidence at all times, whether you are or not. Rob described it as 'faking it until you make it', which I believe is an apt phrase." Her lips twitched with amusement. "The fact that you think of me as an intimidating person is proof of this strategy's effectiveness."

"Makes sense," Faelynn said. "But how do you pretend to be confident? Does it involve, I don't know, speaking louder?"

...This may take longer than anticipated.

--

One Week Later

It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, complete with a refreshing breeze as the cherry on top. Perfect by Earth standards, but pretty run of the mill by Elatra's. Whether you were located in the south, north, east, or west, the average day was always somewhere between 50 and 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Same as it had been since Rob arrived around six months ago.

Which was no longer a surprise, because as he'd recently found out, it was spring in Elatra all year round. Not that they had a word for 'spring' in the first place – that was just how weather was. Elatra's climate was a permanent combination of the best aspects of temperate and tropical: warm without being humid or dry. While the temperature and humidity could rise or fall over time, it never deviated too far from that general area, and changes in weather didn't correspond to specific months or seasons.

They didn't have a word for 'season', either.

What surprised Rob the most wasn't that Elatran weather was so bizarrely uniform, but rather that its weather was, in general, pleasant. Based on how harsh the rest of the world tended to be, a never-ending blizzard would've been more in line with his expectations. Maybe throw in some weekly hurricanes just to spice things up. The Deserters' trek north was already difficult enough in a breezy springtime climate; he doubted that most of them would've made it through a harsh winter on top of everything else. When the Blight came to feast on their bones, its buffet table would already have been reduced to a mere side offering of reheat-able leftovers.

Even with that in mind, Rob couldn't help but miss snow. His mind was too cluttered with nostalgic memories of closed schools and Christmas TV specials to view winter as a threat. Sure, an impromptu blizzard would've resulted in his corpse making snow angels somewhere out in the southern wastelands, but think of the whimsy involved! Maybe that was why, as Rob peeked out of his hotel's window, that he found himself wishing for snow to start falling. Just one last sight of empty roads covered with sheets of white, like a picture painted by nature's embrace. For old time's sake.

Or maybe it was because snow would clear out the crowd of over one thousand Fiends waiting outside.

<Stop pacing,> Diplomacy instructed. <This isn't helping your mental state. >

You can't tell me what to do, Rob countered, increasing his pacing speed from 'walk' to 'jog'. I'm a free man. It's in the Constitution or something. He quickly peeked out the window again, flinching as he confirmed that the congregation hadn't miraculously dispersed. If anything, there were more Fiends than before, many of them with papers and writing implements held tightly in their hands.

If Elatran eBay existed, then Zordred's daughter was going to make a killing on that autograph.

The Grand Overseers' pro-Human PR campaign had gone well. Very well. Maybe a little too fucking well. The one-two punch of He Came From The South, casting Rob as a misunderstood hero tormented by his Human lineage, combined with the revelation that he could purge Corruption, had turned him into an overnight media sensation. The concept was difficult to wrap his head around – from Rob's perspective, he'd spent the last three weeks in Fiendland traveling in covert carriages and avoiding the public eye as much as possible. The children he Purged Corruption from every day were always unconscious, and due to security concerns he'd yet to be thanked by any of their parents in-person. While Attuning to Loci and Purging Corruption were game-changing events, both so important that they would irrevocably alter Fiendish society, he was still only interacting with the same people he always had. Just Riardin's Rangers and their Fiend escorts on a road trip through city after city. There hadn't been a gradual buildup to help him mentally prepare for having a fandom.

"I never should've told the Overseers that we'd run out of Loci to find," Rob muttered. "Could've strung them along for another week if I asked to search the cities again. It wasn't enough that I reached Attunement Level 8, or that I'm stabilizing over 500 Fiends on a daily basis, nooooo. Now I have to make public freaking appearances. If I hear the phrase 'good optics' one more time, I'm going to shove a Message Crystal down someone's throat."

Diplomacy snickered. <Look on the bright side. Your Corruption is finally gone. Don't you feel better now? Healthier, at least?>

Rob peeked out the window again, saw Fiends as far as the eye could see, and promptly thunked his head on a wall. "Would you believe me if I said that I preferred being infected with Corruption to the prospect of public speaking?"

<No. I wouldn't.>

He stopped pacing. Rob looked down at his body, taking a moment to marvel at the pain that wasn't there. All joking aside, Diplomacy was right. The fact that he was Corruption-free was...unreal. He'd lived with the sensation of searing agony in his veins for such a long time that its removal felt akin to a rebirth. How had he been able to think straight with that parasite inside of him? Hell, maybe he hadn't. Would make a nice excuse for the nameless Elf's death. Rob wasn't going to go down that route, but damn if it wasn't tempting – and halfway plausible. The difference in his mentality pre and post Corruption was just that stark.

Rob examined himself in front of a mirror, rubbing at the circles under his eyes. Still dark, but more of a light gray than the pure black they'd been before. He'd slept last night, actually, truly slept, instead of waking every hour to aching tremors. The fact that he barely recognized his own reflection was disquieting. At what point did he start to internalize that Corrupted existence? Unconsciously accept that it was his new state of being?

Fuck that noise. Everyone deserved to feel the way he was now. Free of pain, their soul unblemished, and with the knowledge that their body was fully their own. Rob could and would give them that release. He may not have known them personally, but he knew the kind of suffering they were enduring. And with Purge Corruption at level 4, now he had the means to make a difference.

He still didn't know what any of that had to do with public speaking, or why he should have to suffer its indignity. Flashbacks of awkward high school presentations raced through his mind until Rob reached his breaking point.

"Question," Rob began. "How bad would the political fallout be if I used Waymark to ditch this whole shebang?"

Diplomacy rolled their eyes. <Just go out there and fake it 'till you make it.>

"Story of my fucking life."

He paced for another ten minutes until the Fiends' official liaisons arrived. After a valiant – but failed – effort at holding in their lunch, they started to dress Rob with a special cloth to ensure that the crowd waiting outside wouldn't have a similar reaction. Silky-smooth coverings were wrapped around his body, concealing every part of him except his hands, eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. The cloth was able to dull the effects of Soul Sight, and its effectiveness was increased the more of his body it hid. His hands were left uncovered because he required skin contact to purge Corruption, and his ears were left uncovered to prove that he was Human, which was part of the whole song and dance he was about to take part in.

The cloth wasn't entirely effective – Fiends would still be able to vaguely see his Soul – but at least his first public impression wouldn't end with a mass of thousands vomiting at the sight of him. He Came From The South had prepared them for an acceptably twisted soul, not an outright revolting one. When Rob asked why he hadn't been given these wrappings ages ago, Fiend Liaison #1 explained that the cloth was actually banned, and that this batch was manufactured specifically for him. When Rob then asked why it was banned, Liaison #1 tentatively answered that, in the past, it was used by Soul Devourers to hide their true nature. When Rob then asked what the cloth was called, Liaison #1 squeaked out the name 'Sinner's Shroud.'

Thankfully, for both their sakes, Rob stopped asking questions after that.

His dress-up session finished by covering his Sinner's Shroud with another layer of clothing to hide the fact that he was sporting serial killer chic. With that done, the moment of his big debut had finally arrived. Rob procrastinated in front of the door for thirty painful seconds before his liaisons all but shoved him outside. The awaiting Fiends' murmuring fell to a hush as the star of the hour strode towards them. Rob kept his back straight as he approached, plastering an aloof-yet-cool expression on his face. The rest of Riardin's Rangers were standing in line outside, relegated to the roles of his Elven entourage. None of them – Rob included – were happy about their being reduced to what were essentially his backup singers, but they were mere supporting characters in He Came From The South, and today's game was about playing to the crowd.

Rob observed the Fiends' reactions, searching for the telltale signs of impending vomit. Thankfully, his Sinner's Shroud performed its task well. By the looks on the Fiends' faces, they were at the level of disgust that inspired interest rather than revulsion. Relieved that he'd avoided the worst-case scenario – besides an angry mob tearing him to shreds, which was admittedly still in the cards – Rob walked forth, stopping short in front of a Fiend child resting on a bed in the middle of the street. This particular patient was a heavily ill orphan girl whose Corruption would be purged as proof of Rob's ability. The whole setup was manipulative to the point of absurdity, but if the crowd noticed, they didn't seem to care. Silence blanketed the street, thicker than cold molasses, as Rob took the girl's hand in his.

His eyes narrowed, blazing with fury at what he Sensed. Corruption was suffused throughout every inch of her body, the parasite within devouring heaps of Vitality and leaving her HP in the single-digits. It was one of the worst cases he'd encountered so far. Rob grit his teeth and viciously seared away the Corruption like lancing a wound, relishing the way it recoiled in fear at his energy's touch. Manipulative or otherwise, the Overseers chose well when they recommended this girl for treatment – she wouldn't have lasted another day.

Rob continued the operation slowly and carefully, the watchful eyes of the crowd long since forgotten. In this moment, there was just him, his patient, and the Blue energy flowing out from his core. Bit-by-bit he worked, forcing himself to exercise restraint and only cleanse a portion of the girl's Corruption. It was a dilemma he struggled with often. Why leave Corruption inside his patients' bodies when he could remove all of it one go? They'd be safe again. Free again. Unfortunately, his internal Locus' energy was a finite resource, and negligently wasting that resource lessened the number of patients he could stabilize in a day. Based on his estimates, completely purging this girl's Corruption would delay three others from receiving treatment.

He couldn't accept that. Putting on a better show for the audience wasn't worth three people's safety, even if doing so would put an end to one person's suffering. Rob hardened his heart like so many times before and ended the procedure, having purged enough Corruption to stabilize the girl's condition – and no more.

She'd awaken in a day or two. Maybe she'd even live something resembling a life. But her every moment would be filled with pain, and there wouldn't be any further relief until he returned to excise the rest of her Corruption.

Soon, he thought, squeezing her hand once. Just wait for me. Don't worry, you little brats have gotten me emotionally invested – I can't and won't stop until all of Fiendland is cured.

He paused. Wait, was that part of the Overseers' plans?...Eh, fuck it. I would've gone down this path regardless.

<You would have,> Diplomacy affirmed. <Soft-hearted fool, and all that. By the way, look up.>

Rob raised his head to find thousands of awestruck eyes staring at him. After a few seconds, he realized that they were waiting for him to make a speech.

<I recommend Version C,> Diplomacy instructed. <Short and simple.>

Rob mentally nodded. He raised his arm straight up and clenched his hand into a fist. "I'll end this nightmare," he proclaimed. "You have my word."

The Fiends erupted into raucous applause. Rob nearly staggered back at the wave of emotion that crashed into him. It didn't seem like a proportional response to two sentences of canned responses, but as the crowd kept cheering, he became aware of a deep undercurrent of desperation among their celebration. In that moment, he wasn't a Human, or the star of a play, or a soul-twisted weirdo; he was a miracle given flesh. Nothing else mattered. He could've been a literal monster and they would've applauded just as vigorously.

As disconcerting as it is to be put on a skyscraper-tall pedestal, Rob thought. I'll just have to roll with it. They need this.

"ROY!" The Fiends began to cheer. "ROY! ROY!"

...They need this. He suppressed the multitude of expletives rising in his throat. They really, really need this.

Suddenly, a chill shot down his spine, at odds with his mood. Rob's confusion morphed to horror as he realized what'd triggered the sensation. His head snapped upwards, and seconds later, everyone else followed his gaze. Their cheers and adulation died almost immediately, leaving a stunned silence in its wake – save for the curses bursting nonstop out of Rob's mouth.

Gales of black wind were circling high above the city. At first glance, they appeared somewhat like smoke that was blowing horizontally instead of straight up. Rather than the billowing clouds one might expect from smoke, though, the black wind was split up into separate streams that looked like miniature rivers flowing through the air. As Rob watched, the winds gradually shifted downward, going from spinning in a circle to diving straight towards the crowded streets. Even from a distance, Rob could Sense the intense mana pulsing from within.

And the Corruption, so dense you could see it with the naked eye.

"GET INSIDE!" Rob bellowed. "GET INSIDE! GET THE FUCK INSIDE!"

To their credit, the vast majority of the Fiends obliged. Hundreds and thousands ran like their lives depended on it, doing their best impression of sardines-in-a-can as they squeezed into the nearest available buildings. Rob hurried Riardin's Rangers back inside his hotel along with the stabilized Fiend girl, and was about to join them when he noticed that a dozen Fiendish fuckwits were still in the middle of the streets. Half were picking themselves off the ground, having apparently been trampled, and the other half were just. Fucking. Staring. Frozen like deer in the headlights, maybe? Or struck by an overwhelming sense of morbid curiosity? Either way, they were outside, when being outside was seconds away from becoming a very bad idea.

He hesitated. Like, come on. This was pretty silly. At what point is a person morally justified if they stand back and let nature take its course? Rob's internal debate was still raging as his feet brought him towards the Fiends, Step of the Wind and several casts of non-explosive Rampage closing the gap in short order.

So what's my excuse this time? Rob thought. He activated Bulk Up and the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, then used his boosted Strength to start chucking the Fiends across the street and into his hotel. Can I spin this in a pragmatic way? I guess that each Fiend I help out is one less patient I have to purge Corruption from.

Fiend #4 let out a high-pitched shriek as he soared through the air. Thankfully, some of the others had broken from their stupor and were making a run for it, reducing his workload. Yeah, that's a good excuse. This definitely won't be seen by the populace as an act of altruistic valor. He grimaced. Look everyone, it's Roy! The rising star sensation sweeping the nation! A brave hero who always chooses very smart decisions-

Miasma fell upon the ground like a heavy snowfall.

Rob sank to his knees and coughed so hard he nearly hacked up a lung. The black wind dispersed and faded almost immediately after touching down, but that was long enough for a gust of Corruption to pierce through his chest. The parasite wormed its way inside and burrowed next to his soul, gorging itself on Vitality with abhorrent glee. Rob activated Push Through out of reflex – and then turned it off. Compared to the overfed leech he'd been subjected to before, this amount of Corruption was a newborn baby, costing him a measly scant 50 HP. For someone with 1200 HP to spare, it felt no worse than sleeping on an arm the wrong way.

For the few unlucky Fiends that hadn't made it to safety, 50 HP meant a lot more. They collapsed to the ground and wailed in agony, dark eyes wide with fear. Rob moved to grab them, then paused, his own eyes widening as well. The black wind was gone, but its remnants remained – he could Sense minor amounts of Corruption everywhere outside. Like an invisible fog dispersed throughout the air.

The parasite within fed, growing by a sliver.

1 Corruption gained!

Rob shook his head to clear his thoughts and tossed the leftover Fiends towards his hotel. Stay calm. Don't panic. He repeated that mantra even as concentrations of Corruption all across the city began to coalesce and merge together. Two of those pockets formed on the other side of the street, and Rob didn't stick around to see what would happen. As he ran, the first pocket of Corruption flashed with a burst of energy, solidifying into a gigantic bird with four bat wings and the festering head of a lizard.

Name: Grotesque Avian

Level: 37

Status Effects: Eager

Description: HELLO

The second pocket combined itself with the soft, vaguely-organic matter that Fiendish roads consisted of. A deafening rumble shook the earth as the ground split open, widening into a hole that stretched from one side of the street to the next. The surface surrounding the opening seemed to resist the twisted reality forced upon it, but soon enough it was transforming from Fiend-road into overgrown patches of nettled thickets that dripped blood.

Rob's face tightened. He summoned a longsword from his Spatial Storage, activated Imbue Vitality, and cast Enmity on the Grotesque Avian to bait it closer. Killing it wouldn't take care of the bundles of monsters and Dungeons appearing in every corner of the city, but it was better than doing nothing.

1 Corruption gained!

As avian blood splattered across the ground, and Rob finally got a moment to decompress, he began to comprehend the full scope of what had just transpired. He'd – they'd been too complacent. The Corruption plague that'd been devastating Fiend territory up until this point? That was the Blight when it wasn't trying too hard. Whatever otherworldly intelligence governed its decisions had been content to sit back and let the Fiends slowly succumb to a gradual, inevitable extinction.

But that was before its victims resisted. Before they found a cure. Fiends who were supposed to die grisly, agonizing deaths were being stabilized by a certain interloper. Can't have that, the Blight must've thought. Time for the kid gloves to come off. No more slow and steady; the Fiends' reckoning was now upon them.

Let the feast begin.

--

Changes

Vitality 105 -> 120

Magic 30 -> 35

Regeneration 15 -> 18

Lifesurge 12 -> 15

Attunement 6 -> 8

Chapter 36

Malika observed closely as mana fluctuations swirled around outside her window. The world itself seemed to weep as swathes of radiant color mixed with pestilent black, like deadly poison polluting the depths of a once-pristine well. It took up the full breadth of her attention, leaving Malika with little room to care about the argument brewing in the background behind her. Elder Alessia and Rob were busy speaking to a Message Crystal, voices increasing in pitch as their discussion went from polite to frustrated. Malika ignored them; the world outside was far more important than political silliness. They could waste all the time they wanted while she was busy trying to figure out a solution to the Black Wind's leftover particles. Answers would be found in mana, not words.

As she stared, a condensed pocket of Corruption flew past her window and disappeared into the distance. Probably running off to transform into a monster or Dungeon, Malika thought. The sight of Corruption spreading across the city barely disgusted her, but only because seeing the Blight in Broadwater had been that much worse in comparison. It was the difference between seeing a mound of corpses heaped onto one pile versus smelling that pile from several streets away as it decomposed. The latter was revolting, but after a few hours you got used to the stench.

She'd never gotten used to the pile.

With a quick sigh, Malika shook her head, dispelling memories of the Cataclysm's aftermath before they could rise up too far. The past was the past; it was time to focus on the present. As an Archmage with one of the highest Levels of Sense Magic in all of Elatra, she was in a unique position to observe this crisis in a way that no one else could. While the Black Wind's leftover particles were too small for the average eye to discern, its manner of infection coated the surrounding mana with entropic energy, granting her the equivalent of a limited form of Sense Corruption. She was the only person besides Rob who was able to perceive its existence.

The problem lay with explaining the sight to non-Archmages. Sure, she could dress up her observations in metaphors, but those without Sense Magic Level 19 would never truly be able to comprehend what she saw when looking outside. Mana was an ecosystem all unto itself, and that ecosystem was in peril, infested with otherworldly parasites that twisted the natural order of things. The resulting consequences were so far-reaching that they could be felt keenly even by people unable to see their cause. As soon as monsters began to spawn, the Deserters barricaded themselves indoors, limited to staying in their apartments lest they be ambushed by roaming abominations. They'd dealt with similar scenarios on several previous occasions and knew what to expect. Fortunately, the Black Wind's particles weren't able to infect them with Corruption, so they could breathe easy in that regard.

Then there were the Fiends, who were in a rightful state of panic. The Black Wind may as well have been their death knell. Mana interacted with Fiendish bodies and souls in a fundamentally different way than it did in other races, and as a result, the infection was spreading and worsening among them at a blistering pace. By now, Malika had determined why that was the case, but she was hesitant to bring up her findings. It involved discussing the Fiends' big secret, which they might take offense to an outsider knowing.

Assuming it was a secret. Either the Fiends were universally blessed with uncanny Levels of Deception, and every single one of them was able to conceal their secret thus far...or they weren't actually aware of it in the first place. Considering that they didn't have any Archmages, the notion seemed strangely plausible. None of the Deserters had picked up on the discrepancy in mana within Fiend territory either. Perhaps the Fiends' secret was the same as with the Black Wind's particles; only people with extremely high Sense Magic could perceive it.

If that was the case, it meant that this discovery was hers and hers alone. Forbidden knowledge to do with as she pleased. Proof that she was able to pierce the veil of ignorance in ways that no other mage could. A sign that she was growing stronger by the day-

"Don't let your ego get to your head." Orn'tol's words rang in her head, prompting Malika to slouch in her chair. As much as she'd like to pretend that she was a pioneer in the field of magic, 'Archmage' wasn't a new class. At least one or two should've popped up over the course of the Fiends' existence. Odds were that this discovery was not hers and hers alone. And since the knowledge hadn't been spread among the Fiends' general populace by prior Archmages, that pointed to...

A conspiracy.

Malika's face contorted into a grimace. She glanced at the argument that Elder Alessia and Rob were having with the Fiends' Grand Overseers, and let out a loud groan. Even when she tried to focus solely on her beloved field of magic, politics still somehow managed to intrude upon sacred ground.

"I'm going," Rob flatly stated, crossing his arms. "That's final. Unless you want my Party to withdraw its offer of clearing out some Dungeons?"

The Overseers fell silent for a few seconds. From what Malika understood, they really couldn't afford to turn down that offer. Even with the full might of the Fiends' Combat Class users brought to bear, Dungeons were sprouting faster than they could be expunged. The Spire, which was supposed to regulate mana so that Dungeons and monsters didn't spawn, was either failing or overtaxed. An accomplished Dungeon-killing group such as Riardin's Rangers was invaluable – if Rob stayed back to keep himself out of harm's way.

"Must you be so reckless?" The voice on the opposite end of the Message Crystal dropped its formerly-neutral tone. "Or is this a Human's instinctual lust for Experience coming to the forefront? Remember that your life is no longer your own. If you die, then our capacity to Purge Corruption dies with you – which, as a reminder, is a development that would affect the Elves as well." They paused for emphasis. "As strong as you may be, you're not immortal. Anything can transpire when one descends into the bowels of a Dungeon."

"I know that better than you," Rob said, icily.

"Is that so?" The Overseer replied. "Are you graced with several hundred years of knowledge and expertise, then? Elder Alessia – why haven't you persuaded him away from this foolish endeavor?"

The corners of Alessia's lips twitched upward, relishing the Overseers' discomfort. "Because I agree with him," she stated. "Waymark grants Rob and his Party a degree of security that is virtually unparalleled for a Dungeon Crawl. And while his friends might no longer be trainees, a part of me will always be concerned for their safety."

Malika wondered if now would be a good moment to reveal that each Dungeon's formation consumed some of the Black Wind's particles in the process. If everyone kept expunging Dungeons and slaying monsters, then eventually, Dungeons and monsters alike would stop forming. In that vein, it made sense for everyone to complete as many Crawls as they could, as quickly as possible. She could reveal that fact in order to help Rob's argument, but...ugh. Then she'd be jumping into the middle of a political slapfight. Why bother when Diplomacy was going to win the argument with or without her assistance?

And true enough, the bickering bunch settled on a compromise just a few minutes later. Rob would be 'allowed' to join his Party on Dungeon Crawls, but Faelynn would accompany them as a 'liaison', and they would only tackle mid-grade Dungeons, rather than the larger ones. The Human agreed to each stipulation with a heavy sigh that Malika knew was entirely false. Acting like he was doing the Overseers a favor would give him additional leverage to use in future dealings. She may not have been wise to the ways of political silliness, but that basic level of manipulation was something Malika was very familiar with. Any reasonable person would stain their soul with sin if an extra helping of their mother's cookies were on the line.

"Not to imply that Diplomacy is doing a poor job," Keira began, once Rob and Elder Alessia deactivated the Message Crystal. "But have you considered employing Intimidation every once in a while? Because people tend to listen to me as soon as I threaten them with violence. I don't need to spend fifteen arduous minutes wearing them down with prattle." A wide grin split across her face. "You should try it sometime."

"Don't have a big enough sword for that," Rob muttered. "But I do have explosions." He rubbed his chin. "Wonder how Urian is doing these days. Think he has the free time to handle a batch order of Firebombs?"

Vul'to chuckled. "Leave the poor man alone," he said, in a lighthearted tone. "You've caused him plenty of trouble as it is. He's busy making Potions for the Fiends and Rangers who'll be departing on Dungeon Crawls, and they need the added support far more than we do."

Rob seemed about ready to argue the point when Faelynn raised her hand, drawing everyone's attention. "Not to interrupt," she began, which was a phrase that people only used when interrupting. "But if I'm accompanying you on a Dungeon Crawl, then we should have a quick strategy meeting to figure out where I'll fit into your group's combat dynamic." She straightened her posture. "We may be heading into just mid-grade Dungeons, and Waymark is phenomenally useful as an escape tool, but at the end of the day, the Overseers were correct. Anything can happen. I want to plan for every possibility."

The Party's gaze shifted towards Orn'tol for a fraction of a second. The Ranger – now a Guerrilla Ranger – hardened his expression and took a step closer to Malika. No one said anything, and no one needed to. Orn'tol had already made his stance very clear when Dungeons began springing up all across the city like weeds in a neglected garden. He'd stated, in a tone that brooked no argument, that neither he nor Malika were going to step foot in a Dungeon ever again.

Malika wished she could disagree with him. These Dungeons, as far as she could tell, weren't aberrant. Ignoring them amounted to a wasted opportunity. Standard Dungeons might as well have been easy EXP – well, as easy as gaining EXP could be. They'd almost certainly be less dangerous than her Party's last Crawl. But whenever she opened her mouth to convince Orn'tol to abandon his hesitation, she remembered the Dreamthief, and the nightmares it gave her, and the sensation of waking up and feeling so weak-

She turned away from the others and screwed her eyes shut. The past is the past. Don't think about it. Bad memories can't hurt me.

If she repeated it enough times, it might even become true.

Riardin's Rangers left for the Dungeon soon after. They weren't granted much of a sendoff; just Malika and Orn'tol wishing them well as they descended into a dark abyss. Everyone else was too occupied to spare the time. It felt unfair that an event practically giving her heart palpitations was treated with minimal gravitas, but she understood that this Dungeon was but one of many. Dozens of other Parties were undergoing the same trial at this exact moment. Her friends weren't special in that regard, which was an oddly soothing thought. Made the Crawl seem like less of something to fret over.

And really, what did she have to be worried about? Riardin's Rangers were a team of Awakened Class users ranging from Level 34 to Level 47! Battle-tested veterans with an abundance of victories under their belts. With – as Rob would say – a 'panic button' to use in case things turned sour. They'd be fine.

They'd...be fine.

--

Hours had passed since the Dungeon Crawl began. Malika's nerves were slightly less tingly, although not by much, and Orn'tol wasn't faring any better. He was trying to hide it, and she appreciated his attempt at being a big brother she could rely on, but neither of them were going to feel right again until their friends returned safe and sound. Preferably with their heads still attached.

At least it wasn't all bad. Malika electrified a mutated crocodile that made the fatal error of charging Orn'tol, which helped distract her for a few minutes. The beastie twitched like a fish gasping for air as it died. She didn't gain a Level from it, but she did get to show off her magic in front of disbelieving Fiends. They hadn't seen her fight before, and Malika never grew tired of watching expressions morph from skeptical to shocked as they realized that a young girl could kill them with a thought. It was quickly becoming one of her favorite pastimes.

Aside from momentary diversions such as those, Malika kept herself distracted by examining Corrupted mana. She wasn't in the mood for monster hunting, and in truth, she'd be a much greater help if she focused on addressing the root of the problem rather than alleviating its consequences. It didn't take her long to unearth something new, as the Black Wind's total lack of subtlety meant that it'd left identifying traces everywhere. Some of those traces led back south, but the majority led back east. After a quick look at a map and some rough estimations, Malika concluded that the Wind had mostly come from a location at the edge of Fiend territory called Evermore City.

While she'd never been there herself, she was veeeery confident in her guess, as Evermore was currently a toxic wasteland of Corruption. According to Goroth's stories, a Blight managed to absorb that city's Locus of Power several months ago, with predictable results. The ensuing devastation ended with countless dead and Evermore's transformation from a thriving hub of activity into miles of life-corroding Blighted Lands.

They'd been lucky. A Blight with time to develop and mature would've ravaged much more than just one city.

Once the thrill of discovery wore off, Malika was forced to admit that her findings were concerning. If the Black Winds had originated from Evermore City, then this first invasion might not be the last. Blighted Lands produced an endless amount of Corruption. As such, the particles that were being consumed in the formation of Dungeons and monsters hardly mattered. Reinforcements would be on their way soon enough.

She hid that revelation away under her growing pile of 'things to eventually tell the Grand Overseers'. Which she would! Later. With backup. And at least five people standing in front of her.

The second thing she discovered was, mercifully, far more reassuring. Apparently, the Black Wind was unable to infect Loci of Power. Try as it might, whenever the particles approached, they were viciously repelled. The Blight in The Village absorbed its Locus with infected monster sludge, and the infected plants in Esternard City attempted to absorb a Locus using plant roots. Using those examples as evidence, it was likely that Blights could only absorb a Locus after subsuming an organic host.

Learning that fact came as a huge relief. There were eight total Loci of Power in Fiend territory. If the Black Wind was able to absorb all of them...well, the Deserters were no strangers to traveling, but Malika didn't think there would've been anywhere left in Elatra to go. Nowhere safe, anyway.

"It's past noon," Orn'tol suddenly blurted out, turning to face her. The boy had been staring out the window for a solid hour with no signs of stopping. "What do you think they're doing now?"

"Killing monsters," Malika answered, plainly. "What else?"

Orn'tol opened and then closed his mouth. "Of course," he sighed. "I can accept monsters." He rubbed his fingers together. "As long as no one's fallen into some sort of trap."

--

"Did you ever speak to Sivia again?" Meyneth asked.

Zamira paused in the middle of wiping monster blood off her sword. She tilted her head at the Dragonkin, thoughts whirling with confusion. Meyneth's question was unprompted and delivered with the cadence of someone commenting on the weather, and it took Zamira several seconds to process the change of pace. One second they'd been engaging in combat, and the next they were discussing potential romantic entanglements.

"Is this the best time?" Zamira said, answering the question with one of her own. She gestured towards the wide room that Riardin's Rangers were currently traversing, filled with jagged spikes, bottomless pits, and the corpses of freshly slain monsters. At present, the rest of the Party was cleaning their weapons and discussing which direction to head in. They certainly weren't talking about...about this.

"Our foes are dead," Meyneth stated, shaking blood off her claws. "And underwhelming, frankly. This Dungeon Crawl is trying my patience. I keep expecting more, but it has yet to deliver on the standard that the Esternard Dungeon set for me."

Zamira couldn't help but agree. Their Dungeon Crawl had been surprisingly straightforward. After two horrific Dungeon Crawls, she'd come to expect the worst from them. But so far this Dungeon's traps, obstacles, and monsters had all been mere stepping stones scarcely an inch high.

It was a blessing – with an odd caveat attached to it. Zamira, in addition to the rest of the Party, didn't know how to comprehend a Crawl that was anything less than nightmarish. Despite the easy progression thus far, they were still on constant alert, and the lack of adrenaline release was wearing them down and building undue anticipation for what presumed terrors lay ahead. Perhaps Meyneth was searching for a distraction; in truth, Zamira could use one as well.

"I did speak with Sivia," she affirmed. "And after she managed to overcome the embarrassment of your forced introduction – just barely, I might add – we had an honest talk about whether or not a romantic future would be possible."

"Very good," Meyneth said, nodding. "It seems that I won't need to intrude upon your day once more."

"How kind of you," Zamira drawled, the corners of her mouth creeping upward. "To clarify: my talk with Sivia went as well as I could have hoped. I explained my predicament, and she was understanding. Disappointed, but understanding. She then admitted that she would be unable to enter a romantic relationship that was likely to leave her...physical needs unsatisfied. As such, we mutually deemed that we were incompatible for each other, and that entering a relationship was ill-advised."

Meyneth eyed the Bladesoul with a discerning gaze. "And you're satisfied with that outcome?"

"Yes," Zamira truthfully answered. "We parted on cordial, friendly terms, and I wouldn't mind conversing with her again sometime in the future. In a more relaxed setting, naturally." Her smile widened by a fraction. "I may have been rejected due to my personal inclinations, but I made an honest effort at addressing them in a manner that accepted myself for who I am. That, in itself, is a victory to be proud of."

"It is," Meyneth affirmed, with a hint of pride. "Never forget that."

The two shared a quiet moment. Zamira would've been happy to end the conversation there, but there was one nagging question that begged to be answered. "I'm curious," she began. "Did someone assist you in preparing the advice you gave me? I don't mean to imply-"

"That I would have been unable to formulate it on my own?" Meyneth arched an eyebrow. "My only surprise is that it took you this long to realize. Yes, I received assistance, and it was quite invaluable. Your mother is an expert on matters of the heart."

Zamira froze. "My...my what?"

"Your mother," Meyneth said, without a care. "She and I both agreed that your stagnation, combined with Rob and Keira's failure to progress their relationship, would result in problematic incidents sooner or later. As such, we determined that a preemptive strike was necessary, and then devised a plan to embolden you to change your mentality. When Rob and Keira inevitably join hands, you'll now be much more equipped to accept their coupling and move past your disappointment."

The Dragonkin paused for a moment, thinking back on what seemed to be a distressingly thorough plan. "In order to prevent Rob and Keira from entering that union with unresolved issues – a common error for young lovers – I confronted those two fools in the same manner that I confronted you. Your mother, recognizing that stability between Rob and Keira would lead to stability in our Party's friendship dynamic, provided her assistance for those conversations as well. In conclusion: your mentality is healthier than before, and the potential for a future dissolution of our Party stemming from interpersonal drama has been averted." The Dragonkin smirked. "Let it never be said that she doesn't look after her children."

Zamira could have stood there for hours and still not known what to say next. Thankfully, she was rescued from her plight by an ambush. Without warning, half a dozen monsters started scurrying out of holes in the walls, chittering and screeching as they charged forth. One creature, a horse with a four-foot long horn extending from its forehead, proceeded to shoot its horn directly at Meyneth like an arrow let loose from a bow.

'Deflect'. A green aura flared around Zamira's sword as she stepped in front of Meyneth, and in one motion, knocked the horn aside with the ease of hitting a pebble. Meyneth wasn't idle during that moment. She sank into the ground, and half a second later, silently rose up out of the horse-thing's shadow. It was dead before it managed to notice her presence, reduced to a bleeding mess of meat with stunned eyes staring vacantly at nothing.

The other monsters were felled soon afterwards. Despite being taken off guard, no member of Riardin's Rangers received a single injury during the ambush. At that point, now faced with overwhelming evidence, they were forced to acknowledge what they'd known to be true for some time.

Maybe the Dungeon wasn't holding back strength for a grueling, murderous finale. Maybe this was already its best effort.

Just how powerful had they become that Dungeon Crawls were simple?

--

More hours passed without event. Malika continued to study the Corrupted mana, and Orn'tol participated in sporadic monster-slaying. Unfortunately, their attempts at distracting themselves were proving less effective as time went on, especially when mid-afternoon arrived. The Dungeon Crawl was estimated to finish by then – although that was a general average based on Crawls as a whole. While most Dungeons took about one-third of a day to expunge, it was impossible to truly predict what lay within a Wound in the World before entering it. Apparently, the shortest Crawl in history had lasted twenty seconds, and the longest lasted twenty days. Both were successful, although the latter Party was utterly exhausted by the end of their ordeal.

With that in mind, it wasn't necessarily a bad sign if Riardin's Rangers came back later than expected. A delay of hours or even days was perfectly normal. Malika was fully aware of that fact.

The knowledge didn't make waiting for them any easier.

Another hour passed. Malika waited. Another. Malika waited. As her patience reached its boiling point, Malika crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the sun, fixing it with the best glare of loathing she could muster. The treacherous blaggard was beginning to creep towards the horizon. How dare it announce the time of the day so openly and brazenly?! It's as if the fiery orb was taunting her over her friends' delayed return.

Then her eyes started to tingle. Malika looked away, cheeks burning with embarrassment as she thanked her lucky stars that she was alone. If anyone else had been nearby to witness that particular bout of absurdity, she'd either need to bury herself in a hole and never emerge, or pelt their heads with rocks until their memories of the incident faded. Or both.

I must be losing my mind, she thought, sighing. This isn't how a member of Riardin's Rangers is supposed to conduct themselves. I may be rightfully worried, but the others are the ones facing actual hardship. And when they finally leave the Dungeon, tired and bone-weary after overcoming death-defying trials, they won't want to be greeted by a frantic mess of a girl.

She shook her head and slapped her cheeks. Have to compose myse-

HURTS

Malika collapsed to the floor. Her teeth chattered as a thought, singular and overpowering, flooded her senses like a waterfall pouring into a cup. Sight, sound, smell – each of them collapsed one-by-one. There wasn't room left in her head for anything except the thought. It spoke not in words, but in the language of pure emotion. Unrefined, unending, and without malice. A simple cry of pain that echoed across the city, begging people to listen.

Control of her body gradually returned as she adjusted to the thought's presence in her mind. The sensation was manageable, somehow, as long as she treated it as an invasive mental-type Skill. She was lucky in that regard; people without a Mind stat equivalent to hers would be incapacitated for much longer. As she rose to her feet on shaky legs, Malika wondered if she was being specifically targeted by a psychic attack of some sort. Wouldn't be the first assassination attempt that Riardin's Rangers endured. Mind Mages were rare and typically reclusive – few wanted to bear the stigma that came part in parcel with the Class – but even hermits tended to come running when rich assholes opened their pockets.

Her theory was dispelled in short order. As Malika examined the thought's source, shock and disgust rapidly welled up within her until she felt ready to pass out. This sensation was...wrong. A familiar wrong. One she'd Sensed months ago and never hoped to Sense again.

Malika threw open the front door to her apartment and dashed outside, drawn to the abominable sensation like a moth to a flame. She knew that she was being reckless, but if this was what she thought it was, and people came into contact with it, then...

She ran faster, cursing her pitiful Dexterity and Endurance. Where was a Rob piggyback ride when you desperately needed one?

Orn'tol, several Rangers, and ten Fiends equipped with anti-Corruption amulets were already there by the time she arrived. The motley group was lingering outside a condemned building, hesitant to enter. Normally, their caution would've been due to the Corruption-laden Fiends quarantined within. While Corruption wasn't contagious, superstitions always arose during periods of great crisis, and the Black Wind's pestilence was about as great as a crisis could possibly be.

The realization that the thought was coming from within that building just made Malika run even faster.

As she approached, each member of the group turned to stare at her with widened eyes, waiting until she'd gotten close before saying anything. Malika wanted to speak first, but she was breathing too heavily to form proper words, and the lapse in conversation allowed Orn'tol to take initiative.

"What are you doing here?" He was employing a classic worried-big-brother demeanor. "This area is dangerous. I'm sure you've Sensed the...whatever that is." He gestured towards the building. "Until we've identified the source, I'd prefer if you stayed back and-"

Finally, Malika was ready to speak. "SHUSH!" She commanded, in a harsh tone bereft of levity. Orn'tol flinched back as his mouth fell open. A momentary pang of guilt struck Malika, but she shoved it aside, jabbing a finger straight at the group of Fiends. She sucked in one more gulp of air to soothe her burning lungs and yelled at them with all the forcefulness of an incensed Archmage. There wasn't much air for her to spare, so she made every word count.

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

The front of the building burst apart like a crate of Firebombs had been set off inside. Elves and Fiends alike recoiled in horror as a towering creature rolled out from behind the cloud of dust and debris. Rolled, not walked. The abomination was a circular sphere, fifteen feet tall and just as wide, pulsating and squirming with misbegotten life. It left a trail of viscous, black tar in its wake, melting the ground with a sizzling stench of acrid smoke. While the thing was too massive to walk properly, that wasn't to say it was lacking in limbs – or other appendages. Fiend arms, legs, heads, and even organs were protruding out the creature; a misshapen sphere of tortured flesh and mashed-together bodies. Mouths screamed as the sphere rolled forward, crushing them under its heavy mass, only for their ruined forms to regenerate seconds later.

And all the while, that same unending note of HURT resounded in her mind.

Malika didn't need to Identify the creature to know what it was. Flesh Amalgamations were a sight that were impossible to forget. Another of its ilk had been among the Infected that invaded The Village.

It'd taken a Mage Circle heralded by Elder Fareena – using Soul Burn – to kill it.

The Amalgamation began to pick up speed. Several Fiends extended their claws and dashed forward, only to be blown back by a gust of wind that Malika summoned. They couldn't be allowed to come into contact with the Amalgamation – not unless they wanted to be added to its collection. "No touch," she wheezed, with what little air remained in her lungs. She couldn't hear her voice over the creature's incessant wailing.

Orn'tol realized her intention before anyone else. In one swift motion, he nocked an arrow wreathed in gray light and fired it directly at the Amalgamation. The instant that his arrow's tip pierced the surface of contorted Fiend-flesh, the creature froze completely and utterly. It was as if the rest of the world was moving on while the Amalgamation was stuck mid-motion. That was the signal for the Rangers and Fiends to make their retreat – Orn'tol's Temporal Freeze wouldn't last long. One Fiend reached out to carry her, and she stepped forward to accept his offer.

HURTS

Malika froze, her body so stiff that she matched the Amalgamation. That last thought...it hadn't been just an emotion. There was emotion behind it, but the actual message was...a word.

Language.

Sense Magic Level Increased! 19 -> 20

Malika turned away from the Fiend's outstretched arms and took several steps towards the Flesh Amalgamation. It unfroze two moments later. Before the creature could gather its bearings, Malika touched the Corrupted mana that was coating the surrounding air and began to morph it into specific patterns. Left, right, up, down, push, pull. Any other Mage watching her from afar would've been baffled at what she was doing. From their perspective, her patterns were aimless and nonsensical, the equivalent of splashing a pond and saying that the ripples in the water were words.

But she wasn't any other mage. She was an Archmage, and mana spoke to her as if it was a living being. The Flesh Abomination's name was almost a misnomer – in truth, it was suffused from top to bottom with Corrupted mana. A creature of pure energy warped into a facsimile of tissue and sinew. And one thing she'd learned from watching mana interact with living things was that every creature with a will of their own communicated in some way. Those with words spoke with sound. Those without words spoke with body language.

Those with nothing else to their existence but mana, spoke with mana.

~Hi,~ Malika projected, finalizing her patterns into a shape that the Amalgamation would comprehend. ~My name is Malika.~

The Flesh Amalgamation ceased its advance. It seemed to be struggling against itself, caught between attacking Malika and restraining the vicious instincts endemic to creatures of the Blight. The Fiends and Rangers gaped, dumbstruck, as the Amalgamation responded with a message only Malika could understand.

IT HURTS

~I'm sorry,~ Malika projected.  ~I want to help you, but I don't know how.~

The Amalgamation was silent for a few seconds.

KILL US

Malika's lower lip trembled. She sniffed, clenched her fists, and nodded.

~Okay.~

She didn't prolong its suffering any further than that. Malika activated Empower Spell and summoned a roaring conflagration imbued with virtually all of her MP. When that well ran dry, she activated Mana Surge to restore some MP, and then imbued her tornado of flame with even more mana, leaving just enough MP for herself so that she wouldn't undergo Mana Exhaustion.

The Amalgamation merely sat there and allowed itself to burn, the conflagration gradually outpacing its towering HP and latent regeneration. Inches of flesh seared away, then feet, until the creature's mass was reduced to a fraction of what it was before. In its dying moments, as the last of its flesh disappeared within the cleansing embrace of red-hot flame, the Amalgamation sent one final message.

THANK YOU

And then it was gone.

They were gone.

Malika screwed her eyes shut. She couldn't show weakness. It was unbecoming of her.

Members of Riardin's Rangers didn't cry.

--

Changes

Malika Level 26 -> 28

Orn'tol Level 34 -> 36

Rob Level 47 -> 48

Keira Level 43 -> 44

Zamira Level 35 -> 37

Vul'to Level 34  -> 36

Meyneth Level 36 -> 38

Faelynn Level 29 -> 31

Chapter 37

Four Days Later

Rob tossed and turned in his bed, wishing – and not for the first time – that Elatra had electricity. This was going to be one of those nights where sleep came scarcely, if at all, and a distraction would've been nice to have. Video games, internet, Netflix...something to make the hours go by faster. Heck, he would've settled for a simple ceiling fan to add white noise to the background.

Instead, he was stuck reading Fiendish literature by magelight, and there were only so many torrid romance novels a person could burn through before their mind started to rot like spaghetti left out in the sun. He now knew seven different ways to describe a Fiend's eyes, including but not limited to: 'deep captivating pools', 'beautiful orbs of black', and 'limitless darkness to match the darkness in my heart'. Fiend adventure novels might've been more up his alley, but those focused largely on monster slaying, and he wasn't part of their primary target audience anymore. They were mostly written for Utility Class users who wanted to vicariously experience what it felt like to be a badass Combat Class user – without any of the actual danger involved.

Rob didn't need to read a book to get that experience. All he had to do was head outside and pick a fight with one of the numerous creatures roaming around. Physically intimidating as they were – except for the inverted cat, that one was just weird – none of the Black Wind's monsters he'd encountered so far were a threat to him in the slightest. The Wind's dispersed 'particles', as Malika dubbed them, were opting for quantity rather than quality, seeking to overwhelm Fiendland with frequent attacks that could materialize anywhere at any time. It wasn't a scenario that Elatran society was equipped to handle, and that went double for the Fiends, as they were used to the Spire reducing their monster and Dungeon spawns to a near-minimum. The only saving grace was that the Fiends' inherent strength allowed them to scrape by without incurring too many casualties.

Until the Day of Flesh, anyway. Not everyone was fortunate enough to have an Archmage by their side when groups of heavily-Corrupted Fiends began fusing together into tortured mockeries of existence. The Amalgamations were gone now, and practices had been changed so that infected Fiends were spread out instead of clumped together, but by then the damage was already done. Aside from the death toll – which was a very large aside – morale was at an all-time low. As a fellow soul-endangered aficionado, Rob understood where they were coming from, although he'd somehow gotten off lucky compared to them. At least he wasn't at risk of turning into a Flesh Amalgamation if his condition worsened.

...Should probably ask his doctors about that. Just to be sure.

Regardless, Rob wasn't anywhere near as panicked as the Fiends were. Whenever he looked at the slow-burn apocalypse playing out right before his eyes, he somehow found himself feeling...left out? No, that wasn't the right phrase. That would imply that he was envious of what the Fiends were going through. It was more that he simply wasn't accustomed to being an outsider during times of crisis. Even when he was a newcomer to The Village who half the Elves wanted to skin alive, he'd still ended up smack dab in the middle of everything, a Level 10ish newbie that was in way over his head. He'd been forced to put his life on the line again and again, braving monsters and Dungeons and Blights, all for the privilege of watching the sun rise in the morning.

His role in the Black Wind's aftermath was different. Its particles didn't affect him, its monsters went down in one or two blows, and even the Dungeons it spawned were shockingly milquetoast. He was Level 49 now, which might as well have put him on a different plane of existence when compared to Utility Class users – and the majority of Combat Class users, honestly. Rather than a victim struggling to survive, Rob was one of the lucky few who wasn't in any real danger. He could coast through this ordeal and walk out of Fiendland without a scratch on him.

He'd be walking out of a graveyard, but strictly speaking, it was technically an option.

I think I'm starting to understand why so many leaders in Elatra are nutso, Rob told Diplomacy. I mean, I *knew* why, but now I *understand* why. Having this much inherent power would warp anyone's mind. I've got you, Riardin's Rangers, and my experiences on Earth to keep me grounded, and I still have to stop myself from getting too bigheaded every now and then.

<The word 'demigod' was skirting on the surface of your thoughts,> Diplomacy pointed out. <You were close to using it as a self-descriptor. I'm glad you didn't; it saved me the effort of having to put you in a verbal submission hold until you cried uncle.>

Rob paused. Don't worry. The Fiends beat you to that.

Diplomacy's playful aura subsided to a low melancholy. Rob rubbed his forehead and sighed, thinking back to the incident that'd played out two days earlier.

"Please," the Fiend had begged, holding out a small child swaddled in rags. "Save him."

Rob froze mid-step. Sounds of combat echoed three streets away as he gaped at the Fiend, his eyes bulging. He'd been expecting an ambush from monsters, not from a civilian. As he looked over the woman and her child, the boy's pain matched only by the intensity of his mother's gaze, Rob concluded that he would've preferred the monsters.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" he hissed. "The anti-Corruption amulets aren't foolproof, and in case you haven't noticed, there are fucking monsters running around. Which I need to go kill, so-"

The mother grabbed onto his arm and held tight. She was weak, especially for a Fiend. It would've been trivial for him to overpower her and go join the battle he was missing out on. Yet he felt himself rooted to the spot by her grip – and the note of pure desperation in her voice.

"Purge my son's Corruption," she pleaded. "He's in a bad way and getting worse. I don't – I don't know how much longer he has."

Rob swallowed the lump rising in his throat. "I'm sorry. Purge Corruption has a limit, and I emptied its reserves just a little while ago."

"But it'll be ready soon, yes?" She leaned closer, breath tickling his nose. "I can come back then?"

She was correct. Purge Corruption charged over the course of twenty-four hours. It was late afternoon now, and by tonight he'd have enough juice to stabilize approximately 50 Fiends, which was the exact number of afflicted children that were being brought in. He and the Overseers had refined the patient pipeline down to a science. And if he wanted to ensure that everyone in tonight's shipment survived, then he couldn't afford to waste a single iota of Purge Corruption energy.

These were kids with parents who'd already been promised salvation. Acting on his own, selfish, impulsive desires would be little different than bumping someone off an organ donor list on a whim.

"He'll never make the list," the mother said, as if reading his mind. "We're not important or rich or sympathetic or, or anything. Not even the right amount of pitiable. No one will care if we die."

Rob didn't say anything. He just stood there, thoughts in flux. Diplomacy couldn't help him devise a response, because Rob wasn't sure how he wanted to reply. Yes? No? He'd went outside expecting to kill some monsters, not be forced to make a snap decision where he weighed innocent lives in his hands.

Realizing that she might've pushed him too far, the woman let go of his arm and stepped back. "I'll return tonight," she said, more subdued than before. "Please consider my request. I'll do anything if it means saving my boy."

Rob had spent the next two hours racking his brains over what to do. After much deliberation, the best he could come up with was to split his Purge Corruption energy by a fraction more. Going from 50 patients to 51 might be doable. The problem was that carefully doling out fractions of energy to a large number of people required finesse that he was still in the process of learning. Sometimes he screwed up and gave his patients too much or too little. There'd been some very, very close calls.

And some deaths. Only a few, but any more than zero was too many.

His internal agonizing ended up being for naught. The woman and her child never showed up. Rob learned the next day that, shortly after meeting him, they'd been attacked and killed by monsters on their way home.

Rob let out a bitter chuckle. Yeah, he definitely wasn't a demigod. What kind of demigod failed to protect people who were counting on him? Who'd put their faith in him when all hope was lost? The fact that he was doing his best was a cold comfort. Every lost face he remembered just made the guilt worse.

WHY?

Rob sat up so quickly that he practically gave himself whiplash. Panic surged through his veins as an overwhelming, alien presence snaked its way into his psyche. The entity ignored Mind Resistance Level 4 like the Skill wasn't even there, pressing forward methodically and with the simplest of ease. Diplomacy's core shivered with fear as it did the mental equivalent of pressing its back up against a wall and hoping they went unnoticed. Rob clenched his fists with enough strength to draw blood, forced to watch as the invader took up residence in his head, then proceeded to sit calmly and wait for a response. As if casually violating someone's innermost sanctuary was no big deal.

"Was wondering when you would show up again," Rob said, feeling mildly proud that his voice didn't waver. "Been a while since we last spoke." He put on a hollow grin. "I guess gods have a packed schedule, eh? Fucking with the world must keep you busy."

NOT ME.

Rob grimaced. Unlike last time, the message being projected into his mind didn't cause him pain, but in exchange, each word carried far greater weight than the ranting diatribe of two months ago. 'Not Me' was laden with several different meanings that took him a few seconds to parse out. First, this god was claiming that they weren't fucking with the world. Second, they were admitting that they weren't particularly busy. And third, they were clarifying that they weren't the god that spoke to Rob before.

While it was difficult to tell one almighty entity from another – especially with his sample size of two – Rob found himself believing the god's claim. The first god he'd spoken to nearly crushed his mind like a pancake; its message was delivered without a single care for Rob's health. In contrast, this god seemed to be treading carefully, aware of the damage they could cause if it moved too quickly. Like a very conscientious bull in a china shop. One that felt strangely familiar-

Rob's muscles tightened as he realized just who had paid him a visit. This was the god that he'd attempted to choke when Attuning to the Locus of Power in Esternard City.

And he was about to find out whether it was holding a grudge.

"Nice to know that the whole pantheon has me on speed dial," Rob said, barely suppressing the tremor in his legs. "So what's the occasion? Come to taunt me over my failures? If that's the case, then believe me, I'm way ahead of you."

NO.

That word's meaning was more easily parseable: the entity wasn't here to taunt him. "Huh," Rob commented, legitimately surprised. "You know, you're a lot less chatty than the last guy."

CONSERVE.

There was apparently a reason that it was keeping its messages short and sweet. If it wanted to conserve, that meant that speaking to Rob drained a resource of some kind. He doubted that the god would be forthcoming about the nature of that resource, so Rob decided to focus on a different topic and try to wheedle some information out of God #2 while it was in a chatty mood.

He ran the decision past Diplomacy – to no avail. The Skill was frozen by a passionate cocktail of fear and rage, stuck glaring at the entity like they wanted to choke it all over again. For now, Rob was flying solo.

"For your sake, I'll skip straight to the point." Rob laced his fingers together. "Why are you here? You started off by asking 'Why', but that's...broad. I won't be able to answer unless you narrow it down."

WHY CARE?

Translation: why care about the Fiends' inevitable extinction? Why care so much about the fates of people who he barely knew, and who he was powerless to save? Why care, when caring hurt?

Rob sucked in air through his teeth. "If that's a question you need to ask," he began, his voice taut. "Then you really are a god. Giving a shit about people you don't personally know is called basic empathy, and it's common for us puny mortals."

DEBATABLE.

"That's kinda edgy for a-"

STOP.

It wanted some time to think. Rob wasn't stupid or pissed off enough to deny that request. After half a minute had passed, the entity spoke again, using a full sentence to ensure that no meaning was lost in translation.

DO YOU WISH TO SAVE THEM?

Rob nodded without hesitation. "Isn't that obvious?"

Another half minute went by. Rob was beginning to wonder if he'd been left on hold when the entity abruptly poked a tendril forward and pressed the tip against some inner facet of Rob's core. He violently jerked back, banging his head against the wall as a tingling sensation sprouted from within his makeshift Locus of Power. The sensation didn't hurt, but it felt distinctly bizarre, like melted ice cream spreading across one small section of his brain.

He didn't get a chance to complain, the words dying in his throat as a system message popped up in front of him. Rob read the first line and almost smacked his head again when he saw 'Crystal Bearer'. Instead of a peppy phrase like 'Skill Leveled Up!' or 'Have a pity point of Mind!", this message was just Attunement's Skill Description, every Locus milestone listed verbatim and in order.

With one addendum at the bottom.

Rob hadn't gained a Level in Crystal Bearer or Attunement. Of that, he was certain. But despite knowing instinctively that he was still at Attunement Level 8, the description for Level 9 was right there, appearing grayed out and slightly blurred. As if it was a preview for what was to come if he Attuned to another Locus of Power.

"You're lying," Rob whispered, running his hands through his hair. "Just fucking with me. False hope. The hell is wrong with you?"

UNCOUTH.

Translation: Rob's reaction was uncouth. More importantly, the act of lying was in itself uncouth, and the entity would never stoop that low. It was beneath them.

"...Why?"

KISMET.

The presence receded from Rob's mind. Its sudden absence left Rob stewing in a mire of confusion. He'd received an answer, but not the one he'd asked for. The god's parting word was something different.

A name, freely given.

--

"We need to find another Locus of Power."

Riardin's Rangers, the two Elders, and Faelynn stared at Rob with varying expressions of exasperation. He couldn't see the Grand Overseers on the other side of the Message Crystal, but presumably they looked the same.

"Is this why you've called us here today?" The Overseer's voice was carefully neutral. "To state a thoroughly obvious fact? Under the guise that this was an emergency that required immediate attention? Thereby taking precious time away from-"

"Let me clarify," Rob hurriedly said, cutting up the Overseer's rising tone. "We really, REALLY need to find another Locus of Power. This goes beyond just increasing the number of Fiends I can help out in a day."

They'd discussed the prospect of hunting down more Loci of Power before. Each Attunement so far had tripled his Purge Corruption energy reserves, and thanks to the wonders of exponential growth, Rob was right on the cusp of going from stabilizing Fiends to outright curing them. Just one or two more Loci should do the trick. It wouldn't solve their Black Wind problem, but at least it would help keep Fiend civilization above water until a permanent solution could be found.

Unfortunately, they didn't have the faintest idea of where to find the next Locus of Power. Rob had scoured all of Fiend territory with his expanded search radius – combined with fast travel teleportation – twice now, and he doubted that a third go-around would turn up anything new. Fiendland was fresh out of Loci. If he wanted to Attune to Locus #9, he'd either have to search the Human wastelands to the south, the Merfolk seabed to the west, or the Dwarf underground to the east.

Each option presented its own unique set of difficulties, and even if those problems were dealt with, it would still take Rob an estimated several weeks at a minimum to find another Locus, during which he'd be away from Fiendland and unable to Purge Corruption. Shitloads of people would die. After weighing the pros and cons, their group had decided to keep Rob stationed nearby so he could continue to address the situation as it worsened.

Kismet's revelation changed all that. The downsides were no less problematic, but the upsides were game changing. Rob gave everyone one last look, took a deep breath, and steeled his resolve. There wouldn't be any turning back after this.

"Attunement Level 9 is going to grant me the ability to restore Loci of Power that have been Corrupted by the Blight."

The silence that followed was so electric that it caused the hairs on the back of Rob's neck to stand on end.

Somehow, Faelynn was the first to find her footing. "How are you aware of this?" she asked, lightheaded. "The other Attunements...they...didn't work that way...oh, gods..."

"Rob," Elder Alessia stated. "Please explain. In detail."

Here we go. "I could call it a gut feeling," he began. "But that would be underselling it. Crystal Bearer is a part of me, more deeply intertwined with my soul than any normal Class – my physicians can attest to that. The more I use its capabilities, the more I understand exactly what it's capable of. And after Attuning with eight Loci and Purging Corruption from thousands of Fiends..."

Rob closed his eyes. "It's there," he muttered. "If I focus, I can see Level 9 in Attunement's Description. Doesn't work the same for Berserker, but Berserker is a Class that I chose. Crystal Bearer is one that was forced upon me. It's become like a second nervous system in my body." He opened his eyes and shrugged. "What other Class is like that? Honestly, I'm not surprised that it's continuing to manifest never-before-seen capabilities."

Deception Level Increased! 5 -> 6

He wasn't willing to reveal the actual origin of Attunement Level 9's description to the Overseers and Faelynn. Even assuming that the Fiends believed him, it would prompt too many questions, and the answers to those questions would lead to some big conversations that could go who knows where. For now, he just wanted them to accept what Attunement Level 9 was offering. Nothing else mattered.

The Elves in the room wore their best poker faces as Rob delivered his cover story. Thankfully, in spite of their reservations, they didn't make any attempt to derail his spiel. He was half expecting they would; bringing Riardin's Rangers and the Elders on board with believing Kismet had been a struggle. At first they thought he was being tricked, then they thought the brain damage was finally catching up to him, and then they started to wonder if he was being straight-up mind controlled. Which, you know, fair. After everything the gods had put them through, trusting one to give useful advice was just asking for punishment. The Elves weren't going to let Lothren’s ilk deceive them all over again.

Rob knew that would be the case – which is why he actually considered selling them the same story that he was currently giving to the Fiends. It wasn't a decision he thought of lightly, and he'd gone back and forth on what to do several times. Diplomacy had been against the idea of hiding the truth, partially out of distrust for their divine visitor, but also because the backlash would be severe if or when Riardin's Rangers discovered Rob's deceit. The Skill even worked hard to create a spirited, convincing speech where honesty was key.

But as it turned out, Diplomacy's models that utilized lies and half-truths still produced higher chances of success. The Elves' hatred and distrust of the gods slightly outweighed their trust for Rob – which was a problem, as this wasn't a sales pitch he could afford to bomb. Fiendland's corrupted Locus of Power would be its death sentence if left unaddressed. According to Malika, a second Black Wind was likely to come blowing in from the Locus' Blighted Lands in less than a week, with a third not far behind. Dungeons and monsters would spawn endlessly, and the Corruption plague would worsen day after day. The situation was so dire that some Fiends were proposing a mass exodus south, but even then, there was no guarantee that the Black Wind wouldn't just follow them.

Essentially, they were proper fucked. Attunement Level 9 was their last chance, and admitting how he learned about it carried the risk of the others barring him from pursuing that lead. It was frustrating, because Rob was pretty confident that Kismet was telling the truth. The god hadn't put on airs and acted like some gracious, supportive benefactor – whatever reason it possessed for revealing Attunement Level 9, it seemed to stem more from a whim than anything else. Rob couldn't trust altruism, but he could trust boredom.

And if he was being honest, the god's reaction to being called a liar was what convinced him the most. It'd been so...annoyed. In a very petty, mortal sense. Like when someone was falsely accused of cheating on a test. Rob knew that feeling very well, and on an unrelated note, Professor Skeever could go fuck himself.

The problem was that Rob's arguments in favor of Kismet's trustworthiness were derived entirely from his personal feelings. There was no actual evidence to present, which made Diplomacy's job a lot harder. The Skill was a badass, but they weren't perfect, and a 10% chance of failure wasn't acceptable in this scenario.

Then Rob said fuck it, and put his trust in his friends' trust for him. It worked out – barely. The others were going to be on high alert for any sign of divine brainwashing, which he couldn't argue with, really.

"If Rob is to be believed," Elder Duran began, once the Fiends finished processing the news. "Then I see no reason for further debate. It is imperative that we decide on an optimal course of action before the day is out." He rubbed his chin. "Forgive me, as I've been recuperating up until this point, but am I correct in assuming that the subject of Loci hunting was discussed at a prior date?"

"Indeed it was," the Grand Overseer answered. "And I'm loath to revisit the topic, although you're also correct in that a decision must be made. Finding a Locus of Power in Dwarf, Human, or Merfolk territory will prove to be a struggle no matter how carefully we plan."

"I still think the Dwarves would play ball," Rob interjected. "They've got a guilt complex about their role in The Scouring, right? Just send me over. No complex plan required. All I have to do is make nice, lie to people about how they're definitely not at fault for being accomplices to mass murder, and then ask for a tour of their biggest cities once they've gotten used to me. Then I Attune to the first Locus of Power that I find and Waymark back afterwards. Easy peasy, shouldn't take longer than a week."

The Message Crystal crackled as it projected a weary sigh. "Your faith in our teleportation mages is admirable," the Overseer commented. "Unfounded, but admirable. Precise teleportation requires a deep understanding of the area that the person in question is being transported to, and no Fiend has ever set foot in Dwarven holdings. Barring a stroke of pure luck, you'd likely end inside the mountain rock itself, body and soul fused to stone for time immemorial."

Rob put on a weak smile. "I was, uh, thinking more along the lines of putting me next to one of their mountain entrances. Which are out in the open air. Don't need to risk a teleport inside when I can just knock on their front door."

"Our surveillance indicates that the Dwarves have collapsed the entrances to their mountain," the Overseer continued. "And, by all accounts, have descended into full-blown isolation. You may attempt to knock, but I doubt that anyone will answer."

<He's not lying, and he's probably not wrong,> Diplomacy added. <Which doesn't preclude his ulterior motives for steering you away from Dwarven territory. The Overseers are worried that you'll abandon them for the first non-Fiend race that treats you nicely, and they're also worried that the Dwarves will invade if they realize that Fiendland is in crisis.>

Rob's cheek twitched. He didn't have the patience for this kind of crap right now. "Elder Alessia," he began, facing her. "What are the odds that the Dwarves would invade Fiendland if they caught wind of how bad things are over here?"

Varying reactions spread from face to face. Keira was wearing an 'Oh Snap' expression, while Faelynn looked stricken with horror; apparently, the notion hadn't occurred to her. Elder Alessia merely smirked, waiting several seconds for the Grand Overseers to wallow in their discomfort before replying.

"The odds of an invasion are high if news of the Black Wind circulates." Alessia ignored Faelynn's gasp of panic and continued on. "Now that the Humans are gone, no race despises the Fiends more than the Dwarves. It is a deep-seated, mutual enmity stemming from their millennia-long proximity to one another." She crossed her arms. "Even if we were able to get in contact with the Dwarves, and even if you happened to meet ones that were sympathetic to Humanity, they'd still ask questions about where you came from, especially after their mages inevitably detect residual Fiend mana lingering on your body."

"A valid concern," Rob said, nodding. "Thanks for clarifying." He turned towards the Message Crystal. "Isn't it nice what we can accomplish when we talk about our problems openly and honestly?"

<Oh? Are you ready to tell them about Kismet, then?>

...That's different.

<Mmmhmmmmm.>

"Be that as it may," the Overseer grumbled. "I think we're in agreement that searching for a Locus in Dwarven territory is inadvisable. That leaves Merfolk territory and Human territory, and out of the two, Human territory presents fewer issues."

"Have your teleportation mages been to any major Human cities before?" Rob asked.

The Overseers paused. "No. The war was fought largely in the open area bordering our respective territories."

Rob frowned. "Then how are their cross-continent teleportation spells going to be accurate? I don't want to get stuck fifty feet underground or something."

"Thanks to information provided by Elder Alessia and Elder Duran, we can roughly estimate the location of major Human cities on a world map. This will allow our mages to fine-tune their spells to a certain degree."

"To a certain degree," Rob parroted.

The Message Crystal crackled with another sigh. "Our alternative is to teleport you into Merfolk territory. Aside from the fact that it is, as a reminder, underwater, we haven't the faintest idea of where their cities are. Human territory is both knowable and breathable."

Everyone fell silent as they went over the logistics. Rob could use Waymark once a day, which meant the teleportation mages would get one chance a day to place him near a Human city. When they failed, he'd Waymark back, and they'd try again every 24 hours going forward until striking gold. Hopefully. It was either that or have him waste time aimlessly traveling through Human territory – probably after being dumped in the middle of fucking nowhere.

"Pardon me," Elder Duran began, breaking the silence. "But is there a reason as to why we're focusing so intently on cities? Loci of Power can appear anywhere in the world."

"Very rarely. It's much more likely that they're found within large population centers – or rather that large population centers naturally form around them over time." A note of surprise entered the Overseers' tone. "I must admit that I expected a man as well-read as you to be aware of that."

"Oh, I am," Duran replied. "I'm merely surprised that no one mentioned the known Loci of Power in Merfolk territory that have been cataloged as existing apart from major cities." He scratched his chin again. "I suppose that there's little point in considering them for our purposes, what with being submerged fully underwater, but..."

The Elder trailed off, eyes sweeping across the room as he took in the audience of shocked faces. "Ah," Duran belatedly realized. "No one else knew of them? Well, the listing was contained in a particularly verbose novel that would give the average reader pause."

Elder Alessia put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Duran."

Rob watched, head spinning, as the beardless Elf cleared his throat. "Right. To summarize: if you give me a map, I will be able to mark the locations of several Loci of Power in uncolonized Merfolk territory, one of which is situated relatively close to Fiendish borders."

"How?" The Overseers asked, dumbfounded. "Loci of Power are invisible to the naked eye. Before Rob, our best estimates were just that. Estimates."

Elder Duran beamed with excitement. "Ah, but that's just the thing: Merfolk territory offers a wealth of information in this regard that other territories cannot, resulting in estimates that are close to fact. As you said before, living creatures are drawn to Loci of Power, which is what allowed us to surmise that the Loci are generally found within major population centers."

He held up a finger. "However, lest our scope grow too narrow, it is important to remember that all forms of life are drawn to Loci. That includes indigenous wildlife. As Human territory is...sparse, its non-city Loci were never able to be cataloged, but Merfolk territory exists as a stark contrast to those arid wastelands. As it turns out, deep waters contain an abundance of life; most importantly, the veritable legions of minuscule organisms that the Merfolk have named Krill. These tiny creatures are so ever-present in Merfolk territory that it made tracking their migration patterns a simple task. Where krill congregate in mass numbers – seemingly for no reason whatsoever – a Locus of Power can be found."

"...and you memorized these locations," the Overseer said. "A piece of knowledge that was, until this point in time, entirely useless."

"Knowledge is knowledge," Elder Duran replied, as if stating the obvious. "I only wish that this particular piece of knowledge was of more use to us. Unless Fiends have developed waterbreathing magic that I'm not yet privy to, then alas, I'm afraid that-"

A flash of blue motes lit up the room. Rob tossed the item he'd produced from his Spatial Storage onto the table, stepped back, and indulged in smug satisfaction over the stunned silence that followed. Sorry, Elder Duran, he thought. You had your moment, but no one beats me in pulling unexpected bullshit out of nowhere.

Name: Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, grants the wearer several abilities when entirely submerged underwater. Their swimming speed increases dramatically, they become as maneuverable as a fish swimming through the sea, and they become able to breathe underwater indefinitely.

Rob rolled his shoulders, waiting for everyone to finish reading the item's Description. When they did, he offered them a wide grin, cracking the knuckles on each hand.

"So when do we leave?"

--

Changes

Everyone's Level +1

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 37

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. The detailed descriptions for a few Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 38.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 49

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 46)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 4)

HP: 1021 / 1200

Stamina: 292 / 300

MP: 350 / 350

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Missing Left Arm, Blood Loss (Severe)

Strength: 53

Vitality: 120

Endurance: 30

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 35

Unspent Points: 10

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal+

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever+

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood+

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage+

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity+

Berserker Rank 6 – Flames of Vengeance+

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank 4 – Awaken Class

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Purge Corruption

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

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

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 15), Not A Scratch (LV 12), Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 1)

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

Perception – N/A

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

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

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

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 18), Tough Skin (LV 5), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 10), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 6), Regrow Limb (LV 5), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 7), Push Through (LV 5)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Diplomacy (LV 17), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 7), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 5),  Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#), Intimidation (LV 1), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

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

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

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

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

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

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

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

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

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

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

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

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Grants the user the ability to restore a Corrupted Locus of Power. Can be used once per week.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Purge Corruption (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Attune to eleven eight Loci of Power.

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

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 8)

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

Description: Increases Strength by +12 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 7)

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

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

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

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

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

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

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 7 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 15)

Prerequisite: Vitality 120, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 70% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 10 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Vitality 105, take damage from enemies at least 130 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply. Consumes 50 Stamina upon usage.

Cooldown: 15 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100

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

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Second Wind (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Endurance 30, reach 1% or lower Stamina at least once.

Description: Get back on your feet, you lazy bag of bones. You can rest when you’re dead. Take a single deep breath to instantly restore 30% of your maximum Stamina. Cannot be used without breathable oxygen in the area. Cannot be used if your lungs are nonfunctional.

Cooldown: 24 Hours

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 9)

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

Description: Increases Dexterity by +13 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

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

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

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

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

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

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

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

Passive Skills

Name: Brawling (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Strength 20, Dexterity 20, participate in a fight while unarmed, and defeat at least two worthwhile opponents while unarmed.

Description: Become more proficient with humanity’s oldest weapons.

Name: Grappling (LV 3)

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

Description: Hold on tight! Slightly increases your grip strength and your ability to put people in holds.3

Name: Regeneration (LV 18)

Prerequisite: Vitality 120

Description: Heals 180% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 33 minutes, or 3% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, take grievous physical damage at least four times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 30%.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 10)

Prerequisite: Vitality 88, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 33 different occasions.

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

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Vitality 60, break bones on at least twenty different occasions.

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

Name: Regrow Limb (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 130, lose at least five appendages.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund. Regrow any lost limbs over a period of 2 hours. Assuming you can stay alive that long.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

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

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 7)

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

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

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

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

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

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, defeat at least six worthwhile opponents while using a dagger or a knife.

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

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

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

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

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

Name: Diplomacy (LV 17)

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

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

Name: Leadership (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Mind 55, exhibit strong leadership in at least seven tense situations.

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

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

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

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

Name: Deception (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Mind 50, pull the wool over someone’s eyes using words and body language several times.

Description: Little white lies never hurt anyone, right…? Become slightly more proficient at lying to people and getting away with it.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

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

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

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

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

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

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE)

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

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

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 1) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: /

Description: \

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

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

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

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

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

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

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 38

"Fucking Human," a voice hissed.

Taleya blinked, missing her next arrow shot by an inch as it landed slightly off from the bullseye. She grimaced, chastising herself for letting a momentary distraction throw off her aim during training, of all things. Carelessness like that cost lives; an inch was the difference between striking a charging vraal's eye or its hardened carapace. It was her duty as a Ranger to be better than this.

"Agreed," a second voice said. "The bastard was handed success on a silver platter."

...It was her duty as a Ranger to ignore distract-

"His underlings aren't any more respectable, either."

Taleya's right eye twitched. She lowered her bow and slowly turned sideways, spying two other Rangers muttering to themselves in a corner of the training grounds. After one last halfhearted glance at the shooting range, she approached the duo with purposeful, methodical steps, imitating the gait of a lion preparing to pounce on its prey. Taleya's quarry noticed her approach almost immediately – if nothing else, they were still Rangers with high Perception, even if their heads were as empty as a bottomless canyon. One of the two was stricken with embarrassed shock, while the other appeared pleased, as if he'd been desiring this confrontation.

"Couldn't help but overhear your blathering," Taleya snapped, once she'd gotten close. "Care to repeat those words to my face?"

"There she is," the first Ranger began, in a derisive tone that made Taleya want to punch him in the teeth. "So glad to meet with one of the Human's esteemed hanger-ons. I hope you haven't been having too much trouble lately, what with your spot in his Party being usurped by a Fiend they met barely over a month ago."

Taleya narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. 'Identify'. Ranger #1 was Level 28 and named Vargas. Ranger #2 was Level 26 and named Ulicor. Both were far below her own Level 39; a realization which released some of the stress coiling in her shoulders. Taleya didn't intend to combat their words with violence – unless her temper got the best of her – but it was often prudent to estimate how a fight between you and others would play out. Especially when speaking with a man like Vargas, who had an air about him that resembled a drunken lout looking for trouble. The only difference was that he was drunk on indignity rather than booze, which unfortunately meant that his reflexes were still intact.

"No one has a rightful claim to the eighth 'spot' in Rob's Party," Taleya countered. "And the Fiend is merely a diplomatic liaison. She'll be rotated out soon enough. Maybe I'll be given a Party invite when she is, and if I'm not, oh well. That's just the way of things."

Vargas raised his eyebrows. "And that's how you truly feel?"

Taleya suppressed a grimace. No, it wasn't. She'd very much enjoyed how frequently she used to be included in Rob's party. What's more, she had the sinking suspicion that her time as his default eighth member was coming to an end. No more Fast Learner bonus – potentially ever.

The notion...stung. She'd grown accustomed to her accelerated growth and was still mourning its loss. Reconciling the emotional part of herself demanding that she deserved that spot, with the part of herself that logically knew otherwise, was an ongoing process. There wasn't anyone she could talk to about it, either; Rob's Party would consider her ungrateful, while other Rangers would point out that she'd already been included far more often than they had.

Taleya glared at the Rangers standing before her. Perhaps, if they'd approached her with a different tact, she would've taken the chance to commiserate with them about how it felt being left behind by Rob and his friends. After all, wasn't it unfair that seven upjumped youths were exceeding the efforts of Rangers who possessed decades of training and expertise? The greatest fear of any Combat Class user was irrelevancy, and it was impossible to deny that Rob's group was outshining those around them at every step. They'd even taken up Riardin's mantle – and who could deny them? A Party of Awakened Class users could call themselves whatever they damn well pleased.

Yes, it would've been nice to speak these feelings aloud with Vargas and Ulicor. They could've griped, lamented, laughed, and then moved on to greet the day with lighter hearts. Everyone needed an outlet to vent their frustrations to on occasion. Taleya knew that Rob wouldn't begrudge her complaining behind his back – if anything, the Human would've thought it was funny.

Unfortunately, she couldn't indulge herself in this golden opportunity, because the two shits in front of her were letting their mouths run just a little too far.

"Do I wish that I was included in his Party more often?" Taleya began, crossing her arm. "Of course I do. Everyone does. But you don't see me whining that – what was the phrase you used? – that Rob's Party was handed their success on a silver platter. Unlike some people, I think before I speak."

By this point, Ulicor had completely retreated from their conversation, standing back in silence and staring at the ground. Taleya felt a sliver of sympathy for the man; he'd evidently been used by Vargas to bait her into a confrontation. For his part, Vargas was only growing more incensed by the second, and he spouted his retort the instant Taleya finished talking.

"Nine," he spat. "That's how many of the original Village Rangers are left." He grit his teeth. "There used to be fifty. Some fled to Reviton City, but most perished in the line of duty. Refresh my memory – how many members of Rob's Party have perished, again?"

Taleya's hand inched towards her bow. "Vargas," she stated, in a voice as cold as ice. "I'll give you one chance to reconsider that statement. Think for a moment about what it implies."

"I don't want them dead," he said, all too quickly. "But surely you're not blind to the benefits that being a consistent member of his Party offer. The results are apparent: they thrived as we died."

"We?" Taleya repeated. "They? Why are you counting Rob's Party as separate from the Deserters?"

Vargas dismissively waved a hand. "Don't bother trying to convince me that they're still the same as us," he muttered. "By the note of hesitation in your tone, it's not something you believe, either. Rob's Party consists of one Human, one Dragonkin, the biggest firebrand in The Village, an Archmage, and two others who abandoned their Classes. Only one member chose to stay as a Ranger – and he was then promptly Awakened, along with each and every one of his compatriots." He shook his head. "I can scarcely recognize them as they are now."

Taleya took a second to compose herself. "Refresh my memory," she imitated, wanting nothing more than to put an arrow through the man's throat. "Did you join us on the Dungeon Crawl in Esternard City?"

Vargas froze. "...No. I stayed behind to guard the city. Infected plants were encroaching from underground-"

"I'm aware." Taleya forced her hand to her side and away from her bow. "Your job was important. I won't claim that it wasn't. With that said, you didn't join us on the Dungeon Crawl, which means that you weren't subjected to that...hell. You weren't there to have your deepest desires twisted into a mocking fantasy. You weren't there to watch over a dozen Villagers be nearly sucked dry to feed the Dungeon's appetite. And above all, you weren't there to witness the absolute manic fervor in my Party's eyes as they tried anything and everything to save their comrades. I don't give a single shit what race or Class or Level they are – on that day, they proved without a doubt that they're willing to risk their lives for ours, just as I would risk mine for theirs."

She'd taken a few steps forward while speaking, and was now dangerously close to Vargas. The man held his ground, although he was clearly worried that she was about to strike him. Good, Taleya thought. I doubt I'll change his mind, but at least I'll shut his mouth.

"And even if you weren't on the Esternard Dungeon Crawl," she continued. "You were present for the road to Reviton City, and the journey north, and the Blightspawn incursion of Broadwater. You've seen time and time again that Rob's Party members are as dedicated to the Deserters as anyone else." Taleya clenched her fist. "In the end, nothing else matters."

For a brief and wonderful moment, Vargas looked as if he was going to rethink his views. Then the specter of stubborn envy reared its ugly head once more, his eyes glinting with resentment. "So that's it then?" the Ranger sneered. "We're just supposed to stand aside and cheer them on as they ascend to greater and greater heights? Perhaps you're satisfied with the providence you've been granted thus far, but I've spent a total of two hours in Rob's Party since he became able to share Fast Learner. Two hours! I can't abide that disparity, especially when we're trapped in Fiend territory. The average Combat Class user here could dismantle me limb from limb if they so desired. Lothren preserve, my very soul is in peril."

His face contorted into an ugly snarl. "And now Rob's group is apparently going on yet another outing. We'll be stuck here cleaning up monsters and Dungeons that could kill us at any moment, while they'll be soaking up easy, Fast Learner-boosted Experience from killing a bunch of fucking fish. The Human is probably being waited on hand and foot as we speak, his every need catered to so that the Elders' and Fiends' favorite creature stays happy and content."

--

Rock, Rob thought.

<Scissors,> Diplomacy thought, at the same time.

I win. Woooo.

<Congrats.> The Skill paused. <Be honest. Did you read my surface-level thoughts again?>

It's kinda hard not to these days, Rob admitted. I can't hide things from you as easily, either. Weren't you reading my thoughts too?

<Well, yes, which is why I was surprised that you won.>

Both of them went silent for a few seconds.

<I don't think this game suits our unique mental living arrangement.>

What else do you propose?

More silence.

Want to go back to Tic-Tac-Toe?

<Waste of thought,> Diplomacy dismissed. <There's no variance. As long as you know how it works, you can force a win or a tie in every game.>

And of course it only took you a few rounds to figure that out. Rob sighed, expelling a line of bubbles that floated outward. With a stretch, he opened his eyes and glanced at the Fiend physicians waiting outside of his water tank. Vythe and Zordred perked up, hurriedly stowing their writing implements away, ready to assist him at a moment's notice in case things went awry. Rob gave them a thumbs-up to put them at ease, then went back to lazily floating in the center of his twenty-by-twenty foot aquatic enclosure. As exciting as moving through water with the grace and speed of a Merfolk had been at the start, once he'd gotten accustomed to performing loop-de-loops, there wasn't much left to do outside of chill and teach Diplomacy simple Earth games.

Rob took a deep breath, embracing the bizarre sensation of water being converted to air as the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling worked its magic. The process was sufficiently weird enough to keep his mind from falling into a torpor, although even that novelty was starting to run aground upon diminishing returns. He knew that this test was important to figuring out if the Ring was safe to use over extended periods of time, but it was tough to just sit there and do nothing, especially when masses of people were suffering while he lived his new life as an aquarium exhibit. A large part of him wanted to ignore the risks and jump into action right away, and that part was getting louder the longer he spent floating in a glorified fish bowl.

The lack of any real distraction wasn't helping matters. Out of all the games he and Diplomacy had dabbled in to keep themselves occupied, the waiting game still reigned supreme.

How long have we been in here? Rob asked.

<About an hour, I'd say.>

And how long did we set the stress test for?

<...Three hours.>

Both of them went silent again.

<...Rock.>

Paper.

--

Two torturous hours later, they'd finally learned all they could about the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling. In theory. There was no way to know for certain how effective it would be when used in deep Merfolk territory, but at the very least, their initial findings were actually turning out to be encouraging.

For starters, the Ring was making good on its promise of allowing Rob full underwater breathing and unrestricted nautical agility. Those who'd seen Merfolk swim in the past described his underwater maneuvers as almost on par with theirs. That much was expected based on the Enchanted Item's description, but the Ring also seemed to offer some side benefits as a bonus prize. Little things that would've negatively affected Rob if he stayed submerged for long stretches at a time – such as pruney skin and irritated eyes – were negated. Additionally, Auto-Translate made it so that people speaking underwater could understand each other as if they were on land. Eating would still prove to be a challenge, and no one knew whether or not the Ring would protect him from deep sea pressure, but he wouldn't come out of the water looking like a man-sized raisin, so he had that going for him.

Most importantly, Rob's EXP Share was able to transfer the full effects of the Ring to anyone in his Party. Usually the effects he shared were a diluted form, but maybe the Ring was different because it was 'perfected', and sharing a portion of infinity was still infinity? That was as good of a reason as any, and Rob decided to accept it and let the Fiend scholars debate the specifics. He honestly didn't give a shit either way. If it worked, it worked. The important takeaway was that Riardin's Rangers would be at full capacity while in Merfolk territory.

Well, almost full capacity. He couldn't use Firebombs underwater, and the Ring wasn't bullshit enough to change that. Rob stared at the Ring nestled tightly around his middle finger and shook his head like a disappointed father towards his layabout son. If an Enchanted Item didn't let you explode more things, then really, what was it even good for?

"We'll be teleporting you approximately twenty miles out into Merfolk territory," the Fiend mage explained, breaking Rob out of his thoughts. Riardin's Rangers were currently participating in a last-minute strategy meeting while the teleportation mages made their preparations. "That's less distance than you or I would have hoped, but attempting any further runs the risk of irreversible spell deviation."

"As in, teleporting us a mile up into the air?" Keira asked. "Or a mile below the seabed?"

"Correct."

She put on a serene smile. "I'd like to avoid that."

The Fiend mage visibly shuddered. "Y-yes, of course." He averted his gaze and pointed down at a world map spread across the table. "According to Duran, the Locus you'll be aiming for is located here."

The location in question was adorned by a little red flag stuck into the map, billowing majestically as Malika cast wind magic on it with a giggling smile on her face. Rob examined the map closely; it had been a long time since he'd gotten a chance to familiarize himself with Elatra's territorial makeup. Starting from the bottom, he could see Elven and Dragonkin territory, which took up most of the southern edge of the continent. The Dwarves and their mountains covered the eastern edge. Harpy territory was stuck at the southeastern edge, sandwiched in-between Dragonkin and Dwarven territory. These four territories seemed to contain a similar amount of landmass, although the Dwarves possessed the clear geological advantage of having a vast mountain range they could hide in.

Then there was the center of the map, which was dominated by the Human wastelands. It was the size equivalent of any three other territories combined. Fiend territory stretched across the northern edge of Elatra and was a little bigger than non-Human territories, although not by much. Finally, there was Merfolk territory in the west, looking like a large circular chunk that had been scooped out of a section of the continent. It consisted entirely of water, with the top part leading out into the open sea.

And if you went even farther west than that, you reached the ancient Deadlands, which covered Elatra's western edge from top to bottom. Seeing that long, dark gray splotch on the map was a grim reminder of what would happen if the Blight ended up winning. In fact, if the map were truly accurate, there would already be several new gray splotches showcasing various Blighted zones. One in Fiend territory, another in Human territory, and possibly more in locations that Rob wasn't yet aware of.

After all, Elatra was full of dozens if not hundreds of Loci, many of them left unattended and unguarded.

Rob repressed that thought and looked back at the red flag denoting his target Locus. It was near Fiendland's borders and situated far away from any major Merfolk settlements, which was damn close to ideal. Operation Locus Heist was about getting in, Attuning, and getting out as quickly as possible before the Merfolk realized they'd technically been invaded. Normally this would be impossible, as each territory guarded their borders fiercely, but the Merfolk were different. No race in Elatra had ever managed to figure out a functional waterbreathing spell, and as a result, the Merfolk were living in what was essentially an impregnable geological fortress. They'd stopped bothering to guard their borders thousands of years ago.

Lazy fishstick pricks, Rob grumbled. Why are they the only ones who have it easy, and – oh shit, did I just go native? Why am I resenting the Merfolk for not having to worry about invaders?

Valiantly repressing that thought as well, Rob focused on the positives. There was a Locus ripe for the picking, it was relatively close by, and his Party was unlikely to encounter the Merfolk in any large numbers along the way. It might actually be the only scenario where sneaking a Locus from another territory was possible. In that sense, Rob couldn't have asked for better.

Except for maybe the Locus being in Fiend territory. Or there being no Black Wind. Or the Corruption plague having never existed in the first place. Or...okay, so Rob could've asked for a lot better. He was still going to take his silver linings where he got them. Operation Locus Heist was looking shockingly plausible – aside from one nagging issue.

"No offense, but how accurate is this map?" Rob asked. "You guys don't exactly travel much."

"Duran verified its veracity," the Fiend mage answered, sounding mildly offended. "And it has been derived from our oldest and most trusted records."

Okay, but the old Fiends didn't travel much either, Rob thought. He briefly considered saying so, before ultimately deciding against it. There was no point in pressing the issue; he trusted Elder Duran to know his stuff.

Riardin's Rangers and the Fiend mage continued discussing logistics until the door opened several minutes later. A group of four Fiends entered the room, each person carrying one corner of the same crate. They slowly, carefully approached the table, setting the box down like it was packed full of nitroglycerin.

Reminds me of the Riardin Special, Rob thought, with an internal sigh of wistful longing.

<You have a problem.>

Yeah, I do, and it's called 'not having Firebombs'.

Any further banter was upended when the Fiends pried open their box to reveal goodies inside. Over twenty Enchanted Items awaited within; rings, bracelets, anklets, wristbands, and even a helmet.

"We scoured the cities for these," one of the Fiend newcomers explained. "Take whichever you think will be relevant to the mission at hand." She paused. "And no more. Please. Some of these belong to...certain important people. Who were displeased at having their precious family heirlooms appropriated by the Grand Overseers."

Keira gave Rob a side-eye glance. He understood her intent at once, shaking his head slightly. Stealing Enchanted Items by hiding them in Spatial Storage was a bit too grimy for his tastes. She pouted for an instant, then went back to Identifying the Items like a kid at her first visit to Toys R Us. Rob did the same.

Name: Minor Anklet of Waterskimming

Description: An Enchanted anklet that, when worn, grants the user the ability to float on the surface of water. The duration of this effect lasts for one minute, and can be used once every twenty-four hours.

Name: Minor Bracelet of Hair Growth

Description: An Enchanted bracelet that, when worn, accelerates the user's hair growth speed by 10%. When worn for at least one year without being removed, bald spots will begin to regrow as well. This effect ends when the bracelet is removed, which will reset the timer.

Name: Minor Ring of Food Amplification

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, causes the user to taste food somewhat more intensely than before. Food perceived as delicious will taste slightly better, while food perceived as unappetizing will taste slightly worse.

Rob blinked, and then looked at the Fiends. "Did you guys bring every Enchanted Item you could get your hands on? Regardless of quality?"

Fiend Newcomer #1 put on a weak smile. "We wished to be thorough," she said, sheepishly. "Didn't want the mission to fail because a stone was left unturned."

"And I appreciate that. It's just..." He held up a ring. "This one makes spells louder. Not stronger; louder. Why would we need that for a stealth operation?"

"I want it," Malika said, deathly serious. "Forever."

"That ring belongs to Lady Asheri," Fiend Newcomer #1 explained, the blood draining from her face. "It was a present for her twentieth birthday."

Malika locked eyes with Fiend Newcomer #1. "I want to make my thunder spells sound like actual thunder," she stated, in that same serious tone. "Are you implying that we don't deserve a reward for saving the lives of all your friends and family? Is the value of our service so little to you? If so, then perha-MMMFPH."

Fiend Newcomer #1 – on the verge of passing out – was rescued by Orn'tol, who covered his sister's mouth and dragged her back in a practiced motion. "My apologies," he said. "She's been spending too much time watching...someone."

He means you.

<I'll take it as a compliment,> Diplomacy said, excitedly. <Did you see how quickly she backed that Fiend into a corner? I'm so proud of her.>

I'm glad one of us is.

Minutes passed. After scrutinizing all of the Enchanted Items, Rob was forced to come to the conclusion that Items as useful as the ones he already owned were much rarer than he'd imagined. Either that, or the Enchanted Items with powerful combat effects were being hoarded by Fiends who refused to part with them. Of course, it would be silly for anyone to conceal valuable resources while the fate of their race was at stake, but he'd seen enough zombie movies to know that peoples' sense of greater good usually went out the window when the apocalypse came knocking.

Just one more reason to get Attunement Level 9 as soon as possible. Things were stable now, but most people didn't know that Black Wind 2: Electric Boogaloo was on its way. Rob gave Fiend society a month before it inevitably deteriorated into a chaotic mess.

Thankfully, two of the Enchanted Items actually ended up being useful. One was an Item that passively increased eyesight in low-light situations. Depending on how deep underwater the Locus was located, extra visibility might be needed. The second Item was a nigh-indestructible compass, which was going to help them keep their bearings as they searched. Rob's Locus sensing range was about the size of a city now, but that wouldn't help them if they were swimming in the wrong direction.

Diplomacy also wanted to keep a necklace that turned purple if someone nearby was lying. They rescinded their request after learning that the wearer wasn't excluded from the Item's effect.

And...that was it. The mages were ready, the planning was finished, the supplies were packed, and everything that could be taken care of, had been. There wasn't anything left to do besides commence the operation. That didn't stop Elder Duran and Elder Alessia from waiting with the Party until the very last second, fretting like parents seeing their kids off to college for the first time. Alessia was trying to play it cool, but the little fidgets and glares she sent towards the teleportation mages told a different story. Duran, on the other hand, didn't bother hiding his concern.

"If any of your chests begin to feel tight, ask Rob to use Waymark immediately," he said, nervously rubbing the tips of his fingers together. "People without access to air will fall unconscious more quickly than you might think."

"Yes, Elder Duran," the Party intoned.

"And make absolutely sure to avoid the northern edge of Merfolk territory that leads to the sea beyond Elatra," he continued. "The Great Leviathans live there. They won't harm you if you don't encroach upon their home, so keep an eye on your compass at all times."

"Yes, Elder Duran."

"And!" He held a finger up. "Don't overexert yourselves! We can always try again at a later date if the initial venture doesn't bear fruit!"

"Yes, Elder Duran." Rob smiled. In a way, Duran's animated anxiety was soothing. It meant that the Elder's liveliness was returning. And on a selfish note, it was nicer to see people worry than not care. Rob's dad and mom had acted even worse when dropping him off at university during freshman year. The sight of Elder Duran fussing over him was...nostalgic.

It was with that vague, comforting notion easing his heart that he bid goodbye to the Elders. See you soon, he promised. Be back before you know it.

A thunderclap of mana surged through the air as the teleportation mages cast their spell. One gut-wrenching trip through dimensional space later, and Rob found himself submerged completely underwater. He panicked for a moment, flailing wildly, before his caveman instincts remembered that Elatran bullshit existed. Sure enough, Rob took in a deep breath that the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling seamlessly converted to oxygen, lungs filling with air just like if he was standing on the surface. His body wasn't restricted by the water, too, which he tested by turning around in one smooth motion. Every movement was fluid, responsive, and felt completely natural, like he'd suddenly unlocked long-dormant fish DNA.

The Ring was working its literal magic; as long as he wore it, the sea belonged to him as much as it did any Merfolk. He wouldn't drown, he wouldn't sink, and his skin would remain un-pruned. There was nothing to fear.

Besides the shark. Which was inches away. And looking right at him with an expression of shock; insomuch as sharks had expressions.

Rob stared.

The shark stared.

Rob smiled.

The shark smiled.

Rob waved.

Regrow Limb Level Increased! 5 -> 6

Chapter 39

Three Shark Attacks Later

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS ECOSYSTEM!"

Rob dove downward as a pair of sharks rushed past where he'd been, their jaws snapping greedily like they hadn't eaten in days. He mouthed off several rude comments before immediately shifting left to avoid a second pair of sharks. Then another. And another. The most he could do in retaliation was score a few sporadic blows in-between dodges; while the sharks weren't particularly strong, clocking in at Level 26 on average, at a certain point quantity became its own type of quality. Imbue Vitality's cooldown timer reached zero at that moment, and Rob promptly chunked a shark into oblivion – only for it to be replaced by, surprise surprise, more sharks.

Two fun little facts about Earth sharks are that they can smell blood in water from over 1000 feet away, and that they don't actually attack people very often. Apparently the Elatran variants were far more aggressive and Perceptive, because every single goddamn one he'd met since the first was gunning straight for his succulent Human-flesh as if they were penniless college students at a discount lunch special. Maybe he was a delicacy they hadn't tasted in ages, like fine caviar being randomly served at your local McDonalds, or maybe they were just tired of eating fish and Merfolk as their daily diet and wanted some menu variety. Whatever the reason, it meant that all of them wanted a piece of Rob-shaped pie.

All of them. Riardin's Rangers had encountered no less than thirty-five sharks since their foray into Merfolk territory. They'd encountered other types of indigenous wildlife as well, but those fishies were smart enough to stay away from the strange new creatures carrying themselves with an air of murder. The sharks were...slightly less cautious. They made mana-born monsters driven by an innate desire for carnage look like friendly puppies in comparison.

Rob breathed a sigh of relief as Vul'to's Taunt finally resounded across the battlefield. All but one shark whipped around to face him, ravenous hunger glinting in their beady black eyes. The swarm darted towards him, swimming straight into a cloud of inverted gray mist that slowed their rush to a crawl. Keira, Orn'tol, and Malika took advantage of the Temporal Trap by viciously tearing into the swarm like fish in a metaphorical barrel. Orn'tol fired an arrow that split apart into four separate projectiles, each one piercing its target squarely in the brain. Malika encased an unlucky few in solid blocks of ice, watching gleefully as the popsicle corpses gracefully floated up towards the ocean surface. Keira bellowed a war cry as she wielded her greatsword with the ease of swinging a light dagger, her charge followed closely by a shadowy afterimage that felled just as many enemies as she did; twice the fun wrapped into a single Savage Warrior package.

That left one shark who'd managed to partially resist Vul'to's Taunt. Before it finished shaking off the Skill's lingering effects, Rob cast Rampage and dashed forward, grabbing the creature's head with enough force to stab his fingers in and up to his knuckles. Rampage's secondary effect activated, encasing the shark in a cacophonous explosion that tickled Rob's ears despite its sound being dulled by the surrounding water. Sharkie struggled in vain to escape as the explosion ravaged its body, shearing away chunks of flesh that exposed pure-white bone. After a brief period of being treated like a hamburger patty stuck inside a blender, Sharkie snapped away at the last second; well, some of it did, anyway. Three-fourths of a shark drifted into the endless blue as Rob was left holding a twitching head.

He gazed into the creature's fading eyes. After a customary moment of pity, and against his better judgement, Rob began to wonder how his victory trophy tasted like. This might be a golden opportunity to try out shark meat in a world where doing so wasn't frowned upon. Considering how many bites they'd taken out of him, it was only fair. Shame that he couldn't put corpses in Spatial Storage – the idea of physically toting Sharkie's head around felt a bit more awkward than he was comfortable with. And it would be hard to explain without sounding like a weirdo, psycho, or both.

C'est la vie, Rob thought, as he let go and allowed the head to drift away. He turned to face the rest of his Party, eyes sweeping across them. "Is everyone alright?"

<Just check the Party Screen,> Diplomacy said. Before Rob could reply, the Skill opened up the Party Screen on their own, filling Rob's vision with a list of names and stats.

Rob

Level: 49

BERSERKER Level: 46

HP: 1023 / 1250

Stamina: 217 / 350

MP: 259 / 350

Keira

Level: 46

Savage Warrior Level: 43

HP: 510 / 510

Stamina: 301 / 370

MP: 283 / 350

Vul’to

Level: 37

Guardian Level: 32

HP: 602 / 650

Stamina: 277 / 380

MP: 134 / 260

Zamira

Level: 38

Bladesoul Level: 35

HP: 420 / 420

Stamina: 236 / 320

MP: 300 / 300

Orn'tol

Level: 39

Guerilla Ranger Level: 35

HP: 500 / 500

Stamina: 254 / 330

MP: 315 / 420

Malika

Level: 30

Archmage Level: 27

HP: 330 / 330

Stamina: 121 / 260

MP: 497 / 700

Meyneth

Level: 39

Executioner Level: 34

HP: 534 / 600

Stamina: 251/ 350

MP: 258 / 350

Faelynn

Level: 31

Thrasher Level: 28

HP: 318 / 420

Stamina: 283 / 350

MP: 257 / 300

<Everyone looks right as rain,> Diplomacy assured. <What few injuries they have will be healed by Regeneration in short order.>

Yes, but it's common courtesy to ask anyway, Rob countered.

<They don't care one way or another,> Diplomacy shrugged. <A small modicum of common courtesy won't increase their opinion of you.>

Rob internally narrowed his eyes at the Skill. Are you saying that the only reason to be nice to people is  to get them to like me? And that if being nice won't work towards that goal, I shouldn't bother?

Diplomacy paused. <I misspoke,> they muttered, quietly. <That's...not what I believe.>

"Is there perhaps a way to mask Rob's scent?" Vul'to said, interrupting the BERSERKER's mental conversation. "I don't blame him for the sharks' apparent interest, but the frequency of their assaults is growing rather obscene."

"You'd likely have to remove all the blood in his body," Meyneth deadpanned. "Which I personally consider to be an inadvisable course of action, although others might feel differently."

Rob poked his arm and sighed. "I attracted a lot of mosquitoes growing up," he confessed. "Parents told me to stop eating so much sugar. Said that it was making my blood extra sweet. I thought they were full of it, but who knows? Maybe I taste like ice cream cake on the inside."

"Do we really need to think of a way to deter their attacks?" Malika flinched back at the seven sets of widened eyes that turned their attention on her. She crossed her arms, voice taking on a note of defiance. "The sharks are too weak to kill us," she grumbled. "So all they're actually doing is feeding us free Experience. That's not so bad, is it?"

"I am quite enjoying the Fast Learner bonus," Faelynn admitted. "It's going to be difficult to go back to a normal EXP rate after our mission is finished. Almost feels like cheating."

Rob tuned out the rest of their conversation, letting them decide the pros and cons of horrifying creatures of the deep coming in droves to eat him. He imagined that it was a topic of debate that came up fairly often in Elatra: where did the line between 'easy EXP' and 'too hot to handle' begin and end? While all Combat Class users wanted to grow stronger, they couldn't just go out and kill the first living creature that caught their eye and expect to get a Level out of it. Picking their targets was as integral as the fighting itself. Too weak, and they wouldn't gain any real amount of Experience. Too strong, and they would, well, die.

It was a decision that had largely been taken out of Rob's hands – enemies tended to come to him, today being a prime example – which was a major contributor to his record-breaking Level growth. Combat Class users in times of peace weren't constantly bouncing off of Infected animals, aberrant Dungeons, and Blightspawn. They were afforded more breathing room, and they definitely possessed a higher life expectancy, but in that same vein, their options for growth were also far more limited.

What's even left for me to fight if I want to make significant gains? Rob pondered. As far as I know, I've already out-leveled the strongest animals and monsters in the world. Blightspawn still give good EXP, but we're trying to get rid of them. Dungeons don't spawn at my Level, and letting them grow until they can give people at my Level a challenge has historically been a catastrophic idea.

If Rob were given the choice, he'd have retired right then and there and coasted through the rest of his life as a Level 49 Awakened Class user. That was more than enough to put him in the top 1% of Elatran fighters. The problem was that the tippy-top of the 1% was currently looking to punish him for his crime of existing. According to Elder Alessia, the Elven Seneschal was Level 75 the last time she'd seen him, which wasn't a fight Rob could win unless he stacked the deck in his favor to an absurd degree. What he really needed was a way to close the gap, and fast. Gaining 26 Levels would be no small achievement, but it might be possible if he managed to pull some bullshit method out of his ass. Unlikely, very unlikely, but possible.

The Dragon Queen, though? She may as well have been a universe apart from him – and everyone else. Apparently, slaughtering tens of thousands of people with an army at your back was a decent way to gain some Levels. Imagine that. Even if Rob was somehow given the same opportunity, he had this pesky thing called 'not being a total fucking monster' holding him back from following in her footsteps. Gaining 40+ Levels before she came to deep-fry him seemed downright impossible. And even if he somehow pulled it off, she'd still be significantly stronger due to winning the Racial Trait and Awakened Class combo lottery, giving her a permanent Passive Skill that doubled her stats. When looked at purely from a stats perspective, she was actually over Level 180, and well above the universal Level cap of 100.

Rob sighed as he rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Crazed draconic demigods were a problem for Future-Rob to deal with. Present-Rob was already busy shoving years of backdated swimming lessons into a one-day period. While the Ring of Perfected Waterdwelling was living up to its name, Rob wasn't fully comfortable traversing through the sea yet, and swimming for hours on end was starting to take its toll despite constant Deep Breathing and regular breaks. Other physical concerns included shark attacks, eating soggy food, and the looming necessity of sleep that they wouldn't be able to put off for much longer.

At least the view is amazing. A smile inched across Rob's face as he looked around, surrounded on all sides by otherworldly beauty. Light from above was reflecting the gentle motion of blue-green waves, highlighting a roaming school of sparkling fish whose scales glittered in the sun. Rocky outcroppings that jutted upwards from the ocean depths had formed into underwater mountain ranges, each one dotted with multicolored coral of varying shapes and sizes. And while the ocean was tranquil, it wasn't fully silent; tiny ambient sounds could be heard in the distance, from the hums of wildlife to the sloshes of water mixing with water.

It was breathtaking in every sense of the word. The nature documentaries that Rob watched back on Earth didn't remotely do the experience justice. Seeing it in-person was so much more vibrant, so much more alive. Rob made himself a promise to go deep-sea diving with Jason and his parents as soon as he made it back home. He wanted to see how Earth oceans stacked up against Elatra's, and it would be nice to share one of the few unambiguously beautiful memories he'd have from this world.

He let himself soak in the sights for a few seconds longer. Satisfied with his mental break, Rob turned to the rest of his Party, preparing to urge them on. They had a lot of swimming to do, especially after factoring in that they'd inevitably go the wrong way and have to waste time course correcting. He opened his mouth – and then stopped. Everyone was frozen still, Orn'tol holding his hand up to forestall any movement or chatter. The boy's eyes slowly shifted leftward.

With a burst of speed, Orn'tol drew his bow and fired an arrow wreathed in an inverted-gray aura. Two figures in the distance popped out from behind a rocky outcropping and started swimming away like their lives depended on it. Riardin's Rangers sprung into action, following Orn'tol's arrow like a pack of dogs chasing a stick. The two figures were moving fast, and they might have been able to escape – if not for the Temporal Trap that enshrouded them in its enfeebling fog. Zamira and Orn'tol caught up first with their 70+ Dexterity apiece, engaging the figures before the Trap's effects had a chance to fade.

One beatdown later, and Rob found himself staring down at two bruised Merfolk, each restrained in a tight headlock under one of Keira's arms. The man was Level 23, and the woman was Level 25, marking them as Combat Class users. Both Merfolk stared back with expressions of stupefied horror, eyes flitting back and forth between the Elves, Dragonkin, Human, and Fiend. They seemed to be preparing themselves for torture, followed by a swift death – if they were lucky.

Rob should've given their panic more sympathy and understanding. Objectively, he knew that. At the moment, though, all he could think about was how the Merfolk were the first Elatran natives he'd met who weren't inherently attractive. The Elves were slender and beautiful, the Dragonkin and Fiends were buff and full-figured, and the Merfolk were...fishy. As in, their faces kind of looked like fish. Vaguely elongated in strange places, and with puffy skin that was a bit too oily. The disparity was just enough to fall into uncanny valley territory. Maybe it would've worked for some sections of the internet, but Rob wasn't a fan.

<Is this really what you should be paying attention to right now?>

Look, Rob began, a defensive edge to his thoughts. I've got hormones, and sometimes they sit in the driver's seat without my permission.

Diplomacy sighed. <How in the world haven't you kissed Keira yet?>

Mercifully, one of the Merfolk took that moment to speak up. They turned to their compatriot and began jabbering in a language that Rob couldn't understand, but what he presumed was their native tongue. Merfolk #2, looking intensely distressed, jabbered back in a pointed tone. Merfolk #1 winced and fell silent, averting his eyes and glancing down.

"...So does anyone know how to speak Merfolk?" Rob asked. Everyone shook their heads, Diplomacy included. "Huh. What are the chances that they know Common? Orn'tol was still learning it back when I initially joined The Village."

"Only cause I got sidetracked," Orn'tol mumbled, as Malika snickered.

Rob suppressed a smirk. "Fair enough. Sidetracking aside, though, should we assume that these Merfolk can speak Common?"

"Certainly," Meyneth answered. "At the very least I would expect the same for any Dragonkin of a similar age as them. Those who fail to learn Common by the age of 30 are considered to have brought shame upon their family name."

Orn'tol grumbled under his breath. Meyneth's eyes widened in belated panic. "Ah, don't worry," she quickly said. "Believe me when I say that there are many ways to bring shame upon a Dragonkin's family name. Learning Common isn't a particularly noteworthy barometer for personal success."

"Yeah, Orn'tol," Malika crowed. "It's so un-noteworthy that anyone should be able to do it. With ease. Hardly worth thinking about, really."

The boy sent her a dangerous glare. "...You slept with a stuffed animal until you were 28."

"And you promised never to tell a soul about that!"

Rob scratched the back of his head. I think they forgot about the Merfolk.

<This is, somehow, not the worst interrogation I've ever witnessed.>

Doesn't have to be an interrogation, Rob thought. He bent his knees to put himself at eye level with the restrained Merfolk, remembered that he was underwater and could've just floated straight down, and ultimately decided that he was committed to the bit. "As you can see," Rob began, putting on his best Good Cop voice. "We're not exactly a group that takes itself seriously. More seriously than the moment calls for, anyway. I know that Keira's dual headlock is giving you an exceptionally poor first impression, but there's no reason for us to be enemies here. We can explain ourselves if you give us the chance."

He smiled. "My name is Rob, and it's nice to meet you. Any chance I can get your names in return?"

The Merfolk glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes. Some unspoken message passed between them, and as soon as it was received, both of them clammed up and averted their eyes from everyone once more.

"I don't know what you just said," Faelynn whispered to Rob. "But I don't think it worked."

<They can definitely understand Common,> Diplomacy confirmed. <Facial expressions make it clear as day.>

Any chance you'd be able to interpret exactly what they're saying if we get them speaking out loud in Merfolk again? Rob asked.

<I wish,> the Skill laughed. <Maybe after I'm Level 25, or after I've spent hours analyzing their expressions. Merfolk faces are somewhat different from what I'm accustomed to. At the moment, I'm as of little help as you are.>

Gee, thanks. "Would it help if I said that we're not invaders?" Rob offered. "Just think of us as tourists. We'll be in and out before you know it."

They gave him a flat stare. Vul'to poked Rob in the shoulder to draw his attention, then whispered into the Human's ear. "Why aren't you asking...um...your friend, for assistance?"

"Was it really that obvious?"

"Well...yes."

Rob smirked. "Macy wants more data before they start feeding me lines. Isn't used to Merfolk faces yet."

<I'm sorry, MACY?>

It was either that or Big D.

The Skill groaned loudly. <How are you *so* bad at naming things?>

"Are you done playing around?" Keira asked, in a bored tone. "Because it looks to me as if the diplomatic avenue has failed. At what point do we start using my methods?" She grinned. "Honeyed words may be met with resolute silence, but broken bones can sing so many stories."

"That isn't necessary," Zamira said, making soothing hand motions towards the now-anxious Merfolk. "As Rob has clearly stated, we aren't invaders."

"I think we're the only ones that see it that way," Keira countered. "And really, why should they believe otherwise? Take a moment to observe this situation from their perspective. Is there any possible combinations of words we could say – no matter how friendly and disarming – that would prevent these Merfolk from swimming off to inform their King of our Party's arrival? Our Party which, as a reminder, consists of Elves, a Human, and a Fiend, all breathing water and swimming like natural-born Merfolk."

The ocean was quiet. Zamira leaned over to whisper a translation to Faelynn, which prompted Keira's smirk to widen. "Ah, yes. Can't forget that we're also communicating with the aforementioned Fiend. As if everything else wasn't noteworthy enough on its own."

<She's right,> Diplomacy admitted. <Even if I spent hours observing these two Merfolk in specific, this would be a very, very hard sell.>

Rob sighed, exhaling a line of bubbles. "Okay, fine. Then what do you propose? Because if they're that determined to inform their King, I doubt any number of broken bones is going to deter them regardless. At the same time, We've got to do something with them."

He froze. Every member of Riardin's Rangers turned to look at Keira in unison. "What?" She asked, before realizing the intent behind their accusatory stares. "No," she stated, with emphasis. "I'm not suggesting that we kill them. They're harmless noncombatants who've done us no wrong. Just – just what do you take me for?"

The rest of the Party breathed a muted sigh of relief. By the crestfallen look on Keira's face, it wasn't the reaction she'd been hoping for. "I was merely going to suggest that we leave them unconscious," the Savage Warrior hurriedly continued. "If my method of persuasion isn't feasible, then wouldn't the logical solution simply be to remove their interference in a temporary capacity?"

"Shark will eat them," Orn'tol muttered. "They were close to Rob. Probably got Human-blood stench all over them."

"Humans attract sharks?!" Merfolk #1 cried out. He clapped a hand over his mouth as Merfolk #2 clapped a hand onto her forehead. Riardin's Rangers gaped in disbelief as the Human in question swam closer, eyebrows shooting skyward. Merfolk #1 averted his eyes, Rob moved into view, and Merfolk #1 averted his eyes again. The pattern repeated a few times until Merfolk #1 gave up and fully closed his eyes, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Faelynn grimaced. "So that's what it looks like to have a Helkath ruining your negotiations," she said, as if she was recounting traumatic war stories. "I don't think I make for a good interrogator. Already feel pity for one of my captives."

"Perhaps we could bring them with us?" Vul'to suggested. "Keep them contained until Rob completes his Attunement. Afterwards, we release them and Waymark back to-"

"Sharing too much, Vul'to!" Rob interrupted. "And that would be...difficult. We don't have any material strong enough to keep Combat Class users restricted, and repeatedly knocking people out who don't have Regeneration is more dangerous to their health than stories make it out to be. We could just drag them along, I guess, but keeping them in check for however long this is going to take will slow us down."

A bolt of inspiration struck him. Rob turned back towards the captive Merfolk and plastered a disarming smile on his face, the kind that dentists wore while they ripped out pieces of your body. "As a side note, do either of you know how close we are to the Leviathan border?"

The Merfolk reacted immediately and intensely, the man moreso than the woman. Eyes bulged, shoulders tightened, and both reached up to ineffectively swat at Keira.

You get anything from that? Rob asked.

<Still a bit fuzzy on the specifics, but they were exceptionally panicked,> Diplomacy said. <And not in the 'what is he talking about?' way, but in the 'what if he actually takes us there?' way. It implies that we're close to the Leviathan border.>

'Hours away' close, or 'couple days' close?

<As stated, I'm still fuzzy on the specifics.>

Rob nodded and brought up a mental map of the area. The Locus that Riardin's Rangers were hunting was close to the northern edge of Merfolk territory, which would explain why his captives were so freaked out. If the Locus was nearby, that meant that Leviathan territory was nearby too, and for all they knew the crazy Human was serious about going there. It made sense – except that Rob knew he shouldn't have been anywhere near this location yet. The teleportation mages specifically explained that their spell's effective range was about 20-30 miles, which would've put Riardin's Rangers at least 100 miles away from the Locus. There was no way that they'd managed to swim so far, so quickly.

The only explanation Rob could think of was that the spell had sent them farther out than expected. Teleportation was an imprecise art, especially if the mages involved weren't familiar with the terrain they were sending someone into. Meaning that the mages, despite their caution, had teleported Riardin's Ranges many miles forward...instead of many miles up...or down...which they said was also a distinct possibility when teleportation spells went awry.

...

Well, Riardin's Rangers were going to reach the Locus ahead of schedule, so everything was totally fine. Rob elected to take the lucky break for what it was – and ask Diplomacy to write up some stern words for the mages when he got back.

Still need to figure out what to do with these two, Rob thought, as he relayed his newfound discovery to the rest of the Party. Can't knock them out, because sharks will eat them. Can't kill them, because we're not monsters. Bring them with us and they'll slow us down. He grimaced at the captives, earning another set of panicked looks. Why'd couldn't these assholes have just been somewhere else? Things were going swimmingly – pun intended – until they showed up. Was he really going to expend his safety button for their sake? It'd be so much easier just to slit their throats and wash his hands of the situation. He'd get some bonus EXP out of the deal too-

Rob viciously shoved down the Leveling High static growing in the back of his mind. Feeling as if he was sick to his stomach, he turned towards Keira. "Shatter their limbs," he exhaled, voice taut. "In numerous places. Then we'll take them with us. If they can't swim, they can't try to escape. Won't slow us down."

A smug grin spread across Keira's face. The rest of the Party hesitated only a moment before nodding. In contrast, both Merfolks' faces drained of color as Keira approached, the man letting loose a stream of pleas while the female grit her teeth and waited.

"Sorry about this," Rob said, grimacing as screams echoed throughout the water. "Trust me when I say that it's for your own good."

--

Riardin's Rangers pressed on immediately after, whimpering luggage safely in-hand. There wasn't any time to waste; while they theoretically had food in Rob's Storage to last a week, they didn't know exactly when the Black Wind would return. Could be a week, could be tomorrow. Gaining Attunement Level 9 would be pointless if Fiendland degenerated into a Flesh Amalgamation factory before Rob managed to put his new ability into practice. For all they knew, the second Black Wind had already arrived, and their mission was doomed to fail from the start.

It was a notion that weighed heavier on their minds as the hours dragged on, especially when combined with the very real possibility of Merfolk interference. Things would get dicey if more of those fishy fuckers showed up. Toting around two Merfolk was reasonable, but what if Riardin's Rangers had to disable, say, a dozen? At a certain point the Party literally wouldn't be able to bring that many, meaning that the less savory alternatives they'd been able to sidestep might have to be revisited. No one knew what they were going to do if that scenario came to pass.

The next two shark attacks didn't help anyone's nerves.

Outside of those short bursts of excitement, Rob had plenty of time to think about his current condition as the Party traveled further into Merfolk territory. After careful consideration, Rob decided to split his 10 unspent stat points from his previous two Levels between Endurance and Vitality. Endurance was chosen because he wasn't sure he'd last the full trip otherwise. Despite the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling empowering his swimming, and despite Deep Breathing restoring his Stamina, it turned out that Elatran system bullshit had its limits. Marathons were exhausting with or without magical help.

Vitality was chosen with a little less pragmatism in mind. While more HP was never a bad thing, mostly he was just sick of getting munched on by the local fauna and wanted to heal those injuries up a bit faster. Thankfully, he was granted an easy post-decision justification when Not A Scratch leveled up for the first time in a while, reducing its cooldown from 15 minutes to 10. That boost got Rob thinking about how his Skills would evolve in the future. Did they have an upward limit? If he kept dumping points into Vitality, would abilities like Not A Scratch and Lifesurge eventually reach cooldowns of 1 minutes? 30 seconds? 5 seconds? If so, how many points would that take? Would it be worth completely ignoring his other stats in favor of Vitality?

Rob imagined what a fight against a powerful enemy would be like if he spent his next 20 Levels' worth of stat points all on Vitality. Blasts of magic and strikes of steel would flow across his skin like spritzes from a water pistol. Any damage he took would be healed, negated, or outright ignored. He'd be damn near unkillable...and when his opponent realized that, they'd stop trying. Instead, they'd go after his Party members first. Rob wouldn't be able to catch up due to his comparatively lower Dexterity, nor would he be able to deal enough damage due to his lackluster Strength. After his Party members fell, Rob would be captured, restrained, and summarily executed. Which, as a result of his high HP and defensive Skills, might end up being a painful and drawn-out process.

Even if he was literally immortal by then, some fates were worse than death. A million Vitality wouldn't save him from being wrapped in chains and dropped into the ocean with weights attached to his legs. Sinking down, down, until he hit the very bottom. Water pressure crushing him, hungry predators feasting on a Regenerating buffet. Left to nature's nonexistent mercy until the day that he was miraculously rescued. Or miraculously perished. A sweet release, either way.

Accompanied by thoughts like those, Rob lost track of time as he swam. Hours blended together with the endless blue. He only realized how long he'd been going when the dim sunlight that had been guiding their way began to wane, fade, and eventually vanish entirely as day turned to night. The temptation to use Waymark to escape the darkness that followed was overwhelming. Oppressive, pitch-black eternity choked him from all sides, driving any semblance of rationality from his thoughts. It was nearly as nightmarish as the portal that had dragged him to Elatra, and boy wasn't that a fun thing to be reminded of while trapped in an inescapable prison of aquatic nothingness.

The Party was forced to wait until dawn broke before continuing forward. It wasn't ideal, considering that they were on a timer, but none of them wanted to test their luck by fumbling aimlessly into the omnipresent dark. Instead, they gathered around a magelight orb that illuminated a small fraction of the world around them, positioned themselves in a circle with their shoulders pressed against each other, and kept an eye out for any deep-sea creatures that didn't need sight to hunt.

Rob's pulse didn't settle until half an hour after the sun rose. The experience was so deeply unsettling that he couldn't help but view the sea in a different light from then on; its radiant, otherworldly beauty was marred by a thick undercurrent of danger. Not the kind of danger that comes at you with fangs and claws, but rather the harsh indifference of nature. People born and raised in civilized society weren't meant to descend this far below the safety of solid ground, and wearing a fancy ring didn't mean that the ocean depths were his domain. He was an outsider here, and if his Party got lost, or ran out of food, or got ambushed by something less conspicuous than a pack of sharks, then there wouldn't be anyone around to save them.

That creeping sense of dread fell over him like a heavy shadow, and it only worsened after an incident that occurred some few hours later, when the sun was at its peak. In spite of the shark attacks and fear of being discovered, Riardin's Rangers were in relatively high spirits, as Waymark was five hours away from being usable again. Just a little bit longer and they'd have their eject button ready to go in case of emergency.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Vul'to spotted something. It may as well have been a speck in the distance, so small that Rob couldn't actually see it. Vul'to only could because he was an Elf, and even then the other Elves in the Party hadn't noticed until he pointed it out. They approached, muscles tensing as they realized what they were looking at: a landmark. It was one of the occasional subaquatic mountains in Merfolk territory that was tall enough to be visible from high above the ocean floor. This particular mountain's most notable aspect was a bizarre rock formation near the top that looked like a lance – if you squinted at it from the right angle. It was thus appropriately named Spearman's Peak, and out of all the landmarks Elder Duran had told them to watch out for, this one was at the very top of their list.

As seeing it meant that they were horribly off-course. They'd checked the compass on a regular basis, did their best to swim in a straight line, and in the end, it didn't matter. The sea was too vast, too empty. Thank fucking Christ that they hadn't tried swimming at night – it would've been all too easy to accidentally start progressing at a downward angle. They might have never found the light again.

The good news was that Spearman's Peak was roughly two hours away from the Locus. As long as they course corrected directly to the west instead of continuing north, the rest of the trip should be smooth sailing. If Vul'to hadn't spotted the landmark in time, they would've kept swimming in the wrong direction and wandered straight into Leviathan territory, but that wasn't something anyone wanted to think about. The Merfolk prisoners most of all; they'd just about shit their pants when they realized exactly where they were.

Please let the Locus be unguarded, Rob chanted, as Riardin's Rangers drew closer to their destination. Please let the Locus be unguarded. Please let the Locus be unguarded.

Two hours later, he was left wondering why he never seemed to learn his lesson about tempting fate.

Not only was the Locus guarded up to the gills, it was being guarded at that very instant. Dozens of Merfolk were fighting in an army formation against what appeared to be some sort of sentient, moving, black-colored whirlpool. The frontline melee fighters were proving ineffective, as water didn't exactly have any blood to spill or vital organs to wound, so the sole group making any headway were the few mages casting spells from the back. Spouts of pressurized water tore through the whirlpool, ripping it apart and pushing it back – only for it to reform itself within a matter of seconds, again and again.

Rob took a deep breath, then exhaled. "So," he began. "The Locus is over there." He pointed to a spot several hundred feet behind the line of Merfolk. "The Blightspawn are over there." He pointed at the 'whirlpool', which he now realized was Corruption-tainted water enshrouding a mass of infected krill and fish. A lot of krill and fish. The Blight had obviously prepared well before making its assault on the Locus. Its numbers wouldn't last forever, but neither would the mages' MP or stock of Potions. At this point, whoever emerged victorious would come down to which side could outlast the other in a war of attrition.

"How do you guys want to handle this?" Rob asked. "Do we try to help the Merfolk and hope they don't turn on us? Try to sneak an Attunement and hope they don't notice?" He frowned. "Why do all of these options sound like shit?"

"Because they are," Keira replied, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Makes sense."

Their decision was taken from them before they had a chance to discuss it. Just then, Rob's Sense Mana picked up something in the distance approaching ridiculously fast – which was concerning, as that Skill was Level 1. If he was detecting something from this far away, that meant that whatever it was, it was absolutely packed with mana. Rob glanced at Malika to find her mouth open and her face white as a sheet, which was...also concerning.

He was about to recommend a tactical retreat when the Something New burst onto the scene, stopping short behind the line of Merfolk defenders, the force of his approach sending waves of pressure rolling across the battlefield. With a swing of his trident, the Someone New sent a roaring blast of condensed water that was on par with three of the mages' spells combined, shredding the black whirlpool into disparate pieces. The Merfolk defenders let out a cheer of joy and relief, redoubling their efforts as the Blight pulled itself together – at a slower rate than before.

'Identify' - oooooh, shit.

Name: Morcant Cyraeneus, King of the Merfolk

Level: 71

Status Effects: Affronted, Determined

Description: An insolent, vain creature who is nevertheless dedicated to his people's well-being. Comes equipped with the Gravemaker Trident, Crown of Salvation, and most importantly of all, centuries of combat experience. Unmatched in the sea, and no slouch on land either. One of the five strongest humanoids in the world.

Rob inched back.

The Merfolk King's head immediately snapped towards him. He was a foot taller than any of his soldiers, sporting ostentatious apparel complete with a crown on top, and his regal appearance only made the dumbstruck look on his face that much funnier in comparison. The King uttered a baffled phrase in his native tongue, and one-by-one, the rest of his soldiers turned to notice Riardin's Rangers.

And the pair of limp Merfolk prisoners floating a few feet away.

"WE'RE HERE TO HELP!" Rob yelled, cupping his hands over his mouth. "WE'RE HERE TO – son of a bitch, he's already giving a speech to the rank and file. Somehow I doubt it's about love, peace, and inter-societal friendship."

"He's in the middle of a wartime battle," Keira said, sounding sick to her stomach. "And enemy combatants appeared from the flank." She grabbed the hilt of her greatsword, hands trembling. "Our Levels range from 30 to 49. We aren't entities that can be safely ignored, and he won't send his men to die against us when he...can handle the threat himself."

"There's eight of us and one of him," Rob pointed out.

Meyneth barked out a laugh. "And you think that matters?"

<If I had to guess,> Diplomacy posited. <He intends to kill half of you. The Elves, mostly. He'll keep you, Faelynn, Meyneth, and one Elf alive for interrogation purposes, but the spares must go.>

As the Merfolk King gave his spiel, and the rest of his Party lost their nerve, Rob settled into a sort of quiet serenity. Maybe he should've been scared. Terrified, even. While the King wasn't the absolute most powerful being he'd encountered in Elatra, 'one of the five strongest humanoids in the world' was quite the ringing endorsement.

At the same time...eh. Fuck it.

Rob grasped Faelynn by the wrist and activated Awaken Class. "Take it or leave it," he said, to the shocked Fiend. "But I'm pretty sure we'll need every advantage we can get."

"Can't fight," Zamira stated, in a clipped, hollow tone. " We must flee."

"You really think we can outrun him?" Rob asked. "There's a reason he's okay with giving a speech first instead of chasing right after us. A head start won't make a difference."

"Then Waymark-"

"Black Wind's coming," Rob interjected. "And twenty-four hours might make all the difference."

Riardin's Rangers looked about ready to pass out. Rob clapped his hands together, drawing their attention before they could get lost in a mental spiral. Going into battle with low morale would get them killed just as easily as a trident through the heart. "Look," he began. "I get it. The Merfolk King is Level 71. He's been in this line of work ten times as long as I've been alive. And I'm sure you've all been raised on stories about the world Leaders. They're big, they're bad, and they don't lose – how close am I?"

With a flash of blue motes, his longsword appeared in his hand. "But here's the thing," Rob continued. "I'm not from around here, so I skipped out on the hype and propaganda. I know it, but I don't feel it in my bones like you guys do, which works just fine for me. It means that I don't mind fighting this guy if I think we can win – and we fucking can. Eight badass Awakened Class users versus one King seems like an even bet to me."

Rob turned away, facing the Merfolk King as he brandished his sword. "You guys see an unstoppable force. Me? I see an asshole with a pointy stick. Let's send him packing."

He waited, barely managing to stop himself from looking back to see how the others were reacting. It would've ruined the effect. Cool guys never looked back.

One by one, Rob heard the familiar sounds of weapons being drawn and readied.

Leadership Level Increased! 7 -> 8

Here we go, Rob thought, muscles tensing. Time to put my money where my mouth is. We've got this.

The Merfolk King's speech ended.

His trident struck Rob in the face one second later.

--

Changes

Endurance +5

Vitality +5

Upgrade: Second Wind 1 -> 2

Upgrade: Lifesurge 15 -> 16

Upgrade: Regeneration 18 -> 19

Upgrade: Not A Scratch 12 -> 13

Upgrade: Platelet Party 10 -> 12

Upgrade: Vitamin D(efense) 6 -> 7

Upgrade: Leadership 7 -> 8

Chapter 40

513 Piercing Damage Negated!

Rob pinwheeled backwards as the Merfolk King's trident bounced off of his head. Not A Scratch had nullified the damage, but as the Skill's description so clearly laid out: 'physics still apply'. Getting hit by the King's trident throw was like being pushed back by the impact of an anti-tank rifle.

I THOUGHT YOU SAID HE WAS GOING TO KEEP ME ALIVE! Rob struggled to arrest his motion as his vision began to spin as much as his body was. A TRIDENT THROUGH THE BRAIN SEEMS SLIGHTLY COUNTERINTUITIVE.

<IT WAS AN ESTIMATE!> Diplomacy's core paled as if the blood had drained from their nonexistent face. <OH FU- LOOK OUT!>

Sure enough, the King's Gravemaker Trident – without any apparent prompting from the man himself – stopped its momentum and turned on a dime before shooting towards Rob again. Curses spilling from his lips, Rob activated Bulk Up, the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, and Power Slash just in time to meet the trident head-on with a desperate horizontal swing. A rough crack rang out as the trident was sent off-course once more, shattering Rob's longsword into a dozen pieces for its trouble. He was barely able to summon a second longsword from Spatial Storage to reflect the trident's next attack, his blade breaking apart just as easily as the last. Rob used the brief moment of respite to cast Identity, speed reading like he was cramming for a final exam, his grimace deepening with every passing moment.

Name: Gravemaker Trident

Description: An aptly-named Enchanted trident that, once thrown, hunts its quarry until they've drawn their last breath. Presumably, it's theoretically possible to flee the Trident until the weapon's mana reserves run dry, but no case of this occurring has ever been witnessed.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Rob simultaneously produced longsword #3 and cast Step of the Wind before retreating backwards at full speed. He only had so many weapons in stock – couldn't afford to waste them all against an Enchanted Item that never stopped attacking. The trident pursued after him like a heat-seeking missile, seeming just a tad bit slower than his swimming speed, but not slow enough to give Rob any leeway. If he relaxed, it would be on him in an instant. Rob carefully circled around in order to stay close to the battlefield, mind racing as he observed how the others were faring.

He grimaced at what he saw. In the fifteen or so seconds since the trident started chasing him, everyone else had descended into a chaotic brawl. Keira was closest to the Merfolk King, and as she raised her greatsword in defense, the King punched the blade's flat side with a mighty blow that sent a minor shockwave rippling outward. She spun around, eyes wide and defenses open, as the King's arm shot forward like a snake lunging for her neck.

The monarch reared back an instant before his fingers closed around unprotected flesh, dodging Zamira's sword strike by a fraction of an inch. She attacked thrice more in rapid succession, her form blurring in an indistinct haze of silver and steel as Living Blade boosted her Dexterity to dizzying heights. Its effect was breathtaking, but the Merfolk King dodged every attack with razor-sharp precision, letting her sword come within a hairsbreadth of his body in order to minimize wasted movement.

Orn'tol's sneak attack proved just as ineffective. He fired off a Temporal Freeze arrow directly at the melee, hoping to catch the Merfolk King while he was distracted. It didn't end up being much of a sneak attack; the King's eyes flickered towards the arrow halfway before it reached him. As Keira approached from behind, King Cyraeneus kicked her into the distance and used the momentum to vault forward at Zamira. In one motion, he grabbed the Bladesoul's arm, then whirled around and threw her into the Temporal Freeze arrow's path as it passed by where he'd been a mere second earlier. The arrow shattered as it connected with Zamira, her movements came to a complete halt as she momentarily froze in time.

Meyneth and Faelynn tried taking advantage of his temporary distraction – and failed, the King blowing them away with successive torrents of water that sent them flying. Rather than pursuing either of them, he barreled towards the back line where Malika and Orn'tol were situated a previously-safe distance away. The siblings panicked and retreated as quickly as they could, firing arrows and icicles that the King avoided almost lazily. One of Orn'tol's arrows split off into four, curving towards the King as they homed in on him from all sides. None came close to finding their mark. Faelynn cast Step of the Wind and went to intercept him, moving faster than she'd been able to before Awakening her Class, but it still wasn't enough to match the King's blinding speed. He evaded her claws without breaking stride and immediately sent the Fiend tumbling back with a brutal gut punch that left her reeling.

Rob changed course, heading towards Orn'tol and Malika, but the angle wasn't right, and he paid for his attempt when a chunk of flesh was ripped from his waist a moment after. He sucked in air through his teeth and swam forward, uncaring of the injury or the trident, Orn'tol and Malika were-

Schlorp.

Rob gasped, then coughed, blood spurting from his mouth as the trident dug deeper into his stomach, shaving away several hundred HP in an instant. With a feral growl, Rob pushed against it, but the weapon didn't give so much as an inch in return. He tried placing it into his Spatial Storage, only for the system to vomit up a baffling message at him.

Error: Enchanted Item 'Gravemaker Trident' is partially bound to recipient 'Morcant Cyraeneus'. Bound items cannot be utilized by anyone besides their recipient or forcibly removed from their recipient's plane of existence.

Rob didn't let his bewilderment last longer than a split second. Thinking quickly, he used the Ring of Teleportation to escape the deadlock – leaving behind a very confused trident – and cast explosive Rampages again and again to propel himself forward like a rocket-powered aircraft.

By then it was too late. King Cyraeneus had reached his quarry, having closed the gap shockingly fast, arm raised high to cave Orn'tol's skull in. The boy's face hardened with grim determination as he drew one last arrow that he knew wouldn't make it in time. Rob burned through his MP pool, casting Rampage with reckless abandon, but he wouldn't make it in time either.

Vul'to did. The Merfolk King's mouth fell open as he gaped in disbelief; his fist, a deadly weapon that could fold steel like paper mâché, had been stopped short by the Vanguard's shield. Vul'to eyes blazed with resolve as he held the line, Indomitable rooting him in place as if he was an ancient tree planted in soil.

He held on just long enough for Rob to finally catch up. With a strike empowered by Bulk Up, the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, Blood for Blood+, and Imbue Vitality, he carved a vicious gash straight down the Merfolk King's back. The water darkened with red as the King...didn't bother moving. His wound healed an instant later, closing in a similar manner to if he'd used Lifesurge, but without the telltale aura of a Skill being cast.

...What.

<Damnit,> Diplomacy hissed. <Check the crown on his head.>

Name: Crown of Salvation

Description: An Enchanted Item that instantly heals non-fatal damage. Can heal up to 2000 HP worth of damage before its mana reserves run out. These reserves recharge over the course of 24 hours.

Rob cursed in frustration as he was forced to swim away, putting more distance between himself and the Trident as it attempted to gore him again. The Merfolk King seemed perturbed, but he rallied his composure once Rob was gone, striking around Vul'to's side to try and catch him off-guard. Vul'to's shield glowed with a vibrant silver aura, moving of its own accord to block the King's punch. And the next punch. And the one after that. King Cyraeneus' expression warped from one of calm lethality into one of affronted irritation, but try as he might, he couldn't get past Auto-Guard's defenses. All the while, Orn'tol and Malika were retreating to safety, taking errant potshots as they shrank into the distance. A frown split across the King's face as he began to realize that his momentum had been completely halted in its tracks.

Things went from bad to worse for him just a moment later. He was close enough to Vul'to to cast a minor shadow on the Vanguard's shield, and that small opening was all that Meyneth's Shadow Walk needed. She burst forth from the front of his shield like a fish cresting above the ocean's surface, bellowing a war cry as she raked her claws across the King's chest. His reflexes saved him – by the time Meyneth's attack started, Cyraeneus was already shooting backwards, turning a grievous wound into a mild scratch that proceeded to heal in the blink of an eye.

And then, to Rob's shock, the King retreated. Not far; he was still well within fighting range. But his relentless aggression had been put on pause, the monarch stopping to examine each member of Riardin's Rangers with a discerning gaze. Apparently, he hadn't expected this degree of resistance. Rob couldn't blame him. Aside from the Party's stats – which were higher than normal for their Levels – Skills such as Temporal Freeze, Indomitable, Auto-Guard, Shadow Walk, and the explosive version of Rampage were Awakened Skills that Rob knew the King had never seen before. Just one or two fighters possessing uniquely powerful Skills would have been enough to give him pause; a full Party of abnormalities was something to treat with extreme caution. After all, who knew what other strange abilities they'd yet to reveal?

Rob was grateful that Riardin's Rangers managed to get inside the King's head, because from his own perspective, they were getting their collective asses kicked. Every member of their Party had put important Skills on cooldown in an attempt to end the battle early, and all they'd gotten for their efforts was depleting the Crown of Salvation by not even half of its reserves. Rob himself was effectively neutered; he'd used up Not A Scratch, Bulk Up, the Ring of Teleportation, the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, and 250 MP. Lifesteal+ healed his injuries after he'd dealt a decent blow to the King, preventing him from needing to use Lifesurge, but that was about it.

The fact that he could only call that blow 'decent' was another cause for concern. Most Blightspawn splattered into gooey bits when they were hit by that very same Offensive Buffs + Imbue Vitality combo. King Cyraeneus, on the other hand, had taken one of Rob's most brutal attacks in stride. The royal asshole probably had defensive Skills out the wazoo, maybe even supplemental magic spells to further reduce damage, and Rob was definitely not being hypocritical when he thought that was bullshit and totally unfair.

Rob clenched his teeth and veered to the side in order to avoid a trident strike that would've pierced his heart. He was tempted to yell at the Merfolk King to call it back – before realizing that he really, really shouldn't. As frustrating as being hounded by the Gravemaker Trident like a dog chasing a stick was, it was actually better than the alternatives. The Merfolk King's strategy had likely been to take Rob out of commission right away, then retrieve his trident and use it to tear through the rest of Riardin's Rangers. Or just send the trident after its next victim; whatever floated his boat. Instead, his weapon of choice was stuck pursuing a stubborn bastard with an exorbitant amount of Vitality. He couldn't have chosen a worse target.

That lucky break wouldn't last forever. Eventually, the King would realize that his Trident was taking too long to kill the pesky Human. He'd call it back and start wielding it properly, and if that happened, the rest of the fight was a wash.

You got any ideas? Rob asked Diplomacy.

<I'm a lover, not a fighter.>

Ha ha. Rob glanced at his Stamina, now below 100. Exhaustion was creeping deep into his muscles, as deadly as if it was a necrotic disease. Seriously though, I'm kinda struggling here.

Diplomacy threw its metaphorical hands up in the air. <I'm serious too. Combat isn't my brand of expertise. I can try to think of something, but don't expect the world.>

"Odium's gills," the Merfolk King suddenly gasped. His voice was higher-pitched than Rob expected. "Are all eight of you Awakened Class users?"

"Finally, you realize." Keira twirled her greatsword in her fingers as if it were a light dagger. "Ready to talk? Unless you'd like to resume your defeat at our hands." A savage grin spread across her face. "I'm happy either way."

<Put me in, coach!> Diplomacy pleaded. <We've entered the negotiating phase! This is my time to shine!>

Would love to, but I'm a bit busy right now. Rob contorted his body sideways, the trident nicking his cheek as it sailed past him. I literally don't have the breath to spare.

<Ugh,> Diplomacy groaned. <We can't afford to be tied up in a matter as trivial as the threat of imminent impalement. Keira's Intimidation is, what, Level 6? Would it truly be wise to leave a conversation this important to a Skill that's so...disadvantaged?> They frowned. <No offense meant. I'm sure it has a lovely personality.>

You're in a snarky mood today, Rob commented. Is that your way of coping?

Diplomacy bowed. <I learned from the best.>

Thankfully, Vul'to managed to catch up to Rob at that moment. He gripped the trident with both hands and cast Indomitable, rooting himself and the weapon in place. "This won't last forever," he grunted, neck muscles bulging with exertion. "Please say what you need to say."

Rob nodded and quickly swam towards the Merfolk King before Keira could piss him off too badly. He  joined them just as the two's voices were starting to rise in pitch. "Hey there!" Rob waved, drawing the Merfolk King's attention with a chipper tone and a bright smile. "Mind if I cut in for my friend? She's a bit on edge right now. What with the ambush and all."

The Merfolk King raised a single eyebrow. "Are you implying that I ambushed you?" He really did sound like a dozen noble twats rolled into one person. It was impressive, in a bizarre sort of way. "Putting aside the method by which you've learned to swim and breathe underwater, must I remind you that this is Merfolk territory? Your very presence constitutes an invasion."

"We simply wanted to talk," Keira pointed out. "You're the one who threw the first punch – in this case, the first trident."

"Don't make me repeat myself," the King stated, bristling. "You're a group of eight high-leveled combatants arriving unannounced in foreign lands. Two of your Party members are a Fiend and Human. You've grievously injured some of my people. In what world – nay, in what universe should I consider you anything other than invaders? Why should I show you the barest modicum of respect or trust when you didn't even see fit to announce your coming?"

"We were in a hurry," Rob explained. "A very big hurry." And Elder Alessia determined that there was no way you would've allowed us access to the Locus if we asked nicely. "I don't mind answering the multitude of questions you undoubtedly have swimming around inside your head, but for now, we need to focus on the problem right in front of our faces."

He gestured towards the cadre of beleaguered Merfolk that were still busy fighting off the Blight. "Our group has a vested interest in making sure that the Blight loses," Rob continued. "I mean, doesn't everybody?"

"And what would you have to offer in that regard?" The King asked. "Unless you control mastery of water on the level of myself or my soldiers, there is naught you can accomplish here in our domain. Sharp blades will do little to stymie Blight-infected water that houses tens of thousands of minute creatures."

Rob nodded. "You're right. I wouldn't be offering my sword arm, though. I've got something much better in mind: a Skill that counteracts the Blight's Corruption. Burns it away like dry paper held over an open flame. My Skill can purge thousands of points of Corruption in a single day, and it gets stronger with every Locus of Power that I touch." His expression shifted from a bright smile to a resolute stare. "That's why we're here. You may have every reason to be suspicious, but trust me when I say that we share the same goal."

The Merfolk King's eyes were wide as saucers. For the first time since their conversation began,  he looked truly adrift, unsure of how to comprehend the revelation that had just been dumped on his head. His eyes snapped to Rob, then to his soldiers, and then back to Rob again. Any hint of pompous grandstanding was gone, replaced with a wary, calculating gaze. "Can you provide evidence in favor of this utterly ridiculous claim?"

"Bring me someone with Corruption, and I'll remove it from them. Done that hundreds of times before."

Objectively, Rob had to admit that his claim was, in fact, utterly ridiculous. It was like someone from Earth showing up at a guarded military encampment and saying that could cure cancer by sending thoughts and prayers. There were so many layers of weirdness to swallow that he was surprised the Merfolk King wasn't choking on them. Hell, the royal had barely commented on the whole 'Human breathing underwater' thing, which was a testament to how much else was on his mind.

But rather than the scorn that would've justifiably been there, when Rob examined the Merfolk King's expression, he found longing. Interest. Hope. No matter how ridiculous Rob's claim was, the King desperately wanted to believe that it was real.

Apparently, things weren't going great in Merfolk territory either.

Now might be a good time for some patented Diplomacy advice, Rob thought. We need to seal the deal before the King gets cold feet.

The Skill hesitated. <You're correct, it's just...> Their core condensed, as if concentrating. <I'm unsure of how to proceed. As much as he wishes to entertain the notion of a miracle solution falling into his lap, in truth, The Merfolk King is only giving you due consideration because your Party survived a confrontation against him. Otherwise he would've dismissed any talk of Locus-touching or Corruption-curing. This is partially because of his inherent Elatran mindset, in that those with power are worth paying more attention to than people without power, but also because he wants to avoid a second confrontation with you. He isn't confident in his victory, and that scares the shit out of him.>

Shouldn't we keep pushing for the peaceful option, then? Rob asked.

<There's diminishing returns in doing so. At a certain point, your calls for an end to hostilities will start to resemble an underhanded ploy meant to lower his guard.> Diplomacy slouched. <I'm sorry. Don't think I can fix this one. Still not used to Merfolk, and the sudden appearance of a Human and Fiend working together – plus the injured prisoners we brought – is simply too much for the King to look past. Doesn't help that a drawn-out conversation favors your Party, as it gives your Active Skills extra time to go off cooldown, which he'll realize right about...now.>

Right on cue, the King spoke up. "How can I be sure that you aren't some trick of the Blight?" he accused. "Your timing is rather...impeccable. Not a month has gone by since the Blight began executing routine assaults on our Loci of Power. Its attacks have been relentless; every victory we achieve is short-lived and immaterial, as a new swarm of Corrupted water always returns with renewed vigor before the day is out. We were beginning to despair – which is exactly when you just so happened to arrive on our doorstep with an outstretched hand and tales of curing Corruption. And all you ask for in return is access to those very same Loci of Power."

His face tightened. "What better way for the Blight to breach our defenses than by masquerading as a savior?"

Rob winced. "If you bring a person with Corruption to me, I can cure them. That's the best proof I can offer. And if you want to have some physicians examine me to make sure I'm not some Blight monster in disguise, then that's fine too." A note of frustration entered his tone. "What else can I possibly do to prove myself?"

The Merfolk King glanced once more at his soldiers, features hardening as he came to a decision. "Come back tomorrow," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Allowing you access to the Locus under these conditions would be foolhardy in the extreme. We can discuss terms when the Blight isn't on the verge of breaking through my front line of defense."

Rob's heart sank. Even if King Cyraeneus was telling the truth, he still wouldn't grant them access to the Locus if they showed up tomorrow. There would be talks, and interrogations, and explanations, and cold feet, and communication with Fiendland, and bureaucracy. All things that took time – time which the Fiends didn't have. Not with the second Black Wind on the way.

"We can't wait that long," Rob said, quietly. "People will die if we do."

"Unfortunate." The Merfolk King shifted his posture into a fighting stance, gaze flitting between one member of Riardin's Rangers to the next, ready to intercept whoever made the first move. His caution wouldn't last long; like Diplomacy had said, a drawn-out fight favored the side with Skills already on cooldown. If Riardin's Rangers didn't act soon, then the King would.

Rob activated Quick Thinking and examined every detail from every angle. As a whole, Riardin's Rangers were thoroughly exhausted from their day of marathon swimming. Mistakes, whether by virtue of clouded minds or dulled reflexes, were inevitable. Keira had a few Active Skills left in the tank, but the rest of the Party was pretty much tapped out – except for Faelynn, who was adjusting to her Class change and not yet at full capacity. And even if everyone's Skills were available, Rob would still bet on the King to emerge victorious after Round 2. He was in his element, far more accustomed to underwater fighting than they were. The Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling could only do so much to close that inherent gap in expertise and biology.

It didn't help that Orn'tol and Malika were significantly less effective when fighting underwater due to the way their combat styles functioned. The speed and impact of Orn'tol's arrows were reduced by water resistance, invalidating what had become the sole focus of his build. Malika's repertoire of spells was also largely ruined by the environment; fire turned to steam, lightning caused friendly fire, earth wasn't within reach, and wind lost its cutting edge. Firing icicles – which were, of course, slowed by water resistance – was the best she could do.

Considering how agile the Merfolk King could be, it was unlikely that he would ever be tagged by one of Orn'tol or Malika's projectiles unless he was being held in place or suffered an unforeseen stroke. That left the lion's share of the fighting up to the rest of Riardin's Rangers, who were all melee combatants. Tasked with getting up close and personal with a Level 71 world Leader. Who had god knows how much Strength and Dexterity. And who'd already been hit by one sneak attack and probably wasn't going to let it happen again.

It was hard to imagine Riardin's Rangers prevailing in a direct fight without copious amounts of luck on their side.

Conventional wisdom told Rob that he should take the careful approach. Buy time until all of his Party's Skills were usable. But that wasn't really an option, was it? Several minutes were an eternity on the battlefield. Someone would die long before those timers reset, especially since his long-range attackers were effectively useless. Maybe they'd be able to outlast and overcome the King after all was said and done, but if doing so came at the cost of any of his friend's lives, then what was the fucking point?

No. This needed to end now.

"Figured it out," Rob stated, as he barreled directly towards the Merfolk King without a hint of self-preservation in his posture. The rest of the Party was a mere split second behind him, moving in unison like they'd read each other's minds. Eyes widening, the King realized that something was amiss and backed away, refusing to take the bait. It was a smart tactical decision on his part, as Vul'to wouldn't be able to hold on to the trident for much longer. Rob could see the plan forming on the monarch's face; play it safe, let the trident escape, call it back, chuck it at a softer target, then take everyone down one-by-one before their Skills refreshed. Simple and efficient.

It would've worked – if he was facing opponents with normal Skills. The King winced and jerked to the side as Keira's greatsword blasted past him, shooting forth like a five-foot long steel arrow. She teleported behind him a moment later, appearing next to her sword in a shower of blue motes, teeth bared and bloodlust rising. Without missing a beat, Keira activated Reflected Rage – the last Active Skill she had remaining – in order to summon a shadowy double next to herself. The duo charged forth with manic grins, looking like twins from a horror movie yearning to eviscerate their prey. Sensing an impending disembowelment in his near future, the Merfolk King whirled around and shredded Keira's double with a torrent of pressurized water, the original managing to dodge as Danger Sense came in clutch once again.

Grunting loudly, King Cyraeneus lunged forward and punched Keira's greatsword with a fist enshrouded by red, aiming to pummel her weapon into a heap of scrap. But while his strike sent Keira flying back, it glanced off of her sword without leaving so much as a dent. Normal metal would've crumpled, but Steel Soul made heavy weapons invulnerable as long as Keira was holding them; all the King had accomplished was bruising his hand.

Zamira caught up next. She was completely out of Skills, but her high Dexterity let her keep up with the King while Keira distracted him from the other side. Arrows and Icicles soared past them as the Elves struggled to gain an edge, Cyraeneus dodging their attacks with a fluid grace on par with Danger Sense. Zamira overextended by a hair – and paid for the error with her longsword as Cyraeneus' arm snaked out and snapped the blade in two like a dry twig.

His victory was short-lived. Before the King could retaliate, he was forced to plummet straight down to avoid the trio of blackened lines that shot through the air where he'd just been, each one several feet tall and shaped like claw marks. From off to the side, Faelynn stared at her hands in disbelief, slowly comprehending the full extent of the Awakened Skill that'd been added to her repertoire. A jubilant smile crept across her face as the newly-minted Awakened Class user swung her arms down in slashing motions, shooting off more claw marks one after another. As the cherry on top, Meyneth finally caught up with the Elves, taking a position opposite of them in order to further restrict Cyraeneus' movements as he struggled to stay in control.

That was about when the Merfolk King lost his shit. Fending off three melee fighters while dodging three sets of projectiles all at once was, for some reason, not his idea of a good time. With a frustrated snarl, the King extended his limbs out and let forth a massive burst of pressurized water that expanded outwards, from him. The effect was as sudden and destructive as if he'd detonated a bomb. Roaring waves churned the ocean as they battered everything unlucky enough to be in their path. Keira, Zamira, Meyneth, and the incoming projectiles were blown away like leaves in a hurricane.

Rob glanced at his Party Screen, and after confirming that the others weren't in danger of dying, shoved aside his worries and kept closing in on Cyraeneus. He used his final two casts of Rampage to push through the torrent, water shredding his skin as he went. It felt like swimming through shards of glass. Didn't matter. His friends had given their all to distract the King and grant him this opportunity – he wouldn't let it go to waste. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was him and his target. Had to get closer. Closer.

Closer.

There. The King was recovering from his outburst, guard down just for a single instant. "VUL'TO!" Rob screamed. "LET GO!" The Human proceeded to do the exact opposite, wrapping his arms and legs around Cyraeneus' torso and squeezing tight.

The Merfolk King's confusion morphed into horror as his body was engulfed in an azure inferno. Undeterred by their aquatic surroundings, the flames that were not truly flames ate away at the monarch's flesh with a sickening sizzling sound. His panic intensified as the Crown of Salvation failed to activate, leaving the burns unhealed. Rob barked out a victorious laugh – his assumption had been proven right. Flames of Vengeance+ prevented the wounds that it inflicted from healing for a full week. Any damage that the King took now was going to stick.

With a hideous shriek of agony, the King reached down to pull Rob's arms off his waist. He flinched back with a hiss as the conflagration ate away the tips of his fingers down to the bone. Panting heavily, the King whipped his elbow back and bashed Rob's head, growling every time his limb brushed against the Flames. Desperation alighted in his eyes, nearly as vibrant as the pyre consuming his body.

Rob couldn't help but laugh. Getting pummeled hurt, but he'd had so much worse. The King bashed again and again, Rob taking each blow as if they were love taps. As questionably lopsided as his Vitality fixation was, it was because of that fixation that no one was better than him in situations like these. Tough Skin reduced the physical damage he took by 30%, and Vitamin D(efense) greatly strengthened his bone structure's durability, so the King was going to have to up his game if he wanted to do more than leave a few hairline fractures here and there.

Then the King's elbow started to glow with a red aura. Rob narrowed his eyes, trying to remember if he'd ever seen an 'Elbow Strike' ability before. He didn't think so, but there was a first time for everyth-

Crunch.

Vitamin D(efense) Level Increased! 7 -> 8

Tough Skin Level Increased! 5 -> 6

Passive Skill Leargfwqe

Name: Brain Damage Resdkfdls

iwdvnqkleurvpqoiwq

Hurts. Strange. Thoughts strange. Blurry. Vision gone. Smelled of dark. Felt warm.

Rob regained his senses as Lifesurge flowed through him, regenerating the hole in his head and half-smashed brain matter within. <You're welcome,> Diplomacy stated, in a smug tone completely at odds with the terror resonating from their core. <Activated that for you.>

The BERSERKER didn't respond, too busy processing what just happened to him. Even by Elatran standards, that had been pretty fucked up. There was definitely a first time for everything.

"You can't be serious!" The Merfolk King bellowed. Tears streaked down his face as he kept battering Rob's skull, his elbow searing away a bit more with each attempt. "Who are you people?"

"Riardin's Rangers," Rob grinned. "I'd tell you not to forget the name, but...somehow, I doubt you will."

The Gravemaker Trident took that moment to soar in and spear its target straight through their back.

And through its master's back as well.

Platelet Party Level Increased! 12 -> 13

Rob peered down at his chest. Only two vital organs pierced; a stroke of luck on his part. Lifesteal+ combined with the Flames of Vengeance were already patching him up, and Lifesurge would rejuvenate him if necessary. His HP was also slightly below 25%, which allowed him to activate Do Not Go Gently for the first time in ages, doubling his defensive Skills in case the King pulled out a sudden Hail Mary attack.

He needn't have worried. Compared to Rob, the Merfolk King was faring quite a bit worse, as the Crown of Salvation couldn't fully heal his wounds as long as the trident was still stuck inside him. It also couldn't dull the pain, which was compounding nastily with his current status of On Fucking Fire. With trembling hands, the King gripped the prongs sticking out of his chest and tried to push them back out, but by then his strength was fading. He struggled less and less with every passing second, fear deepening into despair as the azure Flames burnt away his flesh and resolve.

At long last, the King's arms fell. Rob felt the monarch's body slacken under his grip. Cyraeneus was conscious – barely – but not for long. All Rob had to do was hold tight for a little bit longer, and the fight was over. Just five more seconds to send the Merfolk King into a well-earned slumber.

And ten more seconds to ensure he never woke up.

Rob was tempted to squeeze until there was nothing left in his arms but cinder and ash. How much EXP would a Level 71 Elatran Leader give him? How many Levels, even? Static whispered in the back of his mind, urging him to claim the spoils of war that were his by right.

With more hesitation than he would've liked, Rob let go of the Merfolk King and pushed him forward, putting distance between himself the source of his temptation. The Gravemaker Trident exited Rob's body with a squelch similar to squeezing a slice of watermelon. He lazily floated backwards, watching an Elatran Leader drift away like rotting detritus. Rob blinked once, twice, then thrice as he slowly began to comprehend the enormity of what had just transpired. In a haze, he glanced back at the rest of the Party, who were wearing expressions of disbelief that he imagined were a match for his own.

"Did we seriously just do that?" Rob wondered aloud, rubbing his hands over his eyes. "Kings are...kind of a big deal."

<Generally so,> Diplomacy said, in a lightheaded tone. <I hope that your stardom in Fiend territory helped you grow accustomed to being well-known, because your fame is about to spread like wildfire in a drought-afflicted forest.>

"God damnit."

He froze as a sudden realization struck him. Not the fact that Riardin's Rangers had beat the shit out of the Merfolks' sovereign Leader – that wasn't sinking in anytime soon. Rather, he'd realized that the waters were deathly quiet. Up until that point, the sound of Merfolk soldiers fighting the Blight had been audible, comprising the background noise of the last few minutes.

And now it was gone, because the Merfolk had won. The Blight's infected swarm was fleeing into the distance, choosing discretion over valor, leaving the Merfolk free to check up on their boss. Dozens of eyes turned towards Rob, finding their King defeated and on death's door. With a dreaded Human floating near his motionless body.

The looks of shock on their faces would've been hilarious if they weren't so problematic.

"So on a scale of 1 to 10," Rob began. "How bad of a PR snafu is this?"

His question was answered when, one-by-one, the Merfolk started to overcome their shock and raise their weapons.

"...I think we should go."

<Agreed.>

As he swam for his life, Rob took solace in the fact that he'd finally crossed off an Elatra bucket list item: getting chased by an angry mob. The tridents even looked kinda like pitchforks.

--

Changes

Upgrade: Tough Skin 5 -> 6

Upgrade: Vitamin D(efense) 7 -> 8

Learned Brain Resistance

Chapter 41

Riardin's Rangers.

Morcant Cyraeneus struggled to keep his eyes open as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Pain clouded his senses as if needles were stabbing into every inch of his body. He gently lifted his arm, nearly crying out at the sudden jolt of agony that shot through his veins. A dull notion of horror accompanied the jolt as he examined his limb, mortified at what he found. Half of the flesh on his arm was just...gone, splotches of muscle, skin, and sinew missing as if it'd been eaten away by a swarm of piranhas. The one saving grace he could think of was that the conflagration that ravaged his body had also seen fit to cauterize his wounds. It may have crippled him, but he wouldn't bleed out and unceremoniously perish.

That was worth something, at least.

With a trembling breath, Cyraeneus recalled the sight of azure flames licking at his flesh. He tried to push the image aside, but it stuck in his thoughts, bright and beautiful and terrible. The flames remained even as he closed his eyes once again, filling his vision with an all-consuming inferno.

Riardin's...Rangers.

"....liege! My liege, can you hear me?"

Dim awareness sparked in Cyraeneus' mind. Someone was speaking to him. Perhaps they'd been speaking to him this entire time, and he simply hadn't noticed. That was certainly a possibility – his ears were gone, fed to the flames, and their interior canals had been charred to cinders. It was a minor miracle that he could hear anything at all.

"I must sincerely apologize, my liege," the voice stated. "But what we are about to do is necessary. Steel yourself; this may hurt."

Cyraeneus barely felt the sensation of his beloved Gravemaker Trident being tugged out of his chest. Compared to the soul-numbing absence of half of his nerve endings, the process affected him as little as adding one more grain of sand to a beach – a grain of sand which disappeared a moment later as his trident-inflicted wounds were mended by the Crown of Salvation. The voice was silent for a few moments before descending into a bout of panicked muttering, accompanied by several other voices who sounded similarly aggrieved.

"His stab wounds healed?" The original voice puzzled. "I thought that the Crown's reserves had been emptied, and that was why the burns weren't healing. It seemed like an obvious conclusion to make."

"What if..." A second voice slowly began, each word forced out as if admitting it was equivalent to breaking a bone. "What if the wounds haven't healed because they're..."

Permanent.

Is this what Corruption feels like? Cyraeneus thought. By Odium's grace, please don't let this truly be permanent. My people need me. Now more than ever.

"Will heal," he grunted. Even that short, simple phrase set his lungs screaming. "Give it time," he continued, prompting another round of unsaid screams that he resolutely ignored. If he couldn't grant the Merfolk his strength at arms, then the least he could do was ease their worries. It was the barest minimum any Leader should offer, really, but in this condition he wasn't capable of any more.

The group surrounding him – which he estimated to be around six or seven in total – ceased their yammering. Cyraeneus waited for the inevitable deluge of questions and concerns, but to his surprise, they stayed silent for much longer than expected. I suppose I am in quite the sorry state, he moped.

"My liege," a hesitant voice began. "What happened? Who were they?"

Cyraeneus almost laughed. Who were they, indeed? He wasn't sure what to bring up first. The full Party of Awakened Class users? The Fiend working in tandem with other races? The fire that burned underwater, in defiance of all natural laws? Or the Human, alive and well, who wreathed himself in that very same fire? Every bit of it smacked of delusional insanity; the kind of tale that a drunken fisherman spun in order to impress a comely waitress who wanted nothing to do with him.

And yet, it happened. Right in front of his eyes.

So many questions left unanswered. Cyraeneus could only think of one way to seek them out.

"Contact..." Cyraeneus' voice hitched, but he pressed on despite the pain. "Contact Elven Seneschal. Tell him...Elves gone rogue. Allied with Fiends. Ask about..Riardin. He's recruiting...creating...Awakened."

As fearsome as the group Cyraeneus had fought turned out to be, there was one matter that scared him far more. What kind of man was so strong, so charismatic, and so influential that he'd earned the fealty of eight Awakened Class users? 'Riardin's Rangers' they'd called themselves, and with a distinct note of pride. Elves, a Dragonkin, a Human risen from the dead, and a Fiend cooperating with her fated enemies, all united under one banner. It would've taken a leader with overwhelming charisma to have convinced them to set aside their differences and fight as a cohesive unit.

And now that Cyraeneus thought about it, those eight Awakened were far too young for the level of strength they'd brought to bear. The Human looked barely an adult by his race's standard, and he was already Level 49. It beggared belief even when accounting for Fast Learner. Cyraeneus could scarcely begin to imagine what hidden secret that Riardin had unlocked to raise his soldiers so quickly and efficiently. A powerful Enchanted Item, a secretly-kept Dungeon, a new branch of magic – there were too many possibilities to consider. Perhaps he'd merely thrown waves of recruits into life-threatening battles until an elite few emerged from the carnage. That strategy had historically failed, but then again, so had communication with the Fiends.

Cyraeneus' mind raced as he struggled to comprehend impossibility after impossibility. This was the sort of news that contained the potential to shake Elatra's foundation to its core. Whoever Riardin was, he may very well be the next coming of the Dragon Queen. Cyraeneus made a vow then and there to learn as much as he could about the man before this new, looming threat destroyed them all.

Unless the Blight got to them first, of course.

--

I really hope they stop chasing us soon, Rob thought. He drifted sideways to avoid a barrage of pressurized water – same as he'd done the other three dozen times. The Merfolk soldiers were, if nothing else, persistent. It's been half an hour – don't they have anything better to do with their time?

<You brutalized their leader,> Diplomacy remarked.

'Brutalized' is such a strong word. I prefer the term 'engaged in spirited physical conversation'.

<How very Diplomatic of you.> The Skill opened up Rob's Status Screen, wincing at what they saw. <Not to cause undue stress, but I'm obligated to point out that your Stamina has dropped to 50.>

...Yeah. Rob glanced at the rest of the Party, checking if any of them were starting to flag. Keira, Vul'to, Meyneth, and Faelynn were going strong. Malika was tapped, and she'd long since hitched a piggyback ride on Meyneth. Orn'tol had a little less maximum Stamina than everyone else, but thankfully, Flight of the Coward allowed him to expend less effort while fleeing from enemies.

Zamira was a slightly larger problem. She possessed Endurance equal to Orn'tol's, but lacked the unique Skill focus on retreating that'd let him keep pace this long. She might need to hitch a piggyback ride as well. Faelynn was probably the best woman for that job; she was the only one in the Party that was as bulky as Meyneth. Zamira's much smaller form shouldn't slow the Fiend down too badly.

I'm debating the merits of strategic piggyback rides while being chased by a mob of thirty angry fishmen, Rob mused. He dodged another torrent of water with the casual ease of changing lanes on an empty road. Weird fucking day.

<By our standards?> Diplomacy sank into contemplation. <I *suppose* it cracks into the top half, yes.>

Well, we also brutalized the Merfolk King, Rob added. That has to tip the scales at least a little bit.

<Whatever happened to 'spirited physical conversation'?> The Skill sighed. <What a clusterfuck this turned out to be. While I can't fault your actions, we gained nothing today outside of the ire of an entire race. If only the Blight had held out just a few minutes longer...>

Their core condensed into itself, giving off an intense aura. <No. The fault lies with me. If I was more accustomed to Merfolk facial expressions, I could've disarmed the situation before it spiraled out of control. And even then, my lack of experience wouldn't have been an issue if I was at a higher Level. 17 may be higher than any other person's Level of Diplomacy in the world, but it isn't the full extent of my capabilities. I need to do more. Be more. Unlock the dormant potential laying within. Perhaps then, I'll->

Rob tuned out Diplomacy's mutterings and left the Skill to their bout of self-reflection. They didn't seem like they wanted feedback or a conversation, and he wasn't going to intrude upon their private time. Actually, keeping privacy between the two of them was becoming difficult as of late; neither were able to hide their thoughts as easily as they could in the past. The best Rob could do was distract himself from Diplomacy's musings by focusing on the situation at hand.

Despite his Party's low Stamina, he wasn't overly worried about the prospect of the Merfolk soldiers catching up. Their torrents of water were fairly simple to avoid once you got the timing down. Hopefully they'd give up soon – as if they didn't, Rob might be forced to place a Mark down and teleport back to Fiendland. While the prospect of returning empty-handed was a big fucking problem, especially considering that it would put Waymark on a 24-hour cooldown, Riardin's Rangers couldn't exactly explore Merfolk territory with the King's retinue hot on their heels.

The bright side was that his Marks were permanent and undetectable. He couldn't put down more than two in total, and he needed to erase a previous Mark to make room for the next that followed, but as far as he knew, they would exist in perpetuity if he left untouched, acting like invisible gateways across space and time that only he could access. Instead of risking a second teleport spell courtesy of the Fiend mages – which would put his Party days away at best, buried in rock at worst – Rob could use Waymark to travel to the Mark he was about to leave in Merfolk territory. They'd arrive close to the Locus and get another shot at Attuning without having to swim all the way back.

And who knows! Maybe next time the Locus would be unguarded. He'd just swim up and Attune without any resistance whatsoever. That was an extremely reasonable and realistic possibility to wish for.

Hey, a man could dream.

Signing internally, Rob shifted gears away from logistics and brought up the Skill he'd learned during his encounter with the Merfolk King. There hadn't been enough mental breathing room to peruse it until now. Usually he took a few moments to skim any Skills he learned in-battle, but in this case he'd been...mildly inconvenienced.

Name: Brain Damage Resistance (Level 1)

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

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

50%. Yikes. That was a significantly higher bonus than most Level 1 Skills granted. Then again, most Level 1 Skills didn't have a Prerequisite that involved getting your brains bashed in. How'd you activate Lifesurge, anyway? Rob asked Diplomacy. I couldn't even think straight, let alone use a Skill.

<My thoughts weren't affected to the degree that yours were,> The Skill replied, having mellowed out after hitting their monologue quota. <Mostly it felt as if I was peering through a fog.> They tapped their metaphorical chin. <Thankfully, the fog wasn't particularly dense. Reaching out to activate Lifesurge was a trivial matter.>

Thank god for that, Rob murmured. Don't think that Regeneration would've patched me up before the brain hemorrhaging got to me or the Merfolk King finished the job. That was one hell of a headache. He paused. Just...like now. Ow.

Without warning, a dull pain started creeping into his forehead. It rapidly spread to the rest of his body, centering primarily around his eardrums and joints. It was like a giant hand had grasped his torso and begun to squeeze, lightly at first, then tighter and tighter as the seconds went by.

Belated realization struck. Rob compared his Party's trajectory versus the position of a nearby mountain, grimacing as he came to a conclusion. The Merfolk were directing Riardin's Rangers forward at a slight downward angle.

As Rob had discovered over the past day and a half, the ocean depths of Elatra were different from Earth's in that their pressure was significantly less harsh. Additionally, light traveled much deeper into the water, illuminating areas miles below the surface. It made sense from a societal standpoint – the Merfolk were humanoids and couldn't have formed an underwater society if they were stuck in crushing darkness.

It also broke several rules of reality, but what else was new?

There was still a certain amount of pressure, though, and it was starting to get worse. A brief sideways glance showed that the others weren't faring much better than him – Keira's face had hardened into a pained grimace, and Malika looked about ready to pass out. We're traveling too deep, he thought. The Ring of Waterdwelling and my defensive Skills must've hit their limit.

Rob adjusted his swimming angle by a fraction upwards. The moment he did, four simultaneous torrents of water burst over his head, pushing him straight back down. Rob prepared to dodge again, but the Merfolks' assault ceased once they'd successfully herded him into position. You've got to be kidding me, he marveled. Have they been planning this from the start?

<I imagine it was their backup plan for if their aim proved insufficient,> Diplomacy remarked. <It's a strategy that's simple, yet effective. After subtly placing themselves so you'd take the route of least resistance by swimming slightly downwards, all they need to do is keep up the chase and fire off the occasional torrent so you won't get suspicious.> The Skill hesitated. <Can you hold out?>

Rob winced as his ears pricked like nails were being hammered inwards. Me? Maybe. He glanced to the side. Not so sure about the others. They don't get the full benefit of my defensive Skills. Malika wasn't nearly as frail as she used to be, but she still possessed the lowest Vitality among everyone in the Party. Zamira was only a step above her. He couldn't assume that their bodies would withstand deep sea pressure over an extended period of time, especially as the Merfolk pushed them further and further into the ocean depths.

Options, options. What were his options? Waymark was the first thing that came to mind, but due to the Black Wind's timetable, retreating on a 24-hour cooldown was always going to be their last resort. Plan B was probably an all-out assault. Riardin's Rangers were, pound-for-pound, much stronger than any single soldier in the Merfolks' retinue. On the other hand, the Merfolk tripled his Party's numbers, were less tired, and had the home field advantage to boot. They'd win in a drawn-out fight that lasted longer than two or three minutes. If Riardin's Rangers wanted to survive, then they needed to hit hard and fast, utilizing a large show of force to scare the Merfolk into retreating.

Rob didn't know how fanatical the fishy fuckers were, though. Would they pull back after getting their asses kicked in the opening round, or would he need to kill some of them before they got the message? If so, how many deaths would it take? Five soldiers? Ten? Or would the Merfolk fight to the very last man, expending lives without a care, hearts burning with an unquenchable desire to mete out justice to the invaders who'd ravaged their King? Would-

<I think they're leaving.>

Rob's train of thought slammed into a brick wall. I'm sorry, what?

<I think they're leaving,> Diplomacy repeated, in a voice of pure befuddlement. <The Merfolk.>

Rob's head swiveled around so quickly that he almost gave himself whiplash. True enough, the Merfolk were swimming away at top speed, not a single one bothering to look behind themselves as they went. He couldn't see their faces, but just by looking at body language, it was clear that the Merfolk wanted to get out of dodge right this instant.

"Okaaaay," Rob said, rubbing his temples. He turned towards the rest of the Party, who were wearing expressions of confusion equal to his. "I'm relieved, yet concerned. It's great that they stopped chasing us, but, like, why? Did someone scare them off with a really mean face?"

"I made several attempts," Meyneth replied, in a completely serious manner. "To my embarrassment, all failed."

"They avoided my arrows," Orn'tol added. "And Malika's icicles. I doubt we contributed to whatever reason they fled over."

Silence. Rob frowned, pivoting back towards the direction they'd been swimming in before. If the Merfolk hadn't been scared off by Riardin's Rangers, then the only logical conclusion he could arrive at was that they didn't want to swim any farther out than this. But as Rob stared out amongst the endless blue, examining each facet of the landscape in search of hidden predators or nasty surprises, all he found was more of the same. Water, little tiny fishies, and one errant mountain sticking up from the depths. Certainly not anything to run away from at full blast. Just a fat load of nothing.

Nothing.

N-nothing.

N-n-n-n-

Rob's eyes exploded with pain. It took him a moment to figure out whether or not they'd literally exploded – that was how overwhelming the sensation was. Despite its intensity, the pain vanished as quickly as it'd come, and by the time his eyes regained the capacity to function, everything had changed. Pristine blue extended outwards in front of him – for a couple hundred feet. Then the water's color gradually faded the farther it went, shifting from boundless, beautiful ocean to...nothing. Dark. The sun's early afternoon light was unable to penetrate the gargantuan shadow that stretched out before him from sea to sky. It flooded his vision, omnipresent and absolute. Rob glanced behind himself, seeing water and life and normalcy, then looked forward again, finding the Nothing once more.

As if it had been there all along.

A chill ran down Rob's spine. He knew full well what total darkness was; knew the kind of darkness that pressed in from all sides and stilled the breath in his chest. He'd experienced it just yesterday when he spent a night in the open ocean. This, however? It wasn't the darkness of night – it was the blackness of the portal. No sight, no sound. True absence in every sense of the word.

The border where the world ended and the void began.

He couldn't tear his gaze away. No one could. The Party stayed there for seconds that felt like an eternity, minds ensnared by the spectacle of pure and utter emptiness. It was like they were children staring up into the night sky for the first time, forced to come to terms with the insignificance of their existence. Finally realizing how tiny and unimportant they were in the grand scheme of things.

Except that the sky had stars to light the way and make the void feel less cold and hungry. In space, there was wonder. Awe. Longing. With this, there was...

Nothing.

Rob could scarcely breathe. The abyss was suffocating his senses, too much to bear. In a panic, he activated Waymark, willing to do anything to escape the cavernous nothing threatening to devour his mind. Blue energy built up within his body – and then dispersed, trickling forwards, drawn away as if beckoned. Riardin's Rangers watched in shock as their lifeline disappeared into the darkness like fireflies winking out.

Waymark has been \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ and placed on a 20-minute cooldown!

The light faded.

And a new light appeared. Two pinpricks of yellow suddenly materialized within the empty, startling Rob out of his reverie. The pinpricks grew and grew, approaching faster and faster, bursting into existence along with the sight of something absolutely massive. Calling it a behemoth would have been putting it mildly – it was the size of at least six double-decker buses strapped together. The beast's features came into focus as it approached, showcasing a body that was elongated and scaled, like a snake expanded to ridiculous proportions. Its face was that of a nightmare; a cross between a reptile and an anglerfish, racing towards them with a maw that opened to reveal thousands of teeth stretching a hundred feet wide. Two glowing eyes stared forward, unmatched in their severity, acting as warning lights to signify that you were already too late.

Name: Leviathan

Level: ???

Status Effects: Nothing

Description: A creature that exists outside the realm of common sense.

Run.

They did. The behemoth roared as Riardin's Rangers fled, its voice a cacophony of anger and hate. Rob led the way, laughing uncontrollably at the sick joke that was Today. The Party put as much distance between themselves and the not-so-empty abyss as they could, hoping to placate its affronted landlord and redeem their sin of trespassing. A second, somehow louder roar informed them that they'd failed.

Pandora's Box was open. There was no closing it again.

Orn'tol fired off a Temporal Freeze arrow that collided with the monstrosity. It was probably the easiest shot he'd ever made – like shooting the broad side of a very wide barn. The Leviathan froze in time for a scant few seconds, offering Riardin's Rangers a reprieve that ended all too quickly. As soon as the effect dissipated, it resumed its chase with renewed fervor. The ocean roiled as the creature's mass displaced millions of gallons of water, its howl of rage rumbling like a miniature earthquake.

Rob swam and swam, pushing his muscles to the brink of collapse. He led everyone towards a mountain that happened to be nearby, because...why not? It was as good of a place as anywhere else, and dying next to solid earth seemed nicer than dying in the open ocean. A desperate part of him envisioned a half-baked plan of swimming around the mountain to lead the Leviathan astray, but his hopes were dashed the second he glanced back and saw how close the beast already was. Riardin's Rangers may as well have been newborn cubs trying to outrun a lion. The size difference was simply too great; it would catch up to them no matter how much Dexterity they had.

This can't be happening, Rob thought, numbly. Must be dreaming. I...I don't want...

The Leviathan roared once more, causing the ocean waters to tremble with fear. Rob clenched his fists and let out a scream that echoed from the depths of his soul. It's not fair. His scream continued unabated, matching the Leviathan's intensity. I don't care how immature that sounds. Dying here, after everything we've been through? Without putting up so much as a fight? No. FUCK that. It's not fair. I refuse to accept that this is how it ends.

He glanced upward, teeth bared. YOU HEAR ME, KISMET, AND WHOEVER THE FUCK ELSE IS UP THERE? THIS ISN'T HOW IT ENDS. I REFUSE-

Rob's eyes exploded. Literally, this time. He activated Lifesurge without a second thought, brows furrowing as the Skill took longer than normal to heal him. Instead of rapidly regenerating his eyes with a flurry of magical energy, the Skill stalled out, as if it was unsure of how to proceed. After a moment's hesitation, Lifesurge began to slowly reconstruct his eyes, making minor adjustments along the way. The Skill's tampering reminded Rob of his dad's old car, which needed them to turn the knob on the radio to ensure that it was tuned to music rather than white noise.

Overall, the process only lasted a few seconds more than usual, but that was plenty long enough to be noticeable. Rob's vision returned in a flash, and when it did, he found himself looking at a thoroughly baffling sight. His mouth opened, then closed, unspoken words dying in his throat.

On the side of the mountain that Riardin's Rangers were approaching, there was – somehow – a fucking wooden house. Rob resisted the urge to rub his eyes as he examined the building from top to bottom, barely able to comprehend the existence of yet another oddity intruding upon his life. The house, perched at the edge of a rocky outcropping, was approximately one story tall and built with austere craftsmanship. Its architecture seemed closer to Human than Elf, but didn't perfectly resemble anything in Elatra he'd seen thus far. Adding to its mystique, the house's windows and surface gleamed proudly, appearing spotless despite the sea pressure and salty waters that should've naturally turned it into a heap of rotting driftwood over time.

Oh, and there was the mild sticking point of how the house definitely hadn't been there when he last looked ten seconds ago.

What the hell is that doing there? Rob pondered.

<The mountain?> Diplomacy tilted their head in confusion. <It's a natural formation.>

No, no, I mean the house.

<What house?>

Rob's breath froze.

All at once, a flurry of instincts cascaded forward from within, directing his body while his conscious thoughts were still catching up. "SWIM THAT WAY!" Rob shouted, pointing directly at the house. "KEEP FOLLOWING ME NO MATTER WHAT!"

They couldn't see it. Even without them saying anything, Rob knew that for a fact. If the person living inside his head and looking through his own eyes couldn't see it, then there was no way anyone else in the Party had any idea of what Rob was getting at. From their perspective, he'd essentially told them to head straight towards a random spot on an empty mountain.

But they trusted him.

Leadership Level Increased! 8 -> 9

The desperation didn't hurt, either.

Having a goal lit a fire under their asses. With lungs crying, muscles straining, and Stamina universally down to 30 or less, the Party swam faster than they ever had before. Rob grit his teeth and focused on the house, dedicating his entire being to making sure his friends reached salvation. Meyneth started flagging behind; he got behind her and used consecutive Rampages to push the Dragonkin forward. Keira's pace slowed by a hair; he grabbed her and teleported her forward with the Ring of Minor Teleportation. Everyone had to make it. Everyone. He wasn't going to let their last sight be a sanctuary they were mere seconds away from reaching.

Truth be told, Rob didn't know why he thought the house was a sanctuary. He also didn't care. His instincts had proven true often enough that when they piped up, he listened.

Didn't matter; their efforts were soon rendered meaningless. The Leviathan howled as it closed in, maw gaping like a black hole. It was just too big, too fast. Riardin's Rangers wouldn't reach the house in time before the behemoth swallowed them like insignificant bits of krill.

Malika, belting out a litany of Rob-inspired curse words, extended her hands back and cast a monstrous fire spell that immediately boiled into a huge cloud of steam. The Leviathan hesitated, its vision obscured – and that was exactly the edge they needed. Riardin's Rangers made one final break for the house, Rob at the head of their formation. The house was only a couple dozen feet away, so close they could practically taste it. Rob eyed the front door; while the rest of the Party may not be able to see it, that didn't mean they couldn't interact with it. If he just showed them where it was-

Rob blinked in confusion as he heard – and felt – a splash. Several exceptionally confusing things proceeded to happen in tandem. First, he went from swimming through the sea to falling through the air. Second, he realized he was no longer in water. Third, he slammed down hard on the mountain's rocky outcropping, lingering droplets falling off of his body and onto stone.

Dry stone.

His friends followed soon after. One moment they were swimming, and the next, they'd crossed an invisible threshold separating what seemed to be a pocket of air from the rest of the ocean. Rob watched blankly as his Party members – high-Level Awakened Class users who'd defeated the Merfolk King less than an hour ago – screeched and flailed as they fell down next to him. A few of them flopped around like fish brought onto dry land before remembering that they weren't actually native sea dwellers.

He didn't get a chance to laugh at the sight. One instant after the last of Riardin's Rangers crossed the finish line, two glowing eyes appeared within the cloud of steam, revealing the Leviathan's massive head as it gradually pushed forward. It was even more grotesque up close; teeth jagged, scales misaligned, and its skin oiled with a sizzling mucus. Rob kept those observations to himself, because for all he knew the creature spoke Common, and it wouldn't be wise to anger a creature whose head was bigger than the house he'd just escaped to.

Anger it more than it already was, anyway.

Riardin's Rangers collectively held their breath and stayed perfectly quiet as the Leviathan stopped short in front of their sanctuary. Its eyes stared directly at them – no, directly through them. There wasn't an iota of recognition in those incandescent orbs. The Leviathan looked right, then left, searching for prey that had somehow vanished into thin air. A discontented growl escaped the beast's throat as it slowly turned sideways and swam off into the distance, the water shifting and churning in its wake.

Not a single person exhaled until well after the Leviathan had disappeared from view.

Chapter 42

Hands trembling, Rob panted heavily as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. The heightened reality of the moment was still fresh in his mind, adrenaline coursing through every inch of his body. He glanced at the others to find them in similar states; tightened muscles, shaking limbs, and haunted eyes. Malika and Orn'tol were especially rattled, holding each other's hands in a vice grip as they tried desperately not to cry. Rob wished he could comfort them, but his brain was currently on stress leave and wouldn't be back for another few minutes.

He was so completely done with everything that he didn't even react when Keira made her way over and plopped down next to him. She didn't say anything or reach for his hand, content to sit there and marvel at how they were still alive – a fact that had yet to fully sink in.

Christ on a cracker, Rob thought, finally able to form proper words in his head. I think that just took ten years off my life. Diplomacy nodded mutely in response, the Skill's core reduced to a dim glow of muted shock. They were struggling to think of what to say next when – as if to cap off the insanity of what had transpired – a system message popped up in front of Rob, forcing a wry grin to spread across his face.

The Ring of Perfected Waterdwelling has protected you from Status Effect: 'Decompression Sickness'!

Rob held up his hand and eyed the Ring nestled around his middle finger. "Really have to thank Urian when we get back," he mumbled. "I owe him so many beers."

His idle ramblings lifted the fog of silent shock that was hanging over everyone. "This place is...dry," Zamira stated, her voice strained. "How did you know to come here?"

Rob gestured towards the house sitting unassumingly behind her. He had to admit, there was a sort of bitter satisfaction in watching the others turn around to discover that they'd apparently missed an entire fucking building. "When did that get there?" Vul'to asked, gently touching the house's exterior as if it was a dream that would melt away at the slightest touch. "And for that matter, where did this pocket of air come from? I can't have taken such a large leave of my senses that I missed both of them."

"Don't beat yourself up," Rob said, lazily waving his hand through the air. "Would be the same as blaming a colorblind person for being unable to tell the difference between red and green. Your senses just aren't predisposed to..."

He paused, thinking of the best way to phrase a concept that was starting to percolate inside his mind. "To see what lies beyond the veil."

The other members of Riardin's Rangers stared at him with inquisitive gazes. "I've never heard of a veil," Faelynn said, in a tone that prompted him to elaborate.

"You wouldn't have," Rob explained. "I just made it up. It's the simplest way I can think of to describe how I'm able perceive things that others can't. Like the Loci of Power, or the Blight's speech in Identify descriptions." He peered up. "Or that."

Riardin's Rangers followed his gaze – only for their breath to be stolen away for the third time in so many minutes. They'd put some distance between themselves and the void that the Leviathan spawned from, but that only served to highlight how massive it was. Pure shadowy nothingness blanketed the horizon from one end of the world to the next, stretching as far as the eye could see, extending above the ocean surface and presumably into the sky itself. Potentially missing a house was one thing; there was no way in hell that any of them could have missed noticing the void. As far as they could tell, the space beyond Elatra had been the same as anywhere else.

But it wasn't. Now they'd seen – and what's been seen can never be unseen.

"By the looks on your faces," Rob said, softly. "I imagine that most people don't see an abyss of everlasting darkness at the edge of Elatra's boundaries?"

Silence, accompanied by shock.

"Right." He let out a sigh. "Then I guess I need to apologize for ruining your blissful ignorance. Pretty sure my presence is the reason why the veil gets lifted sometimes."

"Because you aren't from Elatra?" Orn'tol posited.

Rob shrugged. "I was thinking that Crystal Bearer was the culprit, giving me access to system things I'm not supposed to know, but that works too." He tilted his head. "Could also be an 'all of the above' sort of deal. Hard to tell when this is uncharted territory."

Ten seconds of contemplation passed before someone spoke. "You seem rather confident in your conjecture," Meyneth stated. "Have you been hypothesizing about this subject for some time now?"

"Honestly, no," Rob answered. I'm just much more ready to accept that this world is fundamentally unnatural than any of you are. "I could be wrong – and even if I'm right about that specific thing, it's not like I have all the answers." He twirled his finger around in a circle. "For example, this air bubble? Zero clue about what it is or why it exists. Unless it's a secret Merfolk vacation home."

"We couldn't perceive this place until you lifted the veil for us," Keira said, from her position at his side. "It should be invisible to the Merfolk as well."

"That's what makes it so secret."

They locked eyes. Keira snorted with poorly suppressed mirth, and as if a switch had been flipped, the Party burst out laughing a moment later, Rob's shitty joke acting as a catalyst to release all the pressure that'd built up inside them. The Merfolk King, the chase, the void, the Leviathan, the impossible sanctuary – everything they'd been subjected to over the course of the last half hour suddenly came to a head in their minds. Undergoing that many trials in such a short period would've humbled the most hardened of combat veterans, and to top it off, everyone was fully aware that they still had more to do before they could truly rest.

They only knew of two ways to deal with that level of stress, and laughing felt better than crying.

"So what do all of you propose our next step should be?" Zamira asked, addressing the Party once they'd calmed down. "Shall we resume our mission or retreat back to Fiend territory? This pocket of air may function well as a home base of sorts, should we choose to make it one."

Rob couldn't help but notice that Zamira specifically wasn't asking about the nature of the void or the pocket of air. Which, personally speaking, was fine by him. If his friends didn't want to deal with an existential crisis right this second, then who was he to judge? They'd be forced to come to terms with the nature of their reality sooner or later. Better to let them go through that process in the safety of their homes rather than during a mission where millions of lives hang in the balance.

"I believe that we should press on," Keira stated, in a resolute tone. "The odds of the Locus being unguarded are slim, but it would be remiss not to make one last attempt at Attunement while we're in the area."

"The Leviathan didn't return to its abyss," Orn'tol pointed out. "It swam forward in search of us, and may very well still be out there."

Keira flinched. "I...believe that we should press on," she repeated, much more hesitantly. "But only after Waymark is off cooldown – which we will use immediately if the Leviathan sets its sights on us again." She drummed her fingers on dry stone. "I doubt we'll be so lucky as to find a second invisible hiding spot."

The party nodded in unison. There were some enemies that you just couldn't win against. Beating up the Merfolk King was all well and good, but Rob would rather tango with Fishfucker Supreme a dozen more times before he tried taking on a Leviathan. The only beings he'd come across that instilled a greater sense of dread in him were the Dragon Queen and the fully-formed Blights, and when those were something's closest points of comparison, no amount of caution was unwarranted.

You know what the worst part is? Rob commented. The worst part in a petty, silly sense, I mean. We didn't even get to enjoy the afterglow of defeating the Merfolk King. How many Combat Class users in Elatran history have ever come out on top against a race's leader? A day or so of riding high with overinflated egos would've been nice. Instead, we went straight from our big upset victory to bumbling headfirst into a giant sea monster. Rob internally smirked. I get that there's always a bigger fish, but my god, did it have to be so literal this time?

Diplomacy didn't respond. Their core was listless and pensive, like a wild animal that'd been caught in a trap and left alone to stew in its anxiety.

You okay? Rob asked, with genuine concern.

<I don't think so.> Diplomacy shook their head. <And before you ask, I'm not sure why. Will need some alone time to figure out why I feel this way.>

Of course. If Diplomacy wanted privacy, then they'd get privacy. That's all there was to it.

Rob stood up, groaning contentedly as he cracked his joints with a satisfying stretch. "Sounds like we have a plan," he said to everyone. "Rest up, get Waymark back, top off our Stamina." He put on a wide grin. "That leaves us with about twenty minutes to kill. Who's up for exploring a haunted house?"

The other swiveled their heads around to examine the house that they'd so purposefully ignored up until then. Their faces morphed into varying expressions of distaste; some mild, some intense.

"Come on guys," he chuckled. "I was joking. It's not actually haunted."

"You don't know that," Malika retorted. "What better way is there to describe a place that appears out of nowhere like some manner of ghostly apparition?"

That wasn't a bad point, which is why Rob brushed it aside as he stepped forward to place his hand on the front door. Debunking Malika's argument would involve bringing up the whole Existential Crisis thing that they probably wanted to avoid. "Look," he began. "I refuse to sit here for twenty minutes and not explore our new secret clubhouse. Plus, aren't you interested in what's inside? It could be important. My instincts tend to lead me in the right direction, and right now they're telling me to investigate."

"Isn't it possible that you're mistaking instinct for idle curiosity?" Vul'to asked.

Rob shrugged. "Let's find out."

He turned the doorknob.

Everything shifted. Water filled his lungs. The air was gone. The house was gone. The Ring was gone. He'd been reduced to an unadorned Human miles underneath the ocean surface. Pressure squeezed, wrapping his torso like a fist around a pack of toothpaste. As his body began to implode, Rob heard a soft voice in the distance, wistful and resigned.

"It's so beautiful."

Everything shifted again. Rob was back in the pocket of air, dry and with full HP, hand clutching the doorknob. Same as before. He whirled around and checked the Party Screen in one motion, relief surging through him as he found everyone similarly unchanged – if slightly confused at his outburst. They obviously hadn't experienced the hallucination he'd just been subjected to.

No, not a hallucination. A vision. Rob wasn't bothered by the sensation of being crushed like a tube – it was honestly three steps below Attunement weirdness – but the voice that accompanied it was sticking in his mind. He'd heard that kind of inflection on numerous occasions, and it always came from someone on the verge of death. Someone who wasn't truly prepared to die, who had desires unfulfilled and ambitions left unsaid, but at the same time saw no other recourse except to put on a brave face and hope that the end came quickly and painlessly.

Slowly, Rob turned back around and gave the house an appraising look. "Haunted, huh." He opened the door and stepped inside, preparing himself for another pseudo-hallucination to assault his senses.

None came. All things considered, the house was far more normal than his first impression implied it would be. If Rob didn't know any better, he might've assumed he was standing in the lobby of a typical well-furnished Elven residence. Granted, his basis for reference was mostly just Keira's old home from The Village, and he'd yet to see what the architecture in half of the Elatran territories looked like.

"What is this place?" Keira asked, as she followed a few steps behind Rob. "If it's a home, then it's unlike any home I've ever set foot in."

"Really? I thought it matched Elven design sensibilities pretty well."

Keira, currently in the middle of gingerly poking a chair as if it was filled with dynamite, paused to arch an eyebrow at Rob. "Absolutely not," she emphasized. "The angles are all wrong. No Elf back in The Village would have been caught dead structuring their abode in such a haphazard fashion."

Her claim was supported by the other Elves who came in afterwards – and subsequently refuted by Meyneth, who agreed with Rob in that the house appeared similar to the few other Elven buildings she'd visited. Rob wasn't sure whether to chalk that difference up to his and Meyneth's limited exposure to Elven domiciles, or if it was because Elves were especially picky about their aesthetics. With that question taking up the forefront of his mind, Rob finished his fruitless search of the lobby and walked into a side room shrouded in darkness.

Habits are a funny thing. They're hard to break no matter how consistently they fail you. Despite having spent almost seven months in Elatra, whenever Rob entered a dark room, he was still liable to reflexively stick his hand out in search of a light switch. Torches, magelight orbs, and natural sunlight were the methods that provided illumination for Elatran interiors, but that didn't stop Rob's subconscious from craving the convenience of electricity. And being as distracted as he presently was, when Rob entered the next room, he automatically stuck out his hand and felt the wall for a light switch.

Flick.

A flash filled the room, jumpscaring Rob ten times worse than the hallucination had. He gaped at the switch, then at the flickering lightbulb embedded into the top of the ceiling, his mouth hanging open and limp like he was witnessing the rapture. Rob stood perfectly still for a half a minute, entranced by the sight, before hesitantly reaching over and flicking the switch again. The light vanished in an instant. He flicked it once more. The light came back.

Rob jerked his arm away from the switch, suddenly afraid that he'd break it if he flipped it too many times. After all, the lightbulb was already flickering, so either it was going bad or the electrical lines were shoddy and hahaha what the fuck why was there electricity. He took deep breaths to calm himself,  sweeping his gaze across the rest of the room in search of anything else that didn't belong.

"Rob?" Keira asked, peeking her head through the doorway. "Is everything all right? Your face is pale."

Wordlessly, he pointed at the light switch. Keira narrowed her eyes in confusion. "What is that?"

"Something from Earth." Rob gestured towards the other end of the room. "So's that."

He stepped past a speechless, stunned Keira and approached the item that had caught his notice. A ratty fold-out table was tucked away in the corner of the room, clashing harshly against the house's otherwise fashionable decor. More important was the item on top of that table – an audio recorder that was coated in a thin layer of dust. It wasn't like any audio recorder Rob had seen on Earth, possessing an oblong shape comprised partially of wood, rather than the rectangular metal and plastic that Rob was accustomed to. Even without Identify, though, he knew what it was. The speaker hole and honest-to-god buttons made that perfectly clear.

That, and the sheet of paper marked with "Please Listen" resting beside it.

Keira was asking him questions that went in one ear and out the other. As if in a trance, Rob walked forward, stopping when he reached the unassuming table in the corner of the room. He only hesitated for a moment before reaching out and pressing a blue button on the recorder.

"Day 1-"

Rob pressed a red button, silencing the voice. His hands shook as he steadied himself against the table. Just from those two words, he could tell that it was the same voice that he had heard in his 'hallucination.'

He glanced back. The rest of the Party was standing crowded around the doorway, curiosity evident on their faces. They hadn't heard where the voice came from. Keira, who had, was eyeing the recorder like it was possessed by a demon from hell. Rob swallowed the lump in his throat, stepped a few inches to the side so that the recorder was in full display, and pressed the blue button again.

"I suppose that's what I should start with," the voice continued. "It isn't Day 1 to me, but for your purposes, consider this the beginning of the end. The first day where I completely and utterly gave up on hope." A bitter chuckle echoed throughout the room. "If that sounds overly dramatic to you, dear listener, then believe me when I say that I envy you. Whatever time you live in must be much kinder than mine."

The voice's pitch oscillated between vaguely masculine and vaguely feminine as it spoke in perfect Common – perfect English – that was strained through the inherent scratchiness of 1960s-era sound quality. Try as he might, Rob couldn't put a finger on the speaker's age, race, or gender.

"If this is to be a journal – or perhaps a testament – then I should start with a bit of background. There's no certainty that whoever's listening knows anything about the light. When-"

The recording grew discordant and screechy, its audio skipping around several times, before abruptly becoming understandable.

"Day 4."

Rob pressed the red button. He glanced back again, wondering if anyone wanted an explanation for what the device was. By the looks on their faces, the only answers they desired were from what the voice had to tell them. Nodding silently, he pressed the blue button once more.

"Boredom is starting to set in." The voice hummed. "Boredom. That's a bit of an arrogant word, isn't it, dear listener? It implies a degree of luxury that others are lacking. While I sit here and put on airs of indifference, millions all across the land are suffering."

They snorted. "It was like that even before the light came. The world may be full of wrongs that need righting, yet even the most righteous among us can only change a small portion of it, like trying to hollow out a beach one shovel scoop at a time. Everyone else just shuts themselves off from whatever pain doesn't affect them personally. Why care, when caring hurts, and when your self-flagellation won't make a difference regardless? I know that tenet better than anyone – wouldn't have abandoned everyone by coming here otherwise."

The voice paused.

"I wonder if my mother is still alive."

Discordance. Screeching. The audio skipped forward.

"Day 8." The voice drew in a shuddering breath. "It snowed. Fuck. I'm isolated in the farthest reaches of the hottest climate in the world, and it *snowed*. Pristine white snowflakes gently falling from the sky. Landing on hot sand, and, and staying there without melting."

Their voice hitched. "I touched the snow," they whispered. "And it screamed."

Skip.

"Day 10." The voice grumbled. "If I sound discontented, dear listener, it's because I am. Didn't sleep last night. Or the night before that. At least I'm not tired – I *should* be, but I'm not." They sighed. "I guess after cold, sleep was the next thing to go."

Skip.

"Day 12." Seconds passed. Eventually, the voice let out a defeated sigh. "Sorry. I can't do this today."

Skip.

"Day 15." The voice sniffled. "The stars went out about four hours ago. Night sky looks so dark now. I..." They paused, before continuing in a strained tone. "When I was young, my mother filled my silly little head with stories of stars and constellations. That formation is Centaurus, the mighty beast, she would say. That formation is Andras, the wayward hero, she'd exult. Those mythical beings may reside in the sky for now, but in times of great need, they'll descend from the heavens to grant us salvation. When all hope seems lost, look to the stars and pray."

A harsh bang resounded in the background of the recording. "Well it didn't fucking help, did it, mother! I prayed day after day after day, and look what I got for it! Now even the stars themselves have abandoned me! I know I deserved it, considering I abandoned everyone else, but...FUCK!"

More harsh banging sounds. Things were being hit, thrown, tossed aside. Eventually, the clamor subsided, giving way to soft and quiet sobbing.

"I miss my mother," the voice whimpered, in-between tears. "I miss the stars. And even if the light miraculously disappears, neither of them are coming back."

Skip.

"Day 19. I think."

There was a long pause.

"Dear listener, I've come to the conclusion that I hate you." The voice spoke in a neutral, matter-of-fact tone. "If you're listening to this, then that means you're alive, a right that will soon be deprived of me. Against all odds, despite the mountains of dead and disappeared people, you're both alive and sane enough to listen to these recordings." They chuckled. "Thank you for entertaining my ramblings. Also, I hate you."

There was another long pause.

"Fuck, who am I kidding? No one's ever going to listen to this self-indulgent vanity project. All I'm doing is leaving a eulogy for the void."

Skip.

Skip.

Skip.

"It's here."

The voice spoke with a near-reverential timbre, exuding fear and awe in equal measures. "Can see it in the distance. Devouring the land piece by piece. Morsel by morsel. Light, then nothing."

They paused. "I'm ready," the voice lied. "Everyone else has gone ahead, and it's not like there's anywhere left for me to run. A coward I may be, but I have *some* remnants of dignity to cling onto, damnit."

Skip. This time it was shorter, seeming to jump ahead minutes or hours rather than days. When the recording resumed, a wailing dirge of static feedback could be heard gnashing in the background.

"Like a melody of angels," the voice whispered. "I'm glad my sight went before my hearing. It's much more soothing this way. Is that a mercy or a coincidence, I wonder?"

A pause. "If..." the voice began, hesitant and unsure. "If by some miracle someone is actually listening to this, then please honor my final request. I'll understand if you don't wish to, I don't deserve shit, but...might as well ask."

They breathed deep, then exhaled. "Remember my name as best you can: *&^#$)$@)#%. It doesn't need to be shouted from the rafters or etched in stone. Just one person knowing is more than enough."

The voice chuckled, a transient glimmer of levity entering their tone. "Thank you, dear listener. Facing down oblivion is much easier when I can wrap myself in the comforting delusion of leaving some small part of myself behind."

Another pause.

"It's so beautiful."

The background static grew to an earsplitting crescendo.

One moment later, an internal mechanism inside the audio recorder clicked, and the recording ceased.

Silence filled the room, precious and valuable. No one wanted to be the first to break it. An absence of silence meant that they would have to confront what they'd just heard.

On a whim, Rob carefully laid his hand on the audio recorder and attempted to put it into his Spatial Storage. Nothing happened. Not only did the Skill fail, it failed without turning up an error message. As if Rob hadn't targeted anything at all.

"None of this exists," he said, shattering their tenuous quiet. "It's just an echo from the past."

"What past?" Faelynn asked. "I've never heard of any disasters of the kind described in...whatever that speaking device is. How could the stars disappear from the sky?"

"One moment," Zamira interjected. "Faelynn, did you understand the speaker's language?"

The Fiend slowly nodded. "Well, yes. They spoke in Fiendish. Is...that not what you heard?"

Rob didn't bother commenting, choosing to keep his mouth shut as Riardin's Rangers discussed the recording amongst themselves. They'd figure it out eventually, and he was tired of being the bearer of bad news when it came to subjects like these. Instead, he focused on one specific part of the recording, unimportant in the grand scheme of things yet impossible to miss.

'Remember my name as best you can: *&^#$)$@)#%.'

Frowning, Rob fiddled with the recorder's controls until he discovered the 'rewind' button. He didn't have to go back far until he reached that one specific moment again. As soon as the unknown chronicler spoke their name, a distortion filled the recording that pierced his ears and scrambled his thoughts. Someone who hadn't been in contact with Blights and gods might have mistaken it for an instance of poorly-timed hardware failure, but Rob recognized it for what it was: the mental glitch that resulted from trying to comprehend divine language. Like slamming a square peg into a round hole.

Except that the unknown chronicler wasn't a god or a Blight. They were – had been – a person. Rob severely doubted that their name was originally meant to be incomprehensible; it was just like that now as a result of whatever the light had done to them. Apparently, those who were...expunged didn't have names. The only proof that they'd ever existed was consigned to leftover remnants hidden at the edge of the world.

Like bits of dust missed during a shoddy vacuum job.

Rob gripped the table so tightly that it started to buckle. Rage boiling to a fever point, he pressed the rewind button, followed by the play button.

'Remember my name as best you can: *&^#$)$@)#%.'

"Must you keep playing that section in particular?" Meyneth said, wincing. "It makes me feel as if my skull is being rattled by a hammer."

"Feel free to leave," Rob said, in a tone that was colder than intended. "We have ten minutes until Waymark is ready. I'll be here until then."

Rewind. Play. *&^#$)$@)#%.

The rest of the Party exchanged glances. Several of them looked like they wanted to reply, Keira especially, but something in his expression caused them to hold their tongues. They shuffled out of the room, sending worried looks as they closed the door behind them. Rob made a mental note to apologize later before resuming his work, pressing buttons in what were quickly becoming practiced motions.

Rewind. Play. *&^#$)$@)#%.

Rewind. Play. *&^#$)$@)#%.

Rob sat there, teeth clenched, as the chronicler's words echoed in his mind. They'd sounded so...scared. So resigned. Hating themselves for their decision to flee instead of fight. As if despairing in the face of oblivion was a crime deserving of death.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

When the end came, they never forgave themselves, nor did they expect anyone else to.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

All they'd asked for was a hint of remembrance.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

For just one person to know their name.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

One person. That was all.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

And they were denied even that.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

They were denied everything.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

*&^#$)$@)#%.

Blood began to trickle out of Rob's ears. In response, he activated Recall, committing the word of distortion to memory. He proceeded to physically play the audio recording while simultaneously employing Recall, doubling up on the sensory overload jostling his brain.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

Rob activated Recall again, this time copying the moment where he heard the distortion in both the recording and in his head. Then he took that Recall moment – now with two instances of the distortion saved – and listened to it alongside the physical recording. That made for three distortions resounding in his head all at once.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

He repeated the process, adding more and more distortions to the layered Recall in his mind. Each additional layer heightened the pain. Rob noted this fact – and then added more.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

Every time he was tempted to stop, he put himself in the chronicler's position. Imagined the way they must have felt as their world was taken from them.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

There was so much they must've had left to say, and yet all they'd asked was for ONE person to know their name.

Just.

One.

*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.*&^#$)$@)#%.

Something cracked. Rob fell, his senses numb.

"Thank you."

--

He was jostled awake by his mostly-worried friends several minutes later. Only 'mostly', because his HP was full and they'd seen him in worse states, although the blood splattered below his ears and nostrils weren't exactly reassuring sights. Before they could ask him what went wrong, Rob held up his hand so he could have a second to check his log of system messages.

A wide grin broke out across his face a moment later.

Almighty Resistance Level Increased! 1 -> 2

"Valaire," he said, beaming with pure satisfaction and joy. "Their name was Valaire."

Chapter 43

Rob slowly cleaned the blood from his face with a cloth napkin he'd salvaged from the house's kitchen. He wasn't quite sure how an object that didn't exist was able to clean him, but aberrations in the fabric of reality were seldom known for their consistency. This house – and the pocket of air that contained it – played by different rules than the rest of the world. Outside of him and his Party, there probably wasn't anyone else in Elatra who could see their forgotten sanctuary, let alone interact with it.

Which raised a veritable mountainload of questions; some that the gods themselves might not have a good answer to. Rob seriously doubted that they'd meant for evidence of their fuckery to be left behind, even in a state where it was invisible to the common eye and hidden on the edge of the world. Assuming the gods were responsible for the atrocities detailed in Valaire's recording, which – real talk – they absolutely fucking were. Thinking otherwise would be like inviting Derek to a wild college party and not expecting him to cause a scene. When people fell into predictably destructive patterns, there was little reason to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Unfortunately, Rob's certainty didn't make things any easier to talk about. He wiped the blood from his cheeks with slow, methodical motions, stalling for time as he considered how best to broach the subject of a divine calamity. His friends were patiently waiting for him to finish collecting his thoughts, and they'd want answers when he was done. People didn't just start bleeding out of their ears and nose for no reason – not even him. Based on the Party's back-and-forth whisperings, they'd likely worked out that the gods were to blame for his injuries, but that was all. They didn't understand why they couldn't hear Valaire's name, let alone begin to comprehend the full scope of what transpired during Valaire's recordings.

It was different for Rob. Just from one listen, he knew that a world had ended.

Part of that discrepancy came down to cultural differences. As violent as Elatra could be, one thing Rob had noticed was that its inhabitants didn't have a strong concept of what an apocalypse entailed. It didn't turn up often in stories or conversation. People knew that Elatra would be screwed if the Blight started running rampant, but that notion felt relatively new to them. Rather than implicitly considering the end of the world to be a possibility, it was a conclusion they'd come to via abstract extrapolation. In contrast, modern-day Earth was packed to the brim with apocalypse discourse of both the fictional and nonfictional variety. Nukes, zombies, alien invasions, Ragnarök, the Rapture, meteor strikes, climate change...there were so many different flavors of annihilation that Rob was desensitized to the subject.

His friends weren't. Valaire's description of facing down oblivion as light devoured the world wasn't a mental image that an Elatran could feasibly conceptualize. It was too outlandish, sounding more like a metaphor or exaggeration than an actual physical event. To them, there wasn't a worse possible apocalyptic disaster than the Cataclysm – and they'd survived it regardless.

Rob wasn't looking forward to raising that bar.

"I'm sure you all have some questions," he said, addressing the room. "This house isn't exactly what any of us expected it would be."

"Told you it was haunted," Malika remarked, crossing her arms at him.

Rob shrugged. "Hey, it may be creepy, but technically speaking it's not actually haunted. Nothing here is sapient or possesses a will of its own." He coughed under his breath. "I think."

"Hmm?"

"Anyway," Rob continued. "Most of you have probably worked out why I had another fainting episode-"

"I haven't," Faelynn interrupted, sounding concerned and confused in equal measures. "And I wasn't aware that you passing out and bleeding from various orifices is, apparently, a common occurrence! The only time I've seen you lose consciousness is during an Attunement process, but unless I'm mistaken, that's not what happened here."

Rob paused. His mouth opened with a wordless 'Oh' as he exchanged glances with the non-Faelynn members of his Party. Between the Leviathan, the haunted house, and Valaire's recording, Rob's last half-hour had been so hectic that he'd legitimately forgotten how little Faelynn knew about the gods' true nature. Despite the Fiend's status as a temporary 'diplomatic liaison' – whatever the fuck that meant at this point – she fit into their group dynamic strangely well, feeling like a longstanding member of the Party rather than an outsider. Hell, he'd even offered her one of his two remaining Class Awakenings. Out of the necessity of the moment, but still.

If it wasn't for Diplomacy's prior assurances, Rob might've started questioning Faelynn's presence all over again. Her behavior too closely resembled that of a sleeper agent infiltrating their ranks. First she gained their trust, then she gained a Class Awakening, and after that, who knows? Was she truly a well-meaning Fiend who wore her heart on her sleeve, or was it all merely a devious ploy intended to trick them into lowering their guards?

<The former,> Diplomacy muttered. <And please tamp your paranoia down a notch. It's loud, and I'm trying to figure out why this place is affecting my mental state so severely.>

Diplomacy! Rob smiled. Just the Skill I needed. Mind giving some advice before you go back to brooding? See, the whole 'gods are dicks' thing is a bit of a delicate subject for the average Elatran to learn about. I'm not sure how much to reveal to Faelynn.

<Just tell her,> the Skill absentmindedly said, sounding distracted. <It doesn't matter if Faelynn is privy to sensitive information. She's no threat to us one way or another.>

Rob suppressed a wince and elected to keep that assessment to himself. Accurate as it was, Faelynn would've been disheartened to know that she'd been dismissed so readily. Okay, but what about, like, her feelings and stuff?

<She'll be fine.>

Diplomacy's statement was laced with the breezy confidence of someone who thought they were right, but at the same time, didn't really care if they were wrong. Before Rob could question them further, the Skill sank back into deep contemplation, shutting themselves off from the world. Rob let out an audible sigh, prompting odd looks from the rest of the Party.

"Is something wrong with Macy?" Vul'to asked.

"They don't like this place," Rob explained. "Sets them on edge in a way they aren't able to express."

"That makes two of us," Orn'tol murmured, the boy's eyes shifting left and right as if expecting a ghost to emerge from the shadows at any moment.

Rob's lips twitched with mirth. He almost commented on Orn'tol's anxiety – teasing younger siblings was a joy he'd never gotten to indulge in – but it wouldn't be fair to keep Faelynn waiting. "Soooo," he began, looking the Fiend directly in her eyes. "To be blunt: how surprised would you be if I told you that the Elatran gods are malicious assholes who are out to kill us?"

Faelynn's body stiffened like she'd been doused by a bucket of ice water. The only part of her that moved was her claws, which lengthened until they were fully extended. Gradually, her shock subsided, giving way to anguish. Rob felt a wellspring of sympathy rise up within him as he watched the Fiend screw her eyes shut and take a harsh, shuddering breath.

Seconds passed. Finally, she opened her eyes and forced herself to return Rob's gaze.

"I'd be less surprised than you may anticipate."

Rob kept his story short. Waymark would be usable again soon, and the Party needed to be ready to leave as soon as it was ready. Thankfully, Faelynn was one of the few Fiends who already knew about his status as an Earth expat, which made filling in the details a quick process. In some ways, his story actually simplified matters for her, as it explained how the cavalcade of nonsense occurring around him wasn't just a string of unbelievable coincidences – it was purposeful. To an extent, anyway. Rob didn't know exactly how much the gods influenced mortal happenings on a daily basis, but at the very least, his presence in Elatra was solely a result of their designs.

He shuddered to consider how much of the gods' 'Influence' it must've taken to transport him across dimensions. The first god he'd spoken to had seemingly run out of Influence after one short conversation with a mortal. Opening a portal from Earth to Elatra had to have been several orders of magnitude more resource-intensive than that, and instead of utilizing that resource to combat the Blight or perform life-saving miracles, they'd wasted it on messing with him.

Faelynn took the news about as well as could be expected.

"Fuckers," She hissed, tearing her claws through an innocent couch. She ripped it to shreds in the blink of an eye before moving on to a table – soon to be a pile of kindling. Riardin's Rangers stepped back, giving the rampaging Fiend a wide berth. "All those prayers sent to Argath, and what was it even for? A deity's sick and twisted amusement?" Sturdy wood split apart like butter under a hot knife. "I bet he was fucking laughing when I begged him to grant my parents a peaceful respite in his Hallowed Halls."

Meyneth cleared her throat, drawing Faelynn's attention. "What?!" The Fiend hissed, teeth bared. The rest of the Party raised their eyebrows at the Dragonkin and stepped away from her as well, wearing expressions that said 'hey, your funeral.'

"At the risk of earning your misplaced ire," Meyneth began. "I must confess to a certain measure of curiosity. You seem very quick to believe what is – on the face of it – a wholly outlandish tale."

Faelynn offered the Dragonkin a tight grin. "Outlandish? Outlandish is watching my people suffer under the horrors of a Blight-born pestilence. Learning that the gods who already weren't doing anything to stop it were, in fact, making things worse, is less of a revelation than half the things I've experienced today." She turned to look at Rob. "And you're saying that the reason we couldn't understand Valaire's name is because the gods erased them from existence itself?"

"That's the long and short of it."

"And how did that happen?" Faelynn asked. "When, for that matter? The scope of what Valaire depicted was so...vast. Worse than the Cataclysm, potentially, but I've never heard of something like that happening at any point in history."

The rest of the Party nodded in unison. Rob hesitated, mentally preparing himself to raise the bar.

<Don't tell them yet,> Diplomacy interjected. <Considering the degree of stress they're under right now, being informed of ill news on a cataclysmic scale is far beyond what they can handle. It would decrease their combat efficacy by a measurable amount.>

Rob's gaze swept across the ruined furnishings. Oh thank god, he thought, internally sighing with relief. Anything that lets me put off this talk a little longer is a-okay in my book. What should I say?

<Repeat after me.>

"I'm guessing that Valaire used to live in the area now known as the Deadlands," Rob lied. "And that whatever the gods did also coincided with the ancient Blight invasion that gave the region its name. It would explain why there aren't any stories of an old nation being destroyed – the gods hid their actions in plain sight by targeting a place that was already going down the drains. People outside the Deadlands just figured that the Blight killed everyone, which in all honesty was a very fair assumption to make."

His Party members seemed to accept that explanation, although additional questions were brewing on their faces. Thinking quick, Rob decided to switch topics with the subtlety of a sixteen-wheeler. "Waymark is one minute away from being usable again," he said, glancing at the front door. "We should start getting ready to head for the Locus."

"That we should," Keira stated. She paused, eyes narrowing. "But not before you and I have a talk about your flagrant lack of self-preservation. A pattern which, I might add, you've promised to amend on several occasions."

Rob winced. "There wasn't even any brain damage this time!"

Keira snorted. "Diplomacy definitely didn't tell you to say that line." Before Rob could respond, she grabbed him by the hand and began pulling him towards an empty side room. He looked to his friends for aid, but they only stared at him with amused grins, vile traitors that they were. Not even Diplomacy was willing to help, too lost in their own thoughts to bother with a conversation of – by its own words – 'meager importance'. Undeterred, Keira dragged him into a side room and locked the door with the finality of a gunshot, leaving the two of them alone together.

"Come on, Keira," Rob sighed, turning around. "You know for a fact that I..."

The look on Keira's face caused his words to die in his throat. Instead of the aggrieved, worried expression he'd been expecting, she wore a mask of grim determination, posture rigid as if she was expecting to weather a heavy blow.

"...This isn't about my injuries, is it?" Rob asked, softly.

"You lied about Valaire," she whispered, in a voice lower than what could be heard by someone eavesdropping with Heightened Senses.

Ah. Rob lowered his eyes, unable to meet her gaze. "How could you tell?" he whispered back.

"I know you." Keira poked him in the forehead, gently pushing his gaze back upwards. "Don't misunderstand why I pulled you aside," she said, in a nonthreatening tone. "This isn't a prelude to punishment. If I had to wager a guess – you lied because you were worried that the truth would distract us from the trials ahead?"

Rob nodded. Despite being proven right, Keira's expression hardened by a fraction. "That's a reasonable decision to make," she continued. "And one that I won't publicly oppose – as long as you tell me the full extent of what you know."

"It can't wait until the mission is over?" Rob asked, very much aware that he'd lost control of the conversation. "Knowing about it right now won't benefit you in the slightest."

"Perhaps not," Keira admitted. "Yet I must know. Call it selfishness on my part, if you wish." She paused. "And the others may not have detected the tension in your shoulders, but I did. Whatever you learned from that recording is weighing heavily on your soul. You need someone to help shoulder that weight before it crushes you."

Rob couldn't possibly counter that argument without coming across like a jackass. Maybe Diplomacy knew how, but they waved him off when he tried asking for help. "Damnit," he said, rubbing his temples. "Fine. I hope you don't regret this."

"I can't promise that I won't."

Points for honesty, I guess. Not that he could complain – he'd be doing the same thing in her shoes. Rob hesitated, searching Keira's gorgeous eyes for an iota of uncertainty, and found none. "Right," he breathed. "Let's just rip off the band-aid. Based on Valaire's recording, I'm pretty sure that the version of Elatra that they used to live in was destroyed."

To her credit, Keira's poker face stayed strong, only betraying a sliver of the tempest that was obviously whirling beneath her countenance. "I see," she said. "What exactly do you mean by 'version' of Elatra?"

"Imagine Elatra as it may have been thousands of years ago," Rob continued. "Now imagine it being hit by a Cataclysm that didn't stop until everything was gone. The people, the wildlife, and even the landscape – all eradicated. That's why no one's heard about a disaster anywhere close to the scale that Valaire described. It isn't because of shoddy record-keeping; it's because there was no one left to leave a record behind. Whatever happened wiped the slate clean."

"That is a rather bold claim to make," Keira stated. "Especially when it's based on so little evidence."

Rob shook his head. "You heard what Valaire said. Their world was engulfed by an all-devouring light and reduced to a barren void. Doesn't get much clearer than that. It's not like they were sparse on details, either – they explicitly described several instances where reality was unraveling in some really fucked-up ways. You don't know what snow is, but believe me when I say that it is not supposed to scream." He paused. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if this world's geography used to look completely different. For all we know, Elatra 1.0 was a winter wonderland consisting of multiple continents. Anything's possible."

"Unless Valaire is exaggerating what they went through," Keira said, voice wavering. "Or lying from start to finish. This house, testament included, could simply be a ploy engineered by the gods to unnerve you."

"Eh, Valaire's story fits with what I already know," Rob said, his mouth moving faster than his mind. Keira narrowed her eyes and leaned closer, her expression demanding an explanation.

Rob almost stopped then and there. He'd been keeping these thoughts to himself for a very long time, only ever speaking them to Elder Duran in confidence half a year ago. Once he said them to Keira, there was no taking them back. At this point, though, the floodgates were open; he couldn't have stopped himself even if he'd wanted to.

"What's ridiculous to you is perfectly reasonable to me," Rob explained. "And the reverse is also true. The extraordinary aspects of Valaire's testament actually make me believe it more, not less."

"Elaborate," Keira said, in a short, clipped tone. "As their tale fits nothing that I know of in Elatra."

Rob's eye twitched. "Elatra doesn't make any goddamn sense," he growled, scratching his head. "Do you have any idea how utterly bizarre this place looks from my perspective? And I don't just mean in the sense that I'm an outsider going through culture shock – there's too many things here that don't add up to a consistent whole. The system bends reality as it pleases, horrifying creatures materialize out of thin air, localized nightmares grow out of the ground, and freaking grass is color-coded by nation. Maybe I could accept one of those things in a vacuum as just a facet of this world, but all of it put together is so...nonsensical. There's no rhyme or reason. A world like this couldn't have come into existence naturally or by a creator – at least not one that gave a shit."

His voice lowered. "See, unlike here, people back on Earth have managed to reason out the logic that governs our world. We know why certain parts of the environment are hot while some are cold. We know why some animals have wings while some have arms. We know why lightning tends to strike metal in high places. We know why an apple falls to the ground when it dislodges from a tree. But if you ask someone in Elatra about why anything in their world is the way it is, the best answer you'll get is a blank face and a nondescript statement about the system. There's no proper explanation for why things like stats, monsters, or dungeons are the way they are. And you know what else?"

A manic grin split across his face. "All of those Elatran concepts were already in my world. As fiction. They're common elements in stories I liked to read and games I like to play. Some of them ARE the stories I liked to read. You know David and Goliath? Yeah, that one is an Earth original. I guess the gods decided to get lazy and copy someone else's homework when they..."

Rob trailed off. He'd almost said 'manufactured', but that was going too far, especially when considering Keira's emotions. "When they helped shape Elatra into what it is today."

"After destroying the original," Keira added, her tone placid. "And there's no guarantee that it can't happen again."

Rob paused, then nodded in assent. Keira stayed quiet for a long time, her poker face in danger of slipping, before eventually answering in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Just once, I wish I could learn something about Elatra and end up feeling safer than when I was ignorant." She stared at him, eyes searching for something. "Do you believe my world to be a total falsehood, Rob? That we are all playthings invented by a higher power?"

"No." Instinctively, Rob reached out and grabbed Keira's hands. "Elatra is real. Its people are real. You're real. I promise you that's what I honestly believe."

"I'm glad you feel that way, as I'm not sure I do." Her face tightened. "Can something be both real and a falsehood at the same time?" Rob was about to induct Keira into a crash course of Philosophy 101 when she suddenly let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "You neglected to mention the void in your list of Elatran irregularities," she pointed out. "An infinite abyss surrounding the edges of the continent, unseeable by the average person and home to impossible behemoths."

Rob flinched. "Thought that would be overkill," he admitted. "And I noticed that no one seemed particularly keen to bring up the void in general."

"Merely imagining it churns my stomach." Keira's gaze drifted upward, looking somewhere far away. "It's a cage, isn't it? And the Leviathans are our jailers. Nothing truly exists out there. I was told that those who journey into the sea past Elatra's borders are eaten, but I think it's likely that most simply vanish into the emptiness. No one makes it far, no one makes it back, no one questions anything – and thus, the lie is preserved."

Rob didn't know what to say, so he defaulted to apologizing. "Sorry. I didn't mean to dump this on you in one sitting."

"I quite specifically asked for it," Keira droned, in a blasé tone. "And you warned me."

"Still. I'm sorry. All of this…" He hesitated, before concluding that no combination of words in the English language would be sufficient to express the sheer depth of one world's torment – and another's demise. "It sucks."

Keira let out a muted chuckle. "It most certainly does."

They fell silent again. Belatedly, Rob realized that they'd been speaking for much longer than one minute, and that his Party members were waiting for them outside. Hope they don't ask too many questions about why Keira and I were alone together for so long, he thought. As I really don't want to be forced to go along with the most plausible cover story.

"I'm going to kill them," Keira stated.

"Pardon?"

"The gods," she said, as if that was obvious. "I intend to see them lying dead and broken before my feet."

Rob tilted his head. "I'd certainly love to help make that dream a reality, but unfortunately, I think we're still a long ways off from slaying divinity."

"The longest journey begins with a single step. As long as I keep to my vow and stay alive, eventually, it will come true." Keira's mouth twisted into something resembling a sneer. "You know, it's funny. Perhaps I'm a hypocrite at heart, because if given the chance, I think I'd much rather prefer to live on Earth than Elatra. This world is...exhausting. In so many ways. Having access to a wealth of challenging opponents isn't quite worth the heartache of witnessing so much suffering. Based on your tales, Earth is perhaps a bit too peaceful for my tastes, but compared to this?" She gestured broadly. "The choice is obvious."

Keira bared her teeth. "And yet when I consider the possibility of Elatra being destroyed, its people slaughtered, its lands expunged..." Her hand twitched towards her greatsword. "I can't abide by that. Not now. Not ever."

As she clenched her hand into a fist, Keira locked eyes with Rob, her gaze blazing like wildfire. "This world is awful, but it's mine." She turned around, heading for the door. "And I'll be damned if I let even the gods themselves take it from me."

Chapter 44

Thankfully, the rest of the Party didn't ask why Rob and Keira took so long to finish their private talk. Any curiosity they may have had dried up when they saw the look of bloodthirsty determination on Keira's face. Rob made a mental note to ask Keira what her Intimidation Level was at; despite Diplomacy's low opinion of the Skill, it was imposing enough to make a room of inquisitive young adults and teenagers keep their urge for gossip in check, which was impressive in and of itself.

Unfortunately, no gossip combined with Waymark being usable again meant that they didn't have an excuse to delay their Locus hunting any longer. With no small amount of trepidation, Riardin's Rangers gathered their courage and exited Valaire's house. It wasn't a decision they made lightly; the Leviathan and the Merfolk were still out there, and Waymark's safety net only did so much to blunt the lingering psychological damage of a gaping maw trying to swallow them whole. If it hadn't been for the dire straits that Fiendland was in, Rob would've happily turned back and sworn off swimming for the rest of his life.

Crossing the threshold from dry land into open waters only served to further dampen their mood. The moment that Riardin's Rangers left their pocket of sequestered reality, the ocean pressure they'd been suffering under before immediately returned in full force. It wasn't fatal, but it sure as hell hurt like a bitch. The Party ended up swimming directly up for a solid ten minutes in order to put as much distance between themselves and the ocean depths as possible. Once the pressure had lessened from a vice grip to a gentle hug, Rob wasted no time in whipping out his compass and charting a course back towards the Locus of Power. Their path was clear – all they needed to do was go in the opposite direction of the void. Which, as far as landmarks went, was pretty goddamn hard to miss.

Rob wasn't looking forward to viewing the horizon when he eventually got back to the surface. Depending on how far up into the sky the void extended, watching romantic sunsets with Keira might not be in the cards anymore.

His mind plagued with worries, Rob carefully led everyone south, retracing the route they'd taken while fleeing from the Merfolk. Their return trip was going to take about half an hour of travel, giving them plenty of time to formulate a plan – and resolve a few small matters. For starters, Rob had decided to run a little experiment by seeing what would happen if he brought a piece of Valaire's house with him when he left. He couldn't place anything that originated from there into his Spatial Storage, but he could physically pick up something and carry it outside with him. The idea seemed like a harmless test that wouldn't eat into their mission timetable.

Which actually turned out to be true, although Rob would later admit that he'd kiiiinda tempted fate by fiddling with items that were unstuck from the tethers of reality. Thankfully, instead of angering a curse-happy ghost or triggering a universal implosion, all that happened was that the book Rob took with him disappeared immediately upon exiting the pocket of air. He didn't have time to run any additional tests, but logic followed that everything else from Valaire's house would also vanish if removed in the same way. It was no longer part of this world; more of a stubborn memory than a physical object. Indistinct, fading, and piecemeal.

To Rob's surprise, that line of thinking didn't end up being why Diplomacy had been so unnerved by Valaire's house. The Skill stated in no uncertain terms that they dealt with worse existential dread than that on a daily basis. In truth, they still didn't have the faintest idea of why the house had fucked with their mental state so badly. They felt wrong while there, felt fine after vacating the premises, and...that was all they'd managed to narrow down.

Tempted as Rob was to poke fun about Diplomacy being scared of 'haunted' houses, he knew better than to discredit the Skill's capacity for self-awareness. If Diplomacy was having trouble puzzling out exactly what aspect of the house was messing with them so badly, then the cause ran deeper than a surface-level issue, and it was unlikely that they'd figure out more unless they went back and investigated further.

No one was in any hurry to do that. Even Rob, who was more accustomed to reality-breaking nonsense than his compatriots, had little desire to return to a place located a stone's throw away from the Leviathan abyss.

Aside from Diplomacy, most of the Party avoided bringing up Valaire's house at all, focusing instead on developing a plan of action for when they encountered the Locus. Ideally the Merfolk would have cleared out, meaning Rob could Attune at his leisure, but in actuality the opposite was more likely. The Merfolk couldn't abandon their Locus when sketchy foreign 'invaders' were still in the area – especially ones who'd nearly regicided the King himself.

With that foreknowledge in mind, the question became: how much was too much? Rob's Attunement period usually lasted anywhere from twenty minutes to several hours, during which he'd be out like a light. Riardin's Rangers would need to defend him until the process was completed. Assuming that the Merfolk averaged around Level 29, the Party – minus Rob – should be able to defeat about ten soldiers without risk of incurring casualties on their end. Fifteen soldiers was pushing it; they'd win, but doing so without losing anyone would be a lot more difficult. Twenty...

Well, if it came to that, escaping with Waymark and returning later was always an option. That brought its own set of problems, though. They'd be forced to wait an extra 24 hours after escaping until Waymark was usable again, and in a similar vein, using Waymark to enter Merfolk territory meant that they couldn't use it to leave until its cooldown reset. Considering the trouble that they'd run into while exploring Merfolk territory for one day without an eject button, everyone was understandably hesitant about taking that chance a second time.

And all that was just the tip of the iceberg. As the minutes passed by, Riardin's Rangers discussed battle tactics, diplomatic ploys, taking hostages, wrangling sharks, and virtually any half-baked idea that came to mind. Eventually they settled on a branching plan that varied based on how many Merfolk were guarding the Locus – and how willing those Merfolk were to throw their lives away. It was the best they could come up with until they knew what sort of resistance they'd be encountering.

As it turns out, keeping their plan flexible ended up being the right call. The day had a few more surprises left in store for them.

Two dozen Merfolk soldiers were at the Locus of Power when Riardin's Rangers finally made it back. That was slightly less than the first time around, although not nearly so few that the Party could rest easy. In fact, two dozen was enough that Riardin's Rangers wouldn't be assured of victory even if they accepted casualties, especially if they fought while Rob was snoozing.

It put them in a difficult position – at least, it would have, if the Blight wasn't already kicking the Merfolks' shit in. Blackened clouds of infected water and krill surged towards the soldiers' front ranks, barely stymied by the bursts of pressurized water that their mages were casting in retaliation. In the hour or so since it was last repelled, the Blight had quickly regrouped and was taking another crack at the Locus of Power.

"Getting a sense of déjà vu here," Rob said, eyebrows raised. "I guess the Merfolk King wasn't kidding when he called the Blight's attacks 'relentless'. Wonder why some of the soldiers left – their presence is obviously needed."

"That may very well be our fault," Zamira answered. "The King would have required an honor guard to escort him to safety, thereby siphoning resources away from the Locus' defensive lines."

Rob tried and failed to feel guilty about that. On one hand, he'd assisted the Blight by softening up the Merfolks' main military force. On the other hand...

"This is an opportune moment," Keira said, echoing the sentiment in everyone's minds. "The Merfolk can't prioritize us over the Blight. As long as we don't strike them first, any resistance they send our way will be minimal."

As if confirming her assertion, the Merfolk soldiers started frantically pointing at Riardin's Rangers, finally noticing the Party's arrival. It sent a brief ripple of panic spreading through the soldiers' ranks, but that was all. They had bigger fish to fry.

"We won't get a better chance than this," Rob said, slowly advancing as to not spook the Merfolk too badly. "Let's go. Same as we discussed. Hold the line, don't take stupid risks, and if things get too dicey, grab my body and skedaddle. I can forcibly quit the Attunement process if necessary." At least, he thought he could. And if he couldn't...well, he'd probably be okay if someone pulled him out of range while he was in the middle of Attuning. Either that or his mind would be forever trapped on an astral plane. But hey! It wasn't guaranteed death. That was something.

Riardin's Rangers were about fifty feet away from the Locus – having gone the long way around to give the Merfolk and Blight a wide berth – when a heart-stopping roar froze them in their tracks. Everyone, even the Blight, stopped what they were doing as a gargantuan figure began to emerge in the distance. The Leviathan's form grew larger and larger as it approached, a mass of flesh and teeth speeding forward like a rocket, its howl rising to a fever pitch.

Rob took a long, shuddering breath as he heavily contemplated activating Waymark right then and there. The Leviathan was no less imposing in full sunlight than when shadowed by the abyss, and what's more, he could swear that its glowing, pulsating eyes were focused directly on him.

The decision was taken from him a moment later. All at once, the Blight's darkened waters surged away from the Merfolk – and towards the Leviathan.

"SHIT." Rob activated the Ring of Minor Teleportation and cast consecutive bursts of Rampage to push himself forward, burning his MP until he was directly inside the Locus of Power. The call of Blue surrounded him, infusing his senses with the lifeblood of the world. Without missing a beat, he reached his hands out and activated Attunement, soul resonating as he embraced the Locus' aura.

The last thing he saw before falling unconscious was the Leviathan, writhing like a snake with its head cut off as the Blight's darkened waters began to coat its skin.

The last thing he heard was its cry of agony.

--

When his senses recovered, Rob found himself standing without a body in a land of fog.

He immediately recognized it as the place he'd been transported to during his second Attunement. If the rolling clouds of endless fog weren't already a dead giveaway, then the entity sitting just ten feet in front of him was enough to dispel any doubt. It was the same otherworldly figure that he'd attempted to strangle in a fit of rage so many months ago. Like before, it was humanoid, supposedly, as its form was more of a refutation of matter in the vague shape of a person. And like before, it was currently sitting at a table, slouched over as it idly tossed a glinting silver coin into the air. With an infinitesimal tink that echoed like a gunshot, the coin hit the table, bounced once, and landed on its edge.

"0.0167%," the figure said, without looking up. "That is the approximate probability of a coin landing neither heads nor tails. Do you know how often it occurs when I think of you?"

"Somehow, that's not the weirdest conversation starter I've ever heard," Rob muttered, resisting the urge to run. "Kismet, right? You don't sound surprised to see me."

"Your presence was anticipated." Divine speech assaulted Rob's senses, but unlike the last two instances where he'd spoken with divinity, he didn't feel overwhelmed. The first god had tried to crush Rob with its words, and Kismet had pressured him with its presence despite taking pains not to damage his mortal mind. This time, while Kismet's divine speech was still omnipresent and all-encompassing, it was...manageable. Mostly. Like the difference between hearing a loudspeaker from several feet away as opposed to a millimeter from his eardrums.

"Interesting," Kismet remarked, as the entity flipped its coin. "The adverse effects of my words and presence seem lesser than during our prior encounter." It paused, then turned around to stare at Rob with blank, cavernous eyes. "Ah. Almighty Resistance leveled up. Interesting. What exactly transpired within the inverted space you visited?"

It took Rob a moment to figure out what Kismet was referring to. They can't see what happens in Valaire's house? Filing that bit of knowledge away for later, he cleared his throat and stood up straight, forcing himself to play it cool despite the primal terror welling up inside. Every fiber of his being was telling him to flee from the supreme thing sitting before him. Kismet could end his existence with a thought, and now that Rob was on the god's home turf, it probably wouldn't even require any expenditure of Influence. Any defiance on his part would be as effective as an insect squirming under a sunlit magnifying glass.

All of those things were true – but after the kind of day he'd experienced, Rob was officially out of fucks to give.

"That's not important," he said, sidestepping Kismet's question. "Look – I really need to speed up the Attunement process. Don't have a lot of time, need to call dibs on a Locus before it gets eaten. You have any ideas?"

Kismet tilted its – his? her? – head slightly. The god raised its hand by a few inches, and Rob felt a tingle pass through his body. "There," it stated, in a disinterested tone. "Your time spent on this plane has now been accelerated in comparison to the mortal realm. The Attunement process shall complete shortly."

"Oh. Uh...thanks."

"Gratitude is meaningless unless backed by recompense," Kismet intoned, as it stood up and turned towards Rob. "Answer my question. Tell me how you leveled up Almighty Resistance."

Rob hesitated. He didn't want to give the gods details on the only Skill that seemed to affect them, but keeping Kismet happy was proving to be important for both his short-term and long-term survival prospects. Diplomacy, what do you think?

<I am currently seething with apoplectic rage,> the Skill stated, their core twitching like a throbbing vein. <Do not ask me for rational advice. Unless you consider a second attempt at strangulation to be rational, in which case, carry on.>

What's wrong? Rob asked. Besides the obvious, I mean.

<Don't know.> Diplomacy let out a sigh that was halfway to a growl. <It's just like in Valaire's sanctuary. The emotions are different, but my lack of control over them is the same. I don't know why I'm feeling these things or what's triggering them.>

There's a pattern I'm noticing, Rob began. We speak to a god, you get immensely pissed. We find a house left behind by someone the gods killed, and you start to feel off. Are you sure you don't have some sort of history with them?

<Of course I have a history with them – I'm a Skill. If they created this world, then they created me. As far as memories go, however, there's nothing->

Diplomacy vanished.

Rob choked, the breath catching in his throat. One second, Diplomacy's core was nestled safely in his head, and the next it was just gone, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness. He was still in the middle of collecting his scattered thoughts when Kismet spoke up again.

"Are you ready to answer my question?" the thing said. "Or is there another distraction that must first be removed?"

Rob closed his eyes, and with a herculean effort, suppressed the frenzied anger blazing within him. "Where is Diplomacy?" he asked, calmly.

"The same place it has always been," Kismet answered, with mild exasperation. "I've done nothing to the Skill – your senses have merely been adjusted so that you can no longer perceive its presence. No more, no less. Fear not; your condition will revert to normal once you regain consciousness in the mortal plane."

A note of pity entered the entity's voice. "I suppose that even in the form you are now, unshackled from the bindings of flesh and blood, you cannot help but cling to primitive notions of awareness. Block off one facet of your mental perception, and rather than speculating if the fault lies inward, you immediately assume that what you can normally perceive has disappeared. As if the world begins and ends with you. For creatures of supposed sapience that pride themselves on object permanence, mortal thought processes often perplex me. The inner workings of those ruled by chemical impulses can be unusually difficult to predict."

Rob counted to ten, not trusting himself to speak before then. "I leveled up Almighty Resistance by listening to a person's long-lost testament," he explained. "They lived in the old Elatra. The one that you destroyed."

"The old..." Kismet trailed off, fiddling the coin around in their ephemeral fingers. "Ah. You've learned."

"Why?" Rob asked, unable to keep some of the vehemence out of his tone. "Why did you have to kill them? What could possibly justify destroying an entire fucking world?"

"Irrelevant."

Rob bristled, taking a step forward as his hands clenched. "As someone who LIVES on that world, it seems pretty fucking relevant to-"

"Do not assume that you are entitled to answers," Kismet stated. The air surrounding them crackled dangerously with an aura that made Rob's head pound. "I've granted you my assistance on certain occasions because it corresponded with my desires at the time – that is all. If I don't wish to entertain your curiosity, then I won't. You would do well to remember that my patience is a finite resource."

Rob shut his mouth, grinding his teeth together with enough force to make them creak. Thankfully, before he could do or say something that he would assuredly regret, he was distracted by a pulse of energy that started emanating a few feet next to Kismet. The god slowly turned to face the disturbance, shoulders slumping as it let out a long-suffering sigh. "Wonderful."

A cracking flash of Blue nearly knocked Rob off his feet as two figures materialized out of the fog. Both were 'humanoids' in the same manner as Kismet, with limbs, a head, and a torso comprised of negative matter that defied comprehension. Honestly, if it wasn't for the subtle differences in the way the figures were holding themselves, Rob wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. Kismet was slouching, one of the newcomers was standing ramrod straight like an iron pole had been shoved up their ass, and the second newcomer was practically bouncing on the balls of their feet.

"Would you look at that!" The second newcomer faced Rob, eyeing him up and down. "I didn't know you were expecting guests, Kismet!"

"There is a reason for that, Vivacity," Kismet grunted. "Had I wanted you here, I would have called. I believe I explained as much the last several dozen times you barged into my domain."

"And I look forward to you explaining it several dozen times more!" The Second Newcomer giggled. Compared to Kismet, their voice sounded...airy. Carefree. Feminine, maybe? If they were feminine, did that make Kismet masculine? It was hard for Rob to identify gender when he was communicating with voids of negative space who projected intent directly into his brain.

That was about when the realization fully sunk in: two more gods capable of wiping him from existence had arrived.

"Well," Rob began, clapping his hands together as he stapled a wide grin to his face. "It's been lovely chatting with everyone, but if it's all the same to you, I really must be heading out-"

"Stay where you are or I'll dissect your soul atom by atom," the First Newcomer said, in a haughty, imperious voice. "Kismet, what in the name of *&^#@(#$@% are you thinking? Why is this mortal shade still alive despite traversing the divine planes?"

Kismet sat back down in his chair with the grace of a geriatric centenarian. "He is the one who survived a previous visit to my domain."

"I'm well aware of that, yes." The First Newcomer glared at Rob, prompting a shiver to run down the Human's spine. "And I thought we agreed that he should be purged as soon as the opportunity arose."

"You claimed that we should," Kismet remarked. "I fail to recall anyone voicing in agreement."

"He is an aberration. And worse than that, he insults us at every opportunity. I can assure that after one minute spent listening to his insipid thoughts, you'll be pleading for death to come for both him and yourself."

The Second Newcomer – apparently named Vivacity – giggled to herself. "Malid, you're only saying that because you squandered so much Influence yelling at him that one time."

Rob's eyes widened as he gaped at Malid, memories of the incident following his second Attunement flashing through his mind. "That was you?!"

"And the creature deigns to speak to me," Malid groused. "As if it were my equal." He raised his arm, pointing an ephemeral hand at Rob. "I'm just about done with this farce. You were amusing, for a time, but you've long since lived past your expiration date. There can't-"

"ENOUGH."

The ground shook with a furious thunderclap of Blue that sent Rob tumbling down. When his eyesight cleared, Malid and Vivacity were gone, smoking craters all that remained.

"They overstepped," Kismet muttered, already flipping his coin once more. "You have my thanks for allowing me the opportunity to enact a justifiable punishment. I'll make sure to appreciate the next few days of blissful quiet until they re-form."

"...You're welcome," Rob said, mildly shellshocked. "And thanks. Again. I guess."

"Unnecessary. Going by purely objective means, you have much more to hate me for than thank me for."

Rob was still in the midst of processing that statement when Kismet snatched his coin out of the air and lazily gestured towards the Human. "I recommend that you leave soon. Matters in the mortal plane are beginning to turn sour. Your friends' peril grows with every passing second."

Rob sucked in air through his teeth. "How much longer do I have until the Attunement is finished?"

"It finished several minutes ago."

"...What?"

"Almost immediately after I accelerated it, in fact," Kismet plainly stated. "It would have transported your consciousness back to the mortal plane as well, but I chose to keep you here until my questions were answered. Now that you've sated my curiosity, you are free to go."

Rob was speechless as Kismet flipped his coin again. "This is the limit of my generosity. From here on out, you shall receive no help from me." Tink. The coin landed on its edge. "I can only offer you the little I did when bringing you to Elatra: words of encouragement. Good luck, Rob the Human."

Another memory flashed through Rob's thoughts. This time it was of a note, crumpled and worn, those very same words of encouragement scrawled on the front. It had been inside his pocket when he first woke up in Elatra.

When he'd first been brought to Elatra.

"You son of a-"

--

Rob's eyes snapped open.

He activated Quick Thinking an instant later. The anger was still boiling hot within him, but there would be time to rage at the heavens later.

'Message log.'

Attunement Level Increased! 8 -> 9

Purge Corruption Level Increased! 4 -> 5

Purge Corruption energy stores tripled!

You have gained the ability to restore a Corrupted Locus of Power! Can be used once per week. This requires at least 75% of your maximum Purge Corruption energy stores to succeed.

Attunement has reached its maximum Level!

Purge Corruption has reached its maximum Level!

Panic flowed through him as he observed his surroundings. He'd accomplished his mission, which was really, really, really great, but at the moment he honestly didn't care. It would be easier to fully appreciate that triumph when a Corrupted fucking Leviathan wasn't floating fifteen feet in front of him. Rob's stomach twisted as he examined the rotting, desiccated behemoth, taking in its hideous form from head to tail. Sacks engorged with puslike acid dotted the Leviathan's surface, leaking sizzling liquid into the water at regular intervals. Scales and flesh sloughed off in clumps, revealing an enormous rib cage underneath. Wisps of Corruption smoked off of its surface every so often, polluting the water like a toxic oil spill.

And then there was its smile. The original Leviathan didn't smile – it opened its mouth to devour prey like any normal predator of the wild. If someone was feeling grimly poetic as they were swallowed whole by the beast, they might imagine to themselves that its gaping maw looked like a vicious smile, but that would be mere sophistry. This abomination, on the other hand, was grinning from ear to ear. Not with the hunger of a predator, but with the joy of a sadist.

Miraculously, the creature wasn't attacking. Its luminous red eyes were staring transfixed at Malika as the Archmage created a random assortment of mana patterns in the air. Riardin's Rangers and the Merfolk soldiers were floating right behind her in solidarity, Orn'tol's hand tightly clenched on her shoulder. Rob was surprised that the Merfolk hadn't fled, but then again, they probably realized that there was no point. No one here was fast enough to outrun a Leviathan.

It was everything that Rob feared was about to happen when he started Attuning. The Blight had found a significantly more potent body to inhabit than swarms of krill. Hell, at this point, achieving its fully-realized form by absorbing a Locus of Power wouldn't even be that much of an upgrade. Only idle curiosity and unfinished business was keeping it here – at any moment, the abomination could swim off and start terrorizing Merfolk territory at its leisure.

Rob chuckled.

The others froze. Riardin's Rangers, Diplomacy, the Merfolk, and even the Leviathan turned to gape at the Human as he burst out laughing. It was purely manic, full of every emotion imaginable; mirth, despair, sorrow, elation, hatred. As the seconds passed, those emotions faded one by one until a single dominating sensation stood tall above all else.

Malice.

Rob drifted forward past Malika, shrugging off Keira's hand when she moved to restrain him. The Corrupted Leviathan watched him curiously as he approached, moving slowly, gradually, and without a single care in the world. He probably should have rushed forward instead of making a show out of this – there was no guarantee the Leviathan would stay curious for long – but on a base level, he wanted, needed to stomp the monstrosity's spirit into a fine paste. After everything it'd done to thousands of innocent people, that was the very least that it deserved.

Today wouldn't be a true victory until the Blight learned to know fear.

Rob stopped mere inches away from the Corrupted Leviathan's face. The beast's grin deepened.

So did his.

"Fuck off."

Rob slammed his hand onto the Leviathan's face and pumped as much Purge Corruption energy as he could directly into the abomination's veins. A tsunami of purifying Blue surged out of him, draining nearly a quarter of his reserves in an instant. The sound of the Corrupted Leviathan howling in pain was music to Rob's ears, matched only by the sight of its smug grin twisting into a rictus of horror. Corrupted flesh began to boil and pop as the taint was purged from the Blight's stolen form.

And then, in a flurry of motion, it ran. The beast was so gigantic that its retreat sent everyone else flying backwards as waves of water were displaced, but the Corrupted Leviathan still turned tail and ran. It disappeared into the distance at a dizzying speed, crying out in agony as lingering Purge Corruption energies attacked its body, fleeing like the little bitch that it was.

Rob allowed his Party members and the Merfolk ten seconds to comprehend what they'd just seen. When he spoke next, there was more than a little bit of satisfaction in his voice.

"Consider that a proof of concept," he stated, addressing the stunned Merfolk. "If you've got people who need Corruption removed, or if the Leviathan decides to darken your doorstep again, then you know who to call. Just saunter on over to Fiendland and ask for Rob." He paused, then sighed. "Or Roy. That...would probably work too."

A Merfolk soldier opened and closed her mouth several times before managing to squeak out a single word. "Who..."

"Didn't I just say? My name is Rob – and by the way, it's nice to meet you." He held his palm up, angling it vertically. The Merfolk soldier stared at his hand for a few seconds before hesitantly holding up her palm in the same manner.

"Hell yeah!" Rob smiled wide as he gave her an exuberant high-five. "That's the spirit."

Now today felt like a victory.

He cast Waymark a moment later. Riardin's Rangers vanished without a trace, leaving two dozen Merfolk and a newly-born legend behind.

--

Changes

Upgrade: Attunement 8 -> 9

Upgrade: Purge Corruption 4 -> 5

Purge Corruption energy stores tripled

Can now restore a Corrupted Locus of Power

Chapter 45

"You're telling me we have to wait?"

Rob narrowed his eyes at the Fiend liaison, who flinched and started eyeing the exit door as if planning an escape route. At the moment, they were inside Rob's temporary resting quarters, located within a prearranged safehouse near the Waymark teleportation site. Barely half an hour had gone by since he'd managed to Attune to the Merfolk's Locus of Power and send the Leviathan running with its tail tucked between its legs. Each member of Riardin's Rangers was taking a breather inside their own resting quarters, letting their bodies and spirits recover from the ordeal they'd been put through.

Which was all well and good – for the first ten minutes. Twenty minutes after that with still no word from the Fiends had left Rob feeling just a teensy bit antsy. By now he'd expected to already be putting his final Purge Corruption upgrade to its intended use. Time was of the essence, and he was wasting it by sitting there and twiddling his thumbs.

So when a Fiend came over to give Rob what he presumed would be the go-ahead, and instead told him the exact opposite, the BERSERKER didn't bother hiding his displeasure.

"You have to wait," the Fiend liaison insisted, in a firm tone underpinned by apprehension. Considering his profession, he was likely used to people shooting the messenger, but delivering bad news to a Level 49 Combat Class user was always going to be at least a little nerve-wracking. "We've yet to devise a way for you to safely enter Evermore City. As a Blighted Land, its landscape has been suffused with far greater levels of Corruption than you've experienced in the past."

"I don't need to stay there long," Rob countered. "Just give me one of your protective amulets and teleport me right next to the Corrupted Locus. Since you'll be sending me to somewhere inside Fiendland instead of uncharted Merfolk territory, the spell should be more accurate this time, right?"

"In theory, yes." The Fiend grimaced. "In practice, the tests our teleportation mages performed while you were gone have resulted in wildly variable results. Areas filled with heavily Corrupted mana interfere with their – for lack of a better phrasing – spell accuracy. Furthermore, you both overestimate the amulets' effectiveness and underestimate the sheer density of Corruption that resides within a Blighted Land. Think of wearing an anti-Corruption amulet as taking medicine to neutralize a poisoned snakebite; it may work against one, but five will overwhelm the antidote's properties."

Rob pinched the bridge of his nose and did his very best not to scream. "During the mission to Merfolk territory," he began, voice laced with malice. "My Party encountered several situations where retreating with Waymark would've been extremely prudent. We pressed on regardless, at great risk to ourselves, because we knew that the Black Wind could arrive at any moment." He fixed a pair of cold eyes on the Fiend. "And now you're telling me that our haste was meaningless?"

"Not at all," the liaison quickly replied, beads of sweat forming on his brow. "Your early arrival is fortuitous. This means that when the mages devise a way to safely enter Evermore City, you'll be able to begin the next phase of your mission without delay."

"And when might that be?"

The liaison visibly gulped. "Soon, I'm sure."

<Translation: he has no fucking clue, and neither does anybody else.>

Shocker. "You mind explaining why no one told us about this?" Rob hissed.

"Research into the Blighted Lands is yet ongoing," the liaison replied, his eyes downcast. "...I must apologize. Truth be told, we earnestly believed that teleportation magic would work without any major complications. Our first attempt at teleporting people into Evermore City occurred just two days ago, shortly after you departed for Merfolk territory. It was meant to be a perfunctory trial run in preparation for the final mission, and we only realized the problems we were facing when it failed."

He sighed. "After all, why would we have bothered to try before then? The city was lost to us. Once a Locus of Power is Corrupted, it remains that way for eternity. Better to focus our efforts on preserving our lands that were still livable. The notion of restoring Evermore's Locus never crossed our minds – until you arrived and began performing miracles as if handing out feastday presents."

Rob hesitated. The liaison might have believed that teleporting people into Evermore City wouldn't be an issue, and maybe most other Fiends did as well, but there had to have been at least one person somewhere along the chain of command who guessed that things wouldn't be that easy. They were lucky that Rob reeeeally wasn't in the mood to raise hell and deal with political bullshit right now. Restoring the Locus came first; he'd put the screws to the Fiends and drag some extra concessions out of them after the actual important matters were settled.

"Fine," he said. "I'll need to speak to the Grand Overseers, regardless. Got some top-secret info they'll want to hear directly from me."

Surprisingly, the liaison shook his head. "Actually, that's the main reason for my visit. The High Soulseer wishes to meet with you as soon as you are able. I've also been instructed to inform you that whatever you need to tell the Grand Overseers can be relayed to the High Soulseer instead."

It took Rob a second to remember Faelynn's summarized lessons on Fiend governance. From what she'd explained, the High Soulseer possessed the highest Level of Soul Sight in all of Fiendish territory. While his position was respected, he wasn't anywhere near as influential as a high-leveled Combat Class user or a Grand Overseer, being more of a celebrity than anything else.

"You sure about that?" Rob asked. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said 'top-secret'." Non-important Fiends didn't need to know about the void or what Malika had discovered about Corrupted Leviathans. The common folk were panicking enough as it was.

"It's a stipulation that came directly from the Grand Overseers' mouths." The liaison leaned closer, his voice falling to a whisper. "I don't know quite what this means, but apparently, the High Soulseer is aware of a development regarding an urgent request that you made."

Rob's eyes widened. Is he talking about their promise to get you a body?

<I can't think of any other promise they made that is yet unfulfilled.> Diplomacy spoke casually, a stark contrast to how their core was lighting up with excitement and anxiety. <Personally, I'm intrigued. Shall we meet with this High Soulseer?>

Rob nodded. "Sounds good," he said, answering two people with one statement. "Lead the way."

The Fiend liaison did just that, taking Rob out of their safehouse and through a back alley to avoid any prying eyes. As a precaution, Rob continuously activated Not A Scratch and made sure to watch the shadows for potential ambushes. He doubted that an assassination attempt was forthcoming – someone would have to possess a truly diseased mind to want to slay the Fiends' savior – but crazy people existed everywhere and in every form. There were probably at least one or two doomsday cults forming on the fringes of Fiend society at that very moment.

<Interesting,> Diplomacy suddenly interjected. <I believe that we're being taken to the power behind the throne.>

Rob raised an eyebrow. You think so?

<The Overseers wouldn't have given you carte blanche to speak with the High Soulseer about whatever you please if he wasn't already in-the-know. And if they kept his in-the-know status a secret up until this point, it means that they wanted to hide how important he is. I'm guessing that their positions are of equal importance.> Diplomacy smirked. <Alternatively, the High Soulseer pulls the strings, and the Grand Overseers dance like the good little puppets they are.>

Makes sense, Rob said. If that's the case, though, why meet me now after going to all that trouble to hide his influence?

Diplomacy's core shimmered with anticipation. <We're about to find out.>

The Fiend liaison led them through several more back alleys, eventually stopping in front of a small, dilapidated building that had seen better days. "We've arrived," he said, stepping aside. "The High Soulseer is waiting inside. Please watch your words while speaking – he is a man deserving of the utmost respect."

Rob folded his arms over his chest. "Since when have I ever been anything but a shining paragon of civility?"

The liaison narrowed his eyes. "Haven't you insulted the Grand Overseers on numerous occasions?"

"Nah, that was Roy." With a wave of his hand and a skip in his step, Rob entered the building and shut the door behind him. His face crinkled as he surveyed the interior, dust and odd smells tickling his nose. The inside of the building was, if anything, in a worse state than the outside. No one had lived here for decades – maybe centuries. Instead of inviting Rob to a secret base, the High Soulseer had seemingly picked out an honest-to-god abandoned building for their meeting. Which made sense from an information security standpoint, although it did take some of the mystique out of the proceedings.

"Hello?" Rob called out. He walked forward slowly, refreshing Not A Scratch's effect once every second. "If there's any assassins skulking about here, I'd like to remind you that I'm basically invincible, while your body is highly flammable."

"Come upstairs."

A weak male voice drifted down from the second floor. Rob located the building's only staircase and quickly ascended it, avoiding the steps that appeared as if they would break apart at the slightest touch. The second floor contained scant few rooms, all of which were closed except for one, fully open and brightly lit. Rob paused at the top of the staircase, eyeing the single open room with a wary gaze. "This is either an impressive display of paranoia or the most blatant 'hiding in plain sight' trap I've ever seen."

"The former, I assure you." There was a hint of mirth in the voice's tone, but it sounded emotionally diluted, like chocolate sauce sprinkled onto cardboard in a vain attempt to make it palatable. Rob briefly considered leaving – too much of this was setting off alarm bells in his mind – before realizing that he was fine with however this ended up playing out. If it was some bizarrely elaborate trap, he kinda wanted to see how far his assailants were going to push things. Wasn't like they could kill him no matter how hard they tried. With Not A Scratch repeatedly refreshed, he approached the open room and entered with a level of caution generally reserved for disarming bombs.

Inside, he found three Fiends sitting quietly within. They were positioned at the opposite end of a worn-down table, patiently waiting for Rob to come and take a seat. While the leftmost and rightmost Fiends looked like your everyday middle-aged bureaucrat types, the Fiend at the center of their trio was unlike anyone Rob had ever seen. The Fiend looked old; older than Elder Duran or Alessia, older than an Earth human on their hospital deathbed, older than the decrepit house that they were hosting this meeting in. His skin was wrinkled and loose in some places while being stretched taut in others, and parts of his flesh had sunken in. When he moved, his joints creaked like unoiled hinges, threatening to buckle under the weight of years. And above all else, he possessed this undeniable aura of frailty about him, as if he would crumple in the face of a stiff breeze.

Rob tried and failed not to stare. Between bullshit supermodel genetics and people often dying before they reached their twilight years, Elatra's people rarely looked old to the point of being ancient. Even bonafide grandmas and grandpas like the Elders still cut a pretty good figure for their age. It was so jarring in comparison to what Rob was used to that it took him far too long to notice that the Fiend – presumably the High Soulseer – was wearing a blindfold.

"A pleasure to meet you," the Soulseer rasped. He leaned forward and gently inclined his head. "From what I understand, my people owe a great deal to you, Rob."

"Just doing what I can," Rob mumbled, unsure of what to say.

<Are you seriously still that weak to compliments?>

Bite me. "Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you too." Rob sat down and folded his hands in his lap. "So...you want to go first, or should I? We've both got stuff we need to s-"

Rob froze, his body and mind seized by a primal terror.

The world darkened.

Time passed.

When he came to his senses, Rob found himself standing next to one of the High Soulseer's bureaucrat-looking attendants. The Fiend trio were staring at him with blank gazes, and it didn't take Rob long to figure out why. His longsword had been summoned from out of his Spatial Storage, and he was currently holding it in a vice grip, pressing its sharpened edge up against the attendant's throat and oh god he was holding someone hostage.

"Um." Rob stepped backwards and stored the longsword back into his Inventory. "I. Uh."

<What are you doing?!> Diplomacy seethed. <Bring your sword back!>

Rob gulped, his mind whirling with a tempest of confusion. "I, I think-"

<Never mind, I'll do it myself.> Diplomacy reached out and did...something. Unbidden, Rob's longsword re-appeared in his hand with a scattering of blue motes. He gaped at the sword like it was a live snake, eyes widening larger with every passing moment.

"Dude, what the HELL?" He put the sword back in Storage once again. "Are you trying to get us killed?!"

<Don't you 'dude' me!> Diplomacy sounded like they were in complete panic mode; having abandoned anything resembling composure. <Did you forget what I told you five fucking seconds ago?!>

"I mean I guess I did!" Rob furiously scratched his head as his breathing began to grow ragged. "I kind of just, I don't know, blacked out, and it's actually kind of terrifying and-"

<HIS ATTENDANTS ARE UNDER THE EFFECTS OF MELANCHOLY RESISTANCE!>

Rob's mouth snapped shut. He took several additional steps back, examining the High Soulseer's attendants with more than a cursory glance this time. Their attire was neat, their grooming was impeccable, and overall, each of them looked so...normal. Boring, really. The leftmost attendant wasn't even particularly upset about having a sword shoved under her throat. She simply didn't care.

About anything. When Rob searched her eyes, looking for some semblance of emotion, all he found was the void reflected back at him.

"It is good that we met when we did," the High Soulseer told Rob, shattering the oppressive silence. "Your condition is worse than I feared."

Shuddering with unmitigated revulsion, Rob jabbed an accusatory finger at the attendants. Their eyes followed his motion in unison, pupils swiveling like a pair of synchronized dolls. "Explain," he demanded. "Now."

The High Soulseer laced his hands together. "Am I to surmise that you were accosted by a lost soul with Melancholy Resistance activated?"

Rob barked out a harsh laugh as memories of the Dreamthief Dungeon came flooding back. "Yeah," he croaked. "I guess you could say that."

The Soulseer sighed; not out of exasperation, but sorrow. "Whatever happened, I am truly sorry," he said. "You did not deserve to be subjected to an experience such as that. No one does. I know full well the suffering Melancholy Resistance can inflict upon others."

He turned his head towards the leftmost attendant. "However, you must understand that it affects different users in different ways. Some turn to unfiltered hedonism, reveling in their lack of moral compunctions. Some grow manipulative and arrogant, believing themselves to be the only consciousness that truly exists. And some – such as my colleagues here – shut themselves off from the rest of the world, choosing to wholly eliminate their emotions rather than face the harrowing reality of their sins."

"Thanks for the lecture," Rob spat. "You still didn't answer the question of why they're here."

"They are my attendants," the High Soulseer stated, as if he was commenting on the weather. "Deadened as their emotions may be, their logical minds remain as sharp as ever. If I ask for advice, then they will give it freely. Otherwise, they are content to sit quietly and let the world pass them by." He inclined his head. "In truth, I envy them. Being entirely free from responsibility sounds...peaceful. It is a luxury that I will never be afforded."

Rob suppressed the urge to storm out of the room – an impulse that Diplomacy was advocating with rampant fervor. I know you've been under a lot of stress lately, Rob said. But I need you to chill. This isn't helping.

<You don't know what it's like to be a Skill living in the mind of someone with Melancholy Resistance,> Diplomacy retorted. <I *still* have nightmares about that day.>

You think I'm happy about this? Rob grit his teeth. I may not be a Skill, but I am the *person* whose mental state was warped. Trust me when I say that it wasn't exactly like lounging in a bed full of roses. It also doesn't change the fact that the Soulseer has information we need to know. Let's just speedrun the conversation and get out of here as quickly as we can.

Diplomacy's core gradually dimmed from a blazing red to a hot orange. <I hate that you're right.>

Me too. Rob took a deep breath and sat up straight, tearing his eyes away from the hollowed-out bodies masquerading as attendants. "You had something you wanted to tell me?" he said, addressing the High Soulseer in a decidedly neutral tone.

"Indeed." The Soulseer drew himself up, matching Rob's posture. "Our mages have made progress towards your request to grant Diplomacy a body."

Rob leaned closer. That was what he'd expected, but hearing it stated out loud was different from imagining it. "Go on."

"Before I continue, you must swear that what I'm about to divulge is kept secret." The High Soulseer injected steel into his tone as he spoke, sounding far more imposing than the spindly old man of ten seconds ago. "This conversation ends right now unless you do."

"As long as keeping it a secret isn't detrimental to me or my allies, then sure. I swear." That was an easy enough vow to make, and he would totally break it if necessary. The Fiends wouldn't get unconditional trust until they started showing him the same.

"Very well." The High Overseer paused, collecting his thoughts. "Are you aware of the Necromancer Class?"

"Vaguely," Rob answered. "I've heard it mentioned once or twice. Isn't it super illegal and super immoral?" He frowned. "We are not making Diplomacy into a zombie."

"That's the furthest thing from our minds," the Soulseer assured. "I am only touching on the subject in order to emphasize the importance of our plan's secrecy. Crafting a body for Diplomacy could very easily be misconstrued as practicing the art of Necromancy. Should the common layman find out, your Skill will be burned alive before they've learned to take their first steps."

Rob winced. "Point taken. My lips are sealed."

The High Soulseer nodded. "Then I accept your vow." He held up a pair of gnarled fingers. "Granting Diplomacy a new form will involve two complex procedures. First, our mages will construct a soulless – yet biologically alive – body using the foundational clay of life. The nature of this foundation will remain confidential." His voice brooked no argument about that last stipulation, warning Rob not to bother arguing. "Second, a Soul Surgeon will extract Diplomacy's soul from yours and place it into their newly-formed body."

Rob raised an eyebrow. "Step 2 sounds kinda dangerous."

"Correct," the Soulseer admitted. "Our premier Soul Surgeon is very nearly a miracle worker, but even he is not perfect. Considering the fractured nature of your soul, performing surgery carries a risk of fatal complications that cannot be ignored."

A chill fell over Rob. Unlike monsters or Merfolk, this wasn't a danger he could combat by swinging his sword and setting things on fire. When a person went under the knife, they were entirely at the mercy of their surgeon's expertise and the whims of Lady Luck.

<You don't have to->

Overruled. "Is there a way to beef up my soul and make it more stable?" Rob asked. "My Physicians took a look at it earlier, but they haven't made much headway. Maybe your #1 Soul Surgeon would fare better?"

The High Soulseer was silent. In one motion, he reached up and started to pull the blindfold off of his eyes. Now that Rob's attention was drawn to the cloth, he noticed for the first time that it was a thick strip of Sinner's Shroud, designed to block out Soul Sight. His curiosity rapidly morphed into shock as the Soulseer completely removed his blindfold; instead of the glassy stare of a blind man, the Soulseer's eyes had been plucked out, leaving two empty holes behind. The old man gazed forward with sightless pits, holding still for a supremely uncomfortable length of several minutes, exhibiting not a hint of the revulsion and nausea that other Fiends did when examining Rob.

"Your soul is tortured," the Soulseer began, mercifully returning his blindfold to its place around his eyes. "Mutilated and disparate. Repairing it will be a process of months and years, and you don't have that much time to spare."

"Because my soul will fall apart before then?" Rob asked, his voice wavering by a hair.

"Yes and no." The Soulseer laced his fingers together once more. "Your soul would normally collapse within several months, but regular and careful ministrations by our Soul Surgeons should prevent that eventuality from coming to pass. The problem lies with Diplomacy's soul, not yours. There isn't long until it becomes fully absorbed."

Another chill fell over Rob. He got the sinking feeling that it was going to happen many more times before this conversation was done. "What exactly do you mean by 'absorbed'?"

"Two souls cannot exist in tandem forever," the Soulseer explained. "Eventually, they will merge, with the dominant soul largely subsuming the subordinate. As Diplomacy's soul is a passenger attached to yours, it is more likely to be absorbed by your soul than you are by theirs, although the opposite is also a possibility. Primarily, your personality will be the one that remains in charge, but as a whole, memories, personality traits, mannerisms, abilities, and even dreams will be shared." The Soulseer stared at Rob through his Sinner's Shroud. "The process has already begun. Your recent...lapse in awareness was likely caused by Diplomacy unintentionally assuming control via an intense surge of emotions."

<What the fuck.>

"What the fuck." Rob rubbed his temples, suddenly lightheaded. "How, how long until..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Two to three months. Be warned that the longer we wait before performing surgery, the harder it will be to successfully extract Diplomacy."

Rob threw his hands up in the air. "Does it look like I'm asking for a delay? I'm ready when you guys are."

"Diplomacy's corporeal body is not yet prepared, and our Surgeons must perform preliminary ministrations on your soul." The High Soulseer's voice had lost its steel, turning frail and placid again. "Three weeks should suffice."

Rob lowered his head onto the table, covering his face with his arms as the ordeals of the day pressed down on his shoulders. "Cool. I'll make sure to pencil it into my schedule." His mouth twisted into a bitter grin. "Why does this shit keep happening to me?"

"Because you are not of this world."

His head snapped back up in a flash. "So you know about that? Never mind, of course you do." He glared at the Soulseer with an expression that demanded answers. "What are you getting at?"

"Other Fiends cannot understand it," the High Soulseer began to explain. "They lack the Levels of Soul Sight that I have, and as a result, they are unable to interpret what the extraneous, rotting limbs they witness when viewing your soul are. To my eyes, however, their nature – and their purpose – is plain as day."

He pointed at an empty space a couple inches beside Rob's left arm. "Stats." Next, he pointed at a space beside the right arm. "Classes." Left leg. "Skills." Right leg. "Levels."

Head. "Leveling High." The High Soulseer clenched his hands into weak, trembling grips. "The world you hail from lacks Elatra's inherent system-based structure. I'm uncertain if you possessed a soul at all before coming to our world, but either way, the force that brought you here saw fit to haphazardly graft the basic tenets of the system onto you."

Subdued rage crept into his voice. "They did a poor job. A sloppy job. Your soul was not meant to subsist beyond a short few months. Without the miracle of Blue energy, it would have collapsed long ago."

Rob closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "I'm not even surprised," he murmured.

"Truly?"

"Truly." He pursed his lips together. "Based on what I already know, what you said unfortunately makes a certain degree of sense." Fucking gods. Fucking Kismet.

<He's withholding more information regarding your soul,> Diplomacy advised. <Wait five seconds for the implications of what you just said to sink in, and then push him for answers.>

Rob mentally nodded. At the count of five, he opened his eyes and leaned forward. "Tell me everything," he stated, putting a degree of desperation into his tone. "It's my soul – I deserve to know."

The High Soulseer hesitated. Conflicting emotions warred on his face as he considered the request, and what's more, those emotions were strong. Rob had expected to meet resistance in the form of mundane political bullshit, but the High Soulseer looked genuinely distressed about what he was thinking of. His anguish mounted further with each passing second, seeming close to crossing a threshold of no return – until all of a sudden, it was gone, having dissipated as quickly as it came.

"The perspective of a different world," he mumbled. The Soulseer's voice sounded utterly resigned, as if he was willingly placing his neck under a guillotine. "Perhaps you will be the one to offer absolution."

Rob blinked in confusion at the apparent non sequitur. Before he could ask for clarification, the Soulseer continued speaking, his voice carrying that same note of resignation. "The soul and body share a complex relationship," he began. "A body without a soul is little more than a husk, but a soul without a body lacks the physical grounding that allows it to stay in the mortal realm. Neither can function without the other. Nevertheless, they are distinct entities. A body is comprised of flesh and blood, while a soul can be thought of as a concentration of mana that holds an imprint of consciousness."

The High Soulseer sat up straighter, having regained a modicum of his previous composure. "I am simplifying matters, but in essence, that's the right of it. Every person of every race in Elatra shares these properties; their body acting as a physical shell for the mana that forms their soul. You, Human, are the same."

Rob stayed silent. As informative as the Soulseer's explanation was, it couldn't be what he'd gotten so emotional about. This was leading up to something.

"Monsters are different," the Soulseer continued. "Their entire being is formed of mana that has been shaped into a facsimile of flesh and blood. You can cut the leg off of a monster, and it may bleed, but neither the limb nor the red running through its veins are truly real. When they die, that transient form will dissolve into mana particles and scatter to the winds. They are born from nothing and leave behind nothing; such is their fate."

His face tightened. "Yet what if that fate could be changed? A group of Fiend mages sought to answer that question some centuries ago. They wanted to see if life could spring forth from the lifeless. To that end, they located and captured pairs of monsters who'd just so happened to have materialized into forms that were compatible for breeding. Male and female rabbits, as an example. Most of the pairs ignored each other, too driven by their instinctive drive for violence to care about anything else, but some..."

The Soulseer's muscles tensed by a near-imperceptible amount. "And thus did the lifeless beget life – to an extent. The monsters' progeny still consisted entirely of mana. Interestingly enough, however, it was marginally more difficult for our mages to tell the difference between the second generation of monsters and their flesh-and-blood animal counterparts. People with low Levels of Sense Magic and Soul Sight could no longer pick out one from the other. This difficulty increased with the third generation, and again with the fourth, and so on. The fifth displayed less of an inborn predilection towards violence. The sixth no longer immediately dissolved into mana particles when they died, instead simulating the act of gradual decay that corporeal bodies undergo when deceased."

He hesitated. "Eventually, only an Archmage could discern the fake from the real."

Rob forced himself to speak. "What are you implying about me?" He asked, dreading the response to come.

"You? Nothing." The High Soulseer shook his head. "Abnormal as your soul may be, it is still a soul, one that is housed in a purely physical form. You are a person."

He hesitated, before taking the plunge. "No other Humans were."

Rob's mouth fell open. It took him several seconds to reboot his thought pattern into a semblance of coherency. "You're joking," he blurted out.

"I dearly wish that I was." The Soulseer hesitated once more, his face twisting with heartbreak. "Fiends...are no different. I lied when I stated that every race in Elatra shares the same soul properties. We thought as much until the experiment, which culminated in an Archmage comparing Fiendish mana signatures to the signatures of later-generation monsters. After discovering how similar they were, we tested the same revelation against the other races of Elatra, and found that only Humans shared the same. I used to spend years praying that the Archmage was wrong – until my Soul Sight increased to the Level it is now, leaving me unable to deny the truth laid bare directly in front of me."

He sagged in defeat. "Both our races are, and have always been, monsters."

Chapter 46

Later on, Rob would look back and feel embarrassed about how he handled his reaction to the High Soulseer's confession. The man was outright baring his soul, appearing on the verge of mental – and possibly physical – collapse, divulging secrets that had been kept under lock and key for god knows how long. A moment of gravitas like that deserved a response that was both empathetic and eloquent.

"You're...monsters?" Rob said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. He was already kicking himself before the words had finished leaving his lips. Diplomacy shook their head in exasperation as the High Soulseer lowered their eyes, despondent.

"It is why Dungeons and traditional monsters so rarely spawn in Fiend territory," he said. "Despite what you may have been told, the Spire does not prevent these spawnings by regulating the mana within our cities. It is, in actuality, a functionless prop designed to provide the masses with an excuse for this phenomenon. The true reason that Dungeons and monsters are scarce is due to a simple rule of reality: they tend to spawn less in areas that already contain other monsters."

The High Soulseer screwed his eyes shut. "Our true nature is also responsible for the Corruption plague's spread," he continued. "Monsters are born of mana, and the Blight is capable of infecting mana in all forms – including souls. You, the Elves, and the other races of Elatra are afforded a certain degree of resistance because your souls are insulated within flesh-and-blood shells. Fiends' bodies, however, aren't truly physical in nature. We are comprised entirely of mana, highly susceptible to the Blight's influence just as any other monster is. Our status as later-generation monsters provides some measure of resistance, which is why we weren't immediately subverted to the Blight's will, but the recent advent of the Day of Flesh has proven that our resistance is...limited."

An image of a Flesh Amalgamation – cobbled together from tortured Fiends – flashed through Rob's mind. It was enough to shock him into a semblance of composure. Considering the enormity of what was being discussed, he needed to respond to the High Soulseer with something better than two-word utterances. What's your take on this? Rob thought, conferring with Diplomacy. Is he telling the truth?

<As far as he is aware? Yes.> Diplomacy stared at the Soulseer, dumbfounded. <You...don't need my help for this one. The High Soulseer is a man ready to confess his sins – presumed or otherwise. Ask him anything you wish.>

Rob nodded. It felt callous to press the Soulseer for answers when he was so clearly distraught, but there was one detail he'd mentioned that really couldn't be set aside for later. "Just to clarify," Rob began, adopting a calm demeanor. "You said that Elatran Humans are monsters as well? While I, specifically, am not?"

The High Soulseer gaped at him in confusion. Whatever response he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "Yes. Humans prior to you possessed the same type of mana signature that our race does." He paused. "Why are you speaking to me so plainly? I am a monster. All of my people are. We Fiends are little more than abominations with the capacity for speech."

Rob flinched back at the intensity contained within the Soulseer's voice. Conflicting emotions were mingling like they'd been thrown into a blender, making it hard to tell whether the Fiend wanted his claim to be supported or disproven. Maybe either was fine, so long as it provided a release from the tension he'd been bottling up inside for centuries.

"This is going to take longer than a few minutes for me to process," Rob admitted. "Too much to digest in one sitting. But if you want my basic knee-jerk reaction, then honestly? I don't really care if you guys are monsters. Doesn't matter to me one way or another."

"Why?" The Soulseer slammed his hands on the table, face twisting into a rictus of frustration. "When the Fiends of old discovered what we are, it nearly drove them mad out of self-loathing and grief! To learn that we're no better than the foul creatures who spring into existence solely to kill...it..."

He hung his head. From either side, his attendants gazed at him, slivers of pity glinting deep within their vacant expressions. "We know how the other races of Elatra view us," the Soulseer said, quietly. "It's reflected in their eyes. Horror. Disgust. Fear. To them, we may as well be monsters." A bitter grimace crept across his face. "As it turns out, they are more correct than they could have possibly imagined."

Rob inhaled, then exhaled. It was the most calculated breath he'd ever taken – short enough that he wouldn't seem overly distressed, but long enough that the Soulseer would believe Rob had given the topic due consideration. "A person isn't defined by their birth," he eventually stated. "They're defined by how they live their lives. Your people – and they are people – have built a bonafide civilization, complete with cities, culture, and meaningful bonds. No different than any other society I've come across. So while Fiends might technically be monsters, you sure as hell don't act like them."

He put on a disarming smile. "It's just that simple."

Sort of. It was simple to Rob, but only because he'd vicariously experienced a scenario like this through varying pieces of Earth media. Stories that explored the meaning of existence were common among sci-fi and fantasy books, movies, shows, and games. Usually those stories were about clones or artificial intelligence, but the same general principles applied nonetheless. People had started theorizing about where 'humanity' began and ended the moment they realized that creating nonstandard life was a possibility. Rob knew where he fell on that debate; he'd meant it when he said that birth was unimportant when it came to judging someone. If the Fiends were – for example – made of metal instead of mana, he'd still consider them to be people.

Elatran media, on the other hand, didn't have stories like those. Much like the apocalypse, the nature of personhood wasn't a concept that their culture had been forced to confront yet. The Fiends who'd discovered their race's secret would've needed to invent a whole new school of philosophy in order to come to terms with what they'd learned. It was hardly surprising that they'd chosen to hide the truth from society and speak of it as little as possible, living with the shame of forbidden knowledge ever since.

Oddly enough, Rob found himself feeling guilty about how straightforward his thoughts on the subject were. The High Soulseer had been grappling with the truth of his origin for centuries, and just by looking at his face, it was clear that the knowledge was tearing him apart inside. And while Rob sympathized and didn't want to make light of the situation, he couldn't fully relate to the Soulseer's suffering – at least not on the fundamental level that another Fiend would have.

But...maybe that was for the best. Before the Soulseer started dropping truth bombs, he'd openly wondered if he was finally going to be granted 'absolution' from 'the perspective of another world'. As an outsider, Rob was uniquely qualified to give a point of view that no one else in Elatra could. Unbothered certainty might do more good for the Soulseer than half-baked commiseration. It was with that notion in mind that Rob – aware that his next reply might change the Soulseer's life – relaxed his posture and adopted a persona of total confidence, making sure that the Fiend didn't perceive a single shred of doubt.

"You view us the same as before?" The High Soulseer – a man who'd probably seen more shit over the years than anyone in existence – couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice as he spoke. "We are still people to you?"

"I swear on my life that you are," Rob stated, injecting as much authenticity into his tone as he could.

The Soulseer fell silent for a long time.

"Apologies," he said, abruptly standing up. "There is more we need to discuss, but...no more today, if that's fine by you."

Rob nodded. Both of them could use some breathing room to decompress and collect their thoughts. Without further preamble, the High Soulseer bid Rob farewell, his weary legs barely supporting him as he quietly exited the room. Attendants #1 and #2 followed behind him like a pair of twin shadows, taking one moment to send Rob a parting glance that betrayed no emotion before they disappeared from sight.

<My head is spinning,> Diplomacy remarked, core pulsating with a kaleidoscope of thoughts.

Mine too. Rob drummed his fingers on the table. Let's set aside the bit where our souls are fusing together. Don't feel like brooding over that right now. Would rather focus on how Fiends and Elatran Humans are actually monsters, because if that's true, then that has...implications.

Specifically, it showed that – however much Elatra had been shaped by the gods – some parts of this world were more 'manufactured' than others. Everything he'd learned about Humans made way more sense when looked at from that angle, including their publicly-accepted origin. According to conventional Elatran history, Humans arrived on Elatra's shores well after the other non-Fiend races, having sailed over on boats that were destroyed by the Leviathans during transit. But considering that there wasn't anything beyond Elatra's shores, that piece of history was, in all likelihood, complete horseshit. The only explanation that made sense was that the Humans hadn't come from anywhere; they'd quite literally materialized out of thin air. Just like monsters did.

Of course, an entire race of sentient monsters didn't pop into existence by accident. They had to have been purposefully created. It was a theory that corroborated well with what Rob already figured: the gods were plagiarizing. Instead of coming up with their own additions to Elatra, they'd settled for peeking one universe over and copying language, biology, and architecture wholesale. Lazy bastards. At least the Fiends weren't a carbon copy of a pre-existing species – although, in retrospect, they'd obviously been designed to be the 'scary' race. Horns? Tall, muscular physiques? Extendable claws? Pitch-black eyes? Eating souls? It was kind of on the nose, really.

Rob's thoughts whirled like a hurricane as one dot connected after another. If the Fiends' characteristics were intended by design, then that painted a grim picture of their place in the world. While Humans were different from the rest of the Elatran races in some key ways – most notably Fast Learner and Leveling High – they still more or less fit in. Elves and Humans could even procreate, albeit with low rates of success. Fiends, however, were clearly meant to be perceived as outsiders. They'd appeared in Elatra long after everyone else, possessing daunting martial strength, an overtly intimidating appearance, and a language that was cursed to be impossible for other races to understand. It was only natural that they'd fallen into the role of an antagonistic force for the rest of Elatra to butt heads with.

Especially the Humans, who just so happened to live next door, and could keep up with the Fiends' inherent racial strength by utilizing Fast Learner to stay ahead in Levels. And because monsters spawn less in areas that already contain other monsters, the new kids on the block didn't need to sacrifice as many lives fighting to protect their territory, allowing them to gain a prominent foothold in Elatra despite the other races' early head start.

That last detail would've been a double-edged sword in most cases. Fewer Dungeons and monsters meant fewer opportunities for gaining Levels. The Humans and Fiends might have fallen behind without their inherent racial advantages – which, Rob realized, was the reason they had those advantages. To ensure relative equilibrium across all of Elatra. While Humans eventually became the dominant force on the continent, it took a long time and was primarily a result of their faster reproductive cycle, which itself could've resulted from that aspect of their biology being copied over from Earth to Elatra without the gods making proper balancing adjustments.

Or, in simpler terms, cutting corners on a cosmic scale.

There were still some things that didn't fully add up. English was the predominant language in Elatra even before the Humans arrived, and Rob also wasn't sure how the Fiends – and Humans, for that matter – had managed to keep their true nature a secret for so long without other Archmages catching on. He also didn't know how the gods, considering their limitations regarding Influence, could have directly created a substantial number of living, sentient beings. A feat like that seemed beyond what they'd shown to be capable of.

But those were just a few question marks within a growing pile of evidence. When looked at holistically, and in combination with everything else Rob knew about Elatra, he could only come to one conclusion. A single, overriding reason that explained every facet of why this world was the way it was.

It kept people fighting.

It kept people killing.

Forever.

Rob sat unmoving in that dark, empty room for a very long time. Diplomacy was as quiet as the grave, stunned into contemplation alongside him. Eventually, they picked themselves up and trudged outside, slamming the front door behind them with enough force to shatter its hinges. Rob breathed deep, the cold evening air filling his lungs, and raised his head up towards the sky.

"If any one of you up there has a single half-decent explanation for why Elatra has to be this way," he seethed. "Then I'm listening."

Silence was his answer.

"Fucking figures."

Chapter 47

Thunk.

Bullseye. Orn'tol glared down the length of the shooting range, focusing his gaze on the arrow he'd just fired, pierced dead-center through a wooden target. It was his tenth shot in the row that had found its mark. Phenomenal accuracy, in objective terms, but the joy he felt when examining his handiwork was...muted. Half a year ago, Orn'tol would've been ecstatic about achieving that degree of consistency. At Level 40, though, with 75 Dexterity and 38 Perception? Anything less would've been a sore disappointment.

After all, these targets weren't even moving. They weren't Blightspawn shambling at impossible speeds, or the Merfolk King darting forward with murder in his eyes, or a Leviathan closing in like a blur of engorged death, maw opened wide to swallow Orn'tol whole-

Thunk.

Bullseye number eleven. A perfect shot – and he felt nothing for it.

Orn'tol let out a sigh and stowed his bow away. Clearly, this wasn't working; his nerves kept running wild no matter how much he tried to distract himself. Memories of the past were mingling with worries of the present, brewing into a toxin that slowly seeped into his mind, polluting more of his thoughts as the hours crept by.

It was frustrating, especially when he knew that there was less to worry about than the day before. Orn'tol had been high on emotion when Riardin's Rangers returned from Merfolk territory, ready to finally put an end to the Corruption plague – only to be told he'd have to wait until the Fiends hopefully ascertained a way to enter Nevermore City. It was one of the most disarming moments of his life, leaving him wondering if their efforts were going to all be for naught. Thankfully, Rob had been struck with a bolt of inspiration early this morning, and was currently meeting with the Grand Overseers about his idea. Judging by the unbridled exuberance that everyone was displaying, it seemed possible that the Human's plan might actually succeed.

If it did, Riardin's Rangers would be able to safely journey into Nevermore City – and not a moment too soon. The second coming of the Black Wind was imminent. Orn'tol needed to be in prime fighting condition when the call to arms inevitably sounded, and that included both his physical and mental state. Ideally, the best way to prepare for a mission would be to calm his nerves and be patient, not drive himself mad with anxiety.

But no matter how many conflicts a person endured, waiting for an impending storm never got any easier.

What was it that Rob said? Orn'tol thought. We need hobbies to keep ourselves sane? There might be some sense to that notion. Ever since the Cataclysm wiped out the remnants of his old life, Orn'tol had dedicated himself solely to growing stronger and protecting Malika. Those were the touchstones guiding him through struggle after struggle – all else, including hobbies, was immaterial. He used to read stories every now and then, but his enthusiasm for heroic tales of grandeur had dried up when light fell from the sky and showed Orn'tol what living in an age of strife was truly like. Spending time with his friends was always fun, but they were indisposed at the moment. And without them, what else could he do to keep himself occupied?

'Train more', his guilt commanded. It was unacceptable for him to sit idly by when he should be honing his martial prowess. One hour of training could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Orn'tol would never forgive himself if Malika – or any other members of Riardin's Rangers – perished because he'd fallen prey to indolence. Hobbies could wait until all the myriad threats standing in their way had been laid low. What his friends required from him in this hour of need was for Orn'tol to push himself to even greater heights.

Which, in all honesty, was easier said than done. Practicing archery on stationary targets amounted to little. His friends were busy and unavailable for training. The Rangers were avoiding his Party for some unknown reason. And the Fiends...well, they unnerved him as much as he imagined that he unnerved them. Malika was the only person available to ask, and she...

Orn'tol surreptitiously glanced to the side. His sister was curled up in a distant corner of the training grounds, knees pressed up against her chin. She appeared lost in thought, not even using Mana Sense to observe the area like she often did. Orn'tol wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't sure if he was in the proper state of mind to offer anyone assistance.

Especially if – judging by how her eyes kept flitting upwards before screwing shut – she was thinking about what he thought she was.

Breathing deep, Orn'tol forced himself to look at the horizon. There was no point in avoiding it; he'd be seeing that same chilling vista for the rest of his life. A towering, pitch-black void stretched out across the sky, extending well past the limits of Orn'tol's vision. It appeared tallest when looking north, presumably due to his proximity to the northern border, but was still visible when looking in the other directions as well. And as if unsatisfied with marring merely a part of the once-beautiful skyline, the void also rose up towards the heavens, resembling a monstrous black wall surrounding the edges of Elatra.

Enclosing the whole world in a prison of nothing.

The only saving grace was that it didn't extend directly above their heads. During the middle hours of the day, the sun would peek out from overtop the eastern abyss, creep across a field of blue sky, and then sink below the western abyss, engulfed by everlasting darkness. Somehow, daylight still functioned as normal, and overall Orn'tol's life hadn't been impacted in a meaningful way, but the austere, orange glow of a sunset was something that he would never witness again.

...Which may mean more to me than I'm willing to admit, Orn'tol thought. Perhaps he'd been underestimating how the void's omnipresence was affecting his mental state. In truth, he was already beginning to feel a stronger desire to stay indoors than before. Being outside and seeing the horizon's empty blackness everywhere he turned felt...unsettling. Abhorrent. Like there were mutated Blightspawn constantly lurking at the periphery of his vision.

Sometimes it made him want to scream at the common people he passed by on the street. Riardin's Rangers had unanimously agreed to keep the void a secret from everyone except Elder Alessia and Duran, but that didn't mean Orn'tol desired any less than to grab a civilian by the shoulders and berate them for failing to appreciate what they saw. And what they didn't. It wasn't fair that...

Orn'tol sighed, kneading his temples. Yes, he was definitely in need of a distraction.

Several minutes later, his wish was granted.

"You. Boy." A harsh voice rang out, drawing Orn'tol's attention to a Ranger who was entering the training grounds. Orn'tol squinted in confusion as the Ranger crept towards him, approaching with the predatorial gait of a hunter stalking their prey. One quick usage of Identify marked him as a man named Vargas, and – more importantly – as Level 28.

Orn'tol's shoulders relaxed, the tension flowing out of him. It didn't matter if Vargas was planning on starting a fight. An underleveled, non-Awakened Ranger posed no threat whatsoever.

"Finally caught you," the man drawled, stopping ten feet away. "Mind speaking to me in private?" He jerked his head towards Malika. "Without the hanger-on?"

She let out an indignant squawk. Orn'tol frowned, shaking his head. "No," he stated. "I don't think I'll be granting that request. Please leave."

A wide grin spread across Vargas' face, appearing mildly unhinged and bordering on mania. "Come now," he said. "I'm sure a powerful, magnanimous Awakened Class user such as yourself can find it in their heart to give their lessers a helping hand."

Orn'tol's blood froze in his veins.

"Malika," he said, in a distant voice. "Please leave."

"Huh?!" She gaped at him, dumbstruck. "What are you talking ab-"

"Please."

Malika flinched like she'd been struck. Her eyes darted between Orn'tol and Vargas, confusion gradually morphing to resolve as a decision formed in her mind. Without another word, Malika took off running and dashed out of the training grounds, leaving the two Rangers alone. Orn'tol drew himself up, donned the confident demeanor of a man decades his senior, and spoke quickly before he could lose control of the conversation. "How did you find out?"

"It was when I accompanied you and your sister to fight the Flesh Amalgamation," Vargas explained. His grin turned sour when he noticed the surprise in Orn'tol's expression. "Don't even remember I was there, do you? Guess that people who aren't a member of 'Riardin's Rangers' barely register as worth noting."

Orn'tol hesitated, struggling to produce an adequate excuse for his slip-up. He could recall that several Rangers – alongside several Fiends – had joined him and Malika on the Day of Flesh, but try as he might, he couldn't put a name or a face to any of them. Was that so wrong? They weren't his friends, and if their Levels were reversed, then Orn'tol doubted they would have recognized him outside of generic appellations such as 'the young one'. His lack of remembrance wasn't meant to be a slight against Vargas; it was merely how notoriety functioned.

The argument felt reasonable in his head, but when he attempted to translate his thoughts and emotions into spoken words, what came out of his mouth was something much less coherent. "There were many things on my mind that day," Orn'tol eventually retorted, fighting down the brand-new sense of guilt sprouting within.

"And your fellow Deserters weren't one of them." Vargas clicked his tongue. "Regardless, I'm not here to debate whether or not you care about us – there's a much greater matter of importance to address. When I was in your Party that day, I noticed something...peculiar. You see, that Archmage sister of yours gained a Level when she incinerated the Flesh Amalgamation. That in itself is hardly surprising; the Amalgamation was a monstrosity that far outstripped our group's strength. It would have been more surprising if she didn't gain a Level."

His eyes narrowed. "Yet imagine my shock when I glanced at our Party Screen...to find that you had gained a Level as well."

Orn'tol pursed his lips. There was no reason for Vargas to prolong this – both of them knew full well what he was building up to – but the man seemed to be savoring every last word, as if he'd been rehearsing this conversation for ages. "I must admit," the Ranger continued. "It drove me crazy for a day or two. Couldn't stop wondering if I'd been imagining things. After all, how could you have leveled up when you didn't deal the killing blow? Did I read wrong? But no, I was certain that I remembered correctly. Before the Amalgamation: Level 35. Afterwards: Level 36. It was impossible to forget the indignity burnt into my mind when first seeing those numbers."

His cheek twitched. "Did some digging. Asked around. Discovered an answer. There's a Skill – an exceptionally rare Skill – that copies a portion of the Experience your Party Members earn in combat. Whoever owns that Skill will, in essence, receive free EXP simply by existing in proximity to people who are doing their dirty work for them." A bitter chuckle escaped his throat. "It sounds like cheating, doesn't it? I doubt there's a single person in the entire world who wouldn't covet a Skill as grossly decadent as that."

Orn'tol shivered. "Whatever Skills that I possess are none of your concern."

"Oh, I think they are." Vargas waggled his finger. "Because you haven't told anyone, have you? Not even your precious Party members. Otherwise, news would've spread one way or another."

It was a guess. Vargas didn't have any real evidence to back up that claim. Unfortunately, Orn'tol was far from a seasoned negotiator, and the minor change in his expression was all that the older Ranger needed to confirm his suspicions.

"You're a devious one," Vargas stated, sounding slightly impressed. "Concealing a Skill of that magnitude from your Party, from the glorious Riardin's Rangers?" He spoke the name as if it was a slur. "That's more underhanded than I would have expected."

"It's a Passive Skill that only affects me," Orn'tol snapped. "Hiding it doesn't hurt them."

"Then, pray tell, why did you?"

Orn'tol lowered his eyes. He knew he'd made a mistake. Had known that for a long time. Should've been smart and trusted his friends. They would've kept Helping Hand a secret, and they would've treated him the same as before.

But...he'd just been so scared. A Skill as useful as Helping Hand could breed envy in even the most noble of souls. It was so inherently strong that it failed to upgrade after Orn'tol's Class Awakening; apparently, the system believed that the Skill wasn't in need of further empowerment. As evidence, Orn'tol had already begun to creep ahead in Levels past Vul'to, Zamira, and Meyneth, three fighters that he used to trail behind. What if they began to resent his progress? What if word got out among the Deserters? What if everyone began to decide that, as someone with Helping Hand boosting his EXP, that he didn't really need to be in Rob's Party anymore? After all, each slot in the Party was gifted with shared Fast Learner. There was no shortage of Combat Class users who would kill to take his place in the lineup.

Orn'tol couldn't accept that. He needed...he needed power. All the power he could possibly attain. Ever since The Village had been invaded so many months ago – hell, ever since the Cataclysm had torn apart his life – he'd witnessed scores of people suffering ignoble deaths just for the crime of being weak. Elves succumbing to monsters. Fiends ravaged by Corruption due to low Vitality. Bodies piling up day after day. Alia. Tarric. Riardin. Randor. Lycia. It never ended, never stopped. Every reprieve that came was merely a prelude to another tragedy. And if he faltered, even for an instant, Malika could end up as the very next name written on the butcher's bill. She'd come close far too many times before.

He couldn't accept that. Couldn't allow that. He. Needed. Power. And if concealing Helping Hand would remove the slightest chance of his position in Rob's Party being disrupted, then it only made sense to do so.

It was a thought that had trapped him in a prison of his own making.

"Here's what's going to happen," Vargas said, breaking Orn'tol out of his stupor. "You're going to do your very, very best to persuade the Blightkiller that I deserve to be included in his Party. Invent some tale of heroic valor that I displayed if you must – I don't really give a rat's ass one way or another. Succeed in this task, and I'll keep your hidden Skill under wraps." He held up his hands, palms open. "A fair trade, I'd say."

Orn'tol grit his teeth. Vargas' request was...theoretically achievable. Faelynn had been taking up the eighth spot in Rob's Party as of late, but she wasn't a permanent addition. Yet. One or two more adventures together might change that. Before Faelynn fully entrenched herself within Riardin's Rangers, Orn'tol could approach Rob and convince him to reduce the Fiend's presence in favor of Vargas.

All Orn'tol had to do was lie. Compound falsehoods with even more falsehoods. Distort the implicit trust that his friends were placing in him.

Betray them. Again.

"...No," he said, softly.

Vargas' face tightened. "You don't have a choice."

"I do. And I just made it."

The older Ranger's face twisted into a grotesque mask of resentment. Orn'tol's eyes widened as he took a step back, wilting under Vargas' glare. No one had ever looked at him like that before. Monsters, Blightspawn, and Merfolk had all eyed him with the intent to kill, but that was different from the pure hatred being aimed his way by one of his own kind.

"There used to be fifty Rangers among the Deserters," Vargas began, in an eerie tone. "Now there are nine. One by one we fall, left to rot as your little band of miscreants soar to heights spoken of only in myth and legend. I ask for a simple favor – access to a fraction of the boons your Party has indulged in – and you would deny me that small concession?"

"If you wish to be included in the Party, then ask Rob." Sweat was starting to form on the back of Orn'tol's neck. "He's given leeway to people outside of Riardin's Rangers in the past."

"Really?" Vargas leaned forward, resembling a coiled snake ready to lunge. "And when's the last time that the Blightkiller has deigned to grant this oh-so-selfless charity to someone outside of his chosen eight?"

Orn'tol winced. "Circumstances keep changing. The Blightspawn incursion was difficult to plan for, the Black Wind divided our attention, and Merfolk territory was too dangerous-"

"EXCUSES!" Vargas swept his arm to the side, teeth bared like a feral beast. "He'll never include me in his Party again, and you damn well know that! Gods above, I'm sick and fucking tired of always having to put my life in the hands of others! The strength I have now isn't enough. So either convince the Blightkiller to share Fast Learner with me, or I'll tell him and all your other friends everything I know." His hands twitched. "I won't ask a third time."

Orn'tol said nothing. He understood where Vargas was coming from, but it was because of that same understanding that he couldn't afford to back down. The boy held his ground, returning Vargas' spiteful glare with one of refusal.

The Ranger narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a sneer. "So be it," he said, turning to leave.

It was then that Orn'tol fully comprehended what was about to happen. Vargas was going to inform Riardin's Rangers about Helping Hand. They'd know that Orn'tol had been concealing a Skill from the Party. Their trust in him would be damaged, and then they'd...

He didn't know what they would do.

And that was terrifying.

Orn'tol moved without thinking. It was as if he'd blinked, and his bow was already somehow in his hands. The subtle twang of an arrow being drawn froze Vargas in his tracks. Slowly, the older Ranger turned back around to face Orn'tol, eyes widening in utter shock. "What..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Are you serious?"

"Don't tell them," Orn'tol stated, his forceful tone at odds with his trembling arms. "I won't let you."

Vargas gulped. "Easy there," he said, holding up his palms in a gesture of surrender. "If it means that much to you, I won't tell them. I swear on Lothren's name that your secret is safe with me."

Orn'tol nearly burst out laughing. Vargas couldn't have picked a worse name to swear by. Even without that, though, Orn'tol was fully aware that the man was lying through his teeth. The degree of resentment he'd displayed wasn't an emotion that could be tucked away so easily. The man clearly desired to hurt Riardin's Rangers just as much as he wished to benefit himself. If he couldn't achieve the latter, then one way or another, he would ensure that the former came to pass.

Which made him an enemy.

Orn'tol's arms ceased their trembling as a cold certainty settled over him. Vargas was an enemy. It was a thought that simplified matters to an astounding degree. After all, Orn'tol knew what to do with enemies.

He'd dealt with them countless times before.

"Hi."

Orn'tol froze, stopping an instant before he let his arrow fly. He looked to the side, chest constricting as he found Rob standing at the entrance to the training grounds. Malika was behind him, panting heavily as if she'd sprinted the length of the city and back again. For his part, Rob was wearing a completely unreadable expression on his face, dark-lidded eyes drifting steadily back and forth between Orn'tol and Vargas. The Human's chest rose and fell in long breaths, his hands repeatedly clenching and unclenching as the seconds crawled by. Eventually, his gaze settled on Vargas, and he began to tread forward with stilted, methodical steps.

"Don't look at me that way!" Vargas growled. "In case you've gone blind, I'm not the one pointing my weapon at another member of the Deserters!"

Orn'tol sheepishly lowered his bow, but Rob didn't so much as glance his way. "Yes," the Human drawled. "I'm sure that Orn'tol just randomly decided to hold you at arrowpoint. For no good reason whatsoever."

Vargas inched back as Rob continued his approach. "Listen here," the Ranger spat. "He wasn't justified in-"

Rob's form blurred. In an instant, he was standing in front of Vargas, hands wrapped around the man's neck. "Buddy," the Human began, his placid tone barely rising above Vargas' strangled gasps. "Let me make something perfectly clear. I know Orn'tol. I know what he's like. I know that he isn't quick to violence, and isn't one to seek out confrontation. Which means, by logical conclusion, that you did something so awful it made him contemplate...harsher methods of retaliation."

Orn'tol and Malika gaped, mouths open, as Rob tightened his grip. Vargas coughed as he batted at his captor's arms, flailing with the effectiveness of a kitten pawing at tree trunks. Rob lifted him up off the ground and pulled him closer, the BERSERKER's pitiless eyes widening ever so slightly.

"Maybe Orn'tol's reaction was unjustified," he continued. "Maybe it wasn't. I don't really care. Whatever you did pushed him to this state, and me and my friends do not need that shit right now."

He slammed Vargas onto the ground, driving out what little air remained from the man's lungs. "If you pull a stunt like this again," Rob seethed, his facade of composure finally cracking. "Then I'll – I'll kill you." The Human seemed surprised at his own words, but only for a moment. "Feel free to bitch to the Elder or the Rangers or whoever you want. It won't make a difference. I'm vital enough that one or two extrajudicial murders can be overlooked, especially if all I'm doing is taking out the TRASH that's driving MY FRIENDS to the brink of tears and violence. Understand?"

Vargas whimpered. Rob – interpreting that as an affirmative – picked up the Ranger and tossed him across the training grounds and out through the exit. In the distance, Orn'tol heard frantic wheezing and coughing, followed by the sounds of panicked feet fleeing like their lives depended on it.

And then there were just the three of them left standing awkwardly in the training grounds, waiting for someone else to speak up first.

Orn'tol froze once more as Rob let out a deep sigh, walked over, and sat down beside him. The Human peered into Orn'tol's eyes with a worried gaze that burned like hot coals. "I don't know what this was all about," Rob started, seeming to choose his words carefully. "But if you want to talk about it, I'm here."

'If'. That was the key word that Orn'tol latched onto. Rob was giving him the option to say nothing. If he wanted to, they could pretend this whole sordid affair never happened. And as Vargas was unlikely to speak out now that has life had been threatened, Helping Hand would remain a secret.

Everything could go back to the way it was before.

Orn'tol opened his mouth to thank Rob and divert his attention towards a different subject. What came out instead was a choked sob that rang out among the training grounds like the din of a funeral bell. Without warning, everything began to spill out in a tumble of words. First slowly, then faster, as if his emotions were an avalanche crashing down around him. Orn'tol talked about Helping Hand, and the Leviathan, and the abyss, and the piles of dead, and how he was so, so scared. Before he knew it, Malika had joined him, tears streaming down her face as she let loose her own worries with a veritable tsunami of words.

As it turned out, the two of them were alike in the simplest of ways. Just as Orn'tol feared losing her, she feared losing him.

And all the while, Rob was there, holding them as they cried into his chest. He sat still and let them vent their emotions, saying nothing for the longest time – although the way he held tighter whenever they let out a sob spoke volumes. Gradually, Orn'tol and Malika's maelstrom of emotions subsided, both of them feeling as exhausted as if they'd been fighting a horde of monsters. It was only then, after they'd said everything they needed to, that Rob began to offer words of encouragement.

Truth be told, the Human could've said just about anything and Orn'tol still would've listened. It didn't matter how expertly crafted Rob's speech was. The contents of his words weren't nearly as important as the feelings behind them: pure compassion, free of judgement and scorn. Despite Orn'tol's missteps, Rob still cared.

Just like all of their friends did.

A system message pinged, informing him of good news. Orn'tol pushed it aside for later. He didn't want to think about stats or Skills right now. In this moment, he wasn't a Level 40 Guerrilla Ranger preparing for an imminent foray into Blighted Lands. He was just...

Himself.

For the first time in a long time, Orn'tol and Malika felt strangely at peace. The crushing responsibilities of the future faded away, leaving behind a boy finally allowing himself to be a boy, and a girl finally allowing herself to be a girl. It wouldn't last forever – the fighting would start again soon – but they were alright with that. They'd handle it when they needed to. Until then, why torture themselves? It was okay to enjoy life while they could. Everything would turn out okay.

Because they were loved.

--

Hidden Prerequisite Unlocked!

Helping Hand has Awakened into Sharing Hand!

Name: Sharing Hand (Passive)

Prerequisite: Guerrilla Ranger Level 35. Additionally, you must open up to at least one Party member about your deepest, most shameful secrets. Accept the trust and love that you're afraid of losing a second time. And remember: sharing is caring.

Description: Gain a portion of the Experience that your Party members gain from killing foes. This Experience is duplicated, and will not siphon the Experience that your Party members attain. To compensate for Sharing Hand potentially making it more difficult for you to increase Skills due to an inflated Level, the rate at which your Skills level up has been slightly boosted. Awakening Bonus: Your Party members will also be granted the full effects of Sharing Hand as long as they are in the same Party as you.

Chapter 48

A stagnant vortex of decay lay spread out before them.

Rob grimaced as he examined the Blighted Lands from a safe distance away, morbid fascination keeping his eyes fixed ahead. What was once Nevermore City – the crown jewel of Fiendish territory – had been reduced to a smattering of crumbling buildings enshrouded by thick, blackened fog. Everything within the Blighted Lands was rotting away on a foundational level, as if it'd undergone centuries of wear-and-tear in just a few months. Even the fleshy streets that were a hallmark of Fiend cities seemed to be 'dying', shriveling like unwatered plants during the apex of summer.

To a Fiend, the sight would have been appalling. Nevermore City as it stood now was a monument to entropy, the embodiment of the plague ravaging their lands. Any Fiend that set foot within it would be subjected to a grisly, agonizing death, flesh sloughing off in chunks as their bones shattered into fragments of exposed marrow. It was, without exaggeration, their version of hell on Earth.

To Rob, though? Who – at the same time – could see an endless abyss towering over the horizon? He honestly wasn't that impressed. Just like teleportation magic couldn't compare to Attunement, the Blighted Lands couldn't compare to the void. It wasn't even an apples to oranges scenario; one fucked-up supernatural phenomenon was simply a lot less unnerving than the other. Like, the Blighted Lands were spooky, but at least they existed.

...What the hell is my life, Rob mused, when he realized what he was thinking.

<I've been asking that same question since the moment I gained sentience,> Diplomacy remarked. <How's the suit holding up?>

Rob rubbed his fingers on the sewn leather covering his body. Considering that it's a rush job based on the vague ramblings of a college sophomore? He tapped at the glass visor situated over his eyes. Not bad, actually. Shame that the R&D period was so rushed. With some more time in the oven, I think the Fiends would've been able to use their own Hazmat Suits too.

He was still a bit shocked that the suit worked at all – which he would never admit to anyone, because it'd been his idea. Two days ago, after Rob met with the High Soulseer, he'd left their meeting feeling...restless, to put it mildly. Everything they'd spoken of kept tumbling around in his head, thoughts sticking to him like barbed nettles that wouldn't let go. It culminated in a sleepless night where he mulled over, among other things, the problem of how to enter Nevermore City.

Rob was no stranger to all-nighters. He'd pulled them before, and the results were rarely worth it. Sometimes, however, the stars just so happened to align, and his sleep-deprived mind would end up producing a solution that felt like it should have been obvious.

In this case, that solution was to shamelessly copy the work of smarter people. Blighted Lands didn't exist on Earth, but that didn't mean there weren't Earth analogues. Specifically, Nevermore City resembled a close approximation of a radioactive wasteland, as its Corruptive vectors primarily infected people through touch, proximity, and breathable air. Going by that logic, the same preventative measures taken on Earth could feasibly work on Elatra as well.

Some modifications were obviously necessary – for starters, Elatra didn't have rebreathing technology – but thankfully, all the Fiends needed was a push in the right direction. As soon as Rob explained what a Hazmat Suit was to them, it was like a lightbulb switched on in their minds, and they proceeded to whip up a prototype before the day was out.

Fun as it was to be lauded as a revolutionary 'inventor', Rob knew he couldn't take credit for the suit's development. Well, he totally would take credit for it, as a boost in reputation never hurt, but in all honesty the Fiends would've crossed the finish line with or without his help. Only reason they hadn't done so already is because they'd been missing the forest for the trees, too hung up on improving their anti-Corruption amulets and trying to make teleportation magic work to consider other avenues. Rob was positive that the Fiends would've independently invented some variation of the Hazmat Suit within a week or so, but Fiendland didn't have a week. By Malika's estimations, they didn't even have until tomorrow. It was definitely for the best that Rob had used his Earth knowledge to think – by Elatran standards – outside of the box.

And to the Fiends' credit, they'd taken his 100% original idea and applied it with gusto. Their version of the suit, after a few more revisions, might actually be an equal match to its Earth counterpart. In place of rebreathing technology, a spell that converted carbon dioxide into breathable oxygen was placed inside, letting the suit's wearer stay airtight for up to several hours at a time. Its inner lining was also laced with dozens of anti-Corruption amulets; while their effects didn't stack, the extras served as redundancies for if some were overwhelmed by the Blighted Lands' dense Corruption. Lastly, the suit was less bulky than a traditional Hazmat Suit in order to allow Combat Class users the necessary mobility to fight, looking closer to a leather clothing ensemble that had been hermetically sealed together. With, of course, an awkward visor helmet slapped on top.

The downside was that the Hazmat Suit Mk. Fiend wasn't exactly...stable. Specifically, its creators were worried that the suit's bindings would come apart when subjected to high-intensity combat movement. Usually these kinds of inventions required more than a single day of prototyping before jumping directly into field testing, but the Black Wind wasn't going to wait on their account. Riardin's Rangers would just have to hope that the suits' designers nailed it on their first attempt.

It was why no Fiends were going to join the Party on their journey into Nevermore City. If a Hazmat Suit broke apart while a Human, Elf, or Dragonkin was inside, it would suck, but they'd live. The anti-Corruption amulets would keep them relatively safe until they managed to retreat outside of the city, whereafter Rob would Purge whatever Corruption got into their system. In contrast, a Fiend who exposed themselves to the depths of a Blighted Zone – amulets or no amulets – would melt. Literally.

Zero surprise that Faelynn had asked if it was okay for her to sit this one out.

Party Slot #8 was currently being filled by Tiarsus, the Magic Swordsman who'd tried to kidnap Rob during the Deserters' expedition northward. His attendance was, to Rob's chagrin, a choice made entirely for the benefit of political grandstanding. It wasn't like he held any ill will towards Tiarsus – the man had long since proven his loyalty by fighting Blightspawn and monsters on numerous occasions. Mainly, though, Tiarsus' selection was meant to serve as an olive branch for the Combat Class users in the Deserters who didn't get to join Rob's party very often. A clear statement of 'yes, you guys will get to tag along sometimes, quit your bitching'.

Picking an actual Ranger would've worked as a more effective olive branch, but Rob didn't really give a shit about the Rangers' feelings right now. Apparently they'd known about Vargas' discontent for quite some time, several of them outright agreeing with the fucker, with only Taleya ever bothering to speak out against him. All of this had come out yesterday when Rob went straight to the Elders and informed them of everything, including the existence of Orn'tol's new Skill. He'd considered keeping Sharing Hand a secret – it might make Orn'tol a target in the same way that shared Fast Learner did to Rob – but people were going to find out eventually. If nothing else, Vargas was too brain-deficient to stay silent for long. Better to lay all of their cards out on the table in advance.

That way, if Vargas tried stirring the pot again and mysteriously disappeared, no one would bother asking any pointless questions. They would understand that he'd violated an agreement and been punished accordingly.

Rob glanced sideways at Orn'tol and Malika as they cheerfully bantered over whose suit looked sillier. Both siblings carried themselves much more lightly than yesterday, as if great weights had been lifted from their chests. Despite the impending journey into Blighted Lands that they were about to undertake, the pair seemed...content. Happy, even.

Yeah, Rob thought, confirming his feelings once more. I meant what I said. Anyone who tries to pull the kind of shit that Vargas did is dead as a fucking doornail. I'm going to make sure that those two goobers over there get to keep smiling when this is all said and done.

Trauma bonding was a hell of a drug.

Rob perked up as a fireball sailed into the sky above his head. It was the Deserters' signal that they'd finished setting up a medical pavilion on the outskirts of Nevermore City. In the event of critical Hazmat Suit failure, the unlucky soul in question was to immediately retreat back and submit themselves to examination by the Healers. Rob would also be keeping an eye on everyone's HP and Status Effects via the Party Screen, ready to provide a Waymark evacuation if things started turning sour.

He dearly hoped that he wouldn't have to use it. Waiting 24 hours for Waymark's cooldown timer to reset wasn't an option anymore – not with the Black Wind on its way. Riardin's Rangers would get one do-over at best before needing to commit to a frontal assault. Either they restored the Locus of Power and returned with their heads held high, or they wouldn't return at all.

So business as usual, really.

Out of curiosity, Rob glanced behind himself, eyeing the Deserters' medical pavilion located in the distance. It was small by necessity, being staffed solely with Elves. As useful as the Fiends' greater expertise regarding Corruption treatment would've been, there was little point in bringing them along when they were liable to dissolve if they got too close to Nevermore City. The few remaining Elf Healers had definitely earned their stripes, though, having taken care of Elder Duran and the other afflicted Elves for a month until Rob learned Purge Corruption. He trusted them to keep his friends alive in case of an emergency.

Rob was about to turn back around when his eyes fell on a large sheet of cloth. No, not cloth – paper. It was stretched wide and tall, held aloft by several posts that had been embedded in the ground, and two short messages appeared to be written on its surface. Rob squinted, attempting to make out what they said, Heightened Perception barely making the words legible without the need for binoculars.

A broad smile spread across his face when he finally parsed out the two lines of text. Which – if he was remembering correctly – seemed to be penned in Elder Duran and Elder Alessia's writing styles.

'Come back soon.'

'I concur.'

"You got it." Rob turned to face the rest of his Party, tapping into Leadership and Diplomacy's guidance as he shifted to his best 'confident leader' pose. "Everyone ready?"

Keira, Orn'tol, Malika, Zamira, Vul'to, Meyneth, and even Tiarsus all nodded without hesitation. Their faces were obscured through their helmet visors, but from the set of their shoulders and the lack of any trembling hands, it was clear that they were more than ready.

"Then what else is there to say?" Rob started walking, and with a gesture, beckoned his Party forward. "Let's go save a civilization."

--

Death surrounded him.

After two hours spent traversing deeper into the ruins of Nevermore City, trying to identify the nagging feeling tugging at the corner of his mind, that was the descriptor Rob finally settled on. To his eyes, the city was like a smokestack churning out black fog, smothering his vision with rolling clouds of darkness. To his ears, the city was like traversing through hostile territory where he wasn't welcome, scratches and whispers in the distance tickling his ears with promises of pain.

But to his heart, the city simply felt like death. A rejection of life, distilled into physical form. It drained any semblance of gung-ho bluster from the Party, killing their small talk and reducing them to a quiet procession marching into the unknown. They were still determined to see their mission through, but that initial enthusiasm had been tempered by the creeping dread pervading their senses, reminding everyone that overconfidence would get them killed as easily as if they'd willingly placed their necks under a guillotine.

As far as nerves went, Tiarsus was faring the worst out of all of them. His muscles were tense to the point of straining, stiffened joints moving like an old marionette that would crack at any moment. While the Magic Swordsman was hardly a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, having fought Blightspawn and expunged Dungeons, extended proximity to otherworldly horror wasn't an experience that someone could ever truly prepare themselves for.

Rob was tempted to clap Tiarsus on the shoulder and say 'First time?', but for once the idea of making an obtuse Earth reference didn't appeal to him. There was too much riding on their mission for levity to feel appropriate. This was the culmination of all their efforts to fight against the Corruption plague; countless lives would be saved if they succeeded, and damned if they failed.

It didn't help that the importance of their objective was matched equally by its uncertainty. No one had ever explored a Blighted Land before. Anything could happen. Something would happen. It was only a matter of when – and how dangerous their foe would be when it inevitably crawled out of the shadows.

"How long until we reach the Locus of Power?" Keira asked, her helmet-muffled voice piercing through the deadened silence. "I know that we've been making progress, but it's difficult to feel that way when I can't see farther than fifteen feet in front of my face."

"I get what you mean." Rob answered. "But we're actually pretty close to the Locus. About half an hour, give or take. We'll definitely get there before our suits' internal breathing spells fade."

It was easy to make good time when you could sense where your target was and weren't being hampered by shark attacks. The Party didn't even have to take any detours, either; Nevermore City was such a crumbling mess that they could chart a straight line through where buildings once stood. Some piles of rubble might've served as an obstacle to Utility Class users, but everyone in the Party possessed at least 35 Dexterity. Scaling rubble was a quick and simple task; except for Malika, but that's what piggyback rides were for.

"I don't mean to alarm anyone," Tiarsus said, in a tightly-controlled voice. "But I believe that the fog is denser than before."

"You are correct," Zamira affirmed. "Additionally, the buildings are in a worse state of disrepair than they were at the city outskirts. It seems that Nevermore's Corruption has an increasingly potent effect on the environment the closer that we draw to its Locus of Power."

As if on cue, a low, guttural moan echoed outwards from deep within the fog. The Party's weapons were out in a flash as they closed formation and took position next to each other. Rob gripped his longsword as one moan became two, then five, then twenty, their incessant wailing combining into a symphony of tortured souls. His fears were confirmed when hulking creatures began to emerge out of the fog just a moment later, shambling forward on heaps of distended, crooked limbs.

Name: Flesh Amalgamation

Level: 32

Status Effects: Union

Description: Good morning, mother. I'm heading out. Good morning, my daughter. Today is cold – be sure to dress warmly. Be safe. It's so loud in here. The funeral was beautifully done. I think we're out of vegetables. My son has been acting up lately. Will I ever find true love? Farming is a noble profession. Do you think it will rain tomorrow? Good to see you too. There's a new play coming out next week, and I was wondering if you would join me. I'm hungry. Nothing seems to be going right as of late. Things have never been better. So loud I can barely think. You're the most beautiful person in the world. I'm considering applying to the Thrasher corps. It's bright. It's dark. I'm bored. I'm excited. Loud. Loud. Loud. Did anyone else hear that? What was that sound? Came from the center of the city. The air feels so strange. My skin is

Name: Flesh Amalgamation

Level: 24

Name: Flesh Amalgamation

Level: 29

Name: Flesh Amalgamation

...

The weeping faces of hundreds of Fiends gazed at the Party as a horde of Flesh Amalgamations approached. None were as strong as the previous iterations that Rob had seen, but they more than made up for their lower Levels with sheer numbers. Moans and wails and pitiful cries began to resound all around Riardin's Rangers, seeming to emanate from every part of the city.

"Follow me!" Rob commanded, as he sprinted through a gap in the Amalgamations' defenses. The others didn't need to be told twice. They could fight against low-leveled Amalgamations on an even playing field, but the bowels of Nevermore City were hardly even. One wrong move would lead to their Hazmat Suits ripping open and being flooded with a torrent of Corruption, and Riardin's Rangers were too far away from the city limits to reach the medical pavilion before they succumbed. While Rob trusted his Party, he severely doubted they'd be able to fight without receiving a single scratch in return until the Flesh Amalgamations were wiped out.

Assuming they could be wiped out. Judging by the chorus of agony serenading Rob's ears, more voices joining with each passing second, there might very well be no end to them.

Luckily, the Amalgamations weren't particularly agile. Their top speed once they built up momentum felt like running from a car with no brakes, but it took time for them to get going, and they adjusted course with the grace of an eighteen-wheeler truck on an icy road. Riardin's Rangers utilized that to their advantage, dodging and weaving around piles of undulating flesh as they bolted through Nevermore. It was a fine line to walk between speed and caution; they needed to be just as wary of the city itself as they were of its inhabitants. Every stray piece of shattered glass or jagged stone resembled an enemy lying in ambush. One cut, one accidental scrape while they were distracted in their haste, and it'd be the same as if an Amalgamation caught them.

A short, adrenaline-fueled amount of time passed. Rob revised his previous estimate of when they'd arrive at the Locus, knocking it down from half an hour to five minutes or less. Turns out that you travel faster when running for your life, Rob thought, as he ducked under a fleshy, grasping appendage. Who knew? He cleared past a pile of rubble that had once been a house – and froze, eyes widening. Five Amalgamations were on this street, currently in the process of linking limbs and merging together, gradually forming into a singular, massive conglomerate of pulsating meat.

"Yeah, no." Rob veered hard left and led Riardin's Rangers down a separate path. Just...no.

Two more minutes passed. Due to the cacophony of wailing assaulting his ears, Rob almost missed the mumbled "Shit" that slipped out of someone's mouth. His head snapped to the side to find Meyneth and Vul'to eyeing a small cut on the Elf's sleeve. Two long, spiked tentacles were twitching on the ground next to him, having been cut short far too late. Based on where the appendages laid, they'd snaked towards Vul'to and Meyneth from opposite angles, with the Guardian having lived up to his Class name by prioritizing Meyneth over himself.

As if the fog was a living entity seizing an opportunity, it immediately started to flow into the tiny gap in Vul'to's Hazmat Suit, repelled only slightly by the amulets within. Vul'to clasped his hand over the cut and locked eyes with Rob. "Keep going," he gasped, shaking his head. "We're close. I'll be okay. You have my word."

Rob checked the Party Screen. Vul'to had lost 30 maximum HP in a span of seconds. Rob reached out and Purged the Corruption within Vul'to's body, grimacing when the Elf's HP began to drop again right after. Its rate of decrease was down to a trickle now that Vul'to was covering the breach, but if he needed to take his hand away to defend himself...

"If your HP falls below one-third of its max, I'm activating Waymark." Rob answered. Vul'to nodded in assent. Meyneth turned away, shoulders hunched over with guilt, and said nothing. She knew the stakes as well as anyone.

They kept running, feet crunching on desiccated road. Nevermore's streets seemed to blur together, melding into an endless series of fog-choked Amalgamation factories. Tiarsus took a glancing blow that opened a thin line on his suit, resulting in a repeat of Rob's conversation with Vul'to. Now there were two Party members to keep an eye on. Praying that there wouldn't be any further mistakes, Rob made a beeline for the Locus of Power, using targeted Rampage explosions to clear any rubble in his path.

Finally, they arrived. The rest of the Party couldn't see it, but Rob could sense the gaping hole in existence where the Locus was located. Unlike the previous Loci that Rob had encountered, which called him to their embrace like a moth to a flame, this one was practically screaming at him to leave. The lifegiving energies that other Loci contained were absent, replaced with an infinite well of Corruption, as well as...something else, residing within the very center.

"I don't know how long this is going to take," Rob said, addressing his Party. The choir of the damned sang around them, dozens of Flesh Amalgamations heaving their bloated masses forward. "Cover me."

In response, Malika summoned a massive Fireball and hurled it at one of the weaker Amalgamations. It exploded into a bonfire that sizzled like cooked steak.

EXP gained through Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 50!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 46 -> 47

Rob grinned as elation coursed through his veins. "Just like that." Without another word, he ran towards the Locus of Power, activating Step of the Wind now that he didn't need to worry about outspeeding his Party. Rob was a mere fifteen feet away when he slammed into a metaphorical wall, stopped short by the insane density of Corruption in the air. It was like trying to wade through acid with the consistency of syrup. His Hazmat Suit began to falter a moment later, its anti-Corruption amulets flickering as they were slowly overpowered.

4 Corruption Received!

7 Corruption Received!

Gritting his teeth, Rob activated Purge Corruption and projected a halo of energy around himself. It seared away the Corruption encroaching on him with a sickly hissing sound. He didn't waste any time celebrating; Riardin's Rangers were still fighting, and using Purge Corruption like this was costly. According to the Skill, he would require at least 75% of his energy stores to revive a Locus of Power – energy which was rapidly draining. He needed to end this now.

Rob pushed, and stepped. Pushed, and stepped. The Corruption slammed into him like a hurricane, and he fought back even harder, refusing to give a single goddamn inch. It was slower going than he would've liked, but he was winning.

The Corruption recognized as much. When Rob was ten feet away, the fog in front of him cleared, revealing a sight that sent chills running down his spine.

Dad. Mom. Jason. Lined up in a perfect little row, staring at him with beseeching, nostalgic expressions on their faces.

"Cute parlor trick," Rob seethed, as he activated Rampage and blew away the shades with a roaring explosion. "But the Dreamthieves did it better."

Five feet away, now. The Corruption resumed its failing efforts to push him back, and Rob couldn't help but laugh. "You see, that's your problem," he said, teeth bared in a savage grin. "There's not much you can do to me at this point that I haven't already experienced before. Elatra is running out of new and creative ways to screw with me. Gonna need to try a little harder than that, and I doubt creativity is your strong suit."

Four feet away. "Really, for all your power, you Blights act like amateurs sometimes." Push. Step. "I guess that's to be expected. This whole thing is just one big game to you, isn't it? Just a regular barrel of laughs. You've barely been taking this seriously as it is."

He knew that for a fact. Back in Merfolk territory, when Rob was busy Attuning, Malika had stalled for time by using her mana language to speak with the Corrupted Leviathan. It was the first instance of anyone ever directly communicating with the Blight itself. And when she asked the abomination what its motivations were, what purpose it could possibly have for causing so much death and destruction, it responded simply with:

"Revelry is its own purpose."

Rob snarled at the memory. "Fuck your revelry. You should've taken me seriously while you still had the chance." Two feet away. "The Village Blight should've killed me before Riardin popped its ass like a firecracker. The Desert Blight should've killed me before I got a chance to set up my escape route. The Corrupted Leviathan should've killed me before I finished my final Attunement. Instead, you pissed your chances away, and here we are. This is what happens when you fuck around and find out. Now I'm level 50, growing stronger every passing day, and guess what?"

Zero feet. Rob planted himself in front of the Locus of Power, hand raised. "I am done with being jerked around by higher powers."

He plunged his arm into the Locus of Power. Rob shivered as waves of Purge Corruption energy surged forth, his body feeling as if it was burning from the inside out. 10% of his stores depleted, then 20%, then 30%, energy equivalent to thousands of HP flowing out of him in the blink of an eye. Something within the Locus recoiled as the Blue washed over it, bathing it in cleansing light.

It resisted.

But not for long.

With a final dying gasp, the Seed of Corruption disintegrated, vanishing into the ether as if it had never been. Rob didn't stop there, shoving more and more of his Purge Corruption energy into the Locus. With nothing left to cleanse, the Blue poured into the Locus like water into parched soil, restoring that which was lost to its rightful state of being. The Locus sucked down energy with fervent greed, not stopping until it was filled to the brim, erasing every last remnant of Corruption that resided within.

And then, as if waking from a long nightmare, it stirred.

There was no brilliant flash of light. No grandiose display of power. But Rob could feel the difference as a calm stillness fell over Nevermore City. Evidently, he wasn't the only one, the sounds of battle quieting as the Amalgamations realized that something was amiss. Their grotesque forms appeared stunned, faces and postures frozen in mockeries of surprise, like toys whose batteries had run dry.

They were the same as the Corruption fog within Nevermore City. It was still there, but unlike before, it didn't feel 'alive'. Rob didn't sense any desire from it, malevolent or otherwise. It was just...existing. And with the Corruption's source of power gone, no new Corruption would spawn in its place. It was doomed to gradually fade away as the Locus of Power revitalized the lands.

Healing would take time. Years, probably. But someday in the future, Fiends would walk the streets of Nevermore once again.

Rob checked the Party Screen before he let himself begin to celebrate. No casualties, everyone's HP was above half, and the people with damaged Hazmat Suits were incurring Corruption at a meager rate. Smiling brightly, Rob sank to the ground and allowed himself a deep sigh of contentment. Almost as an afterthought, he glanced at the system messages he'd been ignoring.

EXP gained through Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 51!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 47 -> 48

Locus of Power Restored!

Crystal Bearer Rank Increased! 4 -> 5

Choose ONE of two different Class Skills! Unchosen Skills will be available to select at a later Level!

"Sure," Rob said, chuckling to himself. "I'll take it."

Someone in the Party called out to him. Without standing, Rob gave them a thumbs-up and hit the eject button. As Waymark activated, he waved goodbye to the frozen Amalgamations, wishing them pleasant tidings as Blue energy transported everyone to safety.

Now came the fun part: delivering the good news to the people waiting back home.

As Rob later learned, watching Faelynn and the Overseers break down into tears of joy was almost as satisfying as the well-deserved nap that followed. Almost.

--

Changes

Rob

Level 49 -> 51

Crystal Bearer 4 -> 5

Keira

Level 46 -> 48

Zamira

Level 38 -> 40

Orn'tol

Level 40 -> 42

Vul'to

Level 38 -> 40

Malika

Level 31 -> 34

Meyneth

Level 39 -> 41

Tiarsus

Level 30 -> 32

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 48

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. The detailed descriptions for a few Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter .

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 51

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 48)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 4)

HP: 1250/ 1250

Stamina: 350 / 350

MP: 350 / 350

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

Strength: 53

Vitality: 125

Endurance: 35

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 35

Unspent Points: 10

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal+

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever+

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood+

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage+

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity+

Berserker Rank 6 – Flames of Vengeance+

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank 4 – Awaken Class

Crystal Bearer Rank 5 – DECIDING...

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Purge Corruption

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

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

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 16), Not A Scratch (LV 12), Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 2)

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

Perception – N/A

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

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

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

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

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

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

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

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

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

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

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

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

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

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

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

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

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

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

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

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

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prerequisite: Attune to twelve nine Loci of Power.

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

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 8)

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

Description: Increases Strength by +12 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 7)

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

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

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

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

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

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

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 7 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 16)

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

Description: Rapidly restores 70% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 8 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 13)

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

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

Cooldown: 10 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100

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

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Second Wind (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Endurance 35, reach 1% or lower Stamina at least once.

Description: Get back on your feet, you lazy bag of bones. You can rest when you’re dead. Take a single deep breath to instantly restore 35% of your maximum Stamina. Cannot be used without breathable oxygen in the area. Cannot be used if your lungs are nonfunctional.

Cooldown: 24 Hours

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 9)

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

Description: Increases Dexterity by +13 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

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

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

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

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

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

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

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

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

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

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

Passive Skills

Name: Brawling (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Strength 20, Dexterity 20, participate in a fight while unarmed, and defeat at least two worthwhile opponents while unarmed.

Description: Become more proficient with humanity’s oldest weapons.

Name: Grappling (LV 3)

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

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

Name: Regeneration (LV 19)

Prerequisite: Vitality 125

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

Name: Tough Skin (LV 6)

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

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 35%.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 13)

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

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

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 8)

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

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

Name: Regrow Limb (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Vitality 140, lose at least six appendages.

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

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

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

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 7)

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

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

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Brain Damage Resistance (LV 1)

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

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

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

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

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

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

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

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

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, defeat at least six worthwhile opponents while using a dagger or a knife.

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

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

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

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

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

Name: Diplomacy (LV 17)

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

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

Name: Leadership (LV 8)

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

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

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

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

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

Name: Deception (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Mind 50, pull the wool over someone’s eyes using words and body language several times.

Description: Little white lies never hurt anyone, right…? Become slightly more proficient at lying to people and getting away with it.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

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

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

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

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

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

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 5)

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

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

Name: Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE)

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

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

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

Prerequisite: //

Description: \\

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

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

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

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

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

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

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 49

<Happy Birthday, Rob.>

Rob sat up, yawning loudly as he blinked the last vestiges of drowsiness from his eyes. Whuzzat? He thought, his brain gradually rebooting from a nap-turned-ten-hour-sleep. Birthday?

<Yes, Rob,> Diplomacy answered, core glowing with mirth. <I didn't want to distract you while events were in motion, but thankfully, you completed your objective just in time. Rejoice, for today is your 20th birthday! Probably.>

"How do you know?" Rob asked, switching to verbal speech. He was alone in his room, so there wasn't anyone to look at him askance for talking to thin air. "I've lost track of how many days it's been since I came to Elatra. My best guess is around seven months, which would put me in the general range for my birthday, but that still leaves plenty of margin for error."

<You entered Elatra on March 21st as based on the Earth calendar,> Diplomacy began. <It has been 203 days since then. Yes, I have been counting. There's nothing else to do up here. Based on your description of the numbers of days in each Earth month, and with the application of simple arithmetic, today would be October 10th on Earth. Ergo, unless I have gravely miscalculated, today is your birthday.>

The Skill conjured a mental image of party horns blaring as confetti fell from the sky. <Happy Birthday! Woooo! When do I commence the ritualistic singing of corporate-copyrighted music?>

Rob raised an eyebrow. "I told you about my birthday date and the Earth calendar maybe once."

<Then you should feel flattered that I remembered.>

Rob chuckled. "Suppose I should." He rubbed his chin. "203 days. Christ almighty. I can't tell if it feels like I've been here longer or shorter than that. So much has happened, but at the same time, college seems like it was just yesterday."

<Do you miss it?> Diplomacy asked.

He rolled his eyes in response. "Do I miss my family, friends, electricity, running water, cheeseburgers, and the internet? Of course. Midterms weren't so bad that I'd trade them for Blightspawn invasions."

<Then you should indulge yourself today,> Diplomacy suggested. <Celebrate as you would have celebrated back on Earth.>

Rob tapped his finger on his knee. "Tempting," he muttered. "Might just take you up on that idea. Before that, though, got some work to do. The Corruption plague isn't going to cure itself."

<No rest for the weary?>

"Not when I've got half of my Purge Corruption energy stores filled," Rob answered, as he threw on a pair of clothes. "That's worth hundreds of Fiends that I can stabilize."

Restoring the Locus of Power may have stopped the plague from worsening, but tens of thousands of Fiends were still infected, their deaths barely forestalled by anti-Corruption amulets. The war wasn't over just because they'd won its most important battle; detoxifying all of Fiendland was an ongoing project that would take months to complete. It was bad enough already that Rob had needed to spend several days in Merfolk territory, away from his Purging duties. His backlog of patients was starting to pile up.

"Don't get me wrong," Rob continued. "Using up my energy stores won't take all day. Couple hours at the most. And after that?" He grinned. "I'm throwing the biggest goddamn party this side of the multiverse."

Rob cracked his knuckles, took a few steps towards the door – and froze in place as something triggered his senses. "Wait," he said, glancing at the window. "Did you hear that? Sounds like..."

Screaming.

It said something about Elatra's standard modus operandi that Rob and Diplomacy both expected the worst when he ran to check what was happening outside. Rob carefully poked his head through the window, sword appearing in his hand with a shower of blue motes, as he scanned the streets for whatever crisis was arising. Mind racing, he thought back to recent events and tried to determine where something had gone wrong. Did he make a mistake when restoring Nevermore's Locus of Power? Was the next Black Wind arriving just as they'd feared?

Miraculously, it was nothing of the sort. Rob's mouth slowly fell open as he watched a parade of Fiends turn the corner at the end of the street. Not a mob, not a riot – a freaking parade. Minus the gigantic floating advertisements, but with twice the enthusiasm. Fiends of all ages were whooping and hollering, expressions of radiant joy sparkling on their faces as they marched. Some wept tears of joy, some knocked on doors to spread the good word, and some were holding their anti-Corruption amulets aloft, raising them in defiance of the cruel fate that their people had endured.

"...They should keep the amulets on," Rob muttered, his lips twitching up into a smile. "We don't know how potent the leftover Corruption is. But, hey, it's nice to see some good cheer for a change. Looks like people already know about Nevermore City."

<I think we can take this as confirmation that restoring the Locus was a success,> Diplomacy commented. <And that it won't be reverting to an inert state anytime soon. The Grand Overseers wouldn't have disseminated news of our victory without being 100% confident that it will, in fact, stay a victory.>

An odd sense of relief settled over Rob, like a warm blanket that he couldn't help but feel might be torn away from him at any given moment. With no small amount of effort, he forced himself to accept that – at least for now – things would actually be okay. The notion prompted him to sit down, leaning his head against the wall as he took a deep, relaxed breath.

"I think I'm canceling the wild party," he said. "Just looking at the craziness outside is making me exhausted. A nice, quiet little shindig with my friends seems more up my alley."

<That may be for the best,> Diplomacy assented. <All the memories I've witnessed of your college festivities back on Earth have consistently ended in disaster.>

"Oh, come on. You're exaggerating."

<Name one instance that didn't end in bodily harm, property damage, rampant misdemeanors, or some combination of the above.>

Rob raised his finger, paused, and then put it back down. "Well..." he exhaled. "There was the one time that Brianna hosted a dry Monopoly night. She figured it would be a nice change of pace."

Diplomacy tilted their head in curiosity. <And that went well?>

"Dude, I still don't know what happened to Craig."

--

Three hours later, his Purging duties tended to, Rob found himself lounging in a ritzy hotel suite with the rest of Riardin's Rangers. Ornate furnishings, supple upholstery, and catered cuisine graced his eyes everywhere he looked. The suite wasn't quite on the level of a modernized Earth hotel, but it certainly made him feel decadent in all the best ways.

"About time we got the five-star treatment," Rob said, grinning ear-to-ear. "And all we needed to do was save the entirety of Fiend territory. Who'd have thought it would be so simple?"

"This suite belongs to Lord Carran," Faelynn stated, with wide eyes and a voice tinged with disbelief. "He is...a rather important person. And I think he chooses to reside here more often than not." The Fiend gulped. "Did we...displace him?"

"Maybe?" Rob shrugged. "I just asked for the fanciest place around. Said it was to celebrate my birthday bash. Didn't know they were going to kick some rich dude out of his home to accommodate us."

Keira fixed him with a bemused stare. "You don't sound especially guilty."

"I repeat: saved the entirety of Fiend territory."

"Lord Carran can sleep on the streets for all I care," Malika blurted out. Her eyes swept across the room, visions of opulence reflected back in two greedy orbs. "I want to live here forever."

"Agreed," Orn'tol stated, nodding resolutely. "A person with the title of 'Lord' likely owns numerous places of residence. He won't miss this one."

Oh boy, Rob thought. She's corrupting him, with a lowercase 'c'.

<Are you going to dissuade their behavior?> Diplomacy asked. <As surrogate big brother, I believe that responsibility falls to you.>

Rob considered Diplomacy's question before shaking his head a moment later. Nah. They deserve to be immature sometimes. I'll be sure to rein them in if they go too far.

While Orn'tol and Malika chatted about usurping a person's rightful living quarters, Faelynn gave the room another once-over, shoulders relaxing as she seemed to remember that she was among friends. "I...suppose it can't hurt to indulge in luxury every now and then." She chuckled. "Thanks for inviting me, by the way. I would have understood if you didn't, as I wasn't able to join you in Nevermore City-"

"Stop right there," Keira interjected. "I don't need Danger Sense to tell me that you're about to say something that diminishes your own accomplishments. Is partaking in the first ever 'invasion' of Merfolk territory, assisting with the defeat of an Elatran Leader, and surviving a face-to-face encounter with a Leviathan not enough to bolster your self-esteem?" She raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was greedy for victories."

Faelynn paused, then smiled. "Fair point," she said. "It's just...everything has happened so fast. The last two months scarcely feel real. People I grew up with – some who could scarcely remember my name without Identify – are treating me so much differently than before. Being involved with your Party was already making them look at me as if I was a celebrity, and ever since I came back from Merfolk territory as an Awakened Class user, they've begun looking at me as if I was a myth."

She tapped her chin. "In a sense, it's exactly what I wanted. Respect, admiration, awe – all things I craved, and all of them gained in the span of a mere two months. Perhaps that's the problem; I can't shake the feeling that these changes are unearned. Like I took a shortcut to success rather than achieving personal milestones one step at a time. I won't diminish my accomplishments, but it is a fact that the strides I've made have largely come about due to being in your Party. Anyone else in my position could have done the same."

Orn'tol and Malika fell silent, the enthusiasm in their expressions dropping by a few notches. Rob internally winced; Faelynn's insecurities were probably reminding the siblings of Vargas. Which wasn't her fault, but it would be wise to try and shift the conversation before the pair's mood was ruined.

"Don't beat yourself up for being the right person in the right place at the right time," he interjected. "Imagine if – for example – instead of meeting you during our first encounter with Fiends, we'd met a second Helkath type. Negotiations would've lasted maybe two minutes before imploding. We'd have gone to war, or at least weakened each other to the point where the Blightspawn incursion would've steamrolled us when it eventually showed up. Our early alliance led to our survival, which led to escaping Broadwater City, Attunements, Purge Corruption, and eventually, an end to the plague."

He grinned. "On that day, by not being a dick, you set the salvation of Fiendland in motion. If anything, they should be building statues in your name."

"That's a mild exaggeration," Faelynn said, her smile returning. "But thank you nonetheless." She perked up. "My apologies – I've been focusing far too much on trifling concerns during what should be a day of celebration." The Fiend clapped her hands together, face brightening. "While the evening may be drawing to a close, there are plenty of festivities still being held just several streets away. If we disguise ourselves as to not draw attention-"

"I refuse to leave," Malika flatly stated. "It's so shiny here."

"Fair point," Faelynn said. "It would be a waste to abandon such lavish accommodations. What shall we do, then?"

Without preamble, Rob stood up from his egregiously comfy chair and strode over to a Message Crystal tucked away in the corner of the room. "Hello?" he said, poking it into activity. "Is anyone on the other end?"

A suave-sounding voice immediately answered. "Fair tidings, Master Roy. How may I assist you?"

Rob blinked. "That was fast."

"We have been instructed to provide you with the best service we can offer." Gratitude entered the assistant's tone. "It is the very least we can do after everything your Party has done for us. Please – ask for anything your heart desires."

Rob hesitated, then shrugged. "Refreshments would be nice. Food, water, and – screw it – alcohol. The good kind that doesn't taste like moldy feet."

"Certainly. How many bottles will you require?"

"...How many you got?"

--

Combat Class users in the Deserters were, in essence, not allowed to drink. There was no ironclad rule against imbibing, but it was a practice that tended to be self-enforcing. Anyone stupid enough to get wasted when danger lurked around every corner was liable to meet their end in a monster's stomach. So while each member of Riardin's Rangers had drank in the past – even Malika once or twice when her parents weren't looking – it had been months since any of them so much as thought about letting a drop of alcohol touch their lips.

As a result, when the Fiend attendants delivered a basket of Lord Carran's finest vintage, it took the Party a solid five minutes to work up the courage to open their first bottle. Vul'to ended up being the one to free them from their torment, simply stating that he was "owed a night of poor decisions," an argument that was summarily co-opted by the rest of the Party. If people found out and complained, then they could be the ones to put on the Hazmat Suits next time.

And besides, things really weren't going to get much safer than this. With the Corruption plague vanquished and the Fiends eating out of the palms of their hands, every major threat to the Deserters' livelihood had been dealt with. They were safe – for however long that would last. What better opportunity was there to get drunk and nurse a guilt-free hangover? As long as they didn't go too overboard, of course.

It was a well-calculated risk assessment – with one major flaw. Riardin's Rangers had focused on the enemy without while ignoring the enemy within. None of them took into consideration how, after half a year of sobriety, their alcohol tolerance would be shot to hell.

"Sssssonavubitch," Rob slurred, staring daggers at his drink. Four hours and twice as many cups later, he was just beginning to realize his error. "I think I'm sloshed."

"Sloshed?" Keira twirled red nectar around her glass. "Slosh. Slosh. Heh. That's funny. Why is it funny?"

"Because we're wasted."

She rolled her eyes. "That's two Earth phrases you've used in a row that I can't put a meaning to. I know you're used to us being able to puzzle them out through context clues, but you have to be mindful that it won't always be possible, especially when I'm so...ooooh..."

Rob nodded. "Drunk as skunks, we are." He put his cup down and looked around for the Party's youngest members, a curse bubbling under his tongue when he found them nowhere in sight. "Orn'tol! Malika!" He called out. "That's enough for you two! I don't know how much you've had but it's probably too much!"

"Worry not," Meyneth chimed in, taking a seat across from him. She extended a clawed finger towards one of the suite's side rooms. "They fell asleep an hour ago. Hardly surprising; those couches are softer than any bed I've ever rested on."

Rob let out a sigh of relief, glad that he wouldn't have to explain to Lord Carran how an Archmage burnt down his home in a drunken fit. "Thanks for keeping an eye on them. Me and Keira got sidetracked talking about..." He frowned. "What were we talking about?"

She slosh-sloshed her drink around some more. "The Rangers are shits."

"Ah, yes. The Rangers are shits." Rob groaned. "You know, I wanted to invite Tiarsus to this little celebration of ours. He was there for the final stretch. He deserves to be taking naps on a rich fucker's couch. But when I asked him, he told me: 'Thanks, but I don't want to draw anyone's ire'. He was worried that being associated with us too often would cause a rift between him and the Rangers – who he spends way more time with these days."

Rob peered into his glass, contemplating the universe, before taking a swig. "Can't even blame him. I wouldn't want to get caught in the crossfire of dumb drama either. It's just...blegh. I get why the Rangers are upset, they're scared for their future, but..."

"You're far too understanding," Keira remarked. "Stop making excuses for people who piss you off. I've disliked the Rangers for years and will continue to do so at my leisure. It's quite liberating; would wholeheartedly recommend."

"Not everyone is a Vargas or a Helkath," Rob said, momentarily sobering up. "It's too easy to make generalizations based on one or two assholes. Gotta keep myself grounded and look at the big picture." Especially since the pool of people who could oppose him was rapidly shrinking. The last thing Rob wanted to do was end up like some of the Elatran leaders. Higher Levels meant he needed to be more vigilant about how he judged people, not less.

Barring some exceptions.

Meyneth hesitated. "As long as we're on the subject of Vargas," she began. "I feel obligated to inform you that Orn'tol cried himself to sleep, apologizing profusely about his deception of Helping Hand. No amount of persuasion on my part could convince him that his fears were unfounded, and that we bear him no ill will." Her eyes were downcast. "He is, apparently, the type of person who grows sad after drinking."

Crack.

Rob squeezed his glass with the force of 53 Strength, shattering it to pieces as centuries-old vintage spilled onto the carpet. Jagged shards of glass skidded harmlessly off of his Vitality-enhanced skin. "Should've just killed Vargas," he muttered. "Had him in my hands. Fucker deserved it."

"Would it not have been better for Orn'tol to slay him?" Meyneth posited. "Perhaps my thoughts stem from cultural differences, but if there was sufficient justification, then I fail to see the issue."

"You shouldn't kill someone over blackmail," Rob protested. "I think. Keira, do Elves kill people over blackmail?"

She wiggled her hand in an 'eeeeh' motion. "Depends on the scenario. Are you implying that no one on Earth has ever done the same?"

"Well, they have, but it's frowned upon."

"Then why are you so eager to kill Vargas yourself?"

"That's totally different," Rob said. "I want Vargas dead because of the damage he almost did to Orn'tol – the mental damage, I mean. A boy shouldn't have to kill anyone. No one should, obviously, but it affects a person even worse when they're young. Something like that would mess with Orn'tol's head and stay with him for the rest of his life."

Meyneth tilted her head. "Interesting. That may help explain some matters regarding myself. I killed my first person when I was nine years old." Rob and Keira gaped at her in disbelief, prompting the Dragonkin to shrug. "As a prospective Combat Class user, it was expected that I become accustomed to taking lives at an early age."

"Fuck," Rob hissed. "Meyneth, I'm sorr-"

"Don't be," she said, shaking her head. "Honestly, while I trust your judgment when it comes to matters of the mind, I can't say that the act was one that significantly harmed my mental state. It was unpleasant, of course, but in the sense that imbibing bitter medicine is unpleasant. And it's not as if I was in any real danger; the man was a prisoner, bound in chains and sentenced to death. He didn't even...struggle..."

Meyneth trailed off, eyes glazing over for a few seconds. "Oh dear," she murmured. "I'm going to change the subject now, if you don't mind." She opened and closed her mouth several times, appearing like a fish out of water, before eventually settling on a topic. "Malika! I forgot to inform you that Malika, thankfully, did not cry herself to sleep as her brother did. Although she was quite contrite regarding a secret that – according to her – she absolutely cannot divulge to anyone."

Rob's posture stiffened. "A secret?"

"A solemn vow, at that." Meyneth drummed her claws on the dinner table, sharpened points leaving minuscule indentations in its finely-carved wood. "She swore up and down that it wasn't related to anyone in Riardin's Rangers, and that she would inform us if she could, but that it's not her secret to tell." The Dragonkin paused. "She also stated quite clearly that, if I didn't believe her, I should 'talk to Rob, he'll confirm that I have a good reason for not saying anything'. When I asked her to clarify what she meant by that, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Which led to her falling asleep in earnest."

Rob tried very hard to look inconspicuous as Keira fixed him with a searching gaze. Meyneth, with the air of a woman who was long past caring, chugged the remainder of her drink and let out a dissatisfied snarl. "Damnable Dragonkin stomach," she grumbled. "I'm going to need far more alcohol than this if I want to stop thinking about everything I just discussed." Tossing her glass to the ground, she rose from her chair and walked towards the Message Crystal to pester the Fiend attendant for a refill.

"So," Keira began, in a voice that was half-teasing, half-serious. "Can you confirm that Malika has a good reason for keeping secrets? Apparently, you're the man to ask."

"...No comment."

This wasn't a subject he wanted to focus on. Not with the memory of his second conversation with the High Soulseer still fresh in his mind.

"I've been thinking," Rob had begun, two days ago. He and the High Soulseer were in the middle of discussing how to enter Nevermore City. "You said that the Fiends' true nature was discovered by an Archmage, right? Can normal Fiends figure it out as well?"

"Highly unlikely," the High Soulseer had replied. "One requires either exceptionally high Sense Magic or exceptionally high Soul Sight to be able to notice the similarities between Fiends and standard monsters."

"Makes sense." Rob leaned forward, erasing any hint of nervousness from his voice. "Did any other Archmages figure it out? I mean, Archmages don't appear too often, but there had to be at least one or two that connected the dots."

The High Soulseer fell very silent. "In the interest of brevity," he eventually said. "Allow me to skip to the heart of your questions. Yes, other Archmages discovered our true nature. Yes, we killed them to ensure that the secret remained a secret. Yes, we discredited their names and propagated the myth that Archmages often go insane and need to be executed. Yes, I imagine that the Humans handled their southern Archmages in the same manner." He laced his fingers together. "And yes, I am aware that an Archmage resides within your Party."

Rob bared his teeth. "Is that a threat?"

"It would be unwise to threaten he who holds our salvation in his hands," the Soulseer responded, in a matter-of-fact tone. "Even if your Archmage discerns our true nature and spreads the word far and wide, the chaos that ensues would pale in comparison to the ruination that will follow if you abandon us. I would prefer that you ask her to keep her findings to herself, but no harm will come to her if she disregards that plea."

"Glad we're on the same page." Rob put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "With that said, let me be perfectly clear. If anything happens to Malika, Fiendland burns. I don't care if whatever happens seems like an accident or not. If a meteor drops from the sky and falls on her head, I'll assume that you set the thing in motion somehow. It's in your best interests that she stays hale, hearty, and healthy. Understand?"

"I do," the High Soulseer answered. "Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

Rob's not-a-smile faded. Even though he was getting what he wanted, the Soulseer's unruffled demeanor made him feel as if he'd been led around by the nose. "Does anyone else in Fiendland know?" he asked – partially out of the vague notion that he wanted to get the last word in.

"Two of the Grand Overseers, and no one else." The High Soulseer leaned forward. "A question for you: why have you repeatedly referred to our territory as Fiendland? That is not its name."

"I mean, it's the land of the Fiends. What else would I call it?"

"Fiend territory."

Rob shook his head. "Vetoed. That doesn't roll off the tongue."

"...If you say so."

As he steadfastly avoided Keira's gaze, Rob's attention gravitated towards the Message Crystal. "Meyneth had the right idea," he sighed. "Gonna need way more booze than this."

--

<I am drunk!> Diplomacy cheered.

Congratulations! Rob gave them an internal high-five. Also, why are we cheering?

<Because I didn't know that me getting drunk was possible!> The Skill summoned another mental image of party horns and confetti; they were getting adept at that. <Damn, this feels amazing! Why isn't everyone drunk all the time?>

Rob swept his eyes across the room, observing Keira, Zamira, Vul'to, Meyneth, and Faelynn as they passed around the latest shipment of bottles. Aside from the liver damage? Hangovers are hot garbage.

<Oh, they can't be *that* bad.>

...God am I going to enjoy watching you in eight hours.

--

"No!" Rob shouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "No Monopoly!"

"Why not?" Vul'to asked. The Guardian was sporting a large, disarming smile that belied the blasphemy he was suggesting. "You've mentioned it sufficient enough times to pique my curiosity. A simple board game can't truly be that detrimental to one's sanity, can it?"

"Nations have fallen based on lesser emotions than what Monopoly inspires."

Keira, Zamira, Vul'to, Meyneth, and Faelynn stared at him like he was making a big deal out of nothing, the fools. "Personally," Zamira added, "I will admit to being curious. And in all honesty, we've run out of ways to entertain ourselves. Aside from quenching our thirst, anyway, and Lord Carran might hold a grudge if we drink through any more of his personal collection."

Rob grimaced. The only argument he could come up with to convince them of their impending folly was that Monopoly was as bad as Ouroboros, Elatra's most aggravating card game. Unfortunately, the last time they'd played Ouroboros was with Alia and Tarric, right before the two died, and bringing up those memories would kill the mood as assuredly as a shot to the heart.

So fuck it! If his Party members were so damn interested in learning more about Earth, then by all that was unholy, they'd learn.

"Grab some pens and papers," Rob said, smiling like a predator who'd cornered his prey. "And at least two pairs of dice. I don't remember the exact details down to the letter, but an approximation should do juuuust fine."

--

"What have I done," Vul'to whispered, in a voice of pure horror. "Where did everything go so wrong?"

Rob suppressed a chuckle, choosing not to answer as he sat back and watched Keira and Meyneth argue. Keira was refusing to take her turn, citing Danger Sense's warning that any dice roll she made was going to invariably result in pain thanks to Meyneth's 'lane of bullshit' that the Dragonkin had built up over the last forty minutes. Meyneth, in response, was calling Keira a sore loser who needed to 'hand over her riches on pain of death'. Both women seemed a hairsbreadth away from coming to blows, and it was with a truly herculean effort that Rob hadn't already broken out into an improvised rendition of I Told You So, written and performed by himself.

"It's...just a game..." Vul'to trailed off, as he realized that no one was listening. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Is this going to cause the dissolution of our Party?"

Rob grinned and clapped the Elf on his back. "Ah, don't worry about it, bucko. This is pretty standard levels of board game saltiness. They'll be pals again once the dice stop rolling."

"This has gone on far enough!" Keira yelled, hand on her greatsword. "Your unchecked avarice ends here, Meyneth!"

"I welcome the challenge!" Meyneth's claws extended. "Community Chest won't come to your salvation a third time!"

Rob paused. "Some more booze might help grease the wheels, though." He turned towards the Message Crystal, but needn't have bothered. Zamira and Faelynn – clever women that they were – had beaten him to the punch and were in the process of ordering the next round of spirits.

--

"You should pick your next Crystal Bearer Skill."

Rob blinked at Faelynn, his mind taking a split second longer to process the question than usual. "I will later," he said, placing his half-empty cup on the table. "Why decide now? Wouldn't it be better to wait, discuss each option in detail, and carefully select the right Skill for our current situation?"

Faelynn shrugged. "Probably," she said, in an overtly relaxed tone. "But I'm bored. Monopoly is scary, and truth-or-dare was even scarier, so there's nothing left to do for entertainment. Picking a new Skill is fun and exciting and won't lead to me unintentionally confessing the details of my dreadful romantic history."

"I'm the one picking the Skill," Rob pointed out. "Not you."

"I can help!" Faelynn chuckled at some joke that only made sense to her. "What do you say? It couldn't hurt to at least contemplate your choices."

Rob paused, then shrugged, mimicking her previous motion. With a thought, he brought up the options for his next Crystal Bearer Skill and started to read them aloud.

Name: Message

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 5

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

Name: Bind Item

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 5

Description: Grants you the ability to Bind inanimate objects to your soul. The methodology of what constitutes an 'object' is the same as Spatial Storage. Bound Items can be hidden or summoned at the user's discretion. There is no range limit to how far away an item can be summoned from. They can also be re-formed by the user with no penalty, even when destroyed. Items can be re-formed once every three seconds. Duplicates of the same Bound Item cannot exist. Limit of 20 pounds and 216 cubic feet per item. Limit of five Bound Items per person. Once an item has been Bound, it cannot be un-Bound for one year.

Keira, Zamira, and Meyneth had gathered 'round by the time he was finished. Vul'to would've been similarly interested, but he was currently passed out under the table. "Those are my two options," Rob stated. "There are pros and cons to both of them."

"Such as?" Faelynn queried.

Rob frowned as he tried to recall the discussion they'd had on these Skills last time around. Back then, Awaken Class was the clear frontrunner, but he'd given the other two Skills their due consideration as well, examining each of them in detail. Those logical, thought-out arguments were obscured behind a fuzzy haze, like a thick warm blanket was wrapping itself around his brain.

"Such as..." Rob scratched his head. "Does it matter? We shouldn't be making this decision now. No point. Smarter to wait." He took another sip. "You heard it here first! Only smart decisions from here on out."

--

"Rob, can you please check on Meyneth?" Zamira asked. "I think she may be the next to fall."

Meyneth was sitting at a table, head in her hands, surrounded by nearly a dozen empty bottles. Rob walked over, staying in the Dragonkin's line of sight and being careful not to make any sudden movements. "Meyneth?" He called out, quietly. "You doing okay?"

"Kill..." Meyneth mumbled, her eyelids drooping. "Kill...them..."

"Yup, she's okay."

--

"You have parents?" Faelynn asked, confused.

Rob and Keira exchanged glances as Zamira floundered to come up with an answer. "Everyone has parents," the Bladesoul eventually settled on.

"At some point, yes," Faelynn remarked. "But yours are still alive?" She paused, then let out a little squeak, her mouth falling open slightly. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that a strange thing to say?"

"No, no," Zamira lied. "However, if you don't mind my asking...what exactly do you mean? There are plenty of other Combat Class users whose parents survived The Cataclysm."

"They act differently," Faelynn plainly stated. "Safer, I mean. Their familial ties bind them with a certain degree of self-preservation. Our – sorry, your Party tends to act with reckless abandon. Like you have nothing left to lose."

A spark of guilt flashed across Zamira's face. "It's not as if I'm unaware of the grief it would cause my family if I were to perish," she mumbled. "I love my mother and father dearly and wish no harm to befall them. But...there are things that I must do. Things that I feel obligated to accomplish. They understand that, and are supporting me in all my endeavors – although I'm sure that it causes them great heartache at times."

"They sound like lovely people," Faelynn said, empathetically. "I'd love to meet them someday. Introduce me, won't you?"

Zamira froze as Rob internally groaned. Faelynn probably hadn't meant that in a romantic sense – if nothing else, she wouldn't have said it without the alcohol loosening her tongue – but either way it was way too much for Zamira to handle right now. Rob decided to rescue her instead of letting her stew in an awkward puddle of drunken emotions.

"Come meet my parents after hers," Rob said, putting on a wide grin. "I have it on good authority that they're pretty damn awesome, and they'd love to hear about...uh...Fiendland stuff. Yeah." From out of Zamira and Faelynn's field of vision, Keira gave Rob a thumbs-up and mouthed 'good work'.

"You have parents?!" Faelynn cried out, sounding twice as baffled as when she asked Zamira. "You slapped a Corrupted Leviathan in the face!"

"He had it coming." Rob said, sagely. "And it was an entirely tactical move, thank you very much." He was about to continue, then hesitated, the mirth draining out of him as old memories resurfaced. "Hope my folks and Jason are doing okay," he mumbled. "If Diplomacy did its calculations right-"

<I did, obviously.>The Skill giggled, their words slurring. <Don't disparage my good name.>

"If Diplomacy did its calculations right – which I'm sure it did – then today is my birthday. Here, and on Earth." Rob's gaze fell. "It must be hard for everyone. They don't even know I'm alive."

--

Bludgeoning Proficiency Increased! 5 -> 6

Reached Level 20!

5 Stat Points Gained!

Jason took a single, shuddering breath as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Beneath him, the crushed remains of a Taken gurgled its last roar, the creature's clawed hands twitching in a pool of black, viscous blood that spread larger with every passing second. Dozens more of its kind lay sprawled out among the hotel auditorium, their heads and chests caved in as if they'd been smashed with a hammer.

Or a Strength-infused baseball bat.

Grimacing, Jason hefted his weapon of the day and examined the spiderweb of cracks running down its side. It had held up admirably, but it was still a wooden bat being used to pummel creatures that partially resisted bullets, and Weapon Hardening could only go so far. He was lucky that it'd stayed intact long enough for him to finish the job.

Jason gingerly laid his holy implement of justice to rest – meaning he tossed his dollar-store baseball bat onto the floor – and started walking towards the exit, carefully stepping around Taken corpses as he went. He made sure to keep his eyes focused upwards and away from their faces; it was never fun when he realized that one of the monsters he'd killed used to be someone he knew. There was a time and place for pathos, but today was not that day.

Reached Level '20', huh? Jason chuckled as read the notification. Fitting.

As he walked, a voice crackled to life in his ear. "Are you finished in there?" They asked. "I'm hearing a whole lot of silence, which means you're either done or dead."

Jason tapped a button on the wireless headset to alert them before replying. "All clear," he answered. "Unless there's a crawler hiding in the shadows somewhere, and that's for the guys with the assault rifles and thermal goggles to take care of."

"Fantastic," the voice drawled. "Another day where I don't have to tell PR that the Sergeant got himself killed by taking on a lobby of thirty Taken all on his lonesome."

"Thirty-four." Jason sighed as he stepped over a pile of wet, decayed flesh that was once a person. "Look, Marco, I don't care how well it plays in the ad reads. I'm not a freaking Sergeant. It's kind of an insult to the men and women who earned that rank for you to keep calling me that."

"Tell that to marketing," Marco flatly stated. "You'd think the world ending would mean that optics are now less important than results, but if anything, it's the opposite." He paused, humming lightly. "Besides, let me know when normal Sergeants can punch a hole through brick walls with their bare hands. I'd say that counts for something."

Jason grit his teeth. "World hasn't ended yet."

Marco barked out a harsh, joyless laugh in response. "Maybe from your perspective. As someone without superpowers, I count every day that I wake up with my brain intact as a blessing."

Jason stayed silent. He didn't agree with Marco's fatalistic attitude, but he also didn't want to rock the boat. Not when the local military branch was already doing him a favor by letting him undertake low-risk missions. Technically it benefited them as well – they got to take each of his successes and throw it onto the morning news as another victory for humanity – but there was always the chance that he would die and render their investment in him worthless. Jason was worth more alive and safe than alive and at risk. He was the Portal Boy, Sergeant Miller, owner of Skills and stats, proof that Earth could take the Outsiders' magic bullshit and turn it against them.

In short, he was a glorified mascot who could hit things very hard. And until scientists discovered a way for anyone else to harness Levels, that's all he'd ever be.

Forcibly putting aside his concerns, Jason shifted his focus to the reason he'd sauntered into a hotel and started beating abominations to bloody pieces: his new Level up. Stats didn't make him invincible – far from it, as the Baker Street Horror could attest – but each Level he gained felt like a building block towards something greater. At Level 20 he was already far stronger than the absolute peak of human biological limitations. Who knew what he'd be like at Level 30 or 40?

Maybe then Jason could give the Horrors a run for their money and help the military push them out of the eastern city block. Soldiers armed with guns could defeat them, but not without incurring losses of resources – including lives. It wasn't worth it when the things would just come back a week later. But unlike bullets, Jason's muscles weren't in limited supply, and unlike baseline humans, increased Dexterity meant he could dodge a Horror's charge. Him going toe-to-toe with the worst that the Outsiders had to offer would open up a whole new world of strategic possibilities. Jason imagined a joint assault involving him and one of the local squadrons; Marco yapping in his ear as they advanced, soldiers giving him covering fire, his sledgehammer raised high to bash a Horror's skull in...

Admittedly, he was getting ahead of himself. But even if his potential ended up falling short of his imagination, and his Level growth stalled out after 20, he'd still make sure to head into the city each day and hunt Taken until his body begged for respite. Every victory counted, no matter how small or large. He – in the most objective possible terms – could do more to fight against the Outsiders than any one person was capable of. If normal people without weird-ass number powers were putting their lives on the line, then what kind of excuse did he have? No way in hell was he going to sit back and let his home get overrun by Lovecraftian nightmares. Not unless they pried it from his cold, dead fingers.

And to that end, he needed power. 'Character Sheet', Jason thought, calling upon the instincts granted to him by the portal that stole his best friend.

Character Sheet

Name: Jason

Level: 20

Race: Earth Human

Class: N/A

HP: 280 / 280

Stamina: 53 / 170

MP: 50 / 50

Status Effects: Determined

Strength: 38

Vitality: 28

Endurance: 17

Dexterity: 35

Perception: 20

Mind: 19

Magic: 5

Unspent Points: 5

After a few moments of contemplation, he decided on the standard upgrade spread of 2 Strength, 2 Dexterity, and 1 Vitality. Perception was high enough that he'd stopped being caught unawares by ambushes, so any higher would likely be wasted points. Endurance was similarly in that 'high enough' range; boosting it might become necessary during longer campaigns, but for now it was fine as-is. Mind and Magic were still useless until he figured out how to actually use magic. Out of the many wonders he'd been granted, an instruction manual was not one of them.

That left Strength, Dexterity, and Vitality. Strength had been in that 'high enough' range – common Taken usually died after one or two swings – until the Horrors started showing up. Bigger creatures necessitated a bigger beating. Then there was Dexterity, which would always be crucial, both offensively and defensively. It was honestly a better defensive stat than Vitality, which so far had ended up being slightly disappointing. Being able to endure greater punishment than the average person was less helpful than it sounded when healing from those injuries took the same amount of time as normal. It was easier just not to get hit in the first place. He'd been hoping to pick up some sort of regenerative Skill, but either they didn't exist or he hadn't met some unknown Prerequisite for them. For now, he'd opted for the best defense being a good offense, killing and evading his enemies before they could touch him.

Jason nodded, satisfied with his choices, as he allocated the points accordingly. There was probably a more effective stat spread that he wasn't considering, but this was the best he could do with the information he had. No sense in agonizing over what he didn't know. Strength, Dexterity, and a smattering of Vitality had served him well so far, and he doubted that those particular stats would ever go out of style.

Stepping over the last of the corpses, Jason opened the hotel's front door and walked into the afternoon daylight. He stopped to wave at the platoon of soldiers who were waiting in formation outside – his backup, in case things went south. They returned his wave, a few hollers of 'Sergeant' resounding across the parking lot, some sarcastic and some genuine. Jason offered them a sheepish grin and a salute, because what else was he supposed to do? Without wasting another second, he vacated the premises, resembling a six-foot blur as he ran at full sprint down empty city streets.

Jason arrived at his house around ten minutes later. He knocked on the door twice, paused, and then knocked once.

"What do we say when our drive starts to fade?" A voice from inside asked.

"Remember Bosco," Jason answered. "Remember Clara. Remember Rob."

The door unlocked with a click as Jeanette opened it wide. "Good to see you," she said, a radiant smile on her face. "You were almost late."

Jason swept her up in a kiss followed by a gentle embrace. "Good to see you too," he sighed. It was sappy as hell, but he sincerely felt like the luckiest man in the world every time he saw her. The last seven months would have been much, much worse without Jeanette by his side. "Is everyone here?"

"All three of us," she affirmed, beckoning him inside. "Some others wanted to come, but..."

Jason nodded. A good 99% of the city populace had already moved far away from Portal Sigma and Portal Delta right after the advent of the Taken uprising. Which didn't end up mattering once Portals started appearing all over the world, but it wasn't like anyone wanted to move back to a city that was cursed to be forever known as the place where the apocalypse began. Most of those who'd stayed were thrill seekers, and their enthusiasm had quickly died out, figuratively and literally. Now the only people left remaining were those with abnormally strong ties binding them to the area.

Like Rob's parents. Jason greeted them with a round of hugs as he entered the living room, noting the dark circles and pronounced lines of worry on their faces. As hard as the last seven months had been on him, it'd been a million times harder on them. He could only hope that today would ease some of the melancholy plaguing their hearts.

The four of them took their seats at a table in the center of the room. They sat facing a lone cupcake with a single lit candle embedded on top. It was supposed to be a full-sized cake, but confectioneries were low on the supply shipment totem pole, so a cupcake would have to suffice. A portrait of Rob with Jason and his parents stood next to it, proudly displaying a simpler time of laughter and smiles. In it, Rob could be seen holding his fingers in two V-signs behind Jason's and his dad's heads. He'd 'ruined' countless photos that way – and now it felt integral, like that goofy pose was allowing them to re-experience an unfiltered part of what made Rob, Rob. It was funny how easily yesterday's exasperation could turn into today's nostalgia.

"I guess I'll start," Rob's dad began. He opened his mouth, then closed it, sighing. "Damnit, I'm no good at this sort of thing. Just...I love you, Rob. Come back soon. We'll wait as long as it takes." He sat back,  arms folded in on themselves as he stared at the cupcake like it was a patchwork lifeboat in an ocean storm.

Rob's mom was next. She placed her hand on his portrait and lowered her gaze. Half a minute later, she removed her hand and nodded, wetness glistening in her eyes. Jason waited a few seconds to make sure that she was done before taking his turn.

Whatever his turn was going to be, anyway. There was so much that he wanted to say, but the more he thought about it, the more Jason realized that it didn't matter if he spoke for a minute or an hour. Words couldn't properly express the aching sense of loneliness he felt when thinking about Rob. It hurt less than it used to, and nowadays it was counteracted by fond remembrance, but the hurt was still there, a scar that would never truly heal.

Looking deep, Jason decided that if nothing would be enough for himself, that he should say something to help Rob's parents. They needed someone to share their burden – and more importantly, to give them hope. Choosing his words with care, Jason spoke firmly and with confidence, as if he believed his words from the bottom of his heart.

"He's alive," Jason stated, locking eyes with Rob's parents. "And he's coming back."

They held his gaze for some time. Eventually, they nodded, releasing a fraction of the tension gripping their bodies. It was a minor victory in the grand scheme of things, but Jason treasured it far more than any number of slain Taken or Levels gained.

Their spirits lifted, everyone stood up and clapped their hands together. After all, tradition needed to be honored. It wasn't a real birthday party without a lovingly awkward rendition of Happy Birthday sung by friends and family.

I know he's alive, Jason repeated. Not for the others' sake, but for himself. I'd bet everything I own and all twenty Levels on it. He's surviving, and he's *thriving*.

--

As Rob's thoughts wandered, Keira placed her hand over his and gently squeezed. "I'm sure your friends and family know you're okay," she said, in a soft voice. "If they're anything at all like you, then they won't so easily give in to despair."

His cheeks felt warm, and it wasn't just because of the alcohol. "Thanks," he mumbled, squeezing Keira's hand back. Suddenly aware of the three pairs of eyes on him, Rob stood up and turned around. If he couldn't see them, then they – and their inquisitive looks – didn't exist. Object permanence was a myth.

He was in the middle of composing himself when a bolt of inspiration struck. Rob walked over to a nearby window and pulled it open. Sticking his head outside, he cupped his hands over his mouth and began to shout into the night.

"Hey, Dad!" His voice was cracking. "Mom! Jason! Wait for me, okay? I've got shit to do here, but I'll make my way home no matter what it takes! Promise! Don't rent out my room to any weirdos while I'm gone! Don't..."

Rob paused to rub his eyes, taking a single, shuddering breath. "I miss you guys," he sniffed. "Hope you're doing okay."

--

My heeead.

Rob winced as he kneaded his temples. After checking his system messages in search of a new Alcohol Resistance Skill – no such luck – he immediately activated Push Through, exhaling in relief as the pain lessened from overbearing to manageable. It probably wasn't a great idea to abuse that Skill for this purpose, but, eh, once was fine. Considering the Deserters' unofficial policy on drinking, it's not like last night was going to become a habit.

Last night, he mused. Last night was...a thing. Everyone certainly enjoyed themselves, at least. He couldn't really remember what happened after Faelynn left and Zamira fell asleep, but as he was alive and unmurdered, he could cross Monopoly Part 2 off the list. Actually, assuming that the night did in fact end without incident, that meant that there'd been no fistfights, no major property damage, and no broken friendships throughout the entire affair.

All in all, it was the chillest party Rob had ever been to. Score one for Riardin's Rangers over horny, intoxicated college-goers.

Should check on the others, he thought. Add them to my Party so they can get the effects of Push Through. Best hangover remedy there is. Dreading the imminent sunlight about to assault his senses, Rob forced his eyes open.

The first thing he noticed was that he was back at his personal living quarters, laying in his bed.

The second thing he noticed was that Keira was in bed with him.

Naked.

The world held still as Rob's train of thought ground to a screeching halt. Nothing existed except him, Keira, and the jackhammer of a heart that was pounding in his chest. Then, as if a dam had broken, his lost memories of last night came flooding back, filling his head with images of exactly what happened.

In excruciating, explicit detail.

Oh.

Chapter 50

The first thing that Rob did was stare.

It wasn't a reaction he was particularly proud of, but considering that the most gorgeous woman he'd ever met was laying next to him, without clothes, as a highlight reel of their horizontal tango replayed in his head...yeah, staring was inevitable. He alternated between being awestruck by how beautiful Keira was and freaking the fuck out, his mind reaching a perfect gridlock of stupefaction as he slowly came to terms with the new state of his life.

Once Rob managed to break that cycle, the second thing he did was call in reinforcements.

Diplomacy, Rob thought, gently poking the Skill. Help. Please.

<Uuuuuugh,> Diplomacy groaned, as they were roused from their slumber. <Why didn't you tell me that hangovers were so...>

The Skill paused, their core glowing white with pure shock as they surveyed the scene. <Oh *hell* no,> Diplomacy stated. <I'm not bailing you out of a mess you could've avoided by listening to me months ago. Especially when my mind feels like it went ten rounds with a pro boxer. This is your relationship; figure it out.>

Wait-

It was too late. The Skill was already sinking into power-saving mode, dead to the world for as long as they desired. Rob's 'reinforcements' had evidently chosen to wait out the coming storm in their fallout bunker, leaving him stranded behind without backup.

Shit.

The third thing Rob did was contemplate his options – which were distressingly limited. He could sneak out of the room, but that was just delaying the inevitable, and a shitty thing to do besides. It wasn't something he would ever seriously consider. In truth, the only real choice he had was to wait for Keira to wake up and have an adult conversation about adult matters.

Which was terrifying, so he quickly moved onto his fourth and final step: distracting himself. He started by checking his system notifications again. Maybe there was something he'd missed earlier, something to keep him occupied, and when the hell did he select Message as his next Crystal Bearer Skill?!?

As if he'd opened Pandora's Box by reading the notification, more memories abruptly came surging back. Rob winced with secondhand embarrassment as he recalled what another dumb stupid idiot who also happened to be named Rob did last night. Because surely that can't have been him, no siree.

"This has been a wondrous evening," Faelynn had proclaimed, as she stood up from her chair. "But I must be heading off. I'd prefer to sleep in my own quarters." She giggled. "I'd also prefer to be away from the premises once Lord Carran discovers the mess we've made."

"Be careful," Zamira had said, momentarily putting her hand on Faelynn's arm before immediately jerking it back. "You're inebriated, and the moonlit nights of a city street are invariably filled with knaves and ne'er-do-wells."

"Zamira, I'm a Level 32 Awakened Class user."

"Knaves and ne'er-do-wells! I've read about them in books that shall not be named!" Zamira rose to her feet, nearly tripping over herself in the process. "I – hmm. This is a new sensation. I rather dislike it."

Rob let out a long-suffering sigh. "I miss cell phones," he grumbled. "We could've called someone to be a designated driver, ordered an Uber...even just being able to get a 'Yes, I made it home safe' text would mean a lot."

Keira sank her chin into her right hand as she twirled an empty glass in her left. "I understood a mere half of what you just said, but it sounds amazing. The texts especially – is that similar to a Message Crystal?"

"A portable Message Crystal that pretty much everyone owns," Rob said. He took a moment to bask in the Ooos and Aaahs before continuing. "Actually, Crystal Bearer's Message Skill is really similar to it. It's even got built-in chat logs. Here, let me show you."

In Rob's defense, not a single freaking person argued against him selecting his next Crystal Bearer Skill based on a drunken whim. He may have committed the crime, but his so-called friends were an accessory to it. As he was swiftly overcome by a deep sense of mortification, Rob brought up the recently-created Message chat log, eyes widening as he read through what he and the conscious members of last night's Party had wrought.

Rob: testing testing 1 2 3

Rob: yup ther we go

Rob: it works like this

Rob: just think the words and they apear

Rob: easy peasy lemon squeasy

Zamira: Truly fascinating. It's as if my thoughts are being transcribed onto a mental sheet of paper for all to purvey.

Keira: Look at this!! BLIGHTSPAWN COMING FROM THE WEST GATE! See how easy that was? We'll never have to create one of those asinine 'remove someone from the Party' message systems ever again!

Faelynn: Oh wow. I kind of want to brag about this to someone.

Rob: hang on lemme try something

Rob::)

Rob::(

Rob::O

Rob::D

Rob: heck yeah we've got emojis lesgoooo

I want to die, Rob thought, with a very calm and rational mind.

Once he'd gotten past his self-inflicted cringe, he began to put together a timeline of what happened last night. After the Message debacle, Faelynn went home and Zamira passed out on the floor. That left him and Keira alone. They started chatting, which quickly became flirting, accompanied by them gradually sitting closer to each other. Rob eventually wanted to turn in for the night, but didn't want to sleep in one of Lord Carran's beds, as Elatrans aren't aware of germ theory. He didn't trust them to sanitize things properly. Keira offered to walk him home because of the aforementioned knaves and ne'er-do-wells, which in hindsight was a flimsy pretext that Rob wholeheartedly believed. They reached his personal quarters, and one of them – he honestly couldn't remember which – came up with an excuse for Keira to come inside and chat a bit more. And then...

Well, and then they had sex.

"Muh?"

The voice was beautiful, melodic, and set off Rob's nerves like an alarm bell. He watched with petrified anticipation as Keira slowly sat up, groaning as she rubbed her temples, silver hair cascading around her face and framing it like – not helping, hormones.

"Never again," she muttered, eyes closed and head in her hands. "I'm too smart of a person to poison myself like that. A fledgling, halfwit assassin could've slain me as easily as a babe in their crib."

Rob sent her a wordless Party invite. She accepted it automatically, sighing in relief as Push Through dulled the pain. "Much better. Thank y-"

Keira froze. A moment later, her head snapped towards him, eyes bulging. She stared at him, then at herself, then at the bed, then back to him again.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

"Hey." Rob gave her a little wave and a shy smile.

Keira winced, recoiling.

Ouch, Rob thought, his arm sinking along with his heart. Keira seemed to realize what she'd done a second later, her hands waving frantically as she started speaking in a rapid-fire manner, sounding more panicked than Rob had ever heard her. "No! No, it's not you! I promise!" She pushed her hair back, taking a moment to center herself. "It's really not you. I'm just not...this isn't how..."

"It's okay," Rob said, trying and failing to keep his voice from sounding deadened. "I'm sorr-"

"NO," Keira said, with a frustrated growl that made Rob flinch. "I like you, damnit. This isn't your fault, it's nothing serious, I haven't told you everything, I need..."

She suddenly hopped to her feet, looking around the room. "Need clothes. Need space. We'll talk later, I promise. You didn't do anything wrong, we just drank too fucking much and I'll never drink again and I can't believe that's how our first time-"

Keira paused. She stared at him, face aghast. "That wasn't your first first time, was it?"

"No," Rob answered, shaking his head. "What...about you?"

"Not me either," Keira said, visibly relaxing. Rob let out a sigh of relief, understanding exactly where she was coming from. The situation would've been infinitely worse if it'd been either of their very first times. At least they had that going for them.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much to say after that – or rather, there wasn't much Keira was willing to say. Rob waited in silence, turning away as she gathered her clothes and dressed herself. It was a somewhat pointless gesture, considering how far they'd already gone, but if she wasn't cool with him then watching would've felt gross. Although, she said she liked him? And that it wasn't his fault? But then why was she so nervous? He was missing several pieces of a puzzle, one he'd never be able to complete unless Keira opened up and told him what was wrong.

But she said she needed space, so space is what she would get. He trusted her. She wouldn't leave him hanging forever.

Probably.

A minute later, a re-clothed Keira was standing by the door, fidgeting in place as she did her best to act casual. "I suppose I'll be going," she said, her hand hovering over the doorknob. "See you?"

"Of course. I hope you're okay, and let me know if I can help." Rob looked her in the eyes. "We will talk later, right?" He asked, a pleading note entering his tone.

"We will," Keira stated, intently. "I swear. Again, this isn't your fault, I merely need time to collect my thoughts. Please excuse my...reaction." She hesitated, emotions warring on her face, before turning around and stepping outside. The door closed behind her with a click that rang out like a gunshot.

Rob sat perfectly still for a few minutes. He poked Diplomacy; no response. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Rob flopped backwards onto his bed, eyes vacant. Time passed as he stared at the ceiling, taking solace in how blank and uninteresting it was.

Happy birthday to meeee.

--

The rest of the day flew by in a haze. There was some talk with the Grand Overseers, and some pats on the back from various Fiends, and he Purged Corruption for hours on end until his reserves ran dry. Rob was informed of several key pieces of news, including how new Corruption infections had almost entirely ceased, and how the two Merfolk prisoners he'd Waymarked here were being released soon. All technically important things – that he couldn't concentrate on due to the far more pressing subject overriding his thoughts. How could he possibly care about mundane matters like the rebirth of a civilization when he and Keira had slept together just last night?

For someone running on autopilot, though, Rob thought he did a pretty decent job. He and Keira spent hours in the same room with the rest of the Party, handling Deserter affairs as normal, and somehow both of them managed to be professional, like the rational adults they totally were. They didn't stumble over their words, and awkward looks were kept to a minimum. It should've been the mental victory that he sorely needed.

Unfortunately, Rob wasn't so distracted that he failed to notice the way that the rest of his Party members were glancing at him and Keira. Somehow, they knew. Rob desperately wanted to ask how far the gossip had spread, but that would require publicly talking about what – and who – went down last night, which wasn't happening until he and Keira hashed things out together in private.

It was with that notion in mind that, at the end of the day, Rob invited Keira back to his quarters. She agreed in an excessively nonchalant tone that may as well have been a shout at the top of her lungs. Neither of them said anything on the long walk there, and by the time they'd reached the door to his room, both Rob and Keira were filled to bursting with apprehension. Little wonder that they froze then and there, unable to open the door and take that next, all-important step.

"So..." Rob began, before trailing off.

"So...." Keira began, before doing the same.

Silence.

"Want to ignore anything ever happened and talk about this later maybe?" Rob blurted out, his mouth moving faster than his good sense.

"Oh fuck yes," Keira breathed. "Does revisiting this a week from now sound good?"

"No, it does not."

Rob and Keira jumped nearly a foot in the air as a low, disappointed voice ambushed them from behind. They whirled around to find Meyneth standing less than a foot away, her eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ," Rob gasped, his heart going a mile a minute. "How does someone as tall as you sneak up on anyone? What are you, Batman?"

"The two of you have engaged in sexual relations," Meyneth flatly stated. Rob and Keira froze like two criminals successfully picked out of a lineup. "Do not deny this. We know."

"How?" Keira asked, attempting to regain a modicum of control. "Did someone happen to notice when I left this morning?"

Meyneth shook her head. "One of us – whom I will not say, lest you bear a grudge – woke up in the middle of the night. I should remind you that at this point, all of us were still in your Party. This person checked the Party Screen to ensure that everyone was safe, and quickly discovered that both of you possessed the 'Aroused' status effect." Meyneth paused. "This person watched the effect increase from 'Moderate' to 'High' in real time. This person wishes for you to understand the trauma they have endured."

Rob didn't speak. If he spoke, maybe he'd have to acknowledge what Meyneth just said, and that was a challenge he wasn't remotely ready to face.

"The two of you have engaged in sexual relations," Meyneth repeated. "This development is good, and long overdue. Disappointingly – if not unsurprisingly – it has resulted in a discussion that you seem to be avoiding." Her eyes glinted with zeal. "I refuse to allow this farce to go on any longer. You will enter Rob's room, and you will talk, or fuck, or both, in either order, I don't care which. Figure it out."

Before either of them could respond, Meyneth shoved open the door, picked up one dumbass in each hand, and tossed them bodily into Rob's room. Rob and Keira landed in a heap beside each other on the bed, sputtering incoherently as Meyneth sealed their escape route. "In order to give you some privacy," she continued, through the closed door. "I will deactivate Heightened Senses and stand at the opposite end of the hallway. You have one hour. Use it wisely."

Rob and Keira exchanged glances, dumbfounded, as the sounds of Meyneth's footsteps disappeared into the distance.

"Prisoners in our own room," Keira whispered, chuckling. "Perhaps we could still escape out the window?"

Rob smirked. "I think that's a bit too ridiculous even for us."

"Such faith you have in the woman who practically ran from you earlier." Keira's mirth faded. "Rob, I want to sincerely apolo-"

"Please don't," Rob said. "It's seriously okay. You told me that you weren't reacting to me, specifically, and I believe you." He put on a smile that he hoped was reassuring. "And if I'm not the problem, then that means this is something I can help you work through, right?"

The tension seemed to melt from Keira's features. "Well now," she said, her lips curling into a smile of her own. "When did you learn how to say the right things? Is Diplomacy feeding you lines?"

"No, they're taking a nap. It's just you and me."

"That's good to know." Keira reached out and squeezed his hand. "Then, by popular request, I won't apologize. I will, however, thank you for being understanding. It truly means the world to me."

Damn, I really do love her. "I just wish I could do more," he answered, with sincerity. "Would it help if you talked to me about what's bothering you?"

"That is what we've been imprisoned here to do, yes." Keira sighed. "I'd be upset with Meyneth if I wasn't so relieved that she gave me a push. Physically and mentally." She winced. "On several occasions."

Rob blinked as something clicked into place. "Waaaaait," he began. "Before today, did she ambush you too? As in, corner you at an isolated location and start talking about relationship stuff? While not having any fucking filter whatsoever?"

Keira's eyebrows shot to the top of her head as she realized the implication. "You as well?"

There was a pause. Keira snorted, and both of them promptly burst out laughing a moment later. They let themselves go, releasing all the pent-up stress inside, only stopping when they'd run out of breath.

"That's much better," Keira exhaled, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Completely agreed." Rob stretched and settled into a cross-legged sitting position. He was tempted to divert Keira's attention, but Meyneth was right about one thing: they'd put this off long enough. "Okay," he said, with a note of finality. "I'm ready whenever you are."

Keira copied his pose and nodded. "Yes, let's start this now before I can trick myself into panicking again." She took a deep breath, psyching herself up, and took the plunge. "There is a reason I reacted as poorly as I did when waking up next to you. It has to do with events that occurred several years ago – nothing serious, by some standards, but events that affected me deeply nonetheless. As I said this morning, you weren't my first." Keira paused. "But...you were my second. For sex and relationships both."

Rob nodded, waiting for her to gather her thoughts. Curiosity was brewing in his mind – this wasn't sounding like the start of a typical ex-boyfriend story – but he'd keep it in check until she finished. And when the time for questions began, he'd make sure to only ask things that would help Keira to hear. This was about her, not him.

"You may recall that I was hardly the most popular person in The Village," Keira deadpanned. "In a sense, that much hasn't changed. They possess a greater appreciation for me nowadays due to my accomplishments, but when it comes to liking me personally, I have my doubts. The Villagers and I are like oil and water, too different at our base nature to mix properly. Even if they did approach me someday with the best of intentions, I'll never be able to believe that they're being forthright."

She grimaced. "Part of that has to do with how isolated I used to be. When my parents died, I was left with no one. It...gods, it was torturous. I only became friends with Men'ta a few months before you arrived; until then, I was alone except for the intermittent pity that Riardin granted me."

Something must've shown on Rob's face, because Keira immediately held up a hand to forestall his thoughts. "And in case you're beginning to wonder, this story isn't about Men'ta. We were no more than friends." She paused. "Or...did he just pity me too?" After a moment, Keira shook her head, sighing once again. "No matter; it's in the past. I can scarcely ask him now. Regardless; the stage has been set. You can imagine what my life was like in the eight years that I lived in The Village."

Her hands clenched into fists. "You can also imagine why I would be skeptical when – four years ago – someone approached me with romantic overtures. I'd rather not speak his name, lest I be overcome with an urge to break things, so I'll refer to him henceforth as The Asshole. It fits, especially considering I didn't even know his name when he declared his 'love' for me."

With visible effort, Keira unclenched her hands. "Looking back," she murmured, "I was pathetic. Laughable, really-"

"Fuck no," Rob stated. "Whatever happened wasn't your fault. I won't let you insult yourself like that; you don't deserve it."

Keira smiled for a brief instant. "Thank you," she said. "But calling my situation 'laughable' isn't too far from the truth. The Asshole was, if I'm being honest, fairly poor at romance. His personality was dull, he wasn't particularly handsome, his lines were likely ripped from torrid novels, and worst of all, his attempts at portraying himself as a genuinely good person came across as nothing more than grandstanding. No self-respecting Elf would have fallen for any of his bullshit."

She narrowed her eyes. "The thing is, while I was skeptical, I was also starved for affection. To a younger Keira, even more inexperienced in the ways of romance than I am now, The Asshole was a breath of fresh air. Oh, joy, I thought! Someone was recognizing my existence. Halfheartedly, perhaps, but at least they were making the pretense of loving me. So I went along with his advances, and after a few months of courtship, things progressed as they do."

Keira bared her teeth. "Do you know what he said the very next day when I woke up next to him? 'Ah, finally. You were a difficult lock to pick.'"

Rob suppressed the anger rising in his chest, waiting patiently as Keira worked up the motivation to continue. "As it turns out," she said, in a mocking tone. "I was the subject of a wager between him and his friends. They wanted to see how long it would take before he...well. Suffice to say, after he got what he wanted, he was done with me. He told me as much in so many words. I suppose he expected me to turn tail and run away with tears streaming down my face; back then, I was somewhat less outspoken than I am now."

Savage fury blazed in Keira's eyes. "I broke every last bone in his body," she crowed. "And he's lucky I didn't rip his fucking cock off. Gave me a reputation in some circles, but all the better. No one ever tried to pull something like that on me again."

"I see," Rob calmly said, unable to stay quiet any longer. "As a side note, I'd like to point out that I barely got any flak for openly admitting that I'd kill Vargas if I wanted to. My reputation clearly has enough wiggle room for one or two extrajudicial murders. Hint hint."

"That's sweet of you," Keira said, smiling. "But you needn't worry yourself. The Asshole died when The Village was invaded. Ripped into a thousand tiny pieces, I heard." A dreamy, satisfied expression passed across her face. "What's that Earth phrase that's a favorite of yours? Silver linings?"

Keira paused, the joy fading from her countenance as she rubbed her face and sighed. "If only my memories had died with him," she mumbled. "I haven't been able to forget what happened back then. It left me certain that no one could ever love me. That if a person did express romantic interest in me, it would just be as part of another sick joke."

Her mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Despite what Meyneth might believe, I'm not blind. I know that my feelings and your feelings are mutual. I know that you're nothing like The Asshole. I know that happiness has been a mere conversation away for months now. Logically, I know all these things, but up here..." She tapped her head. "Is a big confused mess that's too caught up in the past."

Keira looked away, nervously twiddling her fingers. "So...it would help if you could...say it out loud..."

Rob reached out and held her hands. "I promise you," he began, in a warm voice. "When I say that..." Fuck it, moment of truth. "When I say that I love you, I mean it. From the bottom of my heart, I do."

Keira blushed, smiling shyly as she gripped his hands tight. "What, no hesitation?" she asked, in a faux-annoyed tone. "It seems that you've cornered me. What else can I do except say that...I love you too."

It was strange how much impact four short words could have. In that moment, Rob felt on top of the world, like he was surfing on a sea of clouds as the heavens trumpeted his ascent. His face was burning red as a tomato, and the stress typically coiled in his stomach had been replaced with a light, airy floatiness. Everything felt...right.

They sat like that for a while, just holding hands and smiling at each other. No words were spoken, and no words were necessary.

It was nice.

"This is nice," Rob said.

"It is," Keira agreed. "Why didn't we do this sooner?"

"Because we're stupid."

"Ah, makes sense."

They shared some laughs together, although this giggle fit was much shorter than the previous one. Both of them were well on their way to mental exhaustion, and laughter took more energy than they had to spare.

"In the interest of reciprocity," Keira said, once they'd calmed down. "Are there any past relationship woes that you'd like to discuss with me? Only if it would help, of course. I want to be there for you if I can."

She rubbed her finger over the top of Rob's hand, sending an electric jolt through his body that shut down his brain for a few seconds. When he could think again, he began to speak, deciding that honesty should be met with honesty. "My romantic history isn't very interesting," he confessed. "Had one relationship that lasted a few months. I could try and paint her as a crazy ex-girlfriend, but...no, it was your standard, run-of-the-mill failed relationship. Some people are great at dating from the get-go; we, however, were not. She was a sub-par girlfriend, and I was a sub-par boyfriend. Nothing dramatic, we just both had a lot of learning to do, and by the time we did, the well was poisoned."

He hesitated, before continuing on to the parts that were actually embarrassing. "If anything, any hangups I have come from elsewhere. I kinda grew up being...overshadowed, a bit. A lot. Not the guy's fault, but I guess it gave me something of a complex." Rob offered Keira a sheepish grin. "Honestly? The biggest reason I was scared to confess to you – despite Diplomacy's and Meyneth's encouragement – was because I could never fully convince myself that the most beautiful woman I've ever seen would fall for a guy like me."

Keira went from preening at Rob's mention of 'most beautiful woman ever' to appearing offended over his usage of 'a guy like me'. "That's absurd," she stated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Are you saying that I have poor taste?"

Rob pointed at her. "That," he remarked, "is cheating."

"Good," Keira nodded. "If you're complaining, that means it's working." She leaned forward and locked eyes with him. "Listen to me, Rob. I love you. You were there for me when no one else was. The fact that you're kind, strong, and attractive are all just bonuses." She smirked. "Very, very pleasant bonuses."

"Am I that attractive, though?" Rob asked. "Like, I don't think I'm ugly, but-"

"7 out of 10?"

"On a good day, yeah. Compared to the Elatran standard, I'm nothing special."

Distantly, he knew that he was being an idiot for arguing against his own attractiveness. To his surprise, though, he realized that he wasn't worried. Just as Keira trusted him to understand her hangups and work through them with her, he trusted her to do the same for him.

"You've mentioned so before," Keira said, her interest piqued. "I'd like to clarify something – are people of Elatra truly considered to be that attractive compared to Earth Humans?"

A large subsection of the internet would be drooling over everyone except the Merfolk, Rob thought. And even they'd have their fans.

"I can't say for certain what people other than me would think," is what he decided to say. "But in general? Yeah, you guys are hotter."

"Are you judging yourself based on the appearance of other races?" Keira asked. She paused, struggling to put long-internalized social mores into words. "That's not the perspective that most Elatrans take. Elves may have more graceful, polished features than Humans, but that doesn't mean that Elves are inherently better-looking. Humans are attractive by their own standard; one that utilizes an alternative criteria."

Rob thought back. "The gang of Elatran Humans I saw during my Attunement vision were no slouches either."

"That's odd," Keira stated, tilting her head. "I've met Elatran Humans in the past, and you were no less attractive than them. You have...how shall I put this...an exotic appeal. Similar enough to the Elven populace that I grew up with to be comfortable, yet different enough to be enticing." She grinned. "Some might say I'm biased – I say they're missing out."

It was at that point that Rob's insecurities threw in the towel. He didn't think he'd ever completely understand what Keira saw in his appearance, but she did see something in him, apparently, and that was enough to soothe the part of him fretting over pointless hangups.

The rest of him had already been convinced that Keira loved him when she said that he'd 'been there for her when no one else was'. That was a notion he got on an implicit level, as he felt the same way. Keira may have been kind, strong, and attractive, but those were just some extremely pleasant bonuses. They weren't the main reason he loved her.

Rob loved her because, in an alien world that had been trying to kill him at every turn – and still was – she'd been the first one to extend a hand of friendship, even sticking her neck out for him with absolutely zero benefit to herself. He was alive today largely because Keira understood what it was like to be someone with no one else to turn to. Would any of the other Elves have done the same in her shoes? Doubtful. They'd have riddled him with arrows before he could get a word in edgewise.

That was why Keira was special, and always would be. What he felt for her was the kind of emotional connection that could only be forged during the lowest point of a person's life. It was one thing for someone to tell you that you could rely on them no matter what, and another for that person to actually be there at your worst – and do everything they could to help you get back on your feet. She could've easily ignored him or kicked him while he was down. The vast majority of Elatrans would have. Instead, she'd shown compassion, and she'd shown it for him.

He'd find a way to put all that into words when he stopped feeling so tongue-tied when looking at her. Damn if he wasn't the luckiest bastard in the world.

"Feel better?" Keira asked, with hope in her voice.

"I do," Rob said, nodding. "Thanks for the ego boost."

"Let me know if you need another," Keira remarked, smirking. Her smirk froze as she hesitated, gathering the courage to say what was next on her mind. "So...what now? We both love each other. Does that mean we're officially in a relationship?" She started fidgeting again. "Assuming that you'd like to be in a relationship with me. I mean, I would. Very much so. But if you require more time-"

Rob leaned over and kissed her.

Deeply.

A minute later, they disengaged, panting heavily. "That answer your question?" Rob answered, a dopey grin on his face.

Keira tackled him.

Everything that followed was for their eyes and ears only.

--

40 Minutes Later

Meyneth barged into the room, eyes narrowed. After a quick surveying of the premises, she relaxed her posture, meeting Rob and Keira's glares with a nod of satisfaction. "Good. I see that you will not require further encoura-"

"LEAVE."

Chapter 51

"Have you heard from the Merfolk?" Duran asked.

Alessia shook her head, eyes fixated on the pile of notes splayed in front of her. "Not yet," she replied. "Which I will admit is unexpected. A week is plenty long enough for King Cyraeneus to lick his wounds and send a Diplomat over. The Merfolk may be isolationist by nature, but I assumed that Rob's ability to Purge Corruption would have interested them to at least a slight degree."

Duran leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin. "Perplexing," he commented. "Is it fear deterring them, do you think? From the Merfolks' perspective, Riardin's Rangers could merely be the first of many Combat Class users preparing for an invasion. Imagine scores of fighters with underwater aptitude, enough power to humble King Cyraeneus, and who are allied with the Fiends, no less. For all they know, a botched negotiation could result in war – the first defensive war in the history of their people. And while we know that the Fiends possess little desire to shed blood, the Merfolk have no such guarantee that their neighbors are amenable to peace."

Alessia grimaced. "They should know. According to Rob, he explained as much."

"Which could very well have been lies meant to bait them into a false sense of security," Duran countered, shrugging. "We should hope they never learn about Hazmat Suits; the knowledge would send them into a well-justified panic."

Rob's invention had opened up a wealth of possibilities. Aside from allowing non-Fiends to enter Blighted Lands, there was talk of repurposing the suit to function as an underwater breathing device. While it wouldn't solve the problem of low-light visibility, reduced mobility, or increased pressure at lower depths, the inevitability of drowning had always been the main obstacle preventing others from exploring Merfolk territory. It was a geographical barrier more effective than the tallest mountain range.

Hazmat Suits had the potential to negate that disparity. Duran foresaw a future where the Merfolk, no longer able to hide beneath their waters, were dragged deeper into Elatran politics. Kicking and screaming, if necessary. Ideally, it would be a change that led to greater cooperation between all races, helping create a unified front capable of turning back the Blight.

And in the short term, it might. In the long term, Duran knew full well that it would lead to war, the Merfolk waters darkening red within the next two or three centuries. Interactions between nations always ended in conflict. As communication expanded, death would follow.

He found himself grateful that he wouldn't be alive to witness it.

"Who knows?" Duran continued, putting those dreary thoughts out of his mind. "Perhaps the reason that the Merfolk aren't contacting us is because they don't need to. Restoring Nevermore City's Locus may have resulted in a cascading reaction that crippled the Blight for many miles around."

"As if we've ever been that fortunate," Alessia scoffed. She tapped a finger on the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling resting beside her. The Enchanted Item was patiently waiting for the day it would assist with facilitating negotiations in Merfolk territory. "No matter. Either they'll come, or they won't. We have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment." She glanced upwards. "How fares your constitution?"

Duran briefly considered lying before summarily discarding the notion. Alessia would see right through him. "I'm weaker than I used to be," he admitted, sighing. "While the lingering Corruption pains have faded, physically I feel as if I've aged several decades. Hopefully, my lessened stamina doesn't correspond with a measurable decrease in lifespan, but as of now there's no true way of knowing. The long-term complications of extended Corruption exposure are undocumented. We'll only learn more once we see how much my final lifespan ends up falling short of what it should be."

Alessia narrowed her eyes. "Don't speak in such a manner," she stated, in a sharp tone. "You'll outlive all of us; I guarantee it."

"Of course I will," Duran replied, as he adopted a conciliatory smile. Alessia pressed her lips into a thin line, averting her eyes as she looked back down at the stack of papers. Duran wished that he could soothe her worries, and he was tempted to offer up a platitude or two, but decided against it. She needed to grow accustomed to the idea of him dying well before her. That way, she would be prepared when the time finally came.

"What of Rob?" Duran asked instead. Discussing him always took up a measurable chunk of their schedule; perfect for distracting Alessia. "Are his Purging duties going well?"

Alessia hesitated, clearly seeing the conversation change for what it was, but unwilling to point out his misdirection. "Phenomenally well," she answered. "In another week or two he'll have stabilized all the Fiends who were in critical condition. After that, he can move on to completely removing any traces of Corruption in Fiend territory, which we estimate will take a period of several months."

Ah, good news, Duran thought. What a novel concept. "Excellent. What of the ministrations being performed on him by the Soul Surgeons?"

"Not quite so phenomenal," Alessia remarked. She pulled a paper out from the pile and quickly skimmed through it. "But they're managing to prolong his life, which is what matters. From what they've told me, they won't have much more to say until they attain a greater familiarity with the inner workings of his soul."

Duran nodded. "And the Rangers?"

Alessia paused, her cheeks tightening. "Duran," she started, seeming to suppress a sigh. "At what point did our roles transition from leaders to babysitters?"

"Is there a difference?"

Alessia allowed herself a small laugh. "I suppose not. Regardless; the Rangers are, at present, mollified. They disliked how Rob threatened Vargas, but understood why he went that far. Taleya has agreed to keep me informed if any mutinous rumblings begin to arise. Sharing Hand did cause a certain measure of discontent – which was thankfully lessened when I suggested the idea of hunting Amalgamations in Nevermore City. It's a prime opportunity for them to increase their Levels, and furthermore, it would raise their standing among the Fiends significantly."

Her shoulders lowered by a fraction. "The Fiends were...distraught, when they heard that their long-lost brethren had been living hellish existences all this time. And as they can't yet enter Nevermore City, our Rangers are the only ones capable of ending the Amalgamations' torment." Her voice took on a somber note. "In truth, I've half a mind to join the Rangers on their hunts. It's a type of mercy I feel obligated to provide."

Duran silently agreed. No sane, just world was one that would suffer Flesh Amalgamations to exist. They were an affront to all that was good. The two Elders sat in quiet contemplation, memories floating to the surface of a massive ball of undulating flesh breaching The Village's barriers. Duran banished the images from his mind and continued on; there was little point in dwelling on what could not be changed.

"One final question." He knew what Alessia's answer would be, but felt it necessary to confirm her thoughts. "Do you believe it would be wise to rotate out members of Rob's Party so that our Rangers can reap the benefits of Fast Learner and Sharing Hand?"

Alessia set her papers down and looked back up at him. "Swear to secrecy?" she asked, with a tone that implied she knew what his answer would be as well.

"You have my word."

Her lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "I will do everything in my power to keep Rob's Party as it is now," Alessia intently stated. "We live in dark times, and the worst is yet to come. Powerful enemies with overwhelming strength are emerging over the horizon. It burns me to say this, but in the face of utter annihilation, the Rangers scarcely matter. Neither do we. Rob's Party of seven Awakened Class users who've achieved an astonishing degree of growth and synergy, however? They hold an untapped amount of potential. The kind that we'd be fools not to cultivate."

She laced her fingers together. "I'll say it plainly: distributing EXP equally amongst the Deserters would be tantamount to suicide. A few extra Levels for the Rangers here and there will mean nothing when the Dragon Queen comes to reap her due. Riardin's Rangers – who've already proven their ability to defeat an Elatran Leader – will be our key to victory. They need to become as strong as they possibly can if any of us want the barest chance of surviving the Blight and Ragnavi."

Alessia hesitated. "And surviving what comes after."

As if he'd been prodded in the spine, Duran automatically sat up straight. "After?"

Seconds passed. Alessia glanced at the door, and then for some reason, the ceiling. "This is absurd," she muttered to herself. "How is one supposed to discuss strategy when privacy is never a guarantee? I can only hope that Rob is drawing their attention at this particular moment."

Duran's eyes widened as a startling realization fell over him. "You're referring to the gods."

"Quite so," Alessia said, as she folded her arms across her chest. "Elatra's greatest adversaries. Peace will never fully come to our world until the gods have been removed from the board. Expunged like the monsters they are. And as Riardin's Rangers are preoccupied with more immediate concerns, it falls to you and I to devise an appropriate plan of battle for what lies awaiting at the end."

Duran grimaced. "I...cannot disagree," he said. "Yet this may be a goal that lies beyond our capabilities. We are mortals; they are divine. Based on Rob's accounts of his Attunement sessions, they could have erased him with but a thought."

"During an Attunement session, yes," Alessia countered. "In their personal domain, when Rob was a mere shade with no physical body. We've yet to see how powerful they are on even ground. After all, if they were truly omnipotent, they wouldn't be so limited in the ways they can affect Elatra."

Sparks of energy pulsed on her fingertips as Alessia clenched her fists. "Don't misinterpret my conviction as recklessness," she continued. "I doubt we can defeat them as we are now – which is another reason why Riardin's Rangers should accelerate their growth as much as they can. In return, our primary role will be to find a way to either enter the god's domain in the flesh, or preferably, to drag them to ours. I've already spoken with several Fiend mages about the possibility of elevating their teleportation magic into a form that can pierce through dimensions."

She bared her teeth. "I was rather forceful with my request. They'll see it done. Once that task is completed, and we can fight the gods as equals, the rest will follow as a matter of course."

Alessia's eyes roared with fury. Gone was the Village Elder; in her place was a Warchief, sharpening her blades in preparation for a righteous crusade. Lingering Corruption pain flared in Duran's bones, and like a heap of kindling struck by lightning, his rage began to swell in turn. Alessia noticed and nodded, her expression shifting from determined to bloodthirsty.

"The gods may be a higher form of life than we are," she intoned. "But everything that lives, dies."

--

Keira hesitated in front of the door, her hand inches away from knocking. Why do I always falter at this step? She bemoaned. Initiating the talk is so much more difficult than the actual talking. Not for the first time, Keira regretted declining Rob's offer to accompany for emotional support. She'd attempted to put on airs of maturity, saying that this was something she needed to do by herself, and look at what her valor had gotten her. Now she was alone on the battlefield, facing a challenge that her greatsword couldn't solve.

She contemplated turning around and making a full retreat, but she'd already put this off long enough, and recent events had proven to her that having stressful-but-necessary conversations with her friends could result in positive change. Who knew? Gathering her courage, Keira knocked twice and waited for an excruciating ten seconds as shuffling sounds resounded behind the door.

"Hello?" The door opened, revealing a curious Zamira standing within her personal quarters. The Bladesoul froze for a split second before recovering her composure. "Good to see you, Keira," she said, in a lighthearted tone that indicated she'd been expecting this. "What brings you here today?"

"Talking," Keira answered. "As in, there's a matter we need to discuss." She winced. "That came out more serious than intended. This doesn't have to be a bad conversation, I think, it's just..."

Zamira quirked an eyebrow. "You're here to tell me that you've officially entered a relationship with Rob, correct?"

Keira hung her head. "Yes," she mumbled. "I have."

She felt like a piece of shit. Keira had, on some level, been aware of Zamira's feelings for her. No, that statement was being too generous to herself – she'd definitely known, especially after Meyneth forced the issue to the forefront of her mind. A certain part of her had even reciprocated that attraction. Zamira was an amazing woman who shared her interests, and in another life, they might have fit well together.

But when it came down to it, Zamira wasn't the one she loved. Rob was. So Keira had merely continued on as though nothing was out of the ordinary, spending time with Zamira like always, paralyzed with fear over how to proceed. Risking her life against monsters twice her Level was simple, but the notion of rejecting a person's romantic interest – who happened to be a person she deeply cared about – was utterly terrifying. What if she hurt Zamira, or lost her as a friend? And then there was that traitorous section of Keira's mind whispering to her that she was an arrogant blowhard for assuming that anyone could be interested in her, and that she would embarrass herself if she went up to Zamira and acted like there was something there.

Those were all just excuses, though. Indecision was a sin that could be as equally harmful as outright cruelty. If she'd played with Zamira's emotions, unintentionally or otherwise, then she needed to address the pain she'd caused. Without looking away.

Doing anything less would mark her as the same type of person as The Asshole.

"I'm sorry if I led you on," Keira said, her voice choking. "I didn't mean to. You're an amazing friend, one of the first I ever had, and-"

"You were afraid of losing me?"

Keira looked up, eyes wide. "Yes," she said, in an awestruck voice. "You knew?"

Zamira gave her a wry smirk. "I've had plenty of time to consider this topic. Months, actually. Meyneth approached me one day and-"

"Meyneth again?!" Keira groaned and slapped her forehead. "Just how many people's romantic entanglements did she see fit to meddle in?"

"Half of our Party's, apparently," Zamira muttered. "At least her meddling gave me the necessary push to come to terms with my feelings towards you. I know that how you care for me isn't the same manner in which you care for Rob. And I'm...accepting of that." She let out a small sigh. "Mildly disappointed, but accepting. It won't be a problem, and I still very much wish to be friends with you."

Keira was close to tears. "You needn't be so self-sacrificing," she stated, shaking her head. "If you're hurting, express it."

"I'll admit to feeling a pang of sorrow," Zamira replied. "But it's smaller than I would have expected, and definitely smaller than it would have been in the past. It'll fade soon enough. In all honesty, it's quite liberating not to be ruled by those sorts of emotions." She smiled. "Come now. Does this look like the face of a jilted woman to you?"

I don't deserve this. Keira couldn't tell if the thought was true or the product of her guilt. Either way, Zamira legitimately seemed to be in the process of moving on, so magnifying the issue by dredging up old feelings would serve no other purpose than to selfishly assuage Keira's own guilt. The only thing she could do was to be grateful for what she had – extremely grateful – and make sure that her indecision never hurt anyone she cared about ever again.

"Thank you," she said, after some time. Keira rubbed her eyes and smiled back. "I very much still wish to be friends with you as well."

Zamira's smile deepened. A moment later, something mischievous glinted in her eyes. "If you can do me one favor," she began, with an excessively casual tone. "Please disband the Party before you and Rob decide to...spend time together. The rest of us learned too much, too quickly that day."

Keira initiated a full retreat at breakneck speed, her face as hot as the sun, Zamira's laughter following her down the hallway as she fled.

--

"Are you okay?"

Meyneth blinked in confusion as she turned to find Vul'to staring at her with a concerned expression. She hadn't detected his approach, which was surprising, as she was currently sitting on an isolated rooftop with no sneaking paths in sight. "Why are you here?" She said, answering his question with another question. "I chose this spot for its privacy."

"People saw you from below," Vul'to replied. "Said you looked pensive. It may be that the Fiends simply aren't used to our presence, and projected nervous feelings onto you where there are none, but I figured I should check on you all the same."

I must have been completely lost in thought if I neglected to notice any of that. Meyneth's neck prickled with apprehension. Sloppy and careless. I learned better than...

Meyneth froze, then let out a low growl. "The Fiends were correct," she admitted. "Entertaining as it was, our night of imbibement unearthed unpleasant memories that I've kept under lock and key for years. Placing them back into confinement is taking longer than it ordinarily does."

Vul'to sat down next to her, his concerned expression never wavering. "Would it help to talk about it? My door is open if you need me."

Meyneth turned away from him, hesitating. Would it help? She wasn't sure. But, if nothing else, she'd pushed her compatriots to share their emotions on numerous occasions. It would be hypocritical for her to do otherwise.

"I hate much about myself," Meyneth stated, without inflection. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vul'to freeze, his posture as stiff as stone. Perhaps she should have eased him into the subject, but it was too late now. "My time spent with Riardin's Rangers has taught me that there are people who like me for who I am," she continued. "And that means more to me than I can possibly say. Still, I hate myself. I'm not sure I'll ever truly stop hating myself. How can I not, when I was raised to do so?"

It was odd, speaking those words aloud. Meyneth wasn't surprised, per se, that one of her friends had managed to catch her in a moment of weakness and persuade her to divulge her most shameful secrets. She did, however, assume that she'd be more emotional when the time came. The rage she'd expected was absent, filled instead by a cold emptiness.

"Dragonkin culture places a heavy emphasis on being successful in your endeavors," she explained. "And especially towards the acquisition of martial prowess. You know that much already. Even by Dragonkin standards, though, my parents were hungry for advancement. They craved nothing more than for my family name to rise to the upper strata of society. And as they failed to accomplish that lofty goal by their own merit, it fell to their progeny to achieve greatness in their stead. Luckily for them, my brother and sister fit the mold they desired: strong, competent, ambitious."

Meyneth looked out at the horizon, finding kinship in the endless void staring back at her. "I was none of those things, and not for a lack of effort on their part. My parents idolized Queen Ragnavi, and as such, their teachings attempted to instill a lust for victory and violence within me." She exhaled slightly. "You can imagine their consternation when my interests ended up trending towards the cerebral. Artistry, mathematics, and the like. Honestly, I believe that I had the potential to be an accomplished Utility Class user, if only my parents let me pursue that avenue. I would have made an excellent foil to my brother and sister, diversifying our family's achievements. Alas, they desired bloodshed, to the detriment of all else, and I lacked the charisma to make up for my deficiencies."

She couldn't bear to look at Vul'to's face. There'd be the scorn of 'Oh, that's all?', or the pity of 'Oh, so that's why you behaved that way when we first met', and either one would cut deep as a knife. She decided to press onward, letting the memories fall out of her mouth. This whole conversation had been a mistake, but she might as well finish what she'd started.

"It became much worse when they discovered that I possessed none of the five Dragonkin racial traits and would never develop them. Not even Heat Immunity or Flame Breath, which virtually all of my people are born with. To Dragonkin society, I was...incomplete." She let out an involuntary shudder at the word. "It was a serious black mark on our family name, and something that they could not tolerate. I wasn't surprised in the slightest when they disowned me. Neither of us bothered saying goodbye. I went into exile immediately after, leaving Dragonkin territory five years ago in an attempt at escaping their shadow."

Meyneth's claws extended unconsciously. "It was of no help. The points of their claws and the bite of their words have stayed with me no matter how far away I run. There is nothing about myself that they didn't teach me to hate." Her voice was rising in pitch, coming close to a snarl. "My hobbies, my personality, my worth as a Dragonkin. Even worse than that, though, I fear-"

"That you might end up like them?"

Her head snapped towards Vul'to. The Guardian's concerned expression was twisting bit by bit, morphing into something as hollow as the abyss on the horizon. "You fear that the cruelty they shaped you with has become a part of you," he continued, voice taut. "That one day you'll wake up and be a mirror image of the people who tore your pride to ribbons. And whenever your memories of them sting like bile in your throat, inspiring hatred that burns as bright as an inferno, you worry that it's an indication the process has finally begun."

Vul'to's eyes took on a distant gaze. "Tell no one I said this," he whispered. "But as someone who was orphaned eight years ago, The Cataclysm was the best thing that ever happened to me."

It occurred to Meyneth just then that she knew very little about Vul'to's past. Less than any other member of Riardin's Rangers, actually. He tended to keep to himself, offering encouragement when necessary, but was otherwise content to let his friends shape most conversations. Yet while she wasn't aware of exactly what Vul'to's childhood had been like, as Meyneth observed his face and listened to his words, she became sure of one thing in certain.

He understood.

"I want to kill them," Meyneth stated, her voice wavering. "It is my greatest desire, one that overrides all others. The strength I've gained up until now is simply a means towards that end. As precious as the friendships I've built within Riardin's Rangers are, if I had to decide between staying with them, or a guarantee of murdering my family with my own two hands, I can't guarantee which path I'd favor."

Judge me, she thought. Shun me. Despise me.

Instead, Vul'to's expression didn't change in the slightest. He only sat there, unmoving, before giving her a nod that spoke volumes.

"Would you like assistance?"

Chapter 52

Sylpeiros leaned against a tree, fingers tapping at his thighs, as five minutes slowly became fifteen. He was unaccustomed to the experience; it wasn't often that people outside of Elatran Leaders kept him waiting. What should I do if a civilian chances upon this place? He wondered. Tell them that their Seneschal has a habit of wandering around the secluded outskirts of Reviton City at midnight?

Granted, they may very well accept that explanation. People seldom questioned the habits of high-Leveled Combat Class users, let alone their sovereign. It was one of the perks that came with overwhelming power, perks which were – unfortunately – not anywhere near plentiful enough to counterbalance the litany of responsibilities he'd been saddled with ever since reaching Level 50.

"You're still here," a low voice said, echoing from the shadows. "I wasn't sure if you'd have run off by now."

Sylpeiros rolled his eyes. "In that case, why'd you take so damn long to show?"

"Precautionary measures," Kenzotul said, stepping forward. "Did my rounds to confirm you were truthful. Either you've come alone as promised, or whatever lackeys I missed are exceptionally talented Stealth operatives." His lips crept upwards into a smile. "If so, then I must offer preemptive congratulations on capturing me."

Sylpeiros suppressed a growl. Kenzotul knew full well that he was worth more as a saboteur with plausible deniability than as a prisoner rotting away in the stockades. His insufferable behavior was nothing more than an attempt to incense Sylpeiros into losing his composure. It was a cheap ploy; one that the Seneschal was succumbing to despite his efforts. He didn't know why, but something about Kenzotul annoyed him on an intrinsic level, as if the saboteur was constantly and purposefully tracking mud onto a floor Sylpeiros had just finished cleaning.

"You have news?" He asked, activating Poker Face to calm his features. If Kenzotul noticed the Seneschal's agitation, he didn't comment, mercifully electing to skip straight to business.

"I do," he answered. "A little regarding the Dwarves, and a lot regarding the Dragon Queen. Which would you like to hear first?"

"The Dwarves," Sylpeiros affirmed. It would serve as an appetizer for whatever news had prompted Kenzotul to request an in-person meeting instead of the usual written correspondences.

The saboteur nodded. "If you'll recall my last missive," he began. "I noted that the Dwarves had been transitioning into a state of full-blown seclusion. As of three days ago, that transition is now complete. To my knowledge, they've relocated all Dwarven skyborn citizens from their surface settlements to the inner mountain sanctums. Additionally, they've collapsed every pathway leading in and out of those sanctums, cutting off trade and communication entirely."

His voice lowered. "News of that will spread soon. What likely won't spread is the fact that the Dwarves are planning something calamitous in nature. I'm not sure exactly what, and the merchant I interrogated knew little more than vaguely ominous tidings of a 'clandestine project', but whatever they're scheming sounds like it will have ramifications that extend far beyond Dwarven borders."

Sylpeiros narrowed his eyes. Rock-addled simpletons, the lot of them, he thought. A Blight invasion was hardly the time for isolationism and secrecy. He'd have expected this brand of foolishness from King Cyraeneus, not the Stonewarden. Was Grant truly that upset about The Scouring that he'd turn his back on the world when its ruination came calling?

No matter. Closed borders or otherwise, the Dwarves would heed a direct visit from the Elven Seneschal himself. And if they didn't, Sylpeiros would carve a path of his own, by word or by lance. Whichever made them listen to reason faster.

"Noted," Sylpeiros said, inclining his head at the saboteur. "You've done good work."

Kenzotul's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. "Is that a compliment I spy?"

"Don't make me regret it," Sylpeiros muttered. "What of the Dragon Queen?"

Any levity in Kenzotul's expression vanished in an instant. "What of her, indeed." He sighed, bracing himself. "You're aware of the saying: 'Pyrrhic victory'?"

"Of course." Pyrria was a Harpy Queen from thousands of years ago who'd committed to a devastating war that left her territory in shambles. At its end, she'd declared victory and returned home expecting to be hailed as a conquering hero. Her head was on a pike within the hour, displayed openly for the public to jeer at, a reminder of what could happen when Leaders overstepped their bounds. "Don't tell me-"

"The Queen yet lives, and her territory holds," Kenzotul assured. "But she came into closer contact with a matured Blight than was wise. From what I know, the incident occurred before we fully understood Corruption and its permanence. She did kill the abomination, which is good news, but it infected her to such a degree that half of her maximum HP has been depleted."

Sylpeiros barely stopped himself from gasping. It was a near thing, as Kenzotul's information was shocking in three distinct ways. First, that the Dragon Queen was strong enough to defeat a matured Blight all on her lonesome. Second, that a matured Blight was strong enough to trade blows with the closest thing Elatra had to a demigod. And third, that a significant portion of Dragonkin military might was just...gone. In the blink of an eye. As if Elatra hadn't been cowering under the shadow of Ragnavi's wings ever since she Awakened.

He was, to an extent, exaggerating. The Dragon Queen was still an exceptionally formidable opponent despite the loss of half of her maximum HP. With that said, there was a marked difference between 'formidable' and 'nigh-unkillable'. As Ragnavi was now, Sylpeiros could, in theory, conceive of a working stratagem to defeat her. Such a plan would involve heavy sacrifice and no less than two Elatran Leaders working in tandem, but there was a chance that it might actually succeed. In the past, any similar plans he'd tried to devise ended up seeming more like wish-fulfillment fiction than anything legitimately plausible.

All of which were things to consider in detail – after the Blight was expunged. For now, Ragnavi's hobbling could only be taken as a detriment to Elatra's cause. Their strongest weapon had rushed out like a feckless imbecile and gotten her wings clipped.

"Where and how did this occur?" Sylpeiros asked. "Spare no details."

"I won't, but details are sparse," Kenzotul admitted. "You must understand that what I've learned comes from the mouths of Dragonkin, who are acutely aware of what their Queen will do to them if she hears of their loose lips. There are also a hundred false rumors flying around about what transpired, and separating the wheat from the chaff has been an arduous task. With that in mind, I've managed to ascertain several things, including the location of the Queen's duel with the Blight and the reason why she was so careless."

He paused, waiting for a potential question, but Sylpeiros simply motioned for the saboteur to continue. "Very well," Kenzotul said, nodding. "The Dragon Queen encountered the aforementioned Blight in the middle of Human territory. It was sieging a place called Broadwater City."

"Siege?" Sylpeiros raised an eyebrow. "You can't siege a graveyard. Was the city inhabited?"

Kenzotul's shoulders tensed. "By Fiends, yes."

Sylpeiros was unable to suppress the grimace that spread across his face. Fiends, that far south? As if Elatra didn't have enough problems already. "Does this pertain to why Ragnavi engaged the Blight without support?" He asked, well-worn dread settling over him like an old cloak. "Lothren preserve – did she attempt to fight the Blight and Fiends simultaneously?"

The saboteur hesitated. Unlike before, he seemed unsure of what to say – or rather, how much. "It is possible," he continued, drawing out his words. "All I'm certain of is that...the remnants of The Village were living amongst The Fiends."

Sylpeiros blinked. "Together?"

"Apparently so."

What the fuck. "They could...communicate?"

Kenzotul shrugged. "Likely. We can't know for sure. Ragnavi attacked, forcing them to flee."

Sylpeiros massaged his forehead. Without trying to get answers? Why? Even Ragnavi is more prescient  than-

Ah. "The Human was still with them," Sylpeiros reasoned. "And his presence drove Ragnavi into a mindless fury."

Kenzotul said nothing.

"So now he allies with Fiends, does he?" A sneer bubbled up onto Sylpeiros' face. "This is the creature you've put so much faith into?"

"Not just him," Kenzotul countered. "The remaining Villagers have seemingly thrown their lot in with the Fiends as well. They wouldn't have done so without very good reason." He frowned, voice taking on a defensive edge. "And think of what this means. We're seeing new races finding common ground. Former enemies joining hands in our time of need against the Blight. The first alliance between north and south in the history of Elatra! Elves reaching an accord with Fiends should be celebrated, not condemned. Isn't this the exact kind of change you've been hoping for all this time?"

It was. Once Sylpeiros moved past the shock of the Fiends allying with anyone but themselves, he could objectively admit that this was a promising development. Especially considering the growing problem that the Dwarves were turning out to be. It should have made him happy.

"Why are you so quick to defend the Human?" Sylpeiros spat, his disquieted irritation gnawing at him like a starving animal chewing on a stripped-clean bone. "Does he even remember your name?"

"Doubtful," Kenzotul instantly replied. "Yet as I've told you before, I work for the sake of a future with the least amount of bloodshed, not for the acknowledgment of any one person."

"It would hurt if he didn't acknowledge you, though," Sylpeiros commented, mind racing. "I wonder. When the Human judged you, and told you to live rather than seek an easy death, would he have been so kind if he knew the full extent of your actions in The Scouring?"

Kenzotul flinched, and Sylpeiros noticed, pouncing on the moment of weakness. "Nothing to say to that?" He crowed. "You were a member of the Unspoken, if I recall. As the person who commanded them, I know better than anyone that – despite your professed desires – no one has more blood staining their hands than they. How do you think the Human would regard you if he knew exactly what-"

"He would hate me," Kenzotul interjected, sounding very tired. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

As if he'd broken from a trance, Sylpeiros froze, mouth half-open as he stood there in silence.

"That's all the news I have for you," Kenzotul continued, eyes averted. "Will contact you if anything arises."

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the night.

The quiet that followed was deafening.

There, Sylpeiros thought to himself. You finally shook him. Finally got the last word in against him. Be glad – that was the victory you wanted.

So why didn't it feel like one?

The night offered no answers.

He was quiet as he returned to Reviton City. Sylpeiros strode through the front gate without notice, gave resolute nods to those few wandering the streets, and kept his back straight and his expression impassive – until the moment he'd entered his personal quarters and locked the door behind him. Then the facade collapsed, and Sylpeiros collapsed into a chair along with it, an exhausted man who wanted little more than to close his eyes and open them later to a world that made sense again.

Naturally, his transient peace was disturbed several minutes later by the chirping of a Message Crystal. Sylpeiros groaned as he practically shoved himself to his feet and trudged over to the corner of his room where the Crystal resided. Without checking to see who was contacting him, Sylpeiros activated the Crystal and donned the guise of a Leader. "Seneschal Sylpeiros, speaking," he said. "And you are?"

There was a pause. "Oh," the voice on the other line crackled. "Wasn't expecting you to answer right away."

"Unlike some," Sylpeiros began. "I recognize the importance of open communications during a worldwide crisis." He took a bit of savage pleasure in the way that the messenger stumbled over their words upon hearing that.

"I, I see." Another pause. "I am an attendant speaking in place of King Morcant Cyraeneus," they said, seeming to have at last found their footing. "He wishes to inquire about an Elf named Riardin, and to inform you that this Elf has been witnessed north."

Sylpeiros narrowed his eyes, several puzzle pieces fitting together as he examined the attendant's words. "Witnessed...north." He weighed his options, then settled on the offensive approach. "Allied with Fiends, I might imagine?"

The attendant sputtered. "How did-"

"I have my ways." Sylpeiros grinned. "And what act did Riardin perform, so egregiously obscene, that you're entreating his Seneschal for information?"

"He invaded Merfolk territory," the attendant hissed. "His soldiers did, at any rate. A Party of Elves, Fiends, and even a damn Human was among them, all swimming and breathing as if they were Merfolk themselves. By Odium's gills, I swear it to be true. We believe that Riardin is making inroads with the Fiends and raising an elite corps of Combat Class users with unique capabilities. For what purpose, remains to be seen."

That would have been a difficult endeavor for Riardin to carry out, considering that he was dead. Perished fighting his Village's Blight, presumably. Then again, traversing the ocean depths was supposed to be impossible for non-Merfolk, so a faked death was low on the list of irregularities to worry about. "By what means were they able to breathe underwater?" Sylpeiros asked.

"We've narrowed it down to an Enchanted Item, a special Skill, or a new type of spell," the attendant helpfully answered.

So you haven't the faintest idea. Sylpeiros barely held back a sigh. "What actions did they take while in Merfolk territory?" He queried. "And why do you presume that it was Riardin who raised this...elite corps?"

"We cannot tell you what crimes they committed," the attendant responded, prompting Sylpeiros to raise both eyebrows. It must have been quite embarrassing for the Merfolk, then, although not in any manner that was permanent. Otherwise the attendant would be trying to foist some of the blame onto the Elven race as a whole in order to demand concessions. Sylpeiros briefly wondered if a second Elatran Leader had been humbled, but no, that was too much for one day. The fates weren't that perverse.

"As for why we know Riardin was their instigator," the attendant continued. "His soldiers openly called themselves 'Riardin's Rangers'."

That one sentence completely threw Sylpeiros' theories into disarray. No chessmaster operating in the shadows would name his pawns after himself. Why bother faking his own death, only to announce his presence to the world for no discernible benefit? It was far more likely that Riardin was dead, and the Human's Party chose their moniker as a tribute to their fallen comrade.

Sylpeiros nearly burst out laughing as comprehension dawned on him. This wasn't a tale of a chessmaster's cunning schemes – it was one of separate factions bumbling into each other, and the bruised egos that followed. The Merfolk attendant wouldn't be hiding so much information if this were a simple act of invasion, and the Villagers wouldn't have fled Ragnavi's wrath just to start a war up north. That meant that whatever happened between them was unintended. They'd instigated an international incident by accident.

And in doing so, they'd done Sylpeiros' work for him. Tasking the Merfolk with killing the Human would be as easy as a few choice words. Losing out on shareable Fast Learner was unfortunate, but as the Human was on the other side of Elatra, that prospect was no longer feasible. Best to remove the ability entirely before it fell into the wrong hands. With an air of giddiness, Sylpeiros opened his mouth and said...

He said...

Images flashed through his mind. Blood running down motionless Elven faces. Leveling High-inflamed Humans laughing as they brought down their swords. White rays of light ravaging the land around him.

Kenzotul, eyes averted, a defeated look on his face.

"Riardin is dead," Sylpeiros stated, his voice hollow. "And has been for half a year. I believe that there's been a misunderstanding on your part – you're inventing a mastermind where none exists."

The attendant let out a small gasp that went ignored as Sylpeiros continued. "If Elves and a Human were seen working with the Fiends, then that means they've gained the ability to communicate with each other." His hands clenched into fists. "In our time of need, with the Blight encroaching upon every corner of Elatra, it would be remiss to treat potential allies as enemies. Are the crimes that Riardin's Rangers committed in Merfolk territory beyond forgiveness?"

"...No, but-"

"Then forgive them," the Seneschal ordered. "And contact them with overtures of cooperation. Lothren preserve, we could certainly use the help."

He deactivated the Message Crystal without a second thought, the attendant's retort cutting out in a way that might have been comical under other circumstances.

Silence returned, less reassuring than it'd been a few minutes before.

Sylpeiros dragged himself to bed. Unfortunately, sleep never came. He lay awake for the rest of the night, unable to shake the incessant feeling that he'd betrayed some part of himself.

--

"Strange creature, isn't he?"

Kismet glanced at Fames with a blank, unamused expression. He hated meeting on neutral ground; it meant he couldn't expel anyone who began to irritate him. His fingers itched for his coin, but they'd forbade him from bringing it. Some nonsense about ensuring that he 'paid attention to what they were saying' – as if they'd ever exhibited that same respect towards him.

"How astute of you," Kismet remarked. "Tell me – what was your first indication?"

Fames gestured at the scrying portal. Currently, Rob was being examined by a Fiend mage who was attempting to make sense of his jumbled wreckage graciously called a soul. "Ignoring your unnecessary glibness," Fames continued. "When looking at that scene, I can count five things – as a start – that were never supposed to be possible. This pet project of yours is breaking rule after rule."

She turned to face Iram. "You were the one who prepared his soul for integration into the system. Did you, perchance, sneak in anything extra without our knowing?"

"Of course I fucking didn't," Iram snapped. "Don't blame his longevity on me. Kismet was the one who claimed he'd last a day at worst, a month at best – not perform a succession of miracles in front of our very eyes."

Partially incorrect, Kismet thought. The only thing resembling an actual miracle he'd witnessed was the birth of the Crystal Bearer Sub-Class. Rob's other oddities could be explained by luck, tenacity, quick thinking, and unforeseen interactions with the system due to a shoddy integration. Crystal Bearer, however, was an anomaly through and through, one that Kismet was still struggling to unravel. It not only gave Rob access to system capabilities normally restricted from mortals, it was evolving as it did so, creating entirely new abilities to match his progression.

As just one example, Awakened Classes – an aberration that never should have existed – were effortlessly co-opted by Crystal Bearer and turned into a simple upgrade to be handed out at will. Then there was Purge Corruption, so powerful and ruthlessly efficient that it gave Kismet pause. Like a mortal body developing natural antibodies against a virus, Crystal Bearer was responding to the #*@$&@#()*$ by manufacturing a new form of energy meant solely for the purpose of expunging that which Rob desired to expunge. Could all of that truly be explained away as a once in a million occurrence, or was it a way for the system's back end to rebel in the only way it could?

Either way, it had happened, and it was bringing irreversible changes to the Lower Planes in the process. Plans would need to be adjusted accordingly. The past was immutable; all they could do now was guide events so that Crystal Bearer ended up being a boon in their favor.

Assuming we can manage that much. With a heavy gaze, Kismet swept his eyes across their gathering of higher beings. Iram and Fames were still bickering. Odium was glaring at the scrying portal with silent, bottomless hatred. Malid was sulking in the corner, unwilling to add to the discourse when he'd been embarrassed by Rob several times prior. And Vivacity was brimming with excitement, on the verge of interjecting herself into Iram and Fames' argument for no reason other than to amuse herself.

Indolence. The totality of their kind gathered into one place, and all Kismet thought when looking at them was indolence. On some level, he understood; this period had long since run its course, and boredom was an insidious creature. And on most days, he wouldn't have cared about their conduct in the slightest. Today, however, it came across as...disconcerting. Like they were making a mockery of the reason they'd done all this in the first place. The longer he watched, the more he became convinced that he couldn't trust their judgement. They'd ceased to think further than a single step into the future.

So be it. If they were going to finish this, he was going to make sure they did it right.

"Should we push the Human to employ Crystal Bearer against the #*@$&@#()*$?" Vivacity asked, finally jumping in. "Conscripting him to solve our problems for us sounds like a fun way to pass the time."

"Why bother, Lothren?" Iram scoffed. "He's already set himself on that course. If anything, our encouragement might make him wary."

Vivacity tilted her head and blinked. "Oh," she said, face eventually lighting up. "Is that what they're calling me these days?"

"Both of you are right," Kismet cut in, interrupting their trivial back-and-forth. "And both of you are wrong. It is highly unlikely that Rob will respond to our directives with anything other than suspicion. There is no need to interfere when he is already confronting an issue in our stead. With that in mind, some degree of preparation would still be wise. Rob is obstinate and rebellious at his core – the time will come when he raises his sword in defiance of our will."

"And if he does?" Fames stared at the scrying portal with a hungry gaze. "Can I be the one to kill him? Tear his cells asunder and watch them burst apart like joyous little balloons?"

"That is your prerogative," Kismet said, suppressing a sigh. "I, on the other hand, prefer the indirect approach."

Kismet waved his hand. The scrying portal shifted, replacing Rob with another human about his age. This one was taller, his features chiseled, his posture straight with confidence. The original, Kismet thought. A second anomaly, albeit one far more explainable. This one's integration with the system had been initiated by temporary contact with a portal to Elatra. As a result, his integration was incomplete, although it was less prone to collapse due to its gradual assimilation into his body and the lack of time for Iram to insert Leveling High.

In passing, Kismet contemplated how his last-ditch attempt at staving off ennui would have gone had Rob not pushed the Original out of the way. Kismet's initial target was chosen based on several distinct factors; his prodigious athletic prowess, innate charismatic attributes, and relatively young age for his species, the last of which would allow him to develop quickly in response to obstacles. He'd been carefully selected – among many possible candidates – in order to maximize the longevity of a disadvantaged actor in a treacherously harsh environment. Rob, in comparison, was an objectively worse choice in nearly every capacity. Not terrible by any means, but lesser.

Yet somehow, he was the exact person needed to surpass all expectations. Kismet doubted that Rob's feats would be replicated if he subjected countless other humans to the same scenario. In truth, he doubted that Rob would be able to replicate Rob's feats a second time. One different choice, one moment of hesitation in battle, one left turn instead of a right turn, even so much as an errant twitch of an eyebrow could have thrown the delicate balance that allowed him to survive into disarray. And it wasn't just his triumphs; Rob's mistakes were equally essential to shaping the path that he now walked. So while the Original may have been the best choice for Kismet's venture, in the end, he wasn't the right one.

Which didn't mean he couldn't still be useful.

"Rob is liable to defy us in a straightforward, direct manner," Kismet continued. "And that kind of person is easily exploited. We only need but one thing to make him dance to our tune."

Kismet gazed down at the Original. For the first time in centuries, his lips curled into a smile.

"Leverage."

Chapter 53

Three Weeks Later

"So you're absolutely sure this is going to work?" Rob asked, arching an eyebrow for emphasis.

"I swear on my soul that it will," the Fiend mage asserted, with a confident tone that was hopefully deserved. "Our tests thus far have been successful in every capacity."

Rob paused. "You're double absolutely sure? Because when we got teleported into Merfolk territory, your spell missed its mark by literal miles, and today's version is aiming a lot farther away."

The mage shook her head. "We lacked people to use as focal points for your excursion into Merfolk territory. In this instance, your Elven brethren have provided us with the necessary mana signatures to fine-tune our spell. You see, when a person lives in a specific place for years at a time, their mana begins to align with the corresponding mana of that particular area, which-"

Rob forced himself to relax as he let the mage's explanation wash over him. She at least seemed like she knew what she was talking about, and it's not like the Fiends were going to risk harming their golden goose, anyway. They wouldn't be offering a teleportation trip to southern Elatra unless they were certain that Roy the Purge Corruption Dispenser was guaranteed to return safe and sound.

It had all started with a single, off-handed comment, when Elder Alessia mentioned one of her 'bucket list' wishes several weeks ago. A mage promptly informed her that achieving her wish would actually be easier than she assumed, and soon enough, their hypothetical musings had rapidly snowballed into planning for a full-fledged mission. It was meant to be something of a reward for Deserters; a mixture between showing appreciation and payment for services rendered. Personally, Rob didn't care nearly as much as the Elves, but he was totally on board with giving them some peace of mind.

As long as the teleportation mages didn't 'oopsie' him fifty feet underground, anyway. He was going to prep Not A Scratch + Waymark regardless of how confident they were.

In the interest of caution, Rob double-checked to make sure that he'd placed a Mark for his Party to return to. Forgetting it would've resulted in a very long, very awkward walk back to Fiendland. He concentrated on the Skill, and was notified that the Mark was right where it should be, resting patiently within a cordoned-off area that'd been designated as his Party's return space. Elder Alessia and Elder Duran were chatting a few feet away from it, Alessia presumably trying – once again – to convince Duran to stay behind and rest. Aside from them, Keira, Orn'tol, Malika, Zamira, and Vul'to were in attendance, rounding out the rest of Rob's Party members. It was a shame that Meyneth couldn't join them, but she'd abdicated her spot without complaint. And in all honesty, if Rob hadn't been essential to the mission, he would've given his spot up to Taleya just as quickly.

Today was for the people he cared about, not himself.

Rob made his way over to Keira and grasped her hand. A month ago he might've tried to play it off as nerves – maybe even thrown out a line about 'taking solace in friendship' – but holding her hand wasn't something he needed flimsy excuses for anymore. They exchanged smiles as warm butterflies fluttered around in his stomach. Behind them, Malika giggled, which had seemingly become her default reaction towards any PDA they displayed, no matter how minor.

<She's going to view your relationship with Keira as a framework for what healthy romance is like,> Diplomacy advised. <So will Orn'tol. Don't fuck this up.>

I won't, Rob assured, without a hint of doubt in his mind. He and Keira had lucked out early on by discovering an ability that was more powerful than any spell: the mystical art of Just Sitting Down And Communicating. It was proving to be remarkably effective at solving issues before they even became issues at all. There would be disagreements, of course, but as long as they were honest with each other, everything would turn out okay. Rob was looking forward to the day when he could introduce Keira to Jason and his folks; after they got used to the whole 'Elf' thing and the giant sword on her back, he knew they'd get along fantastically.

And while that day was still far away, right now, it felt closer than ever before.

Things proceeded as normal from there. The Fiend finished her explanation, Duran held his ground, and Rob's Party gathered together as the teleportation mages charged their spell. It built up bit by bit, flows of dense mana suffusing the air with energy. Anticipation rose as the Elves fidgeted, slowly realizing that their pipe dream of a plan was actually about to happen. Rob gasped as the mages finished casting their spell – not because of the jolt that ran down his spine, or the sensation of the spell itself, but because Keira was squeezing his hand with enough force to bruise his bones.

The light show came, and the light show ended, unceremoniously dumping everyone onto a clearing of purple grass. Post-teleportation disorientation slammed into them like a truck, causing the group of elite Combat Class users to trip over their own feet and collapse to the ground. As Rob tasted dirt, relief soared in his heart at the fact that he wasn't encased in a prison of clay fifty feet under. The mages had still been off by a few inches, but they were off upwards instead of downwards, so he'd take it.

And to be fair, they'd outdone themselves regardless of any rounding errors. Sending people from the northern edge to the southern edge of a continent was no small feat.

The Party quietly rose up, staring in awe at their surroundings. Fields of thick purple grass carpeted the ground, interspersed with tall, sturdy trees that were tipped with blue leaves. Chittering animals could be heard going about their business in the distance, birdsong mingling with the rustling of foliage. Lastly, the air tasted crisp on their tongues, with an outdoorsy flavor that contrasted the dense cities of Fiendland.

Suppressing a sigh, Rob folded his arms across his chest as he took in the sight of Ixatan Forest, standing before them in all its glory. The seven Elves accompanying him reacted with various complicated expressions, each person cycling through a mixture of happiness, nostalgia, and grief. This had been their home for decades – and for the Elders, centuries. Until recent events forced them to flee, Keira was the only one who would've even considered leaving the safety and comfort of Ixatan's woodland boughs.

Rob still wanted to burn the place down, but suggesting as much would probably kill the mood, so he kept his mouth shut.

No one spoke a word for quite some time, and when Alessia eventually did, it was simply to suggest that the Party move on. The rest of the Elves snapped out of their reverie and agreed, motioning for Rob to follow as they darted into the wilderness. He was tempted to make a joke about Malika once again riding piggyback so she wouldn't fall behind, but Diplomacy shushed him before the notion was half-formed in his mind. The Elves were feeling far too disquieted to enjoy any attempts at lightening the mood.

Maybe the swirling vortex of Corruption in the distance had something to do with that.

Silence reigned while Rob's Party raced towards the Blighted Lands. As they drew closer, Ixatan's foliage began to wither, purple grass and blue trees atrophying to a sickly, omnipresent brown. It was like watching the progression of a months-long drought, but compressed into the span of several hours. Then the brown started darkening to black, followed by once-vibrant plants visibly rotting into puddles of viscous sludge, harshly dispelling any subconscious notions of the forest's degradation being a natural process.

1 Corruption Received!

The Party drew to a halt; they'd reached the Blighted Land's equivalent to a border. Rob produced eight Hazmat Suits from his Spatial Storage, and one dress-up session later, everyone was ready to continue. Travel was slower after that, although their path became easier to navigate. No plantlife obstructed their way, having melted into a layer of tar-like slurry that coated the forest floor. It was the perfect backdrop for a Flesh Amalgamation or a pack of mutated animals to come screaming out of the woodworks, but nothing attacked Rob's Party as they traversed through Ixatan's rotting corpse. Any signs of life, unnatural or otherwise, had vanished hours ago. There were just eight suited soldiers, the rhythmic sounds of their footsteps squishing, and a fog of Corruption blanketing the air to keep them company.

It wasn't long until they'd arrived at what used to be The Village.

Rob didn't need to see his companions' faces to understand what they were feeling as they crossed what was left of the front gate. He'd only spent a month or two in The Village compared to their eight years, and he still felt knots forming in his stomach as he laid eyes on the empty streets, buildings crumbling into ruin like they'd been abandoned for decades. The Corruption here was even thicker than in Nevermore City; it'd had more time to marinate.

1 Corruption Received!

With a start, Rob looked over his Hazmat Suit. No cuts, no openings, and its amulets seemed to be in working order. The Corruption was just that pervasive. It wouldn't be a problem – merely a negligible drip feed that was easily fixable by Purge Corruption – but it definitely made everyone pick up the pace as they headed towards the Locus.

Minutes passed. Every now and then, some of the Elves would tense up and do a double-take at a building; presumably, they'd recognized one of their old haunts, even with the decay and Corrupted air obscuring their vision. Rob stayed on the lookout for his old living quarters, an endeavor that proved to be unsuccessful. Either he was worse with directions than he realized, or it'd collapsed into a pile of rubble, indistinguishable from any other fog-shrouded mess in The Village. Pity; it was one of the few places besides Keira's house and the training grounds that he had fond memories of. The rest of The Village didn't matter much to him, mostly consisting of buildings he'd never visited or streets where Elven pricks insulted him.

At least, that's how he initially felt. As he descended further into the ruined Village, Rob found himself mourning it despite how its inhabitants treated him early on. Even putting aside how distraught his friends were, it was hard to look at something that was once a community and now...wasn't. The Village had been where thousands of Elves banded together after The Cataclysm tore their lives apart. Which was an outcome they were partially to blame for, but still. This was, once upon a time, a bastion of hope and new beginnings.

And now it was nothing.

Thankfully, it didn't take the Party long to reach their destination. As the inverted call reached a fever pitch in Rob's mind, he stopped short and held out his arms, bringing everyone to a halt. He wordlessly pointed down an empty street, no different from any of the others – save for the crater prominently carving out a wound in the center of the road. As if an inordinate number of Firebombs had been detonated all at once.

Two last stands took place here many months ago. First Riardin's, and then the Blight's. A self-sacrifice to save lives, followed by an act of vengeance akin to throwing a tantrum. Despite blowing himself up in the process, Riardin had definitely gotten the better end of the deal in their exchange – he'd stopped the Blight before it could go on to wreak untold amounts of destruction across Elatra. Thousands upon thousands of people were alive because when the abyss turned its otherworldly gaze on him, Riardin stared back until he made it blink.

If only he'd been fast enough to save the Locus as well. It was still in the same spot as before, an intangible wellspring of energy that should've felt intoxicating for Rob to stand near. Loci of Power were supposed to be life, spirit, vigor, mana, blue, and so much more. Instead of the beautiful call, however, Rob heard a sound similar to a funeral dirge combined with nails on a chalkboard. The entity Corrupting the Locus wasn't subtle about wanting him gone – it was the same as in Nevermore City.

But unlike in Nevermore, Rob wasn't rushing to finish the job before Amalgamations devoured his friends. He closed his eyes and concentrated, tuning out the Corruption's wailing, letting it sink into the background as if it was little more than white noise. Digging deep below the surface, Rob searched until he sensed a tiny, fragile thing, barely clinging onto scraps of Blue, like frostbitten fingers trying to start a fire in a blizzard. It was weak, unresponsive, but most importantly, it was alive.

And waiting to be set free.

The Party exchanged a round of nods, Rob taking a quick moment to hug Keira and offer everyone a thumbs-up before setting off alone. With no enemies to defend him from, the rest of the Party could only watch as he began his march towards the Locus of Power. Another day they would be fighting by his side, but today, they were simply here to bear witness.

It wasn't often that a land was reborn.

As Rob approached, he prepared himself for resistance, and the Locus didn't disappoint. Corrupted air rapidly hardened around it, forming a solid outer shell that stretched outwards in a thirty-foot radius. Rob stretched out his hand and activated Purge Corruption, rending the Locus' defenses like a knife through hot butter. It responded in kind, strengthening its shell, which amounted to jack shit as Rob continued to advance forward unimpeded. He'd learned a lot about controlling Purge Corruption during his last tango with a corrupted Locus; this was a cakewalk in comparison.

The airborne Corruption shivered as Rob closed in, giving off an impression of agitated panic. 'This isn't supposed to happen', he imagined it thinking. Step by step, its shivering intensified, becoming more erratic as it – or rather, the Seed of Corruption nestled within – despaired at its inevitable demise.

Just as so many innocent lives had despaired while they were mercilessly snuffed out by the Blight.

Rob may have snarled as he shunted three-fourths of his energy reserves into the Locus, cleansing it of Corruption like he was dropping a guillotine. The Seed buckled under the weight of righteous vengeance, Blue energy overpowering it in a matter of seconds.

And then all was still. The Locus gradually awoke from its long nightmare as the Seed's presence fizzled and died, leaving behind inert Corruption with no will of its own.

Rob let out a sigh of relief. Another Locus freed from the Blight's stranglehold. Much more easily than the first one too, which boded well for the future. He was about to turn towards his Party to give them the good news when he realized that, in truth, he wasn't satisfied yet. While his task was technically complete, it didn't feel complete. Not with waves Corruption-laced fog left hanging in the air. The fog would dissipate naturally over time, but that wasn't good enough when his friends were here now.

They deserved a grander parting sight than this.

Improvising, Rob sent out a pulse of Purge Corruption energy that expanded outwards through the air. It started to vanish as it traveled farther from his body, so he took a leaf out of the Seed's book and focused on solidifying the energy in order to keep it stable. Beads of sweat ran down Rob's brow as he pushed and molded the Blue like ephemeral clay. The process was cost-intensive and wouldn't have made a dent in Corruption that was 'alive', but the now-inert Corruption melted away with ease. He kept going until he'd expended roughly a tenth of his maximum energy, unwilling to let his Purge Corruption reserves bottom out entirely.

It didn't end up amounting to much. Just enough to banish the Corruption surrounding a few dilapidated buildings. To the Elves, however, it meant everything. One by one, they removed their helmets, breathing deep as they gazed at the clear air with eyes of wonder. Alessia and Duran in particular looked close to tears; this place had been their pride and joy, one built up from the pieces of a broken world. Even Keira, who possessed less love for The Village than any of the other Elves, couldn't help but relax as a smile crept its way up her face.

Rob allowed himself to soak in the satisfaction of a job well done. Cleansing The Village was, first and foremost, a gift to his friends. Striking a blow against the Blight was important to him, but compared to the expressions of wonderment he saw on his Party's faces? He knew which would help him sleep better at night.

No one chose to address the sense of loss underpinning their gratification. This visit wasn't a homecoming; it was a final farewell. There would be no true rebirth for The Village. Even if the rest of its Corruption disappeared overnight, relocating this close to the Seneschal was too dangerous of a prospect. And considering that the ecosystem of Ixatan Forest had been virtually devastated, sustaining a hundred Elves would've been unfeasible, let alone fifteen hundred.

And that was okay. Fiendland was treating them just fine. Rob's Party hadn't undertaken this mission with the intent of securing a new home. They'd come here to settle a score. To achieve closure.

To make a statement.

Rob glanced at his Party members, checking to see if any of them were looking in his direction. He didn't want to interrupt their moment. Once he'd made sure that the coast was clear, Rob glanced up towards the sky and opened his mouth to speak. He paused, and after a moment of contemplation, raised his arms and gave the heavens a two-fingered salute. One from the middle of each hand.

It was the most succinct, accurate way he could think of to show his respect.

"This is just a start," Rob whispered, a smug, challenging grin on his face. "Mark my words. We're going to make this world a better place – and there's nothing you can do to stop us."

Afterword

Book 3! We've really come a long way, huh? Book 3 itself was by far the longest in the series so far – around 260k words compared to Book 1's 165k and Book 2's 185k. If you're here, that means you've read all those words, and that's ridiculously humbling to me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you both for the support, and for staying along for the ride.

And if possible, please consider leaving a rating and review on the Amazon story page for Book 3. A book's success lives and dies by positive ratings and reviews. The more I get, the more successful the book will be, which will allow me to continue working as an author. Every rating and review helps me out A LOT, so if you can find the time, please consider it. People came out in droves to leave them for Book 1 and 2, and it really made a difference, so thanks once again!

About the Author

Hello, all you lovely people! My name is Brett, and I've been a massive fan of fantasy stories since the first time I picked up a book. Over the years, I've devoured well over 100 fantasy novels, dozens of fantasy video games, plenty of fantasy TV shows and movies...you get the idea.

Naturally, this made me want to create a fantasy world of my own. Around the time I decided to sit down and write a story I would actually share with everyone, I also got into the LitRPG genre, and here we are.

An Outcast In Another World has been successful beyond my wildest dreams. It's a big step forward towards me being able to fulfill my lifelong aspiration: being a full-time writer. Anyone reading this has already helped contribute to that goal, and I can't thank you enough for that.

What else?

My Patreon currently has a completed side story to read, as well as over six chapters of Book 4 released at the time of June 6th, 2022.

If you want to be kept updated on when the next books in the series will be coming out, you can either sign up for my mailing list (which will ONLY contact you when a new book comes out), or follow my twitter account under the name kamikaze_potato.

That's all for now. See you next time!