Chapter 90 + 91 (Book 3 Chapter 18 + 19) (Patreon)

Author's Note:

Two more short chapters, so you get them both in one update.

Check the post-author notes for a big update!

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Chapter 90

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 broiling 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 were 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.


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Chapter 91

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 downwards 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 Blightspawns’ incursions, 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. And 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.

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Changes, Character Sheet, Skill List 

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