Chapter 121 + 122 (Book 3 Chapter 49 + 50) (Patreon)

Author's Note:

I accidentally posted the entirety of Chapter 121 AND 122 when initially posting this, so, whoops. Consider this a double update - you'll get Chapter 123 a week from now. Until then, enjoy the extra long update!

--

"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 into 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. I specifically explained as much to the Merfolk prisoners before releasing them."

"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 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 been 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 us," 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 peoples' 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 at 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?"

--

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?"

"Doubtfully," 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 exist."

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."

--

Thanks for reading!