Chapter 167 (Book 4 Chapter 44) (Patreon)

Author's Note:

I added a short scene to the start of Chapter 161 (the chapter where Riardin's Rangers start taking a break), so I'm including it here.

Start of Chapter 161

Duran let his eyelids fall and huddled into his chair, the torpor of sleep beginning to take hold. It was almost decadently comfortable, like being nestled on soft clouds. To the Overseers' credit, they'd provided him with the finest finery in the land, each item fit for a Leader.

He held no illusions that they'd done so for any reason other than to ingratiate themselves, but he wasn't so prideful as to reject free gifts that were appropriately given.

Unfortunately, there was one nagging detail attempting to spoil his leisure. While it felt wonderful to ease his wearied bones, Duran couldn't help but feel a mite disappointed at how often he needed to rest as of late. Part of that was due to age, naturally, but his body had been significantly heartier then this a mere nine months ago. In actuality, the bulk of his health's degradation stemmed from the weeks where he'd been severely infected with Corruption and on death's door.

If only he'd recognized the Blighted Lands in the distance for what they were. If only he'd moved faster. If only...

With a sigh, Duran dispelled his wayward thoughts. Nothing for it. My health won't get any better from here on out, and bemoaning reality won't change its course. There are still things I can accomplish to assist our cause – that is what I should concentrate my efforts on.

Placated by that notion, he allowed himself to drift off into tranquil slumber.

Some time later, Duran awoke with a start, his Heightened Senses catching a subtle noise at the end of the room. Alessia stood there with a chagrined expression, halfway outside of his doorway. "Apologies," she said. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"No harm done," Duran answered, with a genial smile. "I was intending to get up soon, anyhow. To what purpose do I owe this pleasure?"

He didn't miss the glint of concern in her eyes. "I simply came to check on you. How are you faring?"

"As well as I can be. And you?"

The corners of her lips twitched upward. "As well as I can be."

Duran chuckled. "Of course." Few people would have rebounded so swiftly from an encounter with the Blight, and from subsequent torture by a deranged Leader, but Alessia was the bravest soul he knew. "What of Riardin's Rangers?"

"They are utilizing this rare period of calm to recuperate." Alessia's features softened. "It's well-deserved, I'd say."

That it is, Duran agreed, wholeheartedly. Rest well, young ones. Whatever form your repose is taking, I hope that you are enjoying it to the fullest.

Chapter 167

The peaceful expression on Diplomacy's sleeping face only highlighted how annoyed Rob was.

Riardin's Rangers had rushed the former Skill to a medical ward the moment Diplomacy fell unconscious. The Fiend physicians immediately conducted an in-depth medical examination, informing Rob beforehand to mentally prepare himself for the worst. He'd spent a solid hour pacing back and forth, waiting on tenterhooks for a prognosis...

Just to be told that Diplomacy was experiencing the equivalent of a bad hangover. There would have been something to worry about if they hadn't benefited from Brain Damage Resistance and Regeneration, but the EXP Share was apparently determined to hold its title as Rob's MVP Bound Item.

"I can't believe this dumbass," Rob griped, as a particularly loud snore assaulted his ears. "What kind of Diplomat has Skills that harm themselves? And why'd they keep it hidden from the rest of the Party?"

"Oh yes," Keira began, in the most condescending deadpan Rob had ever heard. "How dare Diplomacy do such a thing. Harming themselves to achieve a goal, without first consulting their allies? Shocking. Absolutely shocking."

It took Rob far too long to understand what she was getting at. "It's different when I do it," he defended.

"How so?"

"I've got way more HP than anyone here. The risks I take aren't even really risks most of the time."

"Most aren't risks," Meyneth repeated. "Detonating Titan's Fist from point-blank range falls outside of that category."

Rob suddenly became very interested in his nonexistent shoelaces. "You guys aren't going to let that one go anytime soon, are you?"

"No," his Party members said, in unison.

Can't argue with that.

Several hours passed as Riardin's Rangers waited for Diplomacy to awaken. The speech had been organized sooner than expected, so Waymark wasn't quite ready yet, and everyone wanted a status report before they returned home regardless. Eventually, Nerasi – their primary Dwarven contact – stepped into the room. "Greetings," she said, all business right from the start. "I come bearing good tidings."

The Party exchanged surprised glances. "Belrian's speech actually worked?" Rob asked.

Nerasi narrowed her eyes at him. "You were the ones who commanded us to organize it."

"Yeah, but things don't usually go this smoothly."

She gave him a look of mild exasperation. "Then let your paranoia rest easy. Belrian's oration managed to convince a majority of Dwarves that Grant died an honorable death for the sake of his people. While they remain skeptical of allying with Fiend territory, they've also accepted that Grant approved of our alliance and would've desired its continuation had he survived."

"How many are still in opposition?" Keira asked.

"Roughly one-fourth," Nerasi answered. "To be honest, that number is much lower than I anticipated. Before your Party arrived, the discontent within Dwarven territory was rapidly bubbling to the surface, ready to explode at a moment's notice. Our efforts to subdue it were proving woefully ineffective."

"Then you should've contacted us earlier," Keira criticized, saying what was on everyone else's minds. "The future of Dwarven territory affects Fiend territory as well."

Nerasi grimaced. "We were in the process of doing so – although admittedly, we misjudged how shaken the civilians were by Grant's demise. By the time our messengers reached Fiend territory, matters may have escalated beyond a point of no return."

"We'll need to take a spare Message Crystal back with us," Rob said. "Something like this can't happen again."

"Message Crystals are in exceptionally short supply. Creating a new one is an undertaking that requires decades of arduous work from multiple Artificers laboring in tandem."

"Give us one anyway," Rob ordered, in a tone that left no room for arguing. "Establishing communications between Fiend territory and Dwarven territory is more important than maintaining communications between Dhalerune and Random Dwarven City B. If push comes to shove, you can route messages from City B to City C, and then from City C to Dhalerune. People might wonder why a Message Crystal disappeared, but just tell them the Hamburglar stole it or something."

Nerasi paused. "That is fair. I'll instruct a group of tight-lipped subordinates to retrieve the Message Crystal and bring it here." She laced her fingers together, relaxing slightly. "All things considered, you've been reasonable with your demands. It wouldn't have been strange for your Party to establish a tyranny over Dwarven territory upon slaying its Leader."

"We seek to unite Elatra under the banner of peace," Zamira declared, her voice filled with passion. "If there is one glimmer of optimism to be derived from the Blight's resurgence, it is that the threat it embodies has afforded all nations an unprecedented opportunity to join hands as one. And I see no reason why that accord shouldn't endure long after the Blight has been expunged from our lands."

"I'll hold you to that," Nerasi said. "Exhibit that attitude around my people, and even the most warmongering citizens will be mollified for a time."

Rob drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Is there any way to enact more permanent change? I don't want to trot Belrian out for a speech whenever the Dwarves start getting feisty."

"No," Nerasi flatly stated. "Enmity is a weed that burrows deep. It cannot be rooted out by words, no matter how articulate. Perhaps if our alliance lasts for hundreds of years, and a new generation is raised on your ideals, then there may be a possibility of affecting long-lasting change."

"You are willingly cooperating with Fiend territory," Meyneth pointed out. "And that is despite knowing the full extent of our actions."

For a split second, Nerasi's expression twisted in something unrecognizably vicious. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back to her mask of tranquil professionalism. "What makes you think I don't hate you for killing over a hundred of my comrades?" she commented, without a hint of inflection. "I am merely broad-minded enough to set aside my personal feelings and strive towards the completion of a common goal."

The room went quiet. Abruptly, Keira stood up, her fingers twitching. "Going to go clear my head," she muttered, heading straight for the exit.

"You want company?" Rob offered.

"Thank you, but no. I'll...I'll return soon." She dashed outside in the blink of an eye, leaving three confused and worried friends behind.

--

Vul'to heard a knock on the door.

Odd, he thought, sitting up in his bed. No one in the Party had alerted him of their coming with a Message, and half of Riardin's Rangers was still in Dwarven territory. "What's the password?" he called out.

Silence.

In a burst of motion, Vul'to equipped his sword and shield. He eyed the closed door as if it was a coiled viper waiting to strike, focusing his Soul Sight on the beautiful orb of mana that laid beyond. It was, relatively speaking, unremarkable. All souls were brilliant spectacles of art, but compared to the glory of high-leveled Combat Class users, souls belonging to low-leveled Utility Class users lacked a certain indefinable spark.

...I wish it were indefinable, Vul'to admitted. Having higher Levels didn't enrich the strength or clarity of a soul; his body simply craved the souls of high-leveled people more than low-leveled people. It was a...matter of taste. Mercifully, his cravings were very infrequent, although they arose just regularly enough to remind him of what he now was.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Vul'to examined the unexpected visitor standing vigil outside. From what he could surmise, they were low-leveled, but that wasn't a guarantee of anything. Krazan the Soul Eater had been Level 19. And while the mysterious visitor's soul didn't appear to have the telltale degradation of a Soul Eater, that affliction could be obscured by donning a Sinner's Shroud. Vul'to was wearing one himself.

Eventually, he decided to throw caution to the wind and greet his guest. It would've been more prudent to shout for help, but if there were truly that many people out there who wanted to kill him or eat his soul, then he'd merely have to accept that he was the unluckiest person in the world.

The door opened to reveal a fairly young Fiend man in his 40s or 50s. One usage of Identify indicated that he was Level 14, named Reznor, and an adept Woodworker. "Can I help you?" Vul'to asked, not dropping his guard for an instant.

Reznor stared at Vul'to with his mouth hanging open, as if he hadn't expected to get this far and had no idea what to do next. After a few seconds, he let out an aggrieved sigh, running his hand down his face. "Damnit," the Fiend mumbled. "This was a waste of time."

"How can you be sure?" Vul'to offered him a welcoming smile. "If something is troubling you, don't hesitate to ask. Perhaps I can be of more assistance than you realize."

"The fact that you're saying that means you can't."

Vul'to didn't bother to hide his confusion. Reznor looked away, abashed, seeming on the verge of turning around and leaving. "You must understand," he began. "I thought I'd find...you just aren't what I expected."

A cold pit formed into the center of Vul'to's stomach. "And what did you imagine you'd find?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"The Soul Eater who killed my friend."

Flashes of memory surged forth. A decadent soul and a pleading face, screaming Help, Reznor, Please Come Help. The cold pit in Vul'to's stomach churned with nausea, and it was only with great effort that he managed to respond without choking on his own bile. "I am not a Soul Eater," Vul'to implored.

"Obviously," Reznor scoffed. "You don't possess the hollow eyes of a monster. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we? I'd already be dead or worse." He grimaced. "But you do possess the body of a Soul Eater, if I'm not mistaken."

Slowly, Vul'to sat down, his legs feeling like cooked noodles. "How did you..."

Reznor met Vul'to's despondent tone with a casual shrug. "People talk," he said, as if that explained fucking everything. When the Fiend noticed Vul'to's distress, he continued, speaking hurriedly.

"There was a servant or someone who saw your Dragonkin companion carrying two mangled bodies – one of which happened to be Roy's tall Elf friend. Chest ripped open, eyes glassy, the works. The other body belonged to a damned Soul Eater, with a ripe soul held in hand. Then you vanished, and an extremely high-leveled Fiend with the same name took your place in Roy's Party. Don't need to be a Mathematician to put two and two together and figure that something is amiss."

"I see," Vul'to said, trying to ignore the pervasive sense of his life crumbling around him. He'd done his best to avoid appearing in public among the Fiends, spending days hiding in shameful secrecy, and apparently, it had all been for naught. I should've taken that Enchanted Disguise Ring. "Is this a widespread theory?"

"It probably will be if more people see you," Reznor conceded. "Right now it's just me and a couple of other lunatics. Honestly, I doubt I would have believed it if I wasn't so desperate to track down Soul Eaters. Fresh leads on them don't surface often."

Vul'to sagged with relief. All hope was not yet lost. "What can I do to ensure your silence?" he asked, leaning forward.

Reznor stared at him with a blank expression. "Um. Aren't you just going to kill me?"

For several seconds, neither of them spoke a word. Vul'to's composure hang on briefly before snapping like a dry twig. "I'm growing rather tired of being at a loss for what to say." He stood up, claws reflexively extending by an inch. "First you ambush me with accusations, then you seem disappointed that I wasn't a Soul Eater, and then you stand there and accept death as if it was a matter of course?"

The Fiend awkwardly coughed into his hand. "I suppose when you phrase it that way, it all sounds somewhat foolish."

"That's because it is." Vul'to groaned loudly. "Really – I can't begin to fathom what you were wishing for when you knocked on my door."

Reznor glanced away. "An ending," he whispered.

...Oh. Vul'to sat back down. "An ending to what?" he asked, providing the necessary prompt for Reznor to continue.

"Everything that started two decades ago." A joyless grin spread across the Fiend's face. "It isn't a complicated story. I heard my friend's screams when the Soul Eater took him. He called my name. But I was scared, so I ran. That's...all."

"If you had stayed, you would have perished as well."

Reznor's grin turned brittle, seeming close to breaking. "Maybe. Who knows. Nevertheless, since then, I've hunted down rumors of Soul Eaters. Anything I could find. Found almost nothing until recently, when a farfetched theory spouted by a drunkard ten pints deep brought me here. That, and the exorbitant amount of money it took to bribe the guards."

He shrugged again. "The way I saw it, there were two outcomes. If you were the Soul Eater in body and spirit, then I could take my revenge. And likely die in the process, but, well. At least I'd go down fighting like I should have from the start. If you weren't the Soul Eater, then it was just never meant to be. You'd kill me to shut my mouth, and that would be that. A disappointing ending, yet an ending nonetheless."

"You shouldn't treat your life so lightly," Vul'to said, with concern. "There's-"

"I know!" Reznor spat. "I knew it the second you opened that door and realized where my obsession had brought me. Azar wouldn't have wanted me to squander my life away like this." He let out a frustrated growl. "I'm such a complete and utter idiot."

Vul'to waited patiently for the man to recover his poise. Gradually, Reznor calmed himself, embarrassment creeping into his features. "Apologies. None of this went the way I anticipated."

"That is an accurate summary of the last nine months of my life," Vul'to remarked, in a wry tone.

"World's gone mad for everyone," Reznor chuckled. "You truly aren't going to kill me?"

"Absolutely not."

The Fiend hesitated. "Then do you mind indulging my curiosity? I'll keep your secrets either way, Roy's Party members are heroes of the highest order, but as long as I'm here..."

Vul'to raised an eyebrow. "You're quite the bold person, aren't you?"

"It's the cause and solution of most of my problems."

I suppose it's better than bribing him with money I don't have, Vul'to mused. And truth be told, the idea of 'confessing' to someone outside of Riardin's Rangers sounded somewhat...liberating, in a way. "Very well. What would you like to know?"

Reznor blinked, wearing that same surprised expression. "Are you an undead?" he blurted out. "Did a Necromancer spearhead your revival?"

"No, and no." Vul'to tapped his chest. "My soul resides in the body of the Soul Eater who killed me, but Necromancy was not utilized."

"Then how?"

"It isn't my secret to say." Hauz the Soul Surgeon had taken a great risk by implanting one soul into another person's body. If the populace knew, he'd likely be ostracized for performing an act of taboo depravity. Vul'to would never betray his confidence.

Thankfully, Reznor nodded in acknowledgment. "I understand. Is there any chance you'll be able to regain your Elven form?"

Vul'to winced. "One day, I hope so." He'd discussed this possibility with Hauz before. Using Vul'to's original body was out of the question, as once a corpse reached 0 HP, it became a faulty container which invariably rejected souls. That was an immutable rule of the system that not even the most experienced Soul Surgeons could subvert.

The Clay of Life represented a more promising alternative. While it was originally designed solely for Diplomacy's unique situation, it could theoretically regrow a body for any lost soul. The issue was that Diplomacy's success was the one and only example they had to extrapolate from, and if the Clay of Life rejected Vul'to's soul for whatever reason, Hauz was unsure if he could safely put Vul'to soul back into Krazan's body a second time.

The first operation had already been a close affair.

For now, Hauz was in the midst of developing another Clay of Life, and was content to leave the final decision up to Vul'to. Whether or not the risk of death was worth an opportunity to be whole again was a debate he'd be having with himself for months.

"I'll pray to Argath for your success," Reznor said, inclining his head. "That's...actually all the questions I had, so before I go, I'd like to say something."

The Fiend straightened his posture. "This might sound crass considering my impetus for coming here," he began, speaking slowly, each word was chosen with care. "But I am deeply sorry for what happened to you. I wasn't exaggerating when I mentioned that Roy's Party members are heroes of the highest order. You didn't deserve this fate. And..."

He clenched his fists, releasing them a moment later. "If that body must still exist in this world, then at least you're the one in control of it. If it's you, then...I'm not worried."

Vul'to was left speechless. In the past, he'd often devised his own self-rationalizations about why being stuck in a Soul Eater's body was tolerable. For instance, as a Fiend, he was physically stronger; he may not have survived the Blight of Dhalerune otherwise. And his Soul Guardian Skills were proving particularly useful at combating the Blight and its Corruption.

But those were logical arguments. Reznor's trust wasn't based in system advantages. It was pure faith, given without reservation or doubt.

Somehow, that warmed Vul'to's heart far more than any standard of objectivity.

"Thank you," he said, putting every ounce of gratitude he had into his words. "That means...so much to me."

"It's the bare minimum of what I can do after everything you've done for us," Reznor muttered, almost shyly. "Now, if it's alright with you, I'm going to leave before I wind up making an ass of myself. I'll send Argath those prayers the moment I get home."

As he turned to leave, Vul'to held up a hand to stop him. "One last thing." I should just let the man be, he thought, but I can't resist asking.

"Is it customary for all would-be assassins to knock first?"

--

"These are...pleasant accommodations," Keira said, glancing around the depressingly sparse room. While spacious, it was bereft of adornment or color, only housing nine beds and a single table for its occupants to eat on.

In response, Gharvis laughed. "No need to bandy words for our benefit," he said, with a lighthearted tone. "We are prisoners, and this is a prison. Food is served on schedule every day, so we can hardly complain."

His mirth wasn't shared by any of his cohorts. The other eight Dwarven researchers were sitting at the opposite end of the room, brooding like morose children, gazing at Keira with fearful eyes. They made for a pitiable lot – although considering their part in developing Titan's Fist, Keira's wellspring of pity had just about run dry.

"That's an admirable outlook to have," she told him, nodding approvingly. "You're much more forthcoming than when we last spoke."

Gharvis' smile dimmed. "I've...had time to think." The Dwarf hesitated, speaking again when Keira motioned for him to go on. "Regardless of our intentions, we created a weapon that nearly slaughtered untold numbers of people. It is only by the grace of good fortune it didn't, and even then, scores of brave men and women died in vain for an ignoble cause."

His voice was heavy with guilt. "If we'd just stopped to question what the Stonewarden was asking instead of bullying forward, our minds intoxicated by the allure of progress, then this entire tragedy could've been avoided."

"We are not to blame," one of the more disgruntled researchers interjected. "And you don't speak for all of us."

"Is that so?" Gharvis leveled an unimpressed glare at them. "Who was it, then, that you all voted as our representative to greet the Level 60 Combat Class users with unknown temperaments?"

The other researchers, having been sufficiently shamed, averted their gazes. Not for the first time, Keira found herself relieved that she possessed a high Level of Intimidation. Petty politics seemed exhausting to contend with, and she was more than happy to circumvent those headaches by scaring the shit out of people.

Satisfied, Gharvis turned towards Keira. "When our confinement ends, we will have the chance to make things right and put our combined knowledge towards better means. For now, however, this penance is warranted." He exhaled. "But enough of that. What brought you to knock on our door today?"

Keira grit her teeth, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Fiend mages investigated the aftereffects of Titan's Fist," she said, forcing the words out. "According to them, it has the potential to – in their words – annihilate Elatra by destabilizing reality."

The researchers froze, their blood running cold. "What?" Gharvis croaked.

"Titan's Fist put a crack in the framework of reality. Irreversibly. Next time, it may be worse."

Disbelief raced across their faces. It was understandable – who wanted to accept that, in an unluckier future, they might have killed everyone they knew and loved? Keira spent a full twenty minutes explaining to them exactly what the High Soulseer had told Rob and Elder Alessia, beating the notion into their heads. Her friends periodically sent her concerned Messages that went ignored. Finally, the researchers acquiesced, or at least made a decent show of pretending to.

"So now you know," Keira finished. Her heart beat faster. "What do you have to say to that?" Convince me. Please.

Gharvis shivered as if someone had walked over his grave. "Never again," he spat. "Titan's Fist will stay locked within our thoughts until the end of our days." Behind him, the other researchers quickly nodded, their obstinance dead and buried.

Keira studied their expressions. "I believe you," she eventually said. That was the genuine truth. She truly, honestly did.

It just didn't change anything.

Her quickening pulse began to slow as a calm surety settled over her. Carefully, making sure not to startle anyone, Keira turned around and quietly locked the door. "Enmity burrows deep," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?"

Keira pivoted towards the Dwarves. They shrunk back, whatever they saw in her face causing them to instinctively retreat. "Who will you be in fifty years?" she asked, leisurely stalking towards them.

"I..." Gharvis audibly gulped, his prior confidence nowhere to be found. "I don't know what you mean."

"People aren't reliable or constant." One step forward. Two steps. "I believe you when you say you'll forswear Titan's Fist, but that's only in the present. What if a war breaks out, or you fall prey to temptations of vengeance, like the Dwarf who launched Titan's Fist already did?"

Three steps. Four. "Your future selves can't be trusted. Even if your convictions hold true, it just takes one of you being kidnapped and tortured for your secrets to spread."

Five. Six. "And once the secrets of creating Titan's Fist spread...that's it. Too many people are incapable of foresight, especially when tantalizing power is right at their fingertips. Your knowledge is a sickness that will rot the minds of whoever is infected, placing them – and everyone else – on the path to destruction. Titan's Fist will be used. Millions will die."

Seven steps. Like an executioner preparing their axe, Keira drew her greatsword. "What are nine lives in comparison to that?" she stated, without malice or remorse.

The Dwarves were at a loss for what to say, having backed up to the far wall at the opposite end of the room. Maybe in a few seconds, they'd rally their composure and plead for their lives, but by then everything would be over. For a moment, Keira scrutinized them, wondering if a surge of compassion would rise up to stay her wrath.

Nothing came.

Oh, well. She lifted her greatsword.

Just then, the locked door burst off its hinges, sailing through the air. Keira was still in the middle of swinging when a blur dashed inside, its blade humming with a green aura.

"Deflect."

Keira jumped back as her greatsword was turned aside by a longsword one-tenth its weight. In front of the Dwarves, Zamira stood ready and unwavering. As her grip tightened on her sword, the Bladesoul stared directly forward, fixing the Savage Warrior with a resolute gaze.

"Let's talk, Keira."

--

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