Outcast Chapter 244 (Book 6 Chapter 29) (Patreon)

Author's Note:

JustPasteIt is down, and I *think* Patreon fixed the italics issue, so...here's a test. If it turns out that everything is still messed up, I'll delete this and remake.

This chapter ended up at 8800 words. Needless to say, it's a double update. Next chapter will be in a week.

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"It's..." Elder Duran paused, nearly choking on his own words. "It's them."

Rob could only nod, unable to put much emotion into his tone. "Yeah. One of them, anyway."

"Is that the god you've been in communication with?" Duran shuddered. "Its voice is like a hammer beating down on my mind. I can scarcely hear myself think. How could you bear to speak with it directly?"

"Almighty Resistance helps with that."

The nine Human mages weren't so lucky. None of them had collapsed, but Rob saw legs trembling, sweat running down brows, and even one or two that seemed about ready to faint...although that reaction was in part due to being visited by an actual deity. Beneath the mages' expressions of pain, stress, and confusion was an undercurrent of reverence that hadn't yet been seared away by the fires of war.

Ismaire stood up straight, although there was nothing natural about her posture. She looked less like a proud, high-Level mage, and more like someone who'd inserted a metal rod into their spine. "You are...Belroth?" As she spoke, the steel in her voice melted under scorching rays of divine brilliance. "Is it truly you?

"CALL ME WHAT YOU WISH. I AM YOUR CREATOR. THAT IS FACT."

If Rob hadn't already spoken with Kismet on multiple occasions, he might not have recognized the god's voice. While its inflection and overall presence felt similar, it was also accompanied by a complete and utter lack of enthusiasm. Kismet had always come across as taciturn, but this was apathy personified. As if dramatically revealing himself to the mortal planes felt no better than going through the motions.

"Our prayers have been answered!" Tears glistened in Felandril's eyes as the mage regarded 'Belroth' with a look of joyful worship. "Thank you, Belroth! Thank you! You've finally come to deliver salvation!"

"NO."

The silence that followed was almost funny, in a black comedy sort of way. Felandril's expression rapidly froze, like dried plaster baked in an oven. After several torturous seconds, he managed to push out a strained, "What?"

"I SHALL CLARIFY NOW." Kismet glanced down at his coin, seemed to contemplate flipping it, then decided otherwise. "I AM NOT HERE TO DELIVER SALVATION. I WILL NOT WIN YOUR WAR. I WILL NOT SLAY THE DRAGON QUEEN. I WILL NOT BESTOW LEVELS OR SKILLS UPON YOUR PEOPLE. I WILL NOT SPIRIT ALL OF HUMANITY AWAY TO SAFETY."

Ismaire's posture shifted to something resembling a combat stance. "Why?" she asked, her calm tone belying a dangerous intent. "As our creator and patron deity, why haven't you come to our aid when extinction is at hand?"

"IT WOULD BE WASTED INFLUENCE." Kismet turned his formless head from side to side. Although he possessed no face, it gave the impression of sweeping a gaze across the room. "LIKE THE GELLIN BEFORE YOU, I CREATED HUMANS TO FILL A ROLE. THIS WAR IS THE FINAL CULMINATION OF YOUR INBORN PURPOSE. NOTHING FURTHER CAN BE EXTRACTED FROM YOUR EXISTENCE. AS THE METHOD OF HUMANITY'S ANNIHILATION HOLDS MORE VALUE TO ME THAN THEIR LIVES, I HAVE CHOSEN TO OBSERVE."

"That tracks," Rob muttered, as he fought back roiling nausea. "The Humans were made to foster conflict. It's why they've got Leveling High. And you can't escalate any further than world war leading to genocide. If Humanity survived this ordeal, anything afterwards would be...less interesting. Like reruns of a TV show."

Duran sent him an aghast look. Rob attempted to put on a hollow smile, but even that was too much effort, the corners of his lips twitching in vain. Please don't make me watch this, he thought, hoping the Skills were listening. I know how it ends.

If they could hear him, then they weren't inclined to answer.

"I am at a loss for where to begin," Ismaire remarked, with a degree of composure that – considering the circumstances – was highly impressive. "There is much to glean from what you've just informed us. Setting aside your admittance that you also created the Gellin...is there perhaps any chance that we might convince you to change your mind and aid our cause?"

"NO."

"Pity."

In a flash, her hands were up. The Archmage launched torrential plumes of fire from her palms, forming twin flame geysers with the strength of a raging inferno. They paled in intensity to the white-hot fury in her eyes, resembling two miniature suns of apoplectic rage. Ismaire said nothing as she directed the blaze straight towards Kismet, her attack reaching him in half a second.

It washed over the god like a gentle stream.

Seven of the nine Humans stared with faces of muted shock. Ismaire's fire plumes had been so hot that, despite the other mages not being anywhere near, they'd still needed to leap back to avoid being scalded by superheated air. Very few things in Elatra could have withstood that assault unscathed.

Yet this was a creature that had claimed godhood – which is why the mages' faces were only of muted shock. The exceptions were Harken and Ismaire, both who appeared wholly unsurprised. "So you are a god," Harken stated, eyeing Kismet with analytical curiosity. "Or something with sufficient power to masquerade as one."

"I DO NOT LIE. LYING WOULD DEFEAT THE PURPOSE."

"What purpose, if I may ask?"

"FALSEHOODS ARE...DISTASTEFUL. TRUTH PROVIDES STRUCTURE. WITHOUT STRUCTURE, THERE CANNOT BE RULES. WITHOUT RULES, THERE CANNOT BE ENJOYMENT. THERE IS NO REVELRY TO BE DERIVED FROM A LAWLESS, SLIPSHOD GAME."

Ismaire let out a laugh somewhere between unhinged and homicidal. "So our existence is a game to you, then?" She leaned to the side and spat on the ground. "What a revolting, detestable creature. I no longer care if you are Belroth. Go slink back into whatever divine hole you crawled out from. Humanity has no need of your fetid presence polluting our air."

"BOLD WORDS FROM THE WOMAN WHO WAS SECONDS AWAY FROM KILLING ALL HER PEOPLE."

It took a bit for Kismet's statement to sink in. Ismaire's expression transitioned from astonishment, to disbelief, before finally landing on denial. "You seek to deceive us," she hissed. "I have prepared extensively for the mass teleportation spell. It will succeed."

"IT WILL. YOU SHALL ALL DIE REGARDLESS."

"As if I'd listen to–"

A pulse of unfiltered power raced across the room. Ismaire collapsed into her chair, eyes wide as she gasped for breath, blood leaking out of her ears and nose.

"I DO NOT LIE," the god repeated. "LYING WOULD DEFEAT THE PURPOSE. KNOW THAT WHAT I SAY NEXT IS THE UNBLEMISHED, UNTARNISHED TRUTH."

Rob was stunned by the display. Kismet had bitched on more than one occasion about the importance of conserving Influence, and how much it drained him to perform certain actions. Now here he was summoning an avatar to the mortal planes, speaking with Humans for extended periods of time, and even directly attacking one of them. He had to be burning through his reserves like crazy.

This, Rob realized, was what Kismet was like when he'd completely run out of fucks to give.

"YOU ARE A MAGE OF PASSING EXPERTISE," the god continued, gesturing towards the still-wounded Ismaire. "YOUR SPELL OF MASS TELEPORTATION WOULD HAVE SUCCEEDED. YET IN YOUR HASTE, YOU NEGLECTED TO PROPERLY JUDGE ITS DESTINATION."

Felandril looked at Ismaire, concern plain on his face. "Are you–"

"Nothing permanent," she wheezed. Gritting her teeth, the Archmage cast a healing spell on herself, then aimed an acrid glare at Kismet. "What is wrong with the world of Humans? Are they hostile? Would they attack us?"

"THEY WOULD NOT HAVE THE CHANCE TO."

A large viewing window opened beside Kismet. It showed the same urban city streets that Ismaire's much smaller window had displayed earlier. Several seconds later, the image changed, now showing a lazy suburban neighborhood. It kept alternating every few seconds afterwards, displaying schools, airports, bars, movie theaters, theme parks, and many other instances of Earth's technological prowess. The Elatrans watched on in awe, their impending crisis momentarily forgotten.

"HAVE YOU NOTICED A PATTERN?" Kismet asked. "SOMETHING VITAL? SOMETHING MISSING?"

The mages exchanged glances. None of them seemed to understand what he was insinuating.

A cosmic sigh blanketed the room. "I SEE. PERHAPS THIS CONCEPT IS TOO FOREIGN FOR YOU TO CONCEIVE. I WILL ADMIT TO A MEASURE OF SURPRISE WHEN LEARNING OF IT MYSELF."

He stopped the viewing window on the first dense, urban city that it had initially shown. Concrete buildings, metal skyscrapers, and zooming cars filled the window's field of vision. There wasn't a hint of nature anywhere to be found.

"THIS WORLD HAS NO MANA."

Kismet's declaration had the same effect as explaining sight to someone raised on an isolated island where everyone was blind. Rather than gasping in shock, the Elatran mages just stared with an understated sense of incredulity, struggling to parse the implications. "No...mana?" Felandril said. "That's not possible. Mana is foundational to life itself. Without mana, the world would be an empty nothing."

"IN THE ENDLESS EXPANSE, ALL IS POSSIBLE. GIVEN INFINITE TIME, INEVITABLY, AN INFINITESIMAL CHANCE BECOMES AN EVENTUAL CERTAINTY. IT ONLY TAKES ONE ABERRATION AMONG TRILLIONS TO CREATE A MIRACLE. THIS WORLD HAS NO MANA, AND NO MAGIC – THAT IS FACT. WITH THAT KNOWLEDGE, A QUESTION MUST BE ASKED."

The god turned to look at them once more. "WHAT HAPPENS TO A CREATURE OF MANA IN A MANALESS WORLD?"

In that instant, Rob recalled one of his conversations with Jason. The dumbass had been in the middle of justifying his alliance with a supposed Blightspawn-turned-good-guy.

<"Look,"> Jason had explained, <"Baker was fading away at one point – apparently Earth doesn't have mana or something – so I...did him a solid. We swapped eyes.">

Without that to stabilize him, the Blightspawn would have–

"I SHALL PROVIDE A VISUAL AID." Kismet waved his hand. A small portal opened up, then quickly closed, depositing a scaled fish onto the center of the conference table. The Elatran mages observed with growing horror as the fish desperately flopped around, its mouth opening and closing as it sought water that was no longer there.

"Mana is foundational to life," Harken whispered. Even he sounded unsettled, his eyes fixated on the fish as it suffocated while surrounded by air. "We need it to survive."

"CORRECT. A TYPICAL ELATRAN MORTAL TRANSPORTED TO EARTH WOULD BE ABLE TO SUBSIST ON THEIR LATENT MANA FOR NO GREATER THAN TWO MONTHS. DURING THAT PERIOD, THEY WOULD GRADUALLY BECOME WEAKER, STARVING AS THEIR BODY CANNIBALIZED ITSELF FOR ENERGY. AT THE END OF THOSE MONTHS, THEIR WITHERED HUSK WOULD PERISH."

Harken's eyes drifted to Kismet. "You seem convinced of this theory."

"THEORY BECOMES TRUTH AFTER SUFFICIENT TESTING."

With a snarl, Ismaire launched a bolt of lightning at the fish, ending its misery. She then glared at Harken and Kismet in turn. "Have some respect for the sanctity of life." The steel in her voice had returned, but it was brittle, clearly affected by what she'd learned. "So. The world of Humans...the world called Earth...shall kill us. Our civilians will last two months at best before perishing. People with higher Levels, especially mages who've invested their stat points into Magic, will last longer – yet merely as a stay of execution. Eventually, everyone succumbs. Do I have the right of it?"

Kismet inclined his head. "YOU MISINTERPRET MY WORDS. I STATED THAT AN ELATRAN MORTAL WOULD PERSIST FOR MONTHS. AN ELATRAN MONSTER WOULD FARE SIGNIFICANTLY WORSE. YOUR KIND IS WHOLLY COMPRISED OF MANA. REMOVE IT FROM THE ENVIRONMENT, AND THE BONDS HOLDING YOUR MOLECULES TOGETHER COME UNDONE."

An illusion of a Human appeared in the center of the table, right beside the charred fish corpse. Almost immediately, the illusionary Human began to scream, dropping to their knees in a fit of agony. They frantically clawed at their face – then screamed ever louder as flesh came away in scraped chunks, soft as clay.

The process lasted for three appalling minutes. Bit by bit, pieces of the Human fell apart, sloughing off into a puddle around their diminishing body. Skin dissolved, muscle melted, and bones crumbled. Screams turned to whimpers, then begging, both of which went unheard.

When all was said and done, nothing recognizably Human remained. Just a pile of assorted biomass.

Duran whirled around and dry heaved. Rob nearly joined him. Most of the Elatran Humans – presumably less accustomed to grotesque sights – outright vomited. Ismaire wasn't one of them, but her mask of fortitude had been shattered, leaving behind the unsalvageable fragments of a broken dream.

"This can't be the truth," she croaked, her voice hoarse. "It's...it's a falsehood. Something designed to hurt us. It can't be real."

"I DO NOT LIE. LYING WOULD–"

"DEFEAT THE PURPOSE!" Ismaire howled. "I DAMN WELL KNOW!" She raised her hands, as if to launch another assault at Kismet...then stopped and let her arms fall, her gaze lowering with them.

"Why?" She clung to the spite in her voice like a lifeboat in a storm. "Why are you even here? To taunt us? Does our lot in life amuse you? Do you prefer watching us slowly drown in dragonfire than unintentionally ending it all by teleporting to Earth?"

"I AM HERE PRIMARILY BECAUSE OF HIM."

Kismet gestured towards Harken. Jerking back, the mage's eyebrows shot upwards. The only other time he'd shown stronger emotion was when he cheerfully described his plan to decimate Elatra with magic. "Me?" Harken uttered. "While I am truly flattered, as far as I'm aware, we haven't spoken before today."

"LITTLE CAN BE GAINED FROM CONVERSING WITH LOWER CREATURES. OBSERVATION, HOWEVER, OFTEN YIELDS INTRIGUING RESULTS." Kismet twirled his coin between his fingers. "DESPERATION BEGETS INNOVATION, AND NOTHING IS MORE DESPERATE THAN MAYFLIES AT THE END OF THEIR LIFESPAN. YOUR IDEA...I'LL GO SO FAR AS TO SAY IT INSPIRED ME."

He spread his arms wide, his voice gaining a modicum of enthusiasm. "TO THAT END, I HAVE COME TO OFFER YOU A CHOICE."

Rage boiling over, Rob dashed forward. A series of Rampages put him next to Kismet in half a second. "Don't listen to him!" he bellowed, unsurprised yet somehow disappointed when his fist passed through the god's ephemeral head. "Don't listen to a goddamn word he says!"

His outburst amounted to nothing. The past was immutable; it could not be altered. These people couldn't hear him any more than a video recording would have. Rob didn't even gain any short-term catharsis, as he was now up close, able to see the Humans' grief-stricken faces in excruciating detail.

All his rage had done was give him a front-row seat to what was about to follow.

"So that's it." A harsh chuckle ripped from Ismaire's throat. "You barge into our domain, feign indifference, denigrate our people, then claim to proffer us a choice." The Archmage glared at Kismet as if he was an unruly pest. "Why, pray tell, should we give your drivel the time of day?"

"BECAUSE YOUR NATION IS ON THE BRINK OF ANNIHILATION. IN THIS HOUR OF NEED, I SIMPLY POSSESS TOO MUCH POWER FOR YOU TO SPURN. AS LOWER LIFE FORMS ALWAYS DO, YOU WILL COMPROMISE YOUR DESIRES FOR THE SAKE OF A GOAL."

Hope briefly flickered on Ismaire's face – before she ruthlessly quashed it. "You explicitly stated that you weren't here to help us," she said, in a tone overflowing with suspicion.

"I WILL NOT OFFER SALVATION. IRRESPECTIVE OF WHAT TRANSPIRES TODAY, HUMAN TERRITORY IS LOST."

He waved his hand. Two shimmering, opaque images appeared above the tables, hovering in mid-air. "WHAT I OFFER IS THE PRIVILEGE OF CHOOSING HOW YOUR STORY ENDS."

The first image sharpened into focus. It displayed a small bird soaring through the sky, its feathers glowing with a soothing white light. Something about the way it rose higher exuded a sense of freedom. Freedom from woe. Freedom from hurt. Freedom from obligation.

Freedom from death. Below the bird, trapped on the ground, was carnage. Innumerable figures had been butchered and thrown into a towering pile of meat. There was more red than not, the scene absolutely awash with rivers of still-flowing blood.

"THE FLIGHT OF A FALLEN RACE," Kismet began. "CHOOSE THIS, AND I WILL SELECT ONE HUNDRED OF YOUR PEOPLE, AT RANDOM. NONE IN THIS ROOM ARE ELIGIBLE. THOSE FORTUNATE SOULS WILL BE SPIRITED TO SAFETY. THEY ALONE SHALL SURVIVE WHAT IS TO COME."

"Why so few?" Felandril pleaded. "If you can save a hundred, then surely–"

"THIS IS THE LIMIT OF INFLUENCE THAT I AM WILLING TO EXPEND. ONE HUNDRED ABDUCTIONS ALREADY REQUIRES FAR MORE THAN YOU MIGHT ASSUME."

Ismaire viewed the image with an expression like she'd bit into rotting garbage. "What trick have you planned to sour this deal? I can't imagine you've chosen to assist us out of the kindness of your heart."

Kismet shook his head. "THERE IS NO TRICK. I WILL NOT HARM THESE HUMANS. THEIR LIVES HENCEFORTH SHALL BE ORDINARY, ALBEIT SEQUESTERED FROM THE REST OF ELATRA."

Despite her well-deserved paranoia, Ismaire hesitated. So did the other mages. 100 people...wasn't a lot, compared to what the final death toll would be, but it was something. A fraction of Humanity to carry on their legacy. Better than total extinction, at the very least.

"Please take it," Rob whispered. He spoke with the self-imposed delusion of a man who wished his words could transcend time itself. "Don't even look at the second option. This is lives saved. Please don't..."

Please don't do what I know you're going to.

Ismaire drummed her fingers on the table. "You still haven't answered the second half of my query. Trick or otherwise, I refuse to believe you offer this choice out of altruism."

"INDEED. IT IS INTENDED TO SERVE AS A CONTRAST FOR THIS."

The second image sharpened into focus.

Duran let out a traumatized shriek.

Within the image, incandescent rays of light were blasting through the sky. Unlike the bird's soothing luminescence, these rays exuded pure, unfiltered power. As if each one contained the destructive force of a thousand atomic bombs. It made some of the most seasoned mages in the world tremble with dread, their hearts gripped by the icy fingers of the grave.

And to put that feeling to proof – in the image, the ground below was almost entirely engulfed in explosive light. Whatever territory that sight had belonged to, none could say. After the light was done with it, such distinctions would be pointless.

Rob hadn't seen this event happen in any of his Attunement flashbacks. Yet even without Duran's reaction, even without the buildup and foreknowledge...he would've been able to identify what it was from a single glance.

"CATACLYSM." More excitement crept into Kismet's voice. "YOUR MAGE'S INGENUITY IS WORTHY OF PRAISE," he said, pointing at Harken. "HOWEVER, A SPELL CREATED BY LOWER LIFE FORMS IS DOOMED TO BE FLAWED. HIS VERSION WOULD NEVER HAVE ACHIEVED THE WIDESPREAD DEVASTATION YOU SO CRAVE."

Kismet discharged a pulse of power that radiated outwards and swept over the room. Not enough to injure anyone, but enough to make a point, the mages reeling as they clutched their seats for support.

"I AM DIVINE." The god proclaimed a statement of unassailable fact. "WITH MY MIGHT AND KNOWLEDGE, I CAN IMPROVE UPON YOUR SPELL. GIVE IT THE FULL POTENTIAL IT WAS ALWAYS MEANT TO POSSESS. WITH THE CATACLYSM AT YOUR FINGERTIPS, THIS WORLD AND ITS CIVILIZATIONS WILL CEASE TO BE. NONE SHALL SURVIVE."

The images froze in place, like shimmering paintings depicting two possible futures. "LET IT BE DECIDED BY A MAJORITY VOTE. WHAT WILL YOU CHOOSE, HUMANS? WILL YOU PRESERVE A TRIFLING NUMBER OF YOUR PEOPLE, THEN WATCH AS YOUR NATION FALLS TO UNCHECKED SLAUGHTER? OR WILL YOU STRIKE BACK AGAINST THOSE WHO HAVE WRONGED YOU? DO UNTO THEM WHAT THEY INTEND TO DO TO YOU? HUMANITY MAY DIE, BUT WILL IT BE AS VICTIMS, OR AS FIGHTERS, STRUGGLING TO THE BITTER END?"

He flipped his coin. "I KNOW WHAT I WOULD CHOOSE."

Ismaire sniped it out of the air with a lightning bolt.

Kismet went perfectly still. Seconds passed. Slowly, like a rusted hinge, he turned his head to peer at the Archmage. "THERE IS A LIMIT TO IMPUDENCE, MONSTER IN THE FORM OF MAN."

"This bargain of yours is a farce," Ismaire flatly stated. "Either 100 of our people live, or none of us do – and countless innocents are massacred as well. I fail to see the point of presenting a choice with only one correct answer."

"THE CHOICE IS THE POINT."

Ismaire frowned, seemingly confused over what Kismet was getting at. Before she could ask, though, a voice cut her off.

"I support the Cataclysm." Harken grinned as his colleagues stared at him with varying degrees of disbelief. "Oh, come now. You really didn't think I'd choose differently, did you? It's what I've envisioned from the very beginning."

"You argued for a world survived by one thousand Humans. Belroth's offer of one hundred is less so, yet that still–"

"Kindly refrain from acting intentionally obtuse, Ismaire. It is unbecoming of you." He sighed, as if weary of life's misfortunes. "I intended for those thousand Humans to be rulers. Not prisoners in a gilded cage. No, if that is to be Humanity's lot, then their purpose would be better served as mana to fuel the Cataclysm."

Ismaire narrowed her eyes. "I wish I could be surprised. Just who I am speaking to, presently? Harken, the man – or Leveling High?"

{Both,} it whispered. {At the end, we are one.}

Felandril was quiet. Something dark and feral shone in his eyes. Suddenly, with urgent motion, he stood up. "I support the Cataclysm."

This time, Ismaire was definitely surprised. "You can't be serious," she breathed, staring at Felandril like she'd never seen him before.

"Project Socius has failed." He met her gaze with unyielding ferocity. "Nothing remains for us, Ismaire. The idea of one hundred Human survivors is laughable; a pittance. I'd rather take out as many of those foreign bastards as I can in my last moments."

Something seemed to click within Ismaire's mind. "You won't gain any Experience for killing them," she explained. "You understand that, yes? A dead man can't increase in Level."

"Stand amidst a pile of Human corpses, smell their lifeblood – unjustly spilled – and ask me if I fucking care."

Another mage stood up. Rob didn't know her name. "I support the Cataclysm." She hesitated, opening and closing her mouth, her posture wilting as she struggled to find the right words. "Let's just end it," the mage eventually muttered. "Lost too many. Can't take this anymore."

By now, Ismaire was starting to panic. She hastily examined the other five mages – then sagged with relief when none of them rose in favor of the Cataclysm. While they appeared resentful, bitterly considering the prospect of revenge, they also appeared disturbed, regarding Harken's trio as if the three were suggesting...well, that they should eradicate all of Elatra.

"AN AUSPICIOUS START," Kismet remarked. "THREE-FIFTHS OF THE WAY TO A MAJORITY VOTE." He clapped his hands once. "AH, BUT THE REST OF YOU SEEM HESITANT. PERHAPS A REMINDER IS IN ORDER."

Without warning, nine portals opened before the mages.

Nine corpses were deposited in front of them.

Rob had to sit down as he watched chaos unfurl. Voices layered into a cacophony of noise, the mages shouting and screaming and crying and ranting. It was such an overpowering wave of sorrow and fury that it would've knocked him off his feet if he wasn't already seated. Although Rob couldn't understand even a quarter of what was being said, he quickly got the gist of it.

Those bodies were their loved ones. Some were skeletons, having long since returned to the soil. They'd been dressed in familiar clothing to make them recognizable. Some were half-rotted, in advanced stages of decomposition. For those, there was still enough of a face left to identify them.

And one was fresh.

"ALAIN!" To no avail, Ismaire repeatedly cast healing magic on the unmoving corpse in her lap, its vacant eyes piercing straight into her soul. "No no NO! WAKE UP, MY SON! PLEASE!"

Tears streaming down her face, her gaze whipped up towards Kismet. If looks could kill, then the god would've been dead fifty times over. "YOU–"

"I DID NOT KILL HIM. HE FOUGHT IN BATTLE TODAY. IT WENT POORLY. YOU WOULD HAVE RECEIVED NEWS BY LATE AFTERNOON."

A gut-wrenching note of pure anguish erupted from Ismaire's throat. It was enough to make the other mages pause their own grief, stopping to stare at the nascent tragedy playing out before them.

"NEVER FORGOT WHAT THEY'VE TAKEN FROM YOU," Kismet intoned. "NEVER FORGET YOUR RAGE. THAT EMOTION IS ALL WHICH REMAINS OF THOSE WHOM YOU ONCE LOVED. SOON EVEN THAT MUCH WILL BE GONE, AS THE FOREIGN NATIONS END YOUR POPULACE AND ERASE YOUR HISTORIES. AFTER THIS TERRITORY'S DEMISE, STORIES WILL BE PASSED DOWN THROUGH GENERATIONS OF A VALIANT BATTLE WON AGAINST A DEPRAVED FOE. THE HUMANS: SLAVES TO THEIR VIOLENT URGES, WHO WOULD HAVE SCOURED THE WORLD IF GIVEN THE CHANCE. THAT SHALL BE YOUR EPITAPH."

He swept his gaze over the mages again. "UNLESS YOU SEIZE CONTROL OF YOUR FATE. BLOOD MUST BE REPAID WITH BLOOD – OR IT WILL BE REPAID WITH NOTHING AT ALL. YOUR MURDERERS SHALL LIVE LONG, FULL LIVES, WHILE YOUR PEOPLE LAY DESECRATED AND FORGOTTEN."

The god's form expanded in height and size, his voice echoing like a thunderclap. "NOW IS THE TIME TO CHOOSE."

An impossibly heavy silence enveloped the room. None of the mages could look each other in the eye. Around half were sobbing, holding their fallen loved ones to their chest. The other half were wreathed in an aura of grim contemplation, dark urges lurking beneath their faces. Tension built, so thick that it was nearly palpable, like a bomb with a lit fuse.

Rob unconsciously held his breath as people slowly began to stand up. This was the moment when they'd made their decision. When everything finally–

"Alain knew a Harpy named Falara."

Both he and Kismet turned their attention towards Ismaire. Her head was still bowed, Alain's corpse staining her robes with more red as it rested in her lap. "They've been in contact for some years now," she explained. "Courting, albeit with the plodding haste of a drunken larguz."

Hesitantly, Ismaire's lips curled into a smile as fragile as cracked glass. "Foolish boy neglected to tell me. Hah. As if his own mother would fail to notice that spring in his step whenever he received an 'unmarked missive' from Harpy territory. In truth, I wonder why he bothered feigning secrecy. Did he think I wouldn't approve of him seeking romance outside our borders? Or was he simply embarrassed to admit that he'd opened his heart to someone?"

Her smile vanished in an instant. "I suppose I'll never know."

Gently, Ismaire reached down to close Alain's eyelids. She then wiped her tears with her sleeve, uncaring of the blood it smeared on her cheeks. "There was one Dragonkin I kept in correspondence with," she continued. "Egrin was his name. Nice fellow. Intelligent, high-ranking Treasurer. Responded to messages swiftly. We weren't the closest of friends, but I enjoyed learning about other nations, and so did he. Stopped talking with him when the war started; neither of us wanted to be accused of espionage."

Her shoulders tightened. "One day, Egrin contacted me in a panic. Warned me of the Dragon Queen's intent before it became publicly known. Swore he would do whatever he could to impede it. Him. A Utility Class user. Would try to forestall Ragnavi's savagery."

She bared two rows of clenched teeth. "Last I heard, the Dragonkin nobility sentenced him to death on charges of treason."

"YOU–"

"And those are just my own personal experiences." Ismaire lifted her head to glare at Kismet with eyes of reforged steel. "I've visited other nations before. Observed their people from afar. People, because that's what they are. Not butchers or monsters or executioners – Bakers and Millers and Leatherworkers. More people than you could scarcely imagine, each with a life's story to call their own. They aren't to blame for this. I imagine if most of them had their way, they would demand an immediate ceasefire, if only to ensure that their family and friends returned home safely."

She chuckled. It was a wry, cutting sound. "It's always the common soldiers and civilians who suffer most from the hubris of their superiors."

"INCLUDING YOUR HUBRIS?"

"As someone who opposed this war from its onset?" Ismaire nodded. "Yes. I could have – should have done more. While the Dragon Queen's Class Awakening was an unforeseeable development, things never should've reached that point in the first place. My failure to ameliorate the situation cost untold lives. So did the failure of other high-Level Combat Class users. Hell, the nine of us here today are more responsible for Alain's death than any Dragonkin noncombatant."

Kismet shook his head. "BOLD WORDS, TRUSSED UP IN RIGHTEOUS FINERY – BUT THEY ARE NOT THE TRUTH OF YOUR HEART. YOU HATE THE OTHER NATIONS."

She made a scoffing noise. "And? Only a mage of low standard foists her irrationality onto others. My hatred of the other nations changes nothing. Logically, most of their people are not to blame. I refuse to punish all of Elatra for the crimes of some."

"YOU ARE CERTAIN? EVEN AFTER WHAT THEY DID TO YOUR PROGENY?"

"As if he'd want me to kill his star-crossed lover – assuming she still lives." Ismaire tenderly laid Alain onto the ground, then rose to her feet, never taking her eyes off of Kismet. "This is what you meant before, isn't it? 'The choice is the point.' It's why you offered us an alternative that was moral, yet unsatisfying. You wanted to see how far we could be pushed until we committed atrocities in turn."

Her countenance had returned to how it was at the start of the meeting, like an army general preparing for battle. "I think you'll discover that Humanity possesses far more backbone than that," she declared. "My people don't sink to meet an occasion; we rise above it. Project Socius may be lost to us, but this is not yet our end. We will survive the Dragon Queen's wrath. We will prevail in this war. And it will be done without your tainted patronage."

Kismet stared at the Archmage for a good five seconds, completely silent.

"I ACKNOWLEDGE YOU, HUMAN."

She frowned. "Elaborate."

"VIRTUOSITY RARELY PREVAILS IN TIMES OF HARDSHIP," the god explained. "WHEN MORTALS ARE PRESSED, LOFTY CODES OF HONOR INVARIABLY BECOME LITTLE BETTER THAN EMPTY WORDS, WORTH LESS THAN ASH IN THE WIND. REGARDLESS, YOU HELD FAST TO YOUR CONVICTIONS. FOR THAT, HUMAN – ISMAIRE – I ACKNOWLEDGE YOU."

He paused. "ALAS...YOU HAVE BEEN OUTVOTED."

Rob's fingernails dug into his palms as belated realization dawned on Ismaire. While the Archmage had been laser-focused on Kismet, the BERSERKER had gotten a broader view of the room. He'd seen how Ismaire's unwavering certitude swayed several of the remaining mages to her side, three of them subtly moving towards her the longer she spoke.

He'd also seen how it wasn't enough to reach the last two mages. One of them had quickly gone to stand with Harken's group, hugging their lover's decaying body to their chest, the corpse's hollow, lifeless gaze looking like a dead ringer for their own. The second mage hesitated for a long while, repeatedly glancing between Ismaire and their own deceased loved one...before a flare of outrage alighted on their features. Then they'd moved practically on instinct, blinking with mild surprise when they noticed where they were standing.

Even now, that final mage was exhibiting clear uncertainty. Ismaire's betrayed expression seemed to have struck a chord with them. Given another couple of seconds, they might've actually switched sides.

It didn't matter. Kismet was under no obligation to draw things out.

Harken, Felandril, and three others already made five.

"IT IS DECIDED," he proclaimed.

A god was bound by their word. Kismet would've been forced to back off if a majority of the nine mages rejected the Cataclysm. If these were ordinary circumstances, they undoubtedly would have.

Yet these circumstances were hardly ordinary. Grief, sorrow, anger, despair, fear, dread, peer pressure from a literal god, and Leveling High were saturating the air like toxic fumes. The mages' familiar meeting room had been transformed into a crucible of all the worst emotions a person could feel, eroding their senses of self until only warped reflections were left, as if they were viewing themselves through a funhouse mirror.

It was the most crucial moment in Elatra's history. And during that impossible balancing act, struggling to retain integrity while under siege from the world itself, walking the tightrope of satisfying their baseborn desires or pursuing a moral good that would likely go unrewarded...

...Humanity slipped.

The abyss awaited below.

"LET THE BOARD BE WIPED CLEAN," Kismet continued. "A PURGING FROM SHORE TO SHORE. ALL SHALL–"

"Piss off," Ismaire spat, her three allies gathering around her. "As if I'd share how to perform a mass Soul Burn with you fanatics. Only I am aware of the mechanisms behind the spell, and if necessary, I'll take that knowledge to my grave."

Soft laughter resounded within their minds. "YOU ARE ILL-SUITED FOR DECEPTION, ISMAIRE. WE BOTH KNOW THAT IF I SO DESIRED, I COULD EASILY ABDUCT ONE OF YOUR SUBORDINATE MAGES THAT ASSISTED WITH THE SPELL'S DEVELOPMENT."

The god extended an arm towards Harken. "YET THAT WOULD BE UNNECESSARY. I HAVE OBSERVED YOU CREATURES FOR QUITE SOME TIME. THERE IS NO KNOWLEDGE YOU POSSESS THAT I CANNOT RECREATE."

An orb of pulsating light emerged from Kismet's hand and drifted towards Harken. He accepted the boon with maniacally reverent joy.

"So that's how...yes, I see now..." The mage's mouth split wide as arcane wisdom infused his thoughts. "We are monsters. Monsters are mana. Mana flows. No need to go searching. Just follow the flow...like connected threads. It's all right there."

Ignorant or uncaring of the terror his murmuring inspired, he turned to face Ismaire. "My condolences for your son," Harken said, appearing wholly genuine as he bowed his head. "He was a good man who deserved better."

"Don't do this," she begged. "This doesn't have to be the end."

Her plea was rebuffed by a small, contented smile. "The end has already come." Harken lifted his arms skyward. "This?"

Mana gathered in his palms. "This is just the curtain falling."

Plumes of fire race towards him – only to slam against a conjured shield. It bent, yet did not break. Ismaire growled as her ambush failed, the Archmage forced to conjure a shield of her own as Harken's allies retaliated with slicing blades of wind.

In spite of everything, Rob allowed himself to feel a sliver of wonderment as he witnessed a high-Level mage duel unfold before his eyes. Harken was busy doing...something, which left four spellcasters on each side, all of them committed to their chosen path and wielding the power to back it up. Holding nothing in reserve, both factions clashed with unrestrained ferocity, as if existence itself was hanging on the edge of a knife.

Which it was.

Rob unconsciously stepped back as the air became a blender of elemental devastation. Fire scorched, water drowned, wind sliced, and thunder fell. The mages alternated between crushing offense and ironclad defense, only allowing their mana shields to drop when firing off some flavor of spell that would have turned a weaker opponent into bite-sized chunks. With a sound resembling a tree thrown into a wood chipper, the large conference table was obliterated in seconds, reduced to splinters just from collateral damage alone.

The battle was as breathtaking as it was short, lasting ten seconds at most. Ismaire's side had the clear advantage. Only Felandril came close to matching her prowess, and his faction was diverting some of their attention towards protecting Harken. Bit-by-bit, they were losing ground, some sporting grievous wounds from shields put up a split-second too late. They wouldn't have been able to endure for much longer.

Not that they needed to. Their goal hadn't been to win – just to stall for time.

"I FEEL THEM!" Countless threads of mana shot forth from Harken's body. There were so many that they overlapped into one solid mass of incandescent, eye-searing light. "I FEEL THEM ALL!"

Ismaire cursed as four thin lines of death raced at her group. She made a hand gesture, and the threads wilted like cut strings, their effect canceled. Her counter-spell did nothing to prevent the rest of the threads from flying outwards, piercing through walls and heading off to places far in the distance.

Out of options, the Archmage launched a swift counteroffensive, her plumes of fire stopped once more by another conjured shield. This time, however, the shield didn't bend. It didn't even show the slightest bit of stress, holding steady like an unassailable wall.

A wall empowered with greater mana than any number of mages could produce.

Harken's four allies were the first to drop. Felandril died with an awestruck expression on his face, body tumbling to the ground as his Soul was Burnt to fuel the pyre. More and more threads faded as distant lives were consumed, snuffed out in an instant, never knowing why this fate had befallen them. Stolen mana condensed around Harken, swelling rapidly with each passing second, so painfully bright that its aura outshone Kismet's avatar.

The might of four high-Level mages assaulted him in tandem. They put nearly all of their remaining MP into a decisive ending blow, creating destructive magic akin to a localized hurricane. It was a last-ditch effort borne of their ardent, soul-deep desire to save as many people as they could.

Harken's shielding blocked it with contemptuous ease.

He didn't need allies to protect him anymore.

A continuous roaring noise thrummed in Rob's ears. The condensed, stolen mana was still growing, its very presence warping the surrounding area, almost like a collapsing star. Even with his weak Sense Mana, the spell felt unfathomably powerful to him. If he combined all the mana he'd seen and sensed in Elatra thus far, it wouldn't have amounted to a trifling fragment of the anomaly shaping inside this one room.

By now, Harken had ceased speaking. Perhaps he no longer could. Although he'd discarded his humanity well before this moment, now the mage's appearance matched his twisted psyche, flesh morphing as he became a living vector for the Cataclysm itself. On and on his power grew, taking lives and souls as nourishment.

Until nothing was left to take.

Rob watched, stunned by an indescribable emotion as the last of the threads silently faded. There was no fitting sound to mark the death knell of an entire civilization. No great cry of anguish to express the inconceivable loss of life that had just occurred within less than a minute. There was only a thrumming roar of mana, the Cataclysm gorged to bursting, ready to send forth its power and crack Elatra like an egg.

Ismaire's body trembled, and not because of the almighty pressure bearing down upon her. She knew what the threads' disappearance meant. Her knees threatened to buckle as the enormity of her failure slammed into the Archmage like a tsunami; an overwhelming realization stacked on top of the dead son laying just inches away.

Rob wouldn't have blamed her if she went to pieces right then and there. He waited on tenterhooks for the moment she would break.

That moment never came. Instead, with her people gone, her loved ones slain, her dreams shattered, her hope extinguished, and her purpose in life ripped asunder...

She stood, bearing it all.

Ismaire exchanged wordless glances with her allies. They nodded, seeming resigned. Rob interpreted it as acceptance of their failure – up until when three threads extended towards them from the Archmage.

"Thank you for your sacrifice," she whispered, as the mages fell. Mana suffusing her, she raised her arms one final time. "I vow to use it wisely."

Compared to the inexorable mass of the Cataclysm, rife with stolen souls and mana from the barrier between worlds, Ismaire's energy was a drop in the bucket. She fully knew that. A battle of raw power would end in her immediate defeat.

Yet where the hammer would fail...a scalpel might suffice.

Ismaire gathered her mana. As she did, a multitude of emotions passed through her expression, so many that Rob couldn't catch them all. He saw regret. Remorse. Reminiscence. And chief among them, far stronger than any other:

Resolve.

"Soul Burn."

With those two words, the last Human perished.

Ismaire's mana combined with that of her allies. As she fell unmoving to the floor, the spell she'd cast played out its given duty. Rather than an elemental attack, it fashioned itself into a razor-thin line of energy, shooting forward like an arrow. Her spell collided with Harken's nigh-impenetrable shield, focusing all of its force onto a tiny, singular point of impact.

The future of millions was contained in that one moment.

As the Cataclysm prepared to unleash, Rob heard a faint crack. His Heightened Senses barely managed to perceive the instant that Ismaire's spell carved an infinitesimally small hole in the shield barring its path.

The spell had much less trouble carving a hole through Harken's skull. As if it was a bullet from a sniper rifle, the line of energy shot forth and bounced around inside his misshapen head, shredding what remained of the man's flesh-and-blood brain.

Everyone froze. Rob. Duran. Kismet. Even the Cataclysm came to a halt, its energies leaking, then destabilizing. The inexorable mass of power drained from apocalyptic to merely astronomical. Without a sentient mind in the driver's seat, it couldn't retain itself into one cohesive form.

Yet just as Ismaire's spell completed after her passing...this was no different.

Sense Mana screeched a warning. Before the Cataclysm could fully dissipate, the spell's condensed energies exploded, colossal rays of mana blasting upwards into the sky.

Within a fraction of a nanosecond, Rob's vision was filled by an all-encompassing light.

--

He awoke on the cold Deadlands soil.

The vision had ended.

Rob laid there for a time, rendered motionless by physical and emotional whiplash. After the frenetic lunacy of his Attunement flashback, the Deadlands' barren, empty quiet nearly felt disarming. Like teleporting from a bustling city street to a morgue. Processing everything he'd just witnessed...might take a while.

Evidently, Duran thought the same. Both of them sat in silence, the gods' Beacon in the distance serving as their only company.

Time passed. A few minutes turned into twenty. Putting their thoughts in order became a trial on par with fighting a horde of Blightspawn. Rob almost didn't want to open his mouth, as if doing so would break some spell that had been cast upon them.

However, no silence lasts forever. Eventually, the Elder spoke up, his voice hoarse and raw. "It...wasn't what I'd anticipated."

Rob turned to face him. "What did you anticipate?" he asked, curiously.

"That they'd all be like Harken. Mad with anguish and having given themselves over to Leveling High. The prevailing public opinion claims that Humans, to a man, sought vengeance. But to learn that some of them opposed the Cataclysm..." He averted his gaze, staring at the ground. "It seems so obvious now."

"There was no one around to tell their side of the story. Not surprised that most Cataclysm survivors would assume the worst."

Duran nervously rubbed his hands together, guilt eating away at his composure. "Ismaire's people were already gone," he blurted out.

It took Rob a second to understand what the non-sequitur was referring to. "You mean after the Cataclysm was formed?"

"Yes." The Elder sagged. "Humanity had perished by then. There was naught to save. Yet...Ismaire still spent her last moments defending enemy territories from total annihilation. Her and three others, no less. Without their final gambit, slaying Harken and weakening the Cataclysm, that abominable spell would have left not a single survivor in the entirety of Elatra."

He clenched his fists. "All for the sake of a world that denied their existence."

"Honestly?" Rob hesitated, then opted for full disclosure. "I get it. Most normal people had nothing to do with what happened to Humanity. I would've done the same thing as Ismaire's group. Also would've flipped off the world as I saved it, but, yeah. I think those last moments were the one thing they didn't regret."

Duran didn't quite know how to respond to that. After maybe fifteen seconds of contemplation, the Elder closed his eyes. "I should have done more," he said, echoing one of Ismaire's statements. "I'd visited Human territory on multiple occasions. Made acquaintances of several people there. I knew the Dragon Queen's edict was horrific, a violation, wrong – and with that knowledge, changed nothing. I should have done so much more."

Probably, was Rob's kneejerk thought. It was quickly overwritten by his desire to not see Duran looking so depressed. "Going against Ragnavi would've put a target on your back, right?" he hazarded. "Sticking your neck out like that isn't easy when–"

"No, Rob." Duran opened his eyes and shook his head. "The gesture is appreciated, but no. I can't brush aside these thoughts, especially after everything we just saw. It would be a disservice to their memory." He sighed. "If it's alright with you, I need time to sort out the disarray within my mind."

Rob couldn't argue with that. Still, he tried one parting comment, hoping to leave the Elder on a more positive note. "Of course. And...I think it's good that we saw everything. Means someone remembers. We can carry that piece of history into the future."

Duran's expression brightened slightly, which Rob counted as a win. He'd meant what he said, too – even if watching what happened back then was practically soul-crushing. Without the Skills' Attunement vision, Ismaire's final moments would have been lost under the destructive shadow of the Cataclysm.

And they were definitely moments worth of remembrance. Few things resonated with Rob more than people defying the hand that fate had dealt them. He couldn't have asked for better inspiration to keep fighting. If that was why the Skills decided to show him the end of Humanity, then he would've wholeheartedly accepted that reason.

It was almost a shame that he knew otherwise.

While remembering the past was important, the Skills were on a mission to free themselves. They couldn't afford to expend massive amounts of Influence on sentimentality alone. Their reason for conjuring a lengthy Attunement vision must have been both vital and pragmatic, designed strictly to further their goals.

Rob was 100% sure of that – because he'd already figured out why. Past-Kismet clued him in partway through the vision.

'I simply possess too much power for you to spurn', Rob quoted. His hand twitched towards his longsword. Eight years later, and the fucker didn't even bother changing his script.

Kismet had used that exact same line right before the Attunement vision appeared. His argument made to Rob in the present...was also made to the nine mages in the past.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Rob felt absolutely livid – and worst of all, only a portion of his anger was directed at Kismet. The rest was aimed straight at himself. I can't believe I was starting to consider a bargain with him. HIM.

*That* was the reason why the Skills conjured their Attunement vision shortly after his conversation with Kismet. They'd observed where his thoughts were trending...and they hadn't liked what they saw.

Imagining that potential future wasn't even difficult, loath as Rob was to admit it. Hypothetically, what if he reached Level 99 and his new Skills didn't seem like they'd be enough to confront the gods? Then Kismet would swoop in with a deal, agreeing to leave Earth alone and spare parts of Elatra in return for Riardin's Rangers backing off. Some people would be sacrificed, but not the people Rob loved most. He'd scream, argue, gnash his teeth – yet for the sake of his friends and family, ultimately take the deal. After all, what was he supposed to do against an unstoppably powerful foe?

The Elatrans probably used similar logic to justify their lack of resistance when Ragnavi press-ganged them into slaughtering Humanity.

It was a mistake they'd made, a mistake the Humans had made, and a mistake Rob came embarrassingly close to making, forgetting everything he'd learned in history class. Dictators don't make good faith deals. People who abuse power can't be appeased, trusted, or reasoned with.  Their modus operandi is to cause problems for everyone, suggest a solution that primarily benefits them, then call you unreasonable for not going along with their bullshit. Anything they might offer is a poison pill, guaranteed to bite you in the ass sooner or later.

Kismet's meeting with the nine mages was a prime example of that. Leveling High was the root cause of much of Humanity's woes. It was a big factor in why the war spiraled out of control. Naturally, the god had taken zero responsibility for creating their race with an inborn curse. He'd then proceeded to destroy their morale by debunking Project Socius in the cruelest way possible, then acted like they'd be fools for not listening to him when he offered alternative 'solutions'.

Which in retrospect, seemed designed to draw attention away from Humanity's actual solutions. Project Socius may have been a bust, but that was just one option. They could've fought harder to get the Dwarves on their side, devised new schemes to assassinate Ragnavi, or returned to the Fiends and begged for more aid. While those chances of success were low, they were still a *chance*. Even Felandril's idea of sacrificing half the population to attack Ragnavi was better than completely throwing in the towel.

Except throwing in the towel was exactly what Kismet wanted them to do. From the very beginning, he'd manipulated their encounter to push them towards that choice.

If only Ismaire had noticed that earlier, then maybe she could've persuaded more mages to her side before it was too late.

I wonder, Rob mused. How would Kismet have stacked the deck against me? That seems to be his shtick. He sets up a game, rigs it, then belittles the participants for not somehow winning anyway, judging them at their lowest point. As if a person's true self is only revealed within the deepest pits of despair.

He peered skyward, his eyes set with unwavering determination. I reject that, and I reject you. People should be allowed to live their best life without gods and despots screwing things up. No matter what you offer me, I won't stop fighting until every last trace of your existence has been expunged from these worlds.

At that moment, a system notification popped into view.

Null Skill Learned!

...What the heck was a Null Skill? Mystified, Rob checked his Character Sheet for more details.

Name: A Dialogue
Prerequisite:
Description: Never forget your rage.
Cooldown:

That was all.

He attempted to activate the Skill. Nothing happened. He didn't sense any latent power from it, either. The Skill was just a one-sentence Description.

...No. A dialogue. With the Skills – plural.

They'd found a way to communicate. In a limited capacity, at least.

Although their first correspondence was...an interesting choice. 'Never forget your rage' had been another line that Kismet told the mages in order to push them towards the Cataclysm. If Rob wanted to interpret the message in that sense, then the Skills were reminding him that rage was a volatile emotion which often impaired judgement. It could easily lead a person astray – especially when combined with Leveling High. Harken and Felandril were proof of that.

But he could also interpret the message as never neglecting his rage. Despite how it could lead someone down the path to ruin, rage was a necessary emotion. It was the opposite of complacency; without it, injustices would go unaddressed. Change only ever came about when people got mad enough to fight for it.

That was going to be his job moving forward, Rob realized. Sure, the Durans and Diplomacies of the world recommend caution and compromise. Much of the time, they'd probably be right. Yet someone needed to be at the forefront of getting fucking pissed over the unfairness of it all. Someone needed to be there to call out leaders when they abused their power. Someone needed to be ready to fight the world if it was just plain wrong.

The voice of the downtrodden couldn't be soft and unassuming. It had to be loud, aggressive, and relentless. And if that was his role?

Rob's mouth widened into a savage grin. If that was his role – to channel his rage for the betterment of others – then he gladly accepted it.

A BERSERKER should aspire to no less.

--

Thanks for reading!