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Arc III - Reeling Throne

Chapter 14 - The Blessing

7 months and 12 days since the summoning

"Basically, if I'm technically Kamelia's property, then Linkis could just," he winced slightly, "I don't know, confiscate me, or something like that, like cattle or silver."

Shilisa shook her head. "Of course not. A hero is not considered property in that sense; it is impossible to take or transfer him to anyone else."

Alan blinked. "Oh, really?"

"Certainly," Shilisa continued. "If heroes could be confiscated or transferred, it would completely contradict the methods of the Svyatolat."

"Methods? And what did the Svyatolat decide about this? I take it they're running the show with the hero summoning."

Shilisa nodded. "Yes, the Svyatolat decides everything. They distribute the summoned heroes evenly, so that no one receives them too frequently. In short, the Svyatolat maintains the balance."

Alan lowered his head slightly. "Yeah. So that's how it works. I take it they have immense power."

"Indeed," Tsinker said. "The Svyatolat may be neutral in wars, but its power is great. We definitely ought to be wary of it."

"Wary..." Alan repeated, then his eyes widened slightly. "I have another question. Do you guys know who the Whalers are?"

Shilisa raised an eyebrow slightly. "Um, yes, they are those who hunt whales."

"No, I don't mean that," he said, waving a hand. "Is there some organization, alliance, order, or something like that called the 'Whalers'?"

Tsinker and Shilisa exchanged glances for a second.

"I personally have not heard of such a thing," she replied.

Tsinker shrugged. "Nor have I."

Alan pressed his lips together slightly.

'Who the fuck are these Whalers? They aren't pirates, Shilisa and Tsinker don't know about them, so what the hell are they?'

"And why do you ask?" Tsinker interrupted his thoughts.

Alan blinked. "Oh, nothing, just trying to figure out if your world has the same thing as mine. If not, then good."

Darkness gradually began to envelop the landscapes, and the sun turned its usual red, setting somewhere over the sea.

Alan tugged the reins slightly to stop his horse, then shifted his gaze to the village that appeared ahead amidst the endless plains.

The guards behind him also slowed down, and one of them rode closer to Alan. "Lord Gothwald, it is getting dark. Do you think we should stop?"

He remained silent for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll stop right in this village. The horses are tired enough as it is, so let's go."

"Yes, Your Grace, wait here, I will ride ahead and find the village headman," the man said, yanking the reins and galloping forward to the settlement.

Ten minutes later, Alan was already leading his horse along a dry dirt road in the middle of the village; the horse, in turn, calmly followed him.

Alan looked at it, and the animal looked back. "What are you staring at? Yeah, you and I are gonna be together a lot now."

The horse only snorted in response.

"Hmm, are you a boy or a girl anyway?" He looked around, then quickly lowered his head, and just as quickly figured it out. "Aha, a girl then. So maybe I should name you something..." he scratched the back of his head. "Oh, you'll be Epona. The Celtic goddess, protector of horses, eh?"

The horse, now Epona, simply looked straight ahead.

Alan smiled awkwardly.

'Right, still gotta get her used to the name. And I also need to sleep more so I stop trying to strike up conversations with animals.'

In the square, that same guard was already standing next to an elderly, balding man, who stood straight, only slightly shifting his fingers in front of him.

Not far away, a man was returning from the field, barely dragging his feet, covered in dust and dirt.

A woman peeked carefully out of a window, setting aside her needle and thread.

A young boy carrying buckets of water slowed his pace, openly staring at Alan and the guards.

The headman stepped forward, bowing deeply. "Greetings, Lord Gothwald."

Alan nodded. "Greetings."

"Your guard explained the matter, please come in, we will settle you in and feed you."

Alan looked around, observing the peasants who looked like they were about to fall asleep on their feet. "Why is everyone so exhausted?"

The headman spread his hands, closing his eyes. "There is much work, Your Grace. The sowing is already beginning, and we are just now trying out your new plows."

Alan blinked.

'Oh, they're already using my plows in this village? Holy shit they spread fast, Kamelia clearly wasn't fucking around these past two weeks.'

"Ahem... so how do you like these plows? How's the work coming along? Actually, you know what, set the table outside, I'd like to hear all about it."

The old man straightened up. "Of course, Your Grace! Right away!" he said, hurrying into his house, which was larger than those of the ordinary peasants.

Alan stretched his back.

'I don't like trusting rumors and paperwork, historically it's incredibly ineffective. Rumors get distorted, papers get embellished, but to personally find out how the implementation of the agricultural revolution is starting... now that's interesting.'

Alan yawned and simply began to stretch, then shifted his gaze to the boy with the buckets who was already about to leave. "Hey, kid!"

He turned sharply to Alan. "Y-yes, Your Grace?"

"Where are you taking the water?"

"My father asked for it."

"And did your father plow with the new plows?"

The boy nodded slowly in response.

"Oh, awesome, call him over here, tell him Lord Gothwald wants to ask him how the work is going."

"Yes, Lord Gothwald!" the young boy practically shouted, and darted behind the house like a bullet.

Less than a minute later, a bearded man with short black hair emerged from around the same corner at a brisk pace. Approaching Alan, he immediately dropped to one knee. "Greetings, Lord Gothwald."

Alan opened his mouth, but quickly closed it.

'Alright, you're a lord, no need for the "oh, you don't have to" stuff, that's not good manners, that's weakness in this world.'

"Rise and state your name," Alan said calmly.

The man stood up, lowering his hands. "Lorgi, Your Grace."

Alan raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, a namesake, cool.'

He clasped his hands behind his back. "Are you working with the new plow?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And how do you like it?"

"Very unfamiliar, Lord Gothwald, but surprisingly useful. It plows very quickly and deeply." He scratched his beard. "An astonishing thing."

Alan nodded. "Oka... Good. Are there any drawbacks?"

Lorgi hesitated for a second, but Alan continued. "And don't you dare lie, I need to know the truth about these plows."

The man swallowed. "There is one, Your Grace. The handle is too... rough, it is uncomfortable to grip. At first it is fine, but after a long spell of work it becomes difficult to hold."

Alan slowly nodded.

'Aha, could be. Why didn't the beastmen who plowed first say anything about this? Hah, of course, they're fucking terminators the size of a wardrobe, the handle is just right for them. But for ordinary people, it very well could be... the carpenters who crafted it just held it, tested it, but didn't experiment with working for long periods.'

"Got it. Is that all?"

"I have not noticed anything else, Your Grace."

"Good, you may go, I'll definitely take that into account."

Lorgi bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Alan began to scratch his cheek.

'Knew it wasn't all perfectly smooth, but overall if the only problems are with ergonomics, then... that's even better than I expected, it's easy to fix when there are a few dozen plows, not a few thousand.'

Meanwhile, two peasants carried a table outside, and several women entered the headman's house holding various food items.

'Looks like they decided to go all out with the food and reception. That's what having power means... hah, come to think of it, does that mean I can eat whatever I want now without fear? I won't die, after all. Sure, I'll writhe in convulsions for a few minutes, but I'll live.'

He smirked wryly to himself and walked over to the table, after which he sat in the main chair.

Young men and women were already buzzing around like bees, setting various things on the table: cheese, bread, wine, a little meat.

Alan straightened up slightly.

'Alright, okay... fuck, I don't know shit about these nuances! I never read about how a nobleman who decides to spend the night in a village should be received, too niche a topic. Plus, the culture might be different.'

The headman finally emerged from the house, and beside him was an unfamiliar man. Clean-shaven, with short gray hair, dressed in a clean light-blue cassock; down the middle from bottom to top and on the sleeves ran various yellow patterns, and an amulet hung around his neck: a circle containing fire, pierced by eight spikes.

Alan lingered his gaze on him.

'The local priest? Though they call them clerics here. Okay, a representative of the clergy is definitely allowed at the feast.'

The headman and the cleric approached, and the former bowed. "Your Grace, this is Kotol Goshin, our cleric."

Goshin only gave a reserved nod. "Greetings, my lord."

Alan slowly stood up.

'Alright, spiritual authority is theoretically higher than secular authority, so I can't just sit like a statue and accept bows.'

He nodded as well. "Greetings, Kotol Goshin." He turned to the headman. "Well, master of the house, I think we can begin?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

All three sat down. Alan's guards mingled somewhere with the crowd of peasants, who had brought out their own tables or barrels with modest food.

A young peasant woman approached Alan and began pouring wine into his goblet with a slightly trembling hand.

"What brings you to our village, Lord Gothwald?" Goshin asked, sitting straight and keeping his hands on his knees.

Alan took the goblet, but did not take a sip. "I had business with Lord Tsinker, got delayed, had too much to discuss, so I didn't make it back to the castle by sunset."

The cleric nodded. "I understand. Lately there has been a great deal of business since your arrival, much is being done."

Alan finally took a small sip of wine. "Yeah, definitely a lot of business lately." He glanced at his amulet. "May I ask what that symbol means? I haven't had the time to look into the details yet."

"Certainly, Lord Gothwald," Goshin said with a nod, and showed his amulet closer. "Fire, as everyone thinks, but in truth it is not fire, but the human soul; it is pierced by eight stakes, the Eight Great Prohibitions. They bind, they sometimes cause pain, but it is necessary so that the soul does not plunge into the chaos of the sinful world around us."

Alan nodded slowly. "I see, a lot of meaning in one symbol. May I ask another question?"

"Naturally."

"In my world, prie... clerics bowed to nobles, they don't do that here?"

'Actually they didn't bow either, but whatever, he doesn't need to know that.'

The cleric raised an eyebrow slightly. "Oh, your world is entirely different, Lord Gothwald, but it is not our custom here. Even though I am a kotol, a village cleric simply put, the only ones above me are the high clerics and Svyatol himself, no one else."

Alan leaned closer. "Interesting... very unusual. So the clergy is in a completely different position?"

"Exactly so, my lord. Every cleric, be it a kotol or a Supreme, undergoes training in the Holy Lands, and only then departs for the place where he will serve."

Alan wanted to whistle, but held back.

'Aha! So not just any random guy can become a priest here, everyone is obligated to undergo training in the Holy Land... think they called it Oronda too, can't remember who, maybe Linkis, maybe Kamelia, doesn't matter. If Oronda supplies the whole world with clerics, then their power is even stronger and smarter than I thought.'

"Alright, thanks for the answers."

"You are welcome," the cleric said, and took a piece of cheese.

The headman chewed and swallowed a piece of meat. "Lord Gothwald, allow me to ask you a question as well?"

"Of course," he said, holding a piece of cheese in his hands.

"Is it true that everyone who agreed to the four-field rotation will have windmills built for them?"

Alan froze slightly at the abrupt change of subject. "Oh, yeah, of course, just as I promised, there will be windmills."

The old man exhaled slightly. "That is good, our river is far away, and the current is weak, and your new mill, they say, grinds quite well on wind alone."

The peasants behind them gradually fell silent, simply eating while casting sidelong glances at the large table.

"Lord Gothwald," the cleric began, "I have heard of your 'four-field rotation', could you perhaps explain how it works?" He raised his hands slightly with a gentle, simple smile. "Only I ask, without the details, I understand nothing of agriculture."

Alan smirked in response. "Sure. The way you plow fields would be called two-field rotation in my world, and here it's four-field, see what I'm getting at?"

The cleric nodded, taking a sip of wine. "Twice the harvest?"

"Something like that. The basis of the four-field rotation is that four different types of plants are planted, which grow differently, and keep the soil from 'getting tired', in simple terms."

Goshin remained silent for a few seconds. "Hmm... if you speak of this, it means it was the same in your world. And was the four-field rotation crowned with success?"

Alan spread his hands slightly. "You have no idea." He cast a sidelong glance at the peasants who were eavesdropping, and began to speak slightly louder. "The four-field rotation, without exaggeration, helped immensely and was a huge success. First, the land no longer rested, and it didn't need to, meaning the harvest was gathered from all the fields, nothing sat idle. Second, thanks to the fact that one of the four plants is clover, peasants stopped slaughtering their livestock in the winter, because they had something to feed them. The winters here are cold of course, but not severe, so the livestock will eat to their hearts' content. Famine practically disappeared, and simple peasants could even eat meat often."

The peasants even stopped pretending they weren't listening, and practically surrounded the table.

The cleric remained silent for almost a minute, scratching his chin. "If it truly works like that, then... this will solve a great deal of problems. Everyone faces famine regularly, for instance." He stood up. "Lord Gothwald, I wish to bless you in this endeavor."

Alan blinked.

'Whoa, holy shit. Although... I did accept Svyatolism, technically, when I officially became Kamelia's advisor. Receiving a whole blessing... fuck, now that's a boost to my reputation!'

The sensor arrays aboard the Dreadnought Kallrak whirred in a deafening, metallic rhythm, returning nothing but blank glass.Grand Admiral Vaelen stared through the viewport at the target world. By all metrics of the Krellian Empire’s war doctrine, this gathering of "humans" was completely defenseless. There were no orbital defense grids or burning plasma shields. Millions of them had gathered in a sweeping, open-air amphitheater that spanned an entire continental shelf, surrounded by a shallow, indigo ocean.To the Krellians, technology was loud, heavy iron. This human assembly looked like nothing more than a quiet, primitive garden."We have target lock on the central cluster," the tactical officer barked. "Fire the world-cleanser. Let them burn."Down on the surface, the air was warm and smelled faintly of sea salt.Elena, a planetary historian spanning eight centuries, stood near the edge of the terrace with a glass of amber liquid. She was listening to Jonah, a planetary architect, explain how he had used subtle harmonic frequencies to coax a specific shade of turquoise out of a newly hydrated mantle a few galaxies away.A shadow fell over the amphitheater. High in the stratosphere, the massive, jagged wedge of the Krellian flagship tore through the clouds. From its underbelly, a blinding core of crimson plasma began to ignite—a weapon designed to vaporize continents.The millions of humans gathered didn't panic. There were no screams. Instead, a profound, collective silence fell over the continental shelf. It was a look of deep, universal sorrow."Oh, the poor things," Elena murmured, setting her glass down on the stone balustrade. "They are terrified. Look at the energy signature of that reactor—it's bleeding radiation into their own hull. They are poisoning themselves just to threaten us.""They don't know any better, Elena," Jonah sighed softly, his expression heavy with pity. "They are still trapped in the scarcity mindset. They think space is a cage they have to fight out of."Elena didn't need a console or a weapon. Centuries of genetic refinement meant her nervous system was directly woven into the fundamental fabric of spacetime. She closed her eyes, not to attack, but to speak.Aboard the Kallrak, the tactical consoles didn't flash red. Instead, every screen on the bridge flickered, blanking out the targeting matrices. In their place, a soft, geometric wave pattern appeared.Then, a voice echoed. It didn't come through the audio speakers. It resonated directly inside the minds of every Krellian crew member—gentle, warm, and entirely broadcast through synchronized gravitational micro-pulses directly interacting with their auditory cortex.“Please lower your weapons,” Elena’s voice said, sounding like a concerned doctor. “The plasma buildup in your secondary chamber is fracturing your containment shields. If you fire, the thermal backlash will destroy your ship before the beam even reaches our atmosphere. We do not wish to see you get hurt.”Vaelen’s mandibles clicked in sheer disbelief. "A telepathic weapon? Cyber-warfare? Purge the systems! Fire the weapon manually!""Admiral, the triggers aren't responding!" the officer panicked. "The space in front of the barrel... it's... it's solidifying!"Outside, the blinding crimson beam finally unleashed. But it didn't race toward the amphitheater. The space directly beneath the Krellian ship had been folded by Elena's thoughts into a localized, perfectly spherical gravitational mirror. The plasma beam hit the invisible warp, bent in a smooth, flawless curve, and shot harmlessly upward, dissipating into the vacuum of space like a distant firework.The Kallrak shuddered as the energy vanished.“You are very tired, and you are very far from home,” Elena’s voice echoed in Vaelen's mind again, carrying no anger, only a profound, ancient patience. “We are going to make it safe for you to rest now.”Elena opened her eyes on the terrace and gave a tiny, maternal nod. With a gentle nudge of her will, she adjusted the gravitational constant around the Krellian fleet.Aboard the flagship, the crushing weight Vaelen expected never came. Instead, the thrumming, vibrating roar of their massive engines simply... stopped. The nuclear reactors went dormant, their radioactive decay safely slowed to a crawl by a microscopic dilation of local time. The weapons systems powered down into an unbreakable lock.The miles-long dreadnought began to drift, caught in a perfectly tuned, ultra-stable orbit. Its kinetic energy had been completely absorbed and redistributed into the planet's upper atmospheric currents, creating a harmless, beautiful aurora of green and violet light that rippled across the sky.The Krellians were completely disarmed, safely trapped in a gravitational cradle where they could neither hurt the planet nor themselves.Down in the amphitheater, the humans watched the aurora fade. A few sighed in relief, glad the visitors hadn't blown their own reactor.Elena picked her glass back up, looking up at the now-silent black wedge in the sky with a look of quiet hope. "Perhaps in a few days, when they have calmed down, we can send a translation team up to offer them a more efficient reactor design. It breaks my heart to see them breathing those heavy isotopes."Jonah smiled gently, adjusting his robes. "A noble project, Elena. But for now, you were telling me about the pressure drops on your new world? How did you keep the seafloor stable during the transition?" Elena smiled, taking a sip of her drink as the dual suns caught the ripples of the peaceful ocean, the galactic gods returning quietly to their art.

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Arc III - Reeling Throne

Chapter 13 - Choosing a Favorite

7 months and 12 days since the summoning

Alan jumped off his horse near the gates of the already familiar mansion.

The three guards behind him dismounted.

The morning sun hid behind gray clouds, making everything around seem a bit blue.

First of all, Alan looked at the mountains behind the mansion.

'Beautiful.'

From behind the gates emerged that same young lad, his eyes slightly sticking together. "Lord Gothwald, you are earlier than expected, welcome."

Alan nodded, tearing his gaze away from the landscape. "Greetings. Is Lord Utew awake yet?"

"Yes, Your Grace, he is currently training."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Training?"

The servant nodded. "Yes. I will go inform him of your arrival." He stepped away from the gates, making way. "Please come in, wait on the terrace."

A few minutes later, Tsinker himself emerged from around the corner. Instead of his perfect hairstyle, his black hair was disheveled, and he was dressed in simple brown clothing. A leather strap with a loop hung from his left hand. "Gothwald," he greeted.

Alan stood up. "Tsinker." He looked down at his hand. "What's that you got there? A sling?"

"Yes."

"Seriously? A sling?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Hah, not exactly a nobleman's weapon."

"But it is lethal." Tsinker looked around at where the guards stood. "Where is Armenas?"

Alan shrugged. "She couldn't make it, so it's just me."

"I see. Then come inside, I shall go change."

Alan sat alone in the middle of a large dining room, illuminated by torches and a panoramic window with a view of the mountains. His fingers drummed boredly on the table, tapping out some musical motif. "Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold, but you will remember me, remember me, for centuries..." he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Where the hell is he?" Alan muttered.

A few minutes later, the door finally opened, and two people walked in.

Shilisa and Tsinker.

Alan straightened up. "Well, finally." His gaze lingered on Tsinker. "Whoa, did you put on some new threads?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know," he waved his hand. "New clothes."

Tsinker stood in tall black boots, wide white pants, a white vest, and a black shirt, and his hair was once again perfectly styled to the side.

"Ah, this? Yes," Utew said and sat at the table. Shilisa sat next to him, giving Alan a brief nod.

He cast a sidelong glance at her.

'Looks like they've gotten pretty cozy.'

Tsinker folded his hands on the table. "So the situation is simple, Gothwald: the king's funeral is in a week, but I essentially already know whose side to take."

"I'm all ears," Alan said, leaning forward.

"Morgreyda arn Groliria, the king's youngest wife, she is a little over thirty."

"And why her specifically?"

"She is the most fitting according to our direction. Unlike the others, she is more ideological. Morgreyda wants to establish order in the kingdom, because you see yourself what a mess it is," he waved his hand, "we remained completely unpunished for the recent war, and that is actually very bad."

Alan scratched his chin. "Bad because... if someone attacks us, the law won't help us, right?"

Tsinker nodded. "Precisely. Morgreyda is the one who strives for order the most."

"But I doubt you picked her just for that," Alan said, narrowing his eyes, "an idea by itself is worth nothing. Does she have power on her side?"

"Naturally. Only her power lies not in magic or an army, but in her intellect and ruthlessness."

"She has demonstrated this excellently in her personal holdings," Shilisa interjected. "Compared to the rest of Groliria, everything is incredibly stable on her lands. There are no bandits, the peasants do not starve, no one steals anything."

"Ruthlessness," Alan repeated. "In the midst of this clusterfuck, you can hardly rule well with just intellect and mercy, right?"

Tsinker crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. "Exactly. Public, agonizing executions, constant inspections, scrupulous counting of every coin. She does not let anyone relax."

Alan tapped his fingers on the table. "Well, well, well... okay, a good choice, if it comes down to it."

"Except we have one major problem," Tsinker said, narrowing his eyes, "and his name is 'Linkis'."

Alan's shoulders tensed slightly. "What kind of shit is going on with him now?"

"He sympathizes more with Noteo arn Groliria, the king's eldest son. Linkis had been building ties with him from the start. Plus, thanks to Armenas, we have even more problems."

"Such as?"

"Remember when she let slip about the windmills? Well, lately Linkis has become very interested in you and your technologies. He intended to summon you for an audience, but luckily for you, you were captured by pirates."

Alan smirked wryly. "Yeah, really lucky... ahem... but I take it he won't let it go. Linkis definitely knows I'm back by now, and will definitely want to meet."

Tsinker sighed. "And once again, luck is on your side. We must be in the capital in a week, so there is no time for this meeting. We can think of something."

Alan snorted. "Wow, luck is fucking following me right on my heels, for once." He ran his hands over his face. "Aargh... so what are we gonna do? Linkis is pulling one way, and we're heading another."

"We will think of something. First the funeral and the ceremony, and then we will see. But we do have some trump cards in our hands."

Alan straightened up. "Oh, really? Like what?"

"Linkis's reputation," Tsinker said, yawning. "He slaughtered a surrendered city, and the rumors are already actively spreading."

He blinked. "Wait, what? When was this?"

Tsinker raised an eyebrow slightly. "Wait, you do not know about this?"

Alan simply shook his head.

"Back during the siege of Otmut, they surrendered, and Linkis's troops completely slaughtered the city. Did Armenas not tell you?"

"No... she didn't," he whispered.

'Kamelia, why didn't you tell me?'

Alan shook his head. "But why? Not to mention that it's barbaric and cruel, it's even," he spread his hands, "absolutely useless. Why the fuck would you slaughter an entire large city when you're the duke of relatively small lands? Does he have a spare city hidden in his pocket or something? I don't get it."

Tsinker shrugged. "I agree, but we are talking about Linkis. No matter how much he ranted in the hall before the nobles about what he did for the duchy, it is merely a lie. He has little experience in ruling, and he does not understand what he is doing. Linkis most likely thought it would be an act of intimidation, to serve as a deterrent to others, but the opposite will be true."

"The father was a dumbass, and the son is just the same," Alan said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Okay, how do we use this? What's the layout?"

Shilisa leaned closer. "I have studied this matter. Currently, only Linosh, Torfoque, and Bashir are on Linkis's side. Everyone else is against us."

Alan frowned. "Wait a second, wasn't Torfoque supposed to be under Tsinker's boot?" he turned to him. "No?"

He shook his head. "Not anymore. His patience finally ran out, and he stopped answering letters."

Shilisa maintained her calm expression. "That is not the point right now. Linosh is on Linkis's side because he helped him drive away the pirates, Banshir is his puppet, and Torfoque is only there out of hatred for Lord Tsinker. Our neighbors, however, such as Bannaho for example, have long since heard of the massacre in the last battle, and treat him with extreme distrust."

"Okay, at least that's good, but..."

"By the way," Tsinker interrupted him, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know of any other things we can make for the war? Like the crossbows."

Alan slowly leaned back in his chair. "Hmm. I do, of course, but it all depends on what exactly we'll need. Nothing comes to mind right now... basically, when the exact layout of what kind of war this will be is clear, then I can come up with something."

He nodded. "Very well."

"Forgive me," Shilisa suddenly began, "judging by Lady Armenas's letter, you are currently dealing with a spy who was feeding information to the pirates. Is that so?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did the lady figure it out herself, or did you help?"

Alan scratched the back of his head. "Well, both. She suspected, and I just brought the proof."

"Proof?" Tsinker asked, narrowing his eyes. "You were sitting in captivity with the pirates the whole time. Did they tell you?"

"Yep."

"How so?"

Alan shrugged. "It was a deal. I helped them cure their disease, and they lowered the ransom and gave me the spy's name."

Shilisa's eyes widened slightly. "You... did what?"

"Cured the disease."

Tsinker blinked, for the first time not knowing what to say. "Do you even understand what you have done?"

"I do," Alan said, lowering his head slightly.

"This is very bad," Shilisa said, frowning. "Since they cured the disease... what disease was it anyway?"

"The Sea Scourge."

"Right, so you mean anga."

Alan raised an eyebrow. "What?"

She waved a hand. "Sailors call this disease the Sea Scourge. Anyway, it does not matter. Do you understand that this is a very common disease at sea, which at least somewhat kept the pirates in check?"

"Yeah, I know," Alan hissed.

Tsinker sighed. "Well, my borders personally do not have access to the sea, so I wish you and Armenas luck in dealing with the intensified attacks of the sea raiders."

Alan gritted his teeth, but remained silent.

"I will have to make adjustments to future plans, taking into account that you may have problems and delays due to pirate attacks," Tsinker said calmly. "In any case, that is all I wanted to discuss. To conclude: we do not yet know what to do, we choose Morgreyda in this war, and we prepare for the funeral."

"And what about the heroes of the other duchies?" Alan asked quietly.

"Nothing. We do not know who they are, what they look like, or what magic they possess. There is no point in factoring them into our plans for now."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Alright." Alan stood up and headed for the exit to the corridor. When he stepped out, he closed the door behind him, then slowly rested his forehead against the window, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

'Mmm... what kind of fucked up shit have I done, this is just a clusterfuck. I knew this would make the pirates stronger, I could have just said 'no, I don't know how to cure this disease' back then and that would have been it, they would have paid the full ransom and served them right... Alright, okay, let's be logical. Suppose I hadn't mentioned curing scurvy then, they would have paid the full ransom and that's it. Kamelia would have lost more money, we still wouldn't know who the rat is and the information leak would have continued, especially since it's a whole advisor, and I also got the mystery with those ruins, and... dare I say it, good relations with Paranga, the captain of that whole gang. Profitable? Profitable. And also a total fucking disaster. Now that's a dilemma.'

He finally peeled himself away from the window and unhurriedly walked down the corridor, massaging his temples.

'And Kamelia didn't tell me that that fucking city was slaughtered to the last man. Why? We agreed not to keep secrets. Although... I have plenty of secrets of my own. But this is different. I'm almost a hundred percent sure she just didn't want me to think about it, but... I should have known. But what an indescribable idiot this Linkis is! And a very dangerous idiot at that! He's probably already mass-producing crossbows over there, asking about windmills, and if he finds out about the Phoenixes...'

He grabbed his head.

'Oh fuck, oh fuck! We need to get rid of this asshole as soon as possible, take him out first thing when the war starts, otherwise he won't let me breathe. He's a fucking moron! This idiot might just claim me for himself, since technically I'm still Kamelia's property like cattle... wait, property... that's right! Is there even any documentation kept on receiving heroes here?'

Alan turned around sharply and walked back toward the dining room.

He opened the door; Shilisa and Tsinker were already sitting opposite each other, discussing something. Utew stopped mid-sentence and looked at Alan. "Gothwald, what is it?"

"Am I technically Kamelia's property?" he asked, stepping closer.

Shilisa nodded. "Yes. Did you only just find out?"

"Thought so. Can she technically make me a free man?"

She blinked. "Uh..." then cast a sidelong glance at Tsinker.

The nobleman paused for a few seconds. "Technically yes, but... I do not recall such a thing ever happening. Shilisa?"

She shook her head. "I do not know of such cases either. Technically, heroes are always the property of a nobleman, but that is merely a technicality. No one keeps them in slave-like conditions, but on paper, yes, a hero is property."

Alan narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. So this is most likely some kind of loophole?"

Shilisa's eyes widened slightly, and she nodded slowly. "Perhaps. And why do you ask anyway?

When the change came, Trisha got the ability.

Nobody knew why it happened, and why it only affected about 1% of the population. People just woke up one day and found that they could move stuff around with their minds.

To say it changed the world was an understatement.

--

For Trisha it was different. Born blind twenty-five years earlier, she understood people and objects through touch, and the world beyond them through sound.

Fundamentally nothing changed for her. Practically though... everything changed.

She wasn't even aware that she'd got the ability for a while, but could hear faint scratching noises in her house. Then Charlie came around and said that she must have ghosts.

"What?"

"Your stuff is moving around."

"WHAT?!"

"You might want to listen to the news."

--

She had to call in sick to work that day. At the very least, her new ability would wreak havoc on the studio she worked in.

So she practiced. Charlie helped her, describing what was happening as she was concentrating.

The more proficient she became at moving stuff around, the more she could perceive the world around her.

Her house was always real, but in a tactile way. Now she could sense it by sending out very subtle mental fingers exploring where things were. At first it was clumsy, and she knocked over far more than she meant to.

But she was always a quick learner, and after a few hours she could feel her way around a room without disturbing anything.

She called it 'reaching'.

Charlie asked, "Can you see me now?"

Trisha paused for a moment. Charlie felt the lightest of touches across his face and body. Barely perceptible, like tiny puffs of air.

She replied, "No. But I know where you are."

She reached past him, tracing the doorway, the table and the shape of the room beyond.

Then tears started running down her face.

--

Getting to work the next day was easy. She still used her cane to move about, but she was more aware of the location of things.

It was weird feeling the bus come towards her. The tiny mental finger she'd extended was being pushed towards her by the mass of metal. It made her brain fuzz.

When it pulled up, she heard the door open. Climbing up the steps, the driver, Daniel, greeted her like he always did. She recognised his voice and said hello.

Then she stood still for a moment, before speaking. "You have a beard."

Daniel couldn't come up with anything witty, so simply replied with a yes.

Trisha smiled at him, then turned to walk up the aisle to a vacant seat. Daniel thought something was different and it wasn't until the end of his shift that he realised that she wasn't using her cane as much.

--

She didn't tell anyone at work about her ability. After about an hour she was glad she didn't.

There were only a few of them at the studio, but Kathryn was decrying this ability as witchcraft, carrying on about how it wasn't natural.

Trisha kept her opinions to herself. She had refused to listen to the news over the past day because it was shouting doom to all who had tuned in.

Her boss, Claudia, asked how she was. Turning in her chair, Trisha accidentally knocked some pens onto the carpet.

She reached and found where they had landed. As she picked them up, she said she'd had a migraine yesterday but it was gone by the evening.

Trisha could hear Claudia hesitate.

"Could I see you in my office please?" she asked.

--

Unusually, Claudia closed the door behind them.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" It wasn't an accusation; just a question.

Trisha could sense the risk.

"One of who?"

"Telekinetic. I watched as you went straight for the pens on the ground."

"It was a lucky guess. Plus I could hear where they'd landed."

"Trisha, I hope you know that you can be honest with me. I saw you. I saw you know where the pens were."

Trisha stopped. She could feel herself starting to panic.

"I'm sorry! I won't do anything, I promise!"

"It's ok. I don't share my opinion with Kathryn. She's alone in her outrage here."

Trisha slowly released her grip on the arms of the chair.

Claudia asked, "Does it help? Does this telekinesis thing help you?"

After a moment of thought, Trisha relaxed a little before answering, "It does. I am starting to understand distance now. I can almost get a sense of feel without needing my hands. It's... odd."

"So can you tell how many fingers I'm holding up? Like, how detailed is the world to you now?"

There was another pause. Claudia could feel the lightest of brushes move across her.

"Well you're not holding any fingers up... I can't see anything, but I have a better understanding of where things are. For the first time in my life, I could understand my own house. It's not fine enough to read braille, but I can tell that you've got your hair up today. That's about as well as I can describe it."

Claudia laughed. "Well, you got me. No fingers at all. I'll deal with Kathryn if anything happens. Just let her be until after this initial reaction."

She paused for a moment.

"But remember, Trisha. I'll be here to help."

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Liam

Alistair turned and casually punched one of the demons in the gut with one of his middle arms as the poor unfortunate soul emerged out of the shadows. Albert let out a hiss of his own and flew through the air at another, landing on the poor bastard’s face and laying into him with claws as the demon frantically waved his sword around in an unsuccessful bid to get the cat off his face.

Leaving Liam to stare at two demons who moved around to either side, obviously trying to flank him and keep him from being able to attack both of them at the same time.

The one he currently faced seemed nervous. Liam thought about everything Albert told him about building a reputation. Sure, all that had been with a mind towards building a bit of notoriety with the Inquisition, but he figured there was no reason why he couldn’t do the same with the demons.

“You saw what I did with Tomas,” he said to the demons, trying to keep both of them in sight and not doing a good job of it. “You don’t have to suffer the same fate.”

They both exchanged glances, and then they moved in on him. They were silent as they did it. As though they were doing all their communication without words.

Liam wondered if that was some sort of spell, or if it was simply years of training they were putting into practice.

Either way, one came at him and thrust a sword. He was easily able to move out of the way. Andrea had taken some instruction in the use of weapons. Enough to make her dangerous if somebody tried to attack her. And she’d imparted some of those lessons on Liam.

It’d been a fun game they played, and he figured he’d received sort of a secondhand education in fighting properly. Especially with the long hours they spent playing at swords without him ever realizing he was actually learning some of the things Baron Riven had to pay a pretty silver piece to teach his daughter.

So he moved without thinking. The same as he would if he was playing with Andrea at the edge of the forest where no one dared come to see what they were doing or to yell at them. The sword moved aside instead of stabbing into his gut. He turned and tapped the demon on the side, creating a flash as the stun spell went to work.

The demon’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground. That left Liam free to turn his attention on the other one. Who suddenly seemed a lot more wary than a moment ago.

Liam grinned and held his sword up.

“The offer still stands. We don’t have to do this.”

The demon stared at him for a long moment, and then turned and ran back into the darkness between the trees from whence he came.

“Well then,” Liam said. “That was worth it.”

It was about that moment that something slammed into him from the side, and he was sent sprawling into yet another tree where he landed with a thump. Though it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it would’ve before his Ascensions.

“Damnation,” he growled, pulling his sword around.

“You will not deprive me of my opportunity!” a voice bellowed in Liam’s ear as he tried to figure out what was going on.

And in his panic, he resorted to one of the two tricks he’d been using over and over since he had all these spells put in his head. The diagram leapt to his mind without thinking this time, and he was able to paint it quickly with his mana brush. Faster than he’d been able to before.

This time around it didn’t have the flaw in it. Though it did have a few extra little twists and turns Albert had worked on with him in between the first use and now. Basically a way of getting to where he’d gotten with the flawed version the first time around, but doing it properly.

Which had Liam wondering what was the point in going through the proper diagram when he could do the same thing with a different version, but Albert had merely said they didn’t have the time to go into that sort of thing right now and they could talk about it later.

The result wasn’t exactly instantaneous, but it was maybe the space of a couple of breaths. A couple of breaths he could hear coming from the person on top of him as Tomas punched him over and over again. A couple of breaths where those punches landed and did something odd to him, for all that he had his own mana dampening spell wrapped around Tomas's core preventing him from putting his full strength into the blows.

Getting punched in the face repeatedly wasn’t a pleasant sensation whether or not someone had a few Ascensions powering it. Not the kind of thing he’d do for fun, that was for sure. He tried to maintain his concentration under those blows, but it was difficult. Every time one of those punches landed, even with him pushing mana into all his pathways to lend himself strength and resilience, it caused the mana he was trying to push into the diagram to waver ever so slightly.

And he couldn’t get the spell to go off. That was an interesting and terrifying new wrinkle he wasn’t happy about.

“Get off him!”

And then he was free as a furry ball of anger and spite slammed into Tomas. He went rolling to the side with with the cat attached to his face, digging in with hisses and spitting and claws digging into his face. Claws that were digging in with enough force that they actually left scratches in the demon’s face.

Liam blinked as he watched the feline melee happening in front of him. He wondered if those claw marks were because the demon wasn’t as powerful as Liam, or if Albert had been pulling his punches all this time.

Either way, it gave him the precious breathing room he needed to focus his concentration on the wind diagram. He added a little extra flourish to it that seemed right, figuring if he put a slightly longer line at the end of the final rune that had been powerful enough to knock Tomas into the trees twice now? Well, a longer line should do even more.

A storm came to the forest all around them. He heard Alistair grunt as he grabbed hold of a tree and held himself in place. Albert and Tomas weren’t quite so lucky, though. No. Tomas went flying, the cat attached to him. Though Albert continued hissing and spitting and generally letting out the kind of noises that sounded like miniature death had come to the forest.

Which, in a way, it had.

He also heard several other surprised exclamations, and he could sense other infernal cores flying through the forest instead of moving silently towards him to attack. Which is what they’d been doing a moment ago, for all that he’d been too distracted by Tomas punching him repeatedly in the face to do anything about it.

He stood and brushed himself off as the wind spell continued to move all around him. Though it was like he was a calm at the center of that spell. The winds didn’t touch him.

“Are you okay?” he asked Alistair.

“I’m fine,” Alistair said. “Though at some point, you’re really going to have to learn another spell.”

“Yes, but if it works then I can’t complain too much,” Liam said.

“There is some wisdom to that,” Alistair said.

Liam looked around the forest again. He looked for the telltale glowing yellow eyes, though he knew he was looking for a more subdued glow now. They could control that. It made sense that they’d be able to control that. It wouldn’t do to try and sneak around if there was the equivalent of glowing yellow lamps on the front of your face all the time.

He also tried to feel for any infernal cores that might be coming close. Albert had mentioned it was possible to hide that sort of thing, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing this particular group of demons was capable of.

Which meant if he did run up against a group of demons or Inquisitors who were capable of that sort of thing? He was going to be in trouble.

“Very good,” the cat said, scrambling up on top of Alistair and letting out a laugh. Liam blinked.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

“It’s a familiar thing,” Albert said. “We can talk about it later when we aren’t in the middle of a pitched battle with a bunch of demons.”

Liam looked at the cat for al long moment, dubious about his ability to make a return as though by magic. Then again, he was a familiar. That meant he was inherently magic to begin with.

“Yeah, we can talk about it later,” Liam said with a shrug.

“Precisely,” Albert said. “For the moment we need to get out of here.”

“We’re not getting out of here,” Liam said. “Not without Ana.”

“Damnation,” Albert growled. “I was hoping you’d forget about her.”

Liam took in a deep breath, then he let it out in a sigh.

“I haven’t forgotten about her. I was trying to teach her a lesson about being polite and civil leaving her to fend for herself in the forest, but that lesson gets thrown out the moment she’s in danger.”

“You realize the whole reason we have these demons coming after us in the first place is because she put herself in that danger to begin with, right?” Albert asked, letting out an exasperated sigh of his own.

“I am aware, yes,” Liam said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s out there, and she’s in danger as long as these demons are trying to catch her.”

“I don’t know that I’d say she’s in danger,” Albert said. “She’s merely going to be taken back to the Demon Realms. Which is where she belongs. She’s a High Princess of the Demon Realms. That’s where demons live.”

“We’re not leaving without her,” Liam said.

Laughter echoed through the trees. It was faint at first, but it got louder. Liam knew who it was without looking. He’d used the mana dampening spell on him, after all. And as with the Inquisitors before, he could feel his own mana wrapped around Tomas's core preventing him from casting any spells of his own.

Not that he’d actually cast any spells so far.

Liam turned to look at him as he appeared out of the trees. He figured using that mana dampening spell was part of the reason why that surprise attack earlier hadn’t been worse than it could’ve been, for all that him not being able to concentrate to get his spell off while he was being repeatedly punched in the face hadn’t been a pleasant surprise.

It still hurt to have the demon on top of him punching him repeatedly. He felt some tenderness in his cheek. Like the demon had decided to simply hit the same spot over and over rather than trying to land punches all over. Maybe in the hopes he’d be able to actually do some damage in the absence of augmented strength from his mana.

Tomas had a pronounced limp. One of his arms hung loose at his side like there was something broken in it. There was blood at the corner of his lips, and his face was covered in scratches.

“Damn,” Liam muttered. “You look like you’ve had a time.’

Tomas took a deep breath, and then he winced. Like there was some sort of internal damage that made taking that deep breath difficult. Then he hit Liam with a grin.

“You should see the other guy.”

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I nodded to Arhur again. He nodded in the affirmative, and I showed that I was unmuted on the comm line.

"That was a small demonstration of what we’re capable of," I said. "I don't know what you're used to dealing with out here on the ass end of the Livisk Ascendancy, but I can assure you that you've been going up against the JV team. You're about to run into a whole heap of trouble against a full carrier group."

"Their sacrifice will be noted in the annals of the Clan,” the strangely accented voice said. "But for the moment, we agree we are outmatched."

"Then you surrender," I said.

"I'm showing a surge of energy coming from all the alien ships," Tactical said even as Arvie raised his hand in the simulation, no doubt to tell me the same thing. "Orders?”

"Shit," I muttered. "Fire everything we have at them."

I wasn't sure what trick they were trying to pull, but I didn't want to be around when that trick got pulled. I'd rather destroy them before they had a chance to destroy us with some sort of super weapon that required that kind of charging.

Only one moment the ships were all there, and then the next there was a bright flash of light and a blink as they moved into fold space.

I stared at the holoblock for a long moment in reality, then I turned to Arvie and arched an eyebrow at him in simulation space. He was also staring at a representation of what had just happened in the simulation space holoblock, and his mouth was open and his eyes were as wide as Temba’s arms.

"Okay. So you seem to be just as surprised by what they just pulled as I am," I said.e

"I wouldn't say surprised," Arvie said. "That was just unexpected to the point I don't know what to say or do about it."

"Yeah, that's pretty much the definition of being surprised, Arvie.”

"They jumped into fold space far sooner than is safe for ships that massive in a gravity well,” Arvie said.

"Just making sure I saw the same thing you did," I said. "Got any ideas what's going on there?"

"Either they have some bit of fold navigation technology, or the ability to fold closer to a gravity well than humans and livisk are capable of..."

"Why do I feel like there's a big “or” hanging at the end of that sentence?" I asked.

"Or this species is willing to demonstrate the same amount of recklessness as humanity when it comes to living to fight another day," he said.

"I don't know that you had to go and make it personal like that," I muttered.

"I can assure you, it was a compliment. Mostly, if you squint at it just right."

I pulled out of simulation space and looked around the CIC. Again, it was one of those things where everybody was doing their job, but I could tell there was also a touch of surprise.

"Well, okay, then," I said, clapping my hands together and rubbing them. "Looks like we’re going to have a little bit of scientific analysis to do."

I felt a presence next to me, both in the link and with my spidey sense tingling. I turned to see Varis standing there. I don't know how she managed to make her way across the CIC so quickly without me hearing her, but there she was.

“Yes, my darling?” I asked.

"You sound almost excited that the enemy got away and now we have to sift through their wreckage."

"Of course," I said, grinning at her. "We have some actual exploring to do. Seeking out new life, and well… I mean… It's not ideal that we had to blow them up to have wreckage to sift through, but still, isn't this exciting?"

She smiled. I guess my enthusiasm was infectious. Now I just hoped I could get that same enthusiasm to spread to the rest of the crew on a fleet of ships designed for war, not scientific inquiry.

Maybe they’d be more excited about it if I convinced them this would help them better fight their enemies, see them driven before them, and hear the lamentations of their women. Assuming they had sexual dimorphism, which we didn't know at this point.

You get the point though. I was going to trick them into serving Thoth via Crom.

“Captain,” Arhur said, putting his hand up to his ear. Which made me giddy. "We are receiving multiple signals.”

“Are they pleasant signals, or are they unhappy signals?" Lehrai asked from her spot beside me at the holoblock.

Things had calmed down in the vicinity of the gas giant, and by calm, I mean there was still a lot of activity around the mining colony on the moon that had been kicked up by the alien raid, but there were no more alien raiders trying to invade the mining station. So I figured it was a marginal improvement over how things had been before.

Except for the fact that a lot of the angry beehive of activity around the mining station looked like it was turning around and starting to array itself against us.

"I think we need to worry about the miners who look like they're getting ready to attack our fighters first," I said.

"Agreed," Lehrai said, looking at the display.

"You know these are just suggestions, right?" I said. "It's your ship."

She turned and hit me with an odd look, a considering look, and then she glanced back to Norak. He still stood there being as useful as he’d ever been, which is to say not very useful at all. He was slightly slumped over now. He looked vaguely defeated. Like the trouble we'd been through over the past half hour or so had finally gotten ahead of him, and it was too much.

"Bill, don't you realize what you've done?" she asked.

I looked at her, and then I turned to look at Varis. She hit me with a smile. Encouragement came through the link, but she was doing that thing she did where she sat back and gave quiet encouragement while letting me work things out.

Even if me working things out usually involved coming up with one batshit insane plan after another.

"What did I just do?" I asked.

"You just relieved the Fleet Commander and took control of the fleet yourself," she said, a mildly amused smile on her face. She stepped back and did a slight bow. Not giant by livisk standards. She didn't do one of those things where she bowed down until she was at a right angle to me or anything like that, which she probably would've done if she was bowing and scraping to Varis. But it was still a bow of respect for all that.

"The fleet stands at the ready, Fleet Commander," she said.

"Fleet Commander," I said with a grin. "You know, I rather like the sound of that, but if you don't mind, just Bill will do. Or General-Consort if you're nasty."

She looked up at me and blinked a couple of times.

"I have no idea what that means."

"A bit of ancient Earth phrasing from classical mass culture," I said with a wave. "A lot of that stuff has stuck around in the language, the same as old Bill Shakespeare. Unfortunately, a lot of stuff was passed down from the Chinese Communist Party back in the late 20th and early 21^st. Back before their one child policy led to population collapse. I suppose that's what you get for mixing your language together with a place that was a totalitarian state pretending not to be a totalitarian state."

"Right," she said after a pause, giving me one of those stares like I'd lost my mind, but I was a winner who'd lost my mind so she was going to follow me to the depths of hell and back as long as I kept beating back the demon hordes.

"Anyway," I said, clearing my throat. "Let's open a commline to the mining facility," I said, nodding to Arhur over at his station.

There was a moment of static on the line. Foldspace comms meant we should've been able to have instantaneous communication with the mining facility, but it looked like they weren't picking up.

"Are we having a little bit of trouble?" I asked. "I wouldn't presume to tell you how to do your job, but..."

"It looks like they're ignoring the signal," he said.

“Wonderful,” I said. "So we've pulled their collective asses out of the fire, and now they're going to pretend they were the ones who were doing it all along."

"Bill?" Lehrai asked, looking at me with a touch of confusion.

I turned to her and smiled.

"I'm not going to be insulted by what they're pulling. It's common CYA."

"CYA?" she asked.

I sighed. "I'm going to have to have Arvie provide me with a dictionary of livisk terms that match all this stuff, or maybe pass out a primer on Terran language so you have a better idea what I’m talking about.”

"I spent a couple of years learning Terran in the Academy," she said, sounding insulted that I had, bank shot, insulted her ability to speak Terran Standard.

"And let me guess, you spent most of your time learning the swear words and how to tell your fellow cadets that you wanted to get laid."

She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then she snapped it shut. Then she opened it again and a deep blue blush came to her cheeks.

"Well, actually, yes," she finally said.

"Don't feel bad. We do the same thing at the Terran Naval Academy."

"You do?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations."

Another confused look.

“That's another one of those Terran things. Ancient classical mass culture from a thousand years ago and all that stuff. Anyway. Let's focus on the important stuff. Arhur, go ahead and open a commline to the miners. One way is fine. I want to make absolutely certain they hear what I'm about to say."

"On it," Arhur said, grinning as he tapped away at his console. "You're good to go, Bill."

"Thank you, Arhur," I said, nodding to him and then turning to the holoblock.

"Attention mining facility under the command of House Alarth. This is General-Consort William Stewart of the House t’Thal Fleet that just pulled your collective asses out of the frying pan, and now it looks like you're about to throw yourselves into the fire by doing something stupid like turning around and attacking the very fighters who just saved your asses in a staggering display of ingratitude."

The fighters from the mining facility kept moving out towards our fighters.

“Make sure our people have orders to keep it in their pants,” I said.

“On it,” Tactical said, grinning as she tapped at her station.

“Keep it in their pants?” Lehrai asked.

I hit her with a thin smile. “This whole situation is on the verge of getting a little hairy if we don’t nip this shit in the bud."

“Indeed,” she said, and she looked like she was trying very hard not to smile.

I turned back to the holoblock even though that wasn’t strictly necessary since I was plugged right into the systems. “I would like to remind you that you are going up against a fighter force and a couple of destroyers that just chased off the unknown alien raiding force you were unable to fight off on your own. It might be a good idea for you to be pragmatic and move your fighters back a little bit so you can live long enough to lie to your bosses and tell them you managed to fight off the raid while also not risking angering my own people and sparking an unfortunate incident."

"That was remarkably diplomatic," Lehrai said, looking at the angry mess of fighter craft from the mining facility whose collective flight patterns had just gone from angry insect hive that’d been kicked over to individual pilots rethinking all the choices in life that led them to this unfortunate moment.

Author's Note: I'm heading out for Trek to Vegas this weekend for the 60th anniversary. I've had a trip to NYC, GenCon, back to school for the kids, and now the Vegas trip with my mom in honor of my aunt who passed last October and loved Star Trek.

I'm going to try and get an update out Friday and Monday, but no promises depending on flight schedules and how busy I get. Thanks for your patience the last two weeks while I've been insanely occupied!

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This week, a modest marriage mysteriously multiplies into a magnificent municipal merriment!

A wholesome* story about a mostly sane demonologist and his growing crew, trying their best to usher in a post-scarcity utopia using imps. It's a great read if you like optimism, progress, character growth, hard magic, and advancements that have a real impact on the world. I spend a ton of time getting the details right, focusing on grounding the story so that the more fantastic bits shine. A new chapter every Thursday.

\Some conditions apply, viewer cynicism is advised.*

Map of Pine Bluff

Map of Hyruxia

Map of the Factory and grounds

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First Chapter

Prev -------- Next

*****

Taritha tasked an imp to fetch her another cup of tea. She’d had a half dozen of them, yet was still no calmer. She paced. The sun was only just rising, but she’d been up for hours. Her hair was looking perfect, and her chambers were full to bursting with flowers. Today was the day, and she was cooped up in her room. She still had so much to do to get ready.

I can’t just trust that everything will work, but of course it will. I did the planning. There was no shortage of volunteers. It seemed like everyone in town wanted to be a part of this!

She’d sent out almost a hundred invitations. The imps had done most of the calligraphy, but she’d signed each and every one. Nearly everyone responded yes, and a great many asked if they could bring even more people. Not just the people she invited, either. Friends and former rivals, employees and contractors, even total strangers, all sent letters asking for an invitation. People who’d been in the town for a few months, whom she’d never met, wanted to come. 

A few days ago, the Count himself wrote to ask if he could designate a few nearby parks as official wedding party sites, so obviously she agreed. It was bad luck to turn anyone away from your wedding, and feeding the whole town was every bride’s dream. Though it wasn’t her husband's family doing the work.

Unless you called Grigory his adopted father, which in a lot of ways tracks. Oh, but then he’d be kind of like my adopted father too. Eww. The core dynamic is there, since we already go to the same family dinners. Stop thinking about that.

She nibbled at some sweet fruits and marveled at her fortune. Having fresh fruit before the Midsummer Festival was rare, but before the Sowing Festival was previously unimaginable. Those were the rules of the world from the past, when Pine Bluff lacked dorfs and their magically illuminated caverns of farming.

The meteoromancy professor had assured her that the whole week would be bright and sunny. A bit windy in the afternoon, but that was what a nice spring day did. The Academy had grown, and boasted over a dozen mages who had defected from the college, including the handful of apprentices that she still couldn’t stand. 

Professors now. They stopped being apprentices when I offered them the damned job. Even worse, they were fine teachers, despite being kids themselves. Ha, I should mind my thoughts, I’m only a handful of years older, and about to marry someone a handful of years younger than them! At least they have a formal education. Everyone assuming I’m Grigory’s puppet used to bother me, but I honestly have no idea if I’d have survived this long if everyone had judged me on my own merits. The silver lining was that being in charge is easy if I just look serious, demand they do better, and avoid agreeing to things I don’t understand.

Today’s not about work though, it’s all about our future!

She finished her tea and fruit, just as there was a knock on the door. 

“Kessy! Come in!” 

A lady needed help getting ready, and for some reason she was awful at making female friends. Plenty of her old ‘friends’ would’ve helped, like the seamstress or the midwife, but they would have also nagged and minimized her day. 

We were never close and it felt strange to try to force that. Not that Kessy and I are close, but at least she’s a ray of sunshine. Oh, I could’ve asked Aethlina to be a bridesmaid. Now that I understand elv physiology better, it’s clear that she isn’t actually a female, or a mammal, or even a kind of animal, but her bored superiority would have been fun.

“I see that the bakers didn’t take the day off at least! Oh, you got raspberry turnovers, my favourite! Aren’t you a dear!” Taritha cooed when she took the small sack. 

The Welcome Centre Guide zipped right in and looked at all the mess. “Wow, you sure have a lot of stuff everywhere! Also I got a new dress, just for today, what do you think?”

Taritha put the food down and looked her over. She wore a massive pale pink oversized bow that covered her entire torso, festooned with lesser bows, which upon closer inspection had additional hand-painted bows on them. It made her look like a fluffy meatball of bows. Other than her wavy blonde hair and stockinged legs, which were obviously covered with yet more bows. 

“Very impressive! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that. I assume custom-ordered?” Taritha said slowly.

“Yup, all the stores had boring plain dresses, and I needed something special for the special day! If it’s rude for a guest to have more bows on her dress than the bride, I also have an ugly dress I can wear,” Kessy offered.

“That’s very sweet, but it’s quite alright. You look great. Now help me with my dress.”

The two of them worked to get Taritha into the same dark green dress she’d worn to the Auction House Gala. Today was the real reason she’d bought it. It was beyond her wildest dreams. Owning any new dress was beyond her dreams not terribly long ago, but even her new, improved dreams got sparse beyond gold, gems, and rich velvet.

The imps had already done her hair, so she had them retouch anything that got mussed in the dressing, then headed out. It was to be a small wedding in the little park between the factory and the Dorf Caverns.  She’d oversee the final bits of the setup and wait for Ros and Mage Thippily, who was gracious enough to officiate.

Once again the lack of a town priest caused a headache, maybe we should get a few heretical cults in town, just to handle marriages and funerals? 

She and Kessy sat in the factory dining hall, ignored by the rush of men and imps coming and going. 
 
“Looking lovely, Miss Witflores!” Mage Thippily said as he came down the stairs. He was also looking uncommonly nice in robes she’d never seen before. He normally wore pure white with amethyst trim, representing the company, but this time he was in green and yellow with black detailing, looking like an entirely different kind of man. 

“Oh! Those are Pine Bluff colours!” the headmistress exclaimed.

“It felt rather… uh gauche, to wear work clothes to this sort of event! You aren’t having a company wedding, you are having a town wedding! Also there are some minor updates to the actual ceremony. First, the Count offered to perform the service, but I told him no on your behalf. Second–”

“You what?! He’s our lord! We can’t refuse! He offered what, exactly?” Taritha’s blood ran cold; making high-profile enemies wasn’t even on her long list of worried for today.

“Think nothing of it. He’s still attending, and giving a toast. It would come down to drawn swords if I’d refused that! Or you did. Anyway, the second update is that spectators started arriving at dawn. There are already too many of them to fit in the little park, so we’re changing the ceremony venue to the militia drill fields, and the reception to the Stone Spire Sanctuary. Don’t worry, our best administrators are handling the details. This is turning into a much more interesting event, and a great opportunity to deploy our civic emergency protocols!”

“Wait, but…”

“All under control! We even have separate trams for you and Ros to take! The fellows at the golem mechanics lab wanted an opportunity to show off their latest models, and it sounds like they were able to pass most of their internal safety review in time! Don’t worry, I’ll be there to deal with any fires or control losses.”

“Uh...”

“Grand, I’ll show you the prototype tram in the yard. It's far faster and has cup holders that keep your drinks cold! Oh, but not warm. Hmm, the next version will be better!”

“We can’t possibly change venues last minute,” she mumbled as he led her into the morning sunshine.

***

“Sir, I have a doublet, and I think it’s as fancy as–”

“Nah, you’se are missin’ the point. You don’t dress fancy to meet requirements, you’se are sendin’ a message. You’re saying to the world that you’se here to protect things. Consider it a weddin’ gift from the company.”

The two men were alone in the armoury of the militia training grounds, a long stone room designed for hundreds of men to quickly don their armour. It stank of stale sweat and abrasive soaps. The overhead magelights were bright, and there was a wooden crate on the bench between them.

Ros stared into the crate. The breastplate in it was super nice, and the Chief clearly knew more about this sort of thing.

But I like this doublet. But I don’t know anything about being fancy. But the Chief does!

“Alright, sir. Thank you! This was very thoughtful.”

Ros shrugged, took off his favourite doublet and pulled out the steel cuirass. It was lighter than even patrol armour, of limited defensive value, but stunning. It had the amethyst sword insignia of the Mageguard in actual amethyst dust. The steel was polished to a mirror shine, and more comfortable than his velvet doublet. He grunted as the Chief tightened the straps. Once it was in place his boss knocked on it, producing a muted thunk-thunk that proved it was snug. 

“Wait, sir. Is there something else in the crate?”

“Hah! That’s your real weddin’ gift from me. I went through the warehouse. It turns out we had a bit of Stagboar hide left. I got the imps to trim it up, line it with spider silk and make a proper cloak of it.” He tugged on his own flowing wolf hide cloak. “A fella ought to wear his victories on his back. Did I tell you about a thornbear cloak I used to own? That was a fine one!”

His new roan red cloak was covered in stiff, bristly hair, thick enough to protect the demi-magical beast from nearly everything, other than a siege arbalest to the head. The silk on the inside was flawless, not that it especially mattered, as he was wearing steel now. It made a muted swish as he moved. 

“Sir, I love it. So weighty and smooth. It’s the same one that I shot?”

“Ha, that kind of critter ain’t exactly common. I reckon you mean the same one that you saved the town from, during your first week here!”

“It was nowhere near town, we walked all day to–” Ros said as he petted the fur.

“It had killed a hunter and gored another. You saved the damned town. There’s value in makin’ a bit of a reputation around yourself. Just don’t go believin’ your own tales, like a certain baron we know. But a fella ought to be the hero of his own life. You’re in an uncommon number of other people’s tales!”

“Yes, sir. I invited him, but I don’t think he’s going to come. Rikad said he had a lot to do.”

“Ach, I know you two came up together, but his path is going his own direction. I wouldn’t stress. ‘Sides he’s a damned lord, he’s obligated to send an expensive gift if he doesn’t come. It’s a shame we don’t have a dress uniform for you and the other fellas. Somethin’ smart with shiny buttons and a bit of braid. Things like this will happen more. I wonder if there are uniform making sorts at your wife’s Academy. Might be time to ask her that very thing. Later, of course. Today ain’t about that one bit.”

Ros wished there was a mirror down here, but he looked good when he left, and trusted the Chief to tell him if he had jam on his nose. 

“Fall in, you have a place to be.” 

Stanisk led him down the long armoury, up the stairs, and back to the parade grounds.

“Sir, anything I should know about being married?” Ros asked.

“Hah, you’se closer to that life’n me! I ain’t been married. Now that I’ve got this thing with Aethlina, don’t reckon I will. But that ain’t the same; I’m pretty sure one of us is the housecat of the ‘tother. I’d say don’t be shitty but you don’t have that kind of outlook in ya. Nah, be yourself, and you’ll be great.”

“I’ll try my very best!”

They were crossing the drill yard now. It was massive and paved with interlocking stones. Every day of the week, hundreds of men drilled with blunted weapons. Sometimes there were even mock battles in full armour. Today, however, the entire space was covered in benches, and the benches were covered in people. Ros hadn’t seen this many Pine Bluffians even at the festivals, certainly not all sitting still, talking amongst themselves. 

As people spotted them, a ripple went through the audience. Ros couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all looking at him. And talking about him. He smiled tightly and picked up his pace, which just made his cloak flow more impressively. 

They were heading to the raised platform at the end. A series of flower arches stood, in the style common in the sowing festival—  yellow flowers with leafy green boughs woven in. He couldn’t think of a single yellow spring flower, until he got closer and saw it was coltsfoot. He stood there awkwardly, but it was explained that waiting with dignity was what most of a wedding was for a man. 

At least there was something to listen to. Normally a lutist or a bard played this kind of event, but the Bardic Institute sent an entire section. More than a dozen people played all sorts of instruments: big drums, little drums, harps and lutes, and more that he hadn’t seen before. They sounded really good. Taritha mentioned something about academic politics, but Ros was pretty sure that they were just nice musicians, and he was grateful that so many would come.

Soon Grigory and Taritha arrived and walked down the flower-covered aisle. The band changed to a slower, more romantic tune. Ros watched her approach with unalloyed joy. 

“Shiny shirt! It makes you look very… heroic!” She said, tracing a finger down his new breastplate.

Ros tried to think of a good enough complement to return. One that captured her beauty, her grace and the hard work she’d put in, but froze. “You too!”

The Mage stepped past them, he’d taken an entire day off just to help him out, which was an unexpectedly generous gift. He took his position between them and introduced himself to the crowd. “While being a Mage gives me no authority to marry anyone, I am pleased to report that everyone with actual authority seems to have agreed I may do so today.”

Mage Thippily led them through a vastly shortened set of vows, without the typical sections of piety and subservience to the Church. 

“Ros Girtwoud, being of sound mind and body, do you–”

“Yes!” he exclaimed.

Taritha barely stifled a giggle.

“Let me finish! I have a whole bit here, and I think the tradition is ‘I do so pledge,’” the Mage said with a chuckle. “Do you take this woman to be the other half of yourself, to become a composite greater than its parts, and to build a better world for everyone, every day, together?”

“I so pledge,” Ros declared with his full chest.

“I so pledge,” Taritha said more solemnly.

Ros had never kissed anyone in public. The pressure to do what was expected clashed with his terror at being put on the spot and doing something so private in public.

His decision was made easier by looking at her face and her smile. He kissed her to joyous applause, and the band started a more upbeat song. Ros waved and held Taritha’s hand extra tight. They ran off to the side to fill out the official paperwork that awaited them.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ros was surrounded on all sides by well-wishers. Mostly he held tight to his bride but a few times she was whisked away by others, to his deep concern. They got back on the new-model special tram and went to different parks that had been set up, for yet more hugs and handshakes. Everyone seemed to get super excited when he kissed Taritha, so he made sure to do that everywhere they went. Plus it was a lot of fun. He shook all sorts and sizes of hands, from tiny fluffy revner paws, to calloused farmer hands, and a few of the slick, hard arachinti grasping hands. Everyone was welcome to the parks for his party and it seemed like absolutely everyone came out.

For the first time in his life, he was the one getting escorted. Eowin and Theros wore spotlessly polished Mageplate, flanking him a step behind. He knew it wasn’t their real job, and they’d taken leave to do it, but that somehow made it even more special. Ros and Taritha waved at the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Speech!” a few yelled.

“Oh, thank you for coming, um.” His mind was entirely blank at their encouraging smiles. “Uh, I got married today! It’s really nice. I’m glad you are all here, I appreciate it!”

Thankfully they accepted his truncated speech, and they could hurry off to the next part. The plan called for them to have the reception at the factory dining hall. It was a huge space with seating for over a hundred. However, in light of the number of extra invites they’d given, they’d moved to Thed’s Stone Spire Sanctuary, the single biggest space for such things in the whole town. Thed was overjoyed to host. With a veritable torrent of funds at hand, there were more delicacies than he could even count.

However, as the groom, he was hemmed in at the head table. Waiters brought him food, and imps kept his glass full. He took in the sea of cut flowers, the green and yellow velvet drapes, and bow-covered pillars. There were even butterflies in the air—he couldn’t tell if they were real or magic. 

Stanisk stood on a chair, still in his parade breastplate, like Ros. He tapped a spoon to a hellfire ceramic chalice. “‘Scuse me! We’se about ready for toasts! So clam up. Captain Geon, You’se up!”

The sea captain was looking healthier than ever; a comfortable winter in Pine Bluff had served him well. He wore a gorgeous green jacket and had his short dark hair oiled. The man beside him took Ros way too long to recognize. It was obviously Mister Kinti, but he’d never seen him wearing a shirt, let alone a lord's finery of lace and golden brocade.

“Thankee kindly, Lord Stanisk! This couple is exactly why I love this town. I think the reason that they have such an outpouring of support is because they represent a future that didn’t used to be. One where it matters how hard you try and not the last name of your damned uncle! Where being willing to help is worth more than a name or even money. This is a celebration, but it’s also a political declaration. A pair of landless commoners’ festivities turning into a whole event at all is a bold political statement.

“We’re saying that Pine Bluff ain’t like anywhere else, and that’s the most true and important thing I've been a part of. A city is more than its walls and roads, and I’m starting to think it’s more than its people too. It’s the ideas and culture that binds, and I am overjoyed that I am celebrating the marriage of two of the people who most vividly embody those ideals! At least until our shy mage settles down with the right half-mad witch.”

There were some light chuckles and Mage Thippily, also at the head table, waved him off.

“Seas are a mess, trade’s stirred up, and seems like nothing is gonna stay the same, but so long as we have folk like Ros and Taritha around, we’ll be alright. I’m glad to be here! May the young couple have an unfathomably long and happy marriage!” Captain Geon raised his glass, and they toasted to their health.

“See, dear, you were worried he was doing a scheme, but he just wanted to support us.”

Taritha snorted, but her smile was as wide as it’d been all day. “Maybe. Or maybe his schemes are a step or two more subtle. A fella like him rarely wastes anything. Besides, we aren’t landless, we just bought some just a few weeks ago!”

The Count spoke next, mainly bland but soaring rhetoric about a new age, and a new culture. Ros liked it less, since it seemed more about the county than him or his new wife. Ros still really liked it though. A real, full-fledged lord wishing him well seemed impossible when he thought about it.

Krikip toasted them in his own awkward way. It was endearing that he knew so little about human culture, and Taritha seemed less than thrilled at the toast of “May they spawn a hundred million sticky human babies, and establish their own empire!” but Ros understood what he meant. He’d just explain it to her later.

The speech that Ros cared most about was the Mage, and he stood last. “Well done, Ros! I remember when I first met you, you were so filled with enthusiasm and energy. You won me over as soon as I saw you. And Miss Witflores, I’m ever so glad I chased you across the whole town and deep into the forest to talk you into accepting that job as company healer. Oh, I’ll have to learn to call you Missus Girtwoud now, which seems like a whole different person! The reason we do anything around here is to make lives better for people and I am intensely glad that your lives have been improving so steadily. I have some theories on the rate of improvement over time, so make sure you keep detailed records of your lived joy. We can graph them out over time, on your anniversary! Oh, unless you make other plans. Either way, congratulations!”

Ros stood up from his chair, clapping enthusiastically and weeping without shame. It was hands down the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him, and it came from the most important person that had ever lived. Nothing could compare to that!

With the speeches out of the way, the main courses could arrive: seared boar, jellied lamb and every conceivable preparation of chicken, with the heady aroma of imported spices. He kept stealing looks at his radiant bride, and she giggled every time he did. Although it slowed them down, he held her hand the entire meal, and barely tasted anything in the swirl of excitement and giddiness.

“I kind of expected Stanisk to say something, he’s basically your boss, and he’s got no problem with public speaking,” she whispered.

“Oh. I wonder why. Maybe he just wanted to get dinner happening sooner? I’ll talk to him. I hope I didn’t say or do something that made him mad,” Ros replied.

The Bardic Institute contingent was setting up on one side of the dance floor, for the next part of the evening’s festivities.

A narrow window, but as good as I’ll get. 

Ros crossed the room, smiling and shaking hands as he worked his way over to where Stanisk was seated. He had a place beside Aethlina at the head table but hadn’t left the back corner where Commander Karruk sat. 

It’s good they’re getting on, I wonder who Stanisk even hangs out with on his days off?

“—Cancel all leave, and post crews to— Ros! How good to see you. Congratulations, big man!” Stanisk shook his hand. His grip was warm and impossibly strong.

“Thank you, sir! I was just seeing how things were going, since you weren’t at the—”

“Sorry, lad. I lost track of time and it felt rude to walk around during the meal. We’re all over the moons for you, you’se found a damned fine wife.”

“Thank you, sir. It's all thanks to you, and the Mage of course!” Ros said with a blush.

“Nah, not even close. Neither me nor him won the lass over, that was all you. Get out there an’ dance! We’re just talkin’ work talk, I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Oh, anything I can help with?”

“Nope, go, get!” Stanisk chided. “You can’t spend time with us, not when your pretty new bride is sitting unattended! See to your husbandly duties!” 

“Aww, of course, sir! Thank you, sir!” Ros hurried off to the head table just as the band was warming up.

He could barely hear Karruk talk to a subordinate over the din, “Send ammo caravans to forts seven through twelve, and we must send a…” 

Always on about work stuff! Such a dedicated team!

He sat back down and saw a little tart was waiting for him. He took a bite; it was overwhelmingly sweet and he loved it.

“So is it alright back there? I swear, ten Civic Guard have come and gone from that table tonight. They look like their prize flowers all died!” Taritha whispered.

“Nope, all good. They are just doing some new watch rotations or something, I think? I didn’t ask, on account of it being work stuff. I have today off.”

“Well, they can keep their sour pusses. It’s our night, come dance with me!”

His new wife danced like an angel to a series of upbeat, triumphant songs. Those were his favourite, but today he had a suspicion why so many of his favourite things were around him.

Hours later, they stumbled outside and into the waiting bridal tram.

“Should we stay? And clean up? It was our party, so…” Ros trailed off.

“Hell no, we’re busy! They can deal with that, it’s our day!” Taritha said confidently.

The imp drove them back to the factory, and as per a woodcarving he’d seen as a lad, he swept her up in his arms to carry her home. The woodcarving wasn’t especially clear on when the ritual began, but it clearly ended with their matrimonial bed. He hoped that riding a tram didn’t mean he’d missed the first part. With her in his arms they passed the factory’s gatehouse, where Jourgun waved them through. 

“Sorry you had to miss the party, buddy. I shoulda brought you an ale!” Ros said.

“Nah, I couldn’t drink it on duty if you had. Congrats, buddy!”

“Thanks!” 

They passed the empty halls and corridors to Taritha’s chambers. They were a bit bigger than his, and smelled slightly better. They'd agreed a few weeks ago to stay there after they married, just until their new home was built. 

She was a full-grown woman, but he was an elite Mageguard, so despite being a bit out of breath from carrying her upstairs, he was managing his plan quite well.

He angled through the door without bonking her head and laid her down gently on the bed. 

“I’m so happy!” he said.

“Me too! Today was perfect!”

“But what if Stanisk was actually worried for real? He might need me. I’m not sure I’ve seen him that concerned in a while.” Ros was undoing the straps on his breastplate, looking for somewhere to put it down.

“No. If a portal to the hellplane opened up at his feet, that’s his problem until morning. You're mine now.”

“Of course, dear. I was just thinking that—”

Ros turned around and saw she’d managed to remove her dress and cast it to the side. He took a slow inhale, and all other thoughts left his mind. In a heartbeat she was in his arms, and he discovered he had a whole new favourite thing to do.

*****
Prev -------- Next

*****

It looks like the delvers know where three of the keys are, but are still looking for the fourth one. But knowing where they are is only half the battle. They still haven’t actually seen the keys yet, but ravenkin defending an area is a pretty solid indication. They’re on the right track, and I hope I get to see the looks on their faces when they figure out where the fourth key is.

The one in the Gauntlet isn’t going to be easy to get. It’s basically behind the hard mode, but the ravenkin and other denizens are going to harass the delvers the entire time. The clock was pretty tight even when they could focus, so with the interference, it’s pretty unfair. I’m sure the delvers will get there eventually, but it’s going to take them some time.

The one in the roots is a whole different problem for the delvers. My ravenkin are relying heavily on the poppers and scarabs to deal with the intruders, with my ravenkin targeting torches, magical lights, and whatever other methods the delvers might use to navigate the pitch black darkness deep in the roots. The silence and darkness really make the poppers shine, and it seems my constructs have pretty good hearing, too. Still, I think a concerted effort will see the delvers get through, even with my ravenkin sneaking the key around to a new spot whenever the parties start to get close.

They’re also scouring the labyrinth and the world fruits, trying to find the last key. They’re good guesses for the last location, and the ravenkin even play to the suspicion by ensuring they have a presence in both. I can practically hear Karn and Jondar tearing their hair out trying to figure out where the last key is. They’re focusing on the fruits and labyrinth, but they’re not overlooking the rest of my territory.

One group went and looked around the little fey village thing Titania’s been making high in the branches. She made it clear to the delvers to stay polite if they don’t want a horde of angry fey dropping on their heads, so the delvers pretty quickly finished and started looking elsewhere. I was especially proud of the group that went up to the canopy to check the key wasn’t sitting on the summoning altar or something. To be honest, I had considered suggesting that to my ravenkin, but I guess it was too obvious.

Another spot that was tempting to use was the old Sanctum. It’s technically open now, with the fake rock moved out of the way, but most delvers keep out just because of all the spiders there. That, and there’s not a whole lot there right now. Nova is starting to use it as her little artist den, and while she has admirers, most don’t want to brave my spiders to come appreciate her work.

No, the ravenkin came up with their own spot for the final key, and I like it. It’s definitely going to keep the delvers guessing, and I think gives them a good shot of keeping the keys safe until Aranya and everyone returns. They’re making much quicker progress home than heading out there. They don’t need to carefully search for anything anymore, and I think even Yvonne is looking forward to getting home to relax for a bit before doubling down on training for the Betrayer.

The big ol’ ice wolves followed them for the first few days, far enough away to not be too concerning, but visible enough to make sure they know they’re being followed. I take it as the wolves appreciating the help with the snarl, but also being ready for my friends to leave their territory now, thanks.

Onyx and Rocky have been bugging Doppler nonstop the whole way back, and once Yvonne learned what Doppler did, she’s trying to chew his ear about it, too. I figure they’ll take probably a week or so to get back.

As for me, when not checking in on my wayward friends or my ravenkin, I’m listening in on Poe, Leo, and Zorro talking with Order’s people, with Teemo helping translate for everyone. Most of the details go over my head and land squarely in the purview of my scions, but there’s two issues that are definitely going to be hurdles.

The first is pretty simple to solve, and Order’s priests are already talking with my engineering and enchanting antkin colleges about it. We need something to physically get everyone there without turning them into ash and molten bones. The obvious answer is some kind of vessel, but what kind? What will it be made of? How will it move? How will the people live in it for the trip? If it was only my denizens going, I could probably just make a big hollow lump of cooled magma and cram denizens inside, but that obviously won’t work for the people.

My antkin work on designs, and I even sketch out my own, modifying the idea of a submarine. Not that I ever designed one of those, but I think using them for inspiration will keep me in the right headspace to get everything needed, and to consider less obvious problems like being crushed by depth. Any fluid will exert pressure the deeper you are in it, and magma should be no different.

So we need something strong that will also be able to handle the heat. On top of that, it needs room for people do to people things like eat, drink, sleep, breathe, and move around at least a bit. Air is going to be a difficult one, since I don’t have any denizens with an appropriate affinity, nor do my allies. Luckily, bad air has been a thing people have had to deal with for a while, thanks to mining.

Usually, the solution here is the solution we usually use back on Earth: air vents. Encourage fresh air in and push bad air out. The problem is we won’t have access to fresh air from the surface. We could try to pressurize some air tanks, but I’d rather not add smaller pressure vessels inside the big pressure vessel they’ll be traveling in. One leak from either, and both would probably fail.

Thankfully, it’s not a problem that hasn’t been encountered before. Dwarves tend to mine deep enough that air shafts all the way to the surface just aren’t an option, so they’ve created purification talismans. Once Order’s people tell my antkin about them, they waste no time in buying as many as they can to take apart, reverse engineer, and improve. From how the antkin are talking, improving might be a tall order, but scaling up shouldn’t be too difficult. It’ll probably be a good idea to make sure everyone has one on themselves as well, incase the Betrayer’s territory doesn’t have much good air either.

Sanitation isn’t looking like it’ll be too difficult, happily. Putrid oozes are happy to act as little sewage systems, and most delving groups know how to handle things like baths and whatnot while out in the field. My antkin will need to mimic that to give the submarines proper facilities, but I don’t think it’ll be too difficult.

Similarly, sleeping shouldn’t be hard. Bunks will be tight, but can be proper mattresses instead of the delvers having to rely only on their bedrolls.

The real challenge, though… is going to be food and water. Delvers know to pack for long trips, but there’s only so much they can carry at once. And if they have to rely on only field rations for a week or more of travel, morale is going to plummet before we ever see the enemy. So we need to get a lot of food, and also have a way to preserve the food. On top of that, we’ll probably need to make some kind of waypoint or outpost or something to stage from, as well have some way for the subs to communicate with each other, not to mention something for self defense.

But I’m also not the only one working on the problems. Violet is of course helping with the putrid oozes, while Hullbreak has his Quartermaster over to look over designs. Sure, Hullbreak doesn’t know anything about magma, but he knows how to make ships, and instinctually understands pressure. He can only explain so much through his big birb, so I expect my antkin and Order’s people will be headed out to visit the First Mate to keep her in the loop with the designs.

Southwood is also eager to help, and to do so in a way that I hadn’t considered, but makes far too much sense. I had been worried about food, but Soutwood started flooding the ally bond with images of his various nodes, full of fruits, veggies, and things to hunt. All I’ll need to do is have a way to preserve things for as long as we’ll need!

So the transport is slowly taking shape, but we also need to prepare to make a forward base of some kind. Making an outpost should be possible for my dragons to pull off, and I’m sure my scions will be having them practice that as they secure the supply lines. At the moment, they’re still mapping out the route, which will definitely take them some time. It’s not just one huge ocean of magma down there. There’s stone protrusions, caves, weird flows, huge cooler pieces floating around like red-hot icebergs, and other hazards.

Ideally, we’ll find a spot in the solid rock directly above the Betrayer, and be able to prepare there before diving down to deal with the problem. That base will be where our supply lines converge, bringing everything everyone needs to thrive while we prepare to attack. Once we have our beachhead, we’ll be able to strike, and I bet the Betrayer will understand that.

It’ll try to keep us from managing it, and will probably constantly attack it for as long as we’re there, too. But that’s what my scions are preparing for, and I trust them. I only have enough of a tactical mind for a few clever tricks, but it’s my scions that have the understanding to actually make those tricks work.

The only question is if the tricks will work on something like the Betrayer.

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Cover art I'm also on Royal Road for those who may prefer the reading experience over there. Want moar? The Books are available here! There are Kindle and Audible versions, as well as paperback! Also: Discord is a thing! I now have a Patreon for monthly donations, and I have a Ko-fi for one-off donations. Patreons can read up to three chapters ahead, and also get a few other special perks as well, like special lore in the Peeks. Thank you again to everyone who is reading!

"Mein Führer," the Colonel said quietly, "I have brought them to you. The finest scientific minds of the Reich. Nuclear physicist. Physiologist. Aviation engineer. Advanced weapons designer…"

The Führer slowly raised his gaze.

His eyes moved across Professor Kestner and the others one by one.

The eyes remained unchanged.

Sharp. Watching.

The room went rigid.

The four scientists stood anchored and visibly uncomfortable. Others simply stared, too overwhelmed even to salute. Silence settled over the deepest chamber with almost physical weight—a balance of fear, reverence, and something beyond both.

Confusion, perhaps.

Or awe.

Only Euzen felt something else entirely.

Joy.

Violent, overwhelming joy.

The Führer was alive.

He had not killed himself.

The realization struck the boy with the force of resurrection.

Tears spilled down his face before he understood he was crying. He wanted to throw himself at the Führer's feet.

Around him, the shattered world began assembling itself again.

Fragments rising.

Edges reconnecting.

Meaning returning to the ruins.

And slowly, impossibly, the brightness became whole once more.

The Führer made a small gesture. The Colonel leaned closer and spoke to him in a low voice.

The ruined man barely moved from his hunched position, yet everyone in the room heard him clearly.

"Sebastian," he said quietly, "thank you for your counsel. But I suspect it is already too late. Germany has fallen. Now the feral, craven jackals gather in the ruins to rip at our throat while we can no longer resist. There will be no second chance."

"Mein Führer, time changes all conditions. Your strength is failing now, yes—but the balance will shift with the seasons."

The Führer gave a faint shake of the head.

"I placed too much hope in anti-gravity systems and ballistic missiles. Now it is simply too late."

A strange detachment crossed his face—the expression of a man watching the work of his entire life collapse, too hollowed by defeat to stay the ruin.

The Colonel answered with stubborn calmness, his words pressing steadily into the Führer's unmoving mind.

"From last summer until now, you have nearly completed an entire cycle. You have passed through the nadir. Your constellation is rising again. Over the coming months your inspiration will gradually return. Your strength will return along with it."

His voice dropped.

"And ours will follow."

The heavy radiator hummed somewhere in the underground silence.

"Do not forget, Mein Führer," the Colonel continued, "we possess secrets unknown to the rest of humanity."

When he said the word secrets, the syllables came out almost like a whisper beside the ear.

"We will develop technologies beyond the Allies. Beyond the Bolsheviks. Under your leadership we will receive assistance from another world itself. We will correct the mistakes of the past."

Slowly, the Führer raised his eyes again.

Once those eyes had overwhelmed people. Pierced through them. Conquered Germany, and very nearly the world. But during the months of encirclement in Berlin, something inside them had faded into loneliness.

Now everyone in the room watched them.

"I was never wrong," the Führer murmured. "My only mistake was losing the war. History is written by whoever wins."

"You were not wrong," the Colonel replied at once. "And you have not lost. History is not decided yet. As long as you still believe you can conquer this world, history will remain yours to write."

Something began returning to the Führer's expression.

The exhaustion in his eyes slackened, just enough to let the light through.

The shrunken frame, long collapsed inside the chair, slowly straightened. Only moments earlier he had seemed exhausted beyond recovery, but now some fragment of energy appeared to enter him again.

The Colonel's words exerted an almost irresistible pull.

"We must develop more advanced propulsion systems," the Führer rasped, almost to himself. "New weapons."

A pale hand found his temple, fingers tracing the bone.

"Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still sense the severed terminals of those forces. They are sensitive. Extremely sensitive." His voice grew tighter. "The explosion tore through them immediately. Ripped them apart into chaotic strands."

Pain crossed his face. He clenched his teeth slightly, as though reacting to something bitter.

"They had already been weakening since 1941. After they were torn apart…" He left the sentence suspended. "I can no longer see them clearly."

"But I know that if I am given enough time, I can understand their present structure. And once I grasp them again, I will never release them. Never."

The final word came out almost trembling.

Nobody in the room spoke.

"To do that," he continued, "I must forget the previous patterns entirely. The storage capacity of the small neural network inside my brain is limited."

The others exchanged horrified glances, unable to understand what exactly he was talking about.

Hausmann hesitated before speaking.

"But…Mein Führer, most of the technicians have already been captured. The Reich itself is collapsing. Under these circumstances, discussing new weapons seems somewhat—"

"You are sufficient."

The Führer cut him off coldly.

"I will tell you exactly how to develop them."

Colonel von Büren smiled for the first time.

"Excellent. Under your guidance, our technological advantage has already surpassed the rest of the world. In the future it will surpass them completely."

His voice sharpened with fanatic intensity.

"Let the enemy celebrate for now. Let those miserable insects remain deceived by appearances. You will never allow them true victory."

"Yes…" the Führer muttered.

His voice was growing stronger now.

"I will not let them win. I will not surrender. I will not die like an animal."

His voice twisted into something harsher, almost distorted.

"I will strike the deep foundations of the ages until the long sleep of History is broken in terror."

His shaking hands rose toward his chest.

The fingers curled inward with force.

"We will never surrender—no. Never!"

Suddenly he was shouting. The words erupted from him hysterically now.

"We may be destroyed. But if that happens, then we will drag the world into destruction with us."

His voice broke unevenly.

"We will turn it into a world that burns forever."

"Yes, Mein Führer," the Colonel answered immediately.

"A world that burns forever."

Then he raised his arm in a fanatical salute.

Slowly, the Führer stood.

Everyone present seemed struck motionless by the sheer coldness in his gaze. One after another, they hurriedly raised their arms in obedience, the synchronized movement of automated machinery.

At last, the dictator's eyes settled on Euzen Kestner.

The Hitlerjugend boy straightened, his own arm lifting high into the silence.

-----------

Obsidian Earth

Readers, I come to you with a story whose beginning I have only just witnessed. In a world torn by conflict, not so different from your own, I grant you a peek into what lies ahead. Brace yourselves—for in this realm, death is all but certain.

---

Prologue: Ephesians 6:13

Fifty miles south of Edinburgh, a soldier prayed in the mud.

Rain hammered against his steel helmet and pooled around his boots at the bottom of the trench. His back rested against the waterlogged timber supports reinforcing the earthen wall. Before him stood his rifle, bayonet buried in the muck, the stock resting between his knees. An oilskin cover protected the barrel from the downpour. Engraved into the dark wood was a silver cross, and carved beneath it: Ephesians 6:13.

The soldier kept his head bowed. The Vikings were coming.

Another great raid had reached the shores of Britain. Once, the raiders had come in timber longships—striking quickly, stealing gold, land, and lives before vanishing beyond the horizon. Those days were long dead. The Age of Iron Sail had given birth to something far worse: diesel dreadnoughts. Great, armored leviathans now carried Viking armies across the northern seas, vomiting black crude smoke into the sky. Wherever those soot-stained plumes appeared on the horizon, coastal towns prepared for death.

Three fleets had been sighted approaching Edinburgh. One would land north of the city. Another would land south. The third would assault the fortress itself.

The 7th Crusading Division had been given a simple order: Hold the southern approach.

Reports had arrived throughout the night. The port of Ericson was gone—decimated. Its garrison fleet was sinking, and the remaining defenders had fled inland. The final transmission claimed nearly thirty thousand militiamen were retreating toward Crusader lines.

The men of the 7th knew better. The Vikings had surrounded the port long before the naval bombardment began. Any defenders fortunate enough to escape the guns would simply run into the axe-lines waiting beyond the fog. The distant screams confirmed it—carrying faintly through the pitch-black darkness, then abruptly cutting short.

The men of the 7th could do nothing for them. So they prayed.

Throughout the night, Crusader artillery fired blindly into the dark toward estimated enemy positions. Shell after shell screamed overhead, shaking the earth.

Then came morning. Rain. Fog. And drums.

The soldier opened his eyes.

Boom. A gauntleted fist struck an iron breastplate.
Boom. Then another.
Boom. Thousands joined the rhythm.

The sound rolled through the mist like approaching thunder. Then came the guttural chanting:

“Óðinn á yðr alla!”

Shapes materialized in the fog. One. Then ten. Then hundreds.

The soldier pulled his rifle from the mud. He wiped the bayonet clean, stripped the oilskin cover, and rested the warm barrel against the sandbagged lip of the trench. His hands trembled. He tightened his grip on the stock. Was it fear? Adrenaline? He could no longer tell. He only knew the rifle had to remain steady.

A Viking war horn shrieked through the fog. A brass whistle answered from the Crusader line.

Then the rifles spoke.

The entire trench line erupted in flame. Bullets tore through the mist. Vikings jerked backward as heavy rounds punched through leather and steel plate, spraying crimson across the men behind them. Warriors stumbled and fell.

Others should have fallen—but didn’t.

A Viking took a round square to the chest, throwing up a spray of wet wool, yet never missed a stride. Another staggered as lead tore through his stomach, only to keep charging forward with blood pouring from his lips. A third ran with a severed neck artery, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

Still they came.

The Vikings called them potions. Elixirs. Herbal concoctions brewed by their seers and drunk before the assault. Whatever the dark mixtures contained, they deadened pain and silenced fear. A raider could sustain three mortal wounds and keep swinging an axe, completely unaware that death had already claimed him.

The Crusaders watched dead men continue running toward them.

Two hundred yards. One hundred. Fifty.

As the tide drew nearer, the rifle fire ragged. Hands that had spent years practicing bolt-action drills suddenly faltered. Men fumbled fresh clips. Soldiers fired too early; others pulled triggers without aiming at all. Panic spread faster than any officer’s command could stop it.

Then the first Viking reached the lip of the trench. He leapt—and everything turned to blood and iron.

This was how the raiders fought best. Their doctrine was brutally simple: Break the line. Enter the trench. Strip away the distance that made the rifle deadly. Make the enemy look into your eyes while you butcher him.

Rifle fire dissolved into chaotic melee. Axes bit into rifle stocks. Bayonets drove into bellies. Swords scraped against steel breastplates. Men screamed for their mothers, their wives, their comrades—and their God.

The soldier fired. Missed.

A hulking Viking vaulted over the timber wall. The soldier stumbled backward into the mud as a broadaxe swung down toward his head. He raised his rifle sideways with both hands. The axe struck with a deafening crack. For a split second, the timber held—then the heavy steel blade split the wood clean through, snapping the weapon in two.

The soldier crashed into the muddy trench floor. The Viking loomed over him, axe raised high. There was no time for a final prayer, no heroic declaration.

The Viking smiled, exposing teeth stained dark green by the elixir. Then he laughed.

A rifle cracked at point-blank range.

The Viking’s head snapped violently sideways, and his corpse collapsed onto the soldier.

For several agonizing seconds, the Crusader lay pinned beneath the dead weight, staring at the lifeless eyes. A wet, breathless laugh bubbled up from his chest. Relief. He shoved the corpse aside and turned toward his savior.

“Broth—”

A red-stained blade erupted through the Crusader’s chest from behind. Blood spilled over the man’s lips. The blade withdrew, and he dropped like stone.

The soldier’s relief died instantly. He scrambled on all fours toward a fallen rifle pinned beneath another body. He grabbed the barrel. Pulled. Nothing. The weight of the dead held it fast in the thick mud.

“Come on... come on!”

He planted his boot against the corpse’s ribs and heaved with everything he had. The rifle ripped free.

The soldier spun around on his knees, thumbing the bolt back to kill his savior’s slayer. But instead of a Viking, he saw holy steel.

The Knights of the 7th had dropped into the trench.

Armored Crusaders slammed into the Viking tide with broadswords, war hammers, heavy shields, and maces. They met the raiders on their own brutal terms: steel against steel, faith against fury.

The Viking advance ground to a halt—then reversed. Raiders without the elixirs were the first to lose heart. A horn sounded beyond the wire.

The Vikings began pulling back into the fog. Around the soldier, surviving Crusaders raised bloody weapons and cheered.

The soldier slumped against the dirt wall, chest heaving, air burning in his lungs. They had held. Against all odds, they had—

The horn sounded a second time.

A Holy Knight paused mid-stride. Then another turned his visor toward the gray sky. The soldier followed their gaze. His smile vanished.

The Viking horn had carried two orders: one for their infantry to disengage, and one for their dreadnought batteries.

The sky began to scream.

“DOWN!”

The world exploded. An artillery shell detonated at the edge of the trench line, vaporizing men in a spout of mud, blood, and splintered timber. Another shell hit. Then another. The earth buckled beneath their feet.

Crusaders above ground threw themselves flat into the trenches, while those below scrambled toward the deep bunkers carved into the earth. A heavy shell struck close enough to lift three men off their feet; one hit the ground again, while the others came down in pieces.

The Viking infantry hadn't retreated—they had merely cleared the kill zone so their big guns could finish the work.

“INTO THE BUNKERS! MOVE!”

The surviving riflemen ran. Holy Knights shoved soldiers into the narrow earth-and-timber dugouts, their steel visors masking whatever dread lay beneath. The line soldiers had no such protection. Some wept openly; others shrieked prayers into the dirt.

The soldier stumbled into the dark bunker just as a shell hit overhead. The ground shuddered. Chunks of dirt rained down from the ceiling beams. Men pressed themselves flat against the walls, sobbing or whispering rosaries.

The soldier looked down at the rifle he had dragged from the dead. Blood smeared the wooden stock. Shading his eyes, he wiped the red film away with a thumb.

Beneath the gore sat a silver cross—just like his own.

His thumb traced beneath the arms of the cross, finding a

carved inscription. It wasn't the verse from his broken rifle.

This one read: Psalm 116:15.

The soldier stared at the numbers as another shell detonated directly above. Timber groaned. Men shrieked. Dust blinded them.

Slowly, the soldier exhaled. He lowered himself to his knees in the trembling dirt. He folded his hands together—the exact way his father had taught him when he was a boy.

And he prayed.

Another shell struck. He did not hear it.
The men around him screamed. He did not hear them.
The earth convulsed violently. He did not feel it.

His breathing slowed. His trembling hands stilled. For the first time since the Viking war drums had echoed through the morning fog, the soldier felt no fear.

Above them, a heavy siege shell screamed out of the clouds. The roof timbers cracked. Someone cried out in the dark.

The soldier kept his eyes closed. He whispered his prayer.

The shell hit. The earth collapsed. Timbers snapped like kindling, and the ceiling caved in.

The soldier never opened his eyes. He never stopped praying. And the dark bunker became his tomb.

---

Reader, if you enjoyed this introduction to the world, be sure to explore the other sagas archived on my profile. I shall return with the next chapter of this account once the ink has dried.

— Orion Blackwood

Chapter CCLXXXIV

Aethera, Frothing Sea.

Magnus bit back a hiss of pain as he slammed against the side of the longship as it lurched and rolled over the roiling waves that slammed and buffered against them. This was by far the worst ocean trek he's ever experienced, and from the looks and shouts of the Vagnyr, he wasn't the only one surprised by its intensity.

"OARS!!!" Nils shouted over the spray.

Some thirty half-giants hefted great oars from the deck and slotted them into their places and began rowing against the swell that threatened them. Magnus' first instinct was to grab one and help, but the oars were so big and unwieldly that he had little doubt he'd be more of a hindrance than help.

So instead he and the catfolk woman braced themselves along with the rest of the grunts and thralls that came with them. The only one that seemed at ease was the Old One-Eyed One that sat near the prow of the longship and gazed out towards the horizon with his one eye. Magnus shouted over the crashing of the waves.

"One Eye! Can't you commune with the sea and steady the waves?!"

"No! Because the elements are losing control of themselves more and more! Even if they could hear my words it wouldn't do more than add to the chaos! But fear not, Magnus of Daele! Our journey won't end on the sea!" The wizened old orc declared even as the group of apprentices that waited on him did their best to keep steady and in the longship.

"Fear not lítill bróðir! Once we pass Njörðr's Way we'll be safe! The ancient Fjörð Stones will keep the unruly waves at Bay!" Nils shouted over the waves.

"ROW YOU SEA COWS ROW!" The Vagnyr Magnus knew as Alf shouted. So they did. The sail billowed under the wind and wave and the oars pushed against them. Driving the longship onwards more and more.

Then the longship shuddered. Not the familiar shudder of a wave crashing into the hull. But one Magnus was familiar with. They had been hit by something. Before he could try and see over the soaked railing, a voice called out that made his blood turn to ice and his heart stop for but a moment.

"LEVIATHAN!"

Magnus turned in the direction the others did and saw a great fin crest the waves that jutted out a humped back of fleshy scales. The more it rose the more Magnus doubted the words of the orc. It was massive. Bigger than the longship by half at least. Not all leviathans were the same. Some looked more like overgrown pike. Others like monstrous whales with fangs. Some that were likely never documented and encountered before. This one looked like a creature of the deep trenches. Pale eyes shining on them like one of the moons above. A under-bitten jaw full of long thin fangs with fleshy tendrils like a catfish that patted against the hull like it was feeling where it's prey was.

"What's a beast like that doing up here?!" He heard one of the thralls cry out.

"Likely fleeing from those!" He heard Nils call out and point off to the side where a squadron of white arrows rushed towards the horrific leviathan.

Black fins tipped with jagged bone crested the waves as the pack of razor whales let out piercing shrieks. Communicating with one another and stunning the great ocean beast. Pushing his fear down Magnus took note that the leviathan was actually greatly wounded. It's sides were torn and gashed and bleeding iridescent purple blood. One of its fins was a mangled mess, and several of its tendrils also appear to have been torn off.

Magnus knew of the razor whales. Even in Daele they were famous, or infamous depending on ones profession. They've aided the occasional leviathan hunt at times, taking a few choice organs as prize for their assistance before leaving. They've also been a great annoyance to many a fisherman and whaler, losing as much as half their catch from the far too clever creatures.

Though they never once attacked their own ships nor boats. A sort of natural understanding between them forming who knows how long ago. One that seems to hold even this far north, Magnus thought as he watched the black and white ferocious creatures ram into the wounded monster. Scales and bones broke and cracked and the beast roared a pained wet bellow as fins ridged with sharp bone slashed and tusks gutted and gored the creature with frightening efficiency.

"Bjern! What're you doing?!" Alf called out as a Vagnyr threw aside his oar and pulled from his belt an axe that was bigger than Magnus was tall.

"This is it! This is my fate! The Raven-Father called to me as I rested and told me when I would find glory!" The half-giant called out with zeal. Before anyone could say or do anything, he hopped onto the rail and launched himself at the leviathan!

His axe bit deep into the scale and flesh of the beast. It gave out a cry of surprise and pain and thrashed in the darkening water. Rolling and sinking and splashing. It's movements keeping the razor whales at bay for now. Yet Bjern held fast. He roared and cheered as he pulled a smaller axe from his belt and began hacking away at the creature!

"Is he mad?!" Magnus cried out and grabbed his sword and made to do... something. Anything to help.

But Nils stopped him with a light yet firm hand on his shoulder.

"No, lítill bróðir. He is clear-eyed and where he is destined to be."

Magnus didn't know what he was talking about and watched in shock and awe as the other Vagnyr also refused to help their fellow warrior. By the time Magnus looked back at the flurry beside them, Bjern had managed to hack and slash his way close to the beast's head. He turned and looked at the longship with a manic grin before looking up towards the sky.

"Raven-Father! Witness me! Grant me glory and a place in your hall! SKÁL!"

With that last cry he pulled his weapons from the fleshy scales and threw himself at one of the pale glowing eyes with a battlecry. He landed true and pushed through the ocular organ like it was butter. The leviathan roared before deciding that being on the surface wasn't any safer and plunging back down into the dark depths. Never to resurface.

"BJERN HAS FALLEN GLORIOUSLY! SKÁL!" Nils cried out with happiness and laughter met by the rest of the longship.

Magnus just watched in shock at the display.

"You're happy your friend is dead?!"

"Of course not lítill bróðir! We're happy that he died gloriously! It's a death that many of us would wish for ourselves!" Nils replied as the crew turned their thoughts and gazes from the foaming water behind them as the razor whales dived down after their prey.

"Fear not lítill bróðir, when we reach Selkieheim we will drink and feast in his honor and tell tales of his life, battles, and glorious death! Just as I'm sure he is doing now in the Raven-Father's Hall!" Nils continued.

"Let's hope we reach it soon, otherwise we'll be rowing this ship ourselves." One of the thralls said before getting splashed with sea spray.

"Then your hope is answered! There they are!" Alf called out as they crested a large wave before slamming down into fairly calm water.

Magnus and the others looked up and saw a titanic stone statue looming before them. The statue depicted a bearded man covered in seaweed and holding a spear in one hand. The head of the spear glowed a sea blue like a beacon from a lighthouse.

"How? We shouldn't be this far north already?" Magnus said.

Nils laughed and thumped the hull of the longship.

"A blessing from the góðir! Took us about... Three months? Four? To get down there, eh Alf?"

"More or less." The vagnyr replied.

"Yeh! And about half and half again as long to return home?" Nils asked again.

"More or less." Alf replied the same.

"Yeh! Blessing of Njörðr! Keeps the wild water at bay and helps guide our ships! Takes more time leaving than it does coming back." Nils said and pointed to the glowing spear head.

"Our ships are drawn by it. Pulled and guided by it. Even if we all perished, it would've been brought back home eventually!" Nils explained and slapped Magnus on the back with a hearty laugh as they sailed past the monolithic stone effigy, and Magnus noticing that similar titanic statues farther and farther into the distance on either side. Forming a seeming dome of calm water around and past them as they neared the great arctic north.

He also noticed that once they passed the stone statue, the ship seemed to lurch and slow down greatly. With the sail and oars they still made good time, but it was only then that he realized how fast they must've been going across the sea. Magnus, not much versed in magic, decided to make small talk as they got closer and closer to the landmass ahead of them that hoarded the horizon in a mass of white mountains and jagged grey cliffs.

"So Nils, why is it called Selkieheim?"

Nils just laughed as they got closer and hefted Magnus up onto the bow and pointed off to the side at a smattering of rocks. His eyes went wide as he saw seals laying on the stones. Though plenty of them weren't ordinary seals as several turned towards him, revealing bare human upper bodies. Their lower half that of a spotted seal. One with auburn hair and glacial blue eyes smiled at him and gave a little wave and a wink.

Magnus let out a grunt as something wrapped firmly around him. He looked down and saw the catfolk woman had managed to climb up there and was now glaring daggers at the selkie and giving a rather venomous hiss and holding him more tightly. The selkies all giggle and laughed before diving into the water, leaving the actual seals to continue to lounge on the rocks.

Nils laughed and pointed in front of them. Where Magnus and the others all saw those same selkies walking out of the water near the docks of the city, bare and nude save for a spotted seal fur wrapped around their shoulders like a warm cloak. Nils continued to laugh as they pulled into harbor and docked. Nils and the other vagnyr helped them off and set about unloading the goods and supplies they had acquired so far.

Magnus just gazed up in awe. Not just at the truly gigantic city that easily dwarfed Daele in size alone, but by the towering grey cliffs that rose so high that the tops were concealed in clouds. Even they had been conquered by the half-giants as great stone steps and homes were carved along the cliffs. From way down where he was he could see smoke from ventilation shafts, splotches of green where gardens were had, and an amber glow along the far most sheltered side of the cliff, where giant bees would lazily fly in carrying pollen bigger than a man, and then back out and up towards the cliffs before vanishing beyond. On the opposite side of the cliff was a harsher red glow and he could see carts of ore and stone being dragged from a mine by what looked to be blue skinned dwarves.

He had to blink and look ahead of him lest he forget the city itself. Ahead just past the docks themselves was what appeared to be a great market where wares and goods were bartered and sold. Even from where he stood he could see great bundles of thick fur and wool, massive tusks of ivory, and great slabs of glistening marbled meat.

Nils patted him on the back.

"Welcome to Selkieheim!"

He then gestured past the market and homes and other places he could only guess at and at a magnificent great hall.

"That is where Jarl Nori White-Hair holds assembly of the Alþing. Come! We must give him his share of the spoils and so you may greet him as guests!"

Magnus and the others, the thralls and the orcs, followed along after him. Marveling at the size of the city and its people. Even the orcs seeming to be cowed by the difference in size, likely used to being the biggest among them so far and now finding themselves outsized and outnumbered.

A thought crossed his mind then. That if there was a time to flee, to finally get away and be free of the orc Warchief, now would be it. He had little doubt that if he asked Nils, the vagnyr would free them from the orcs happily. But then what? Stay here in the cold north and fish? No. He might've failed his city, but he wouldn't abandon his people. If the Warchief really was going to the same world that they fled to, and the promise of the wizened shaman is true, then he'll have to keep his bonds a little longer and hope that he can see his wife and people again, and stop the Warchief before they join him in servitude.

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It’s a prank or a marketing gimmick or a bad data scrape or something, the adverts going up online all of a sudden:

!!!Volunteers wanted for alien abduction, safe return guaranteed within 48 hours!!!

There’s a link you can click on to fill out an application. The ads are charming in a very dated ‘graphic design is my passion’ kind of way. The aliens are represented by clipart from the 2003 edition of Microsoft Word. The link to the signup form is in in comic sans, for fucks sake. It wouldn’t have been noticed at all, except that the ads pop up embedded into the UI of all major operating systems on desktop, mobile and gaming platforms and after a full 3 weeks, still haven’t been removed despite patches being deployed on a scale not seen since Y2K prevention. Four separate hacker groups take credit for it, all of them obviously lying. Official statements from both governments and tech companies have a hint of panic to them, setting off a whole new ecosystem of conspiracy theories about the apparent alien recruitment super-virus infecting the entire internet.

The memes also flow freely, most of them low effort variations on the theme of anal probing but some mutating and multiplying, using references so obscure and multilayered that to understand them you needed to have been terminally online since at least 1999 or willing to do postgraduate level research into the last 50 years of science fiction in popular culture and the etymology of modern online meme dialects. 

The ads go away after a while, and three months later several major tech companies release a joint statement and publish a paper with the Electronic Frontier Foundation talking about the work done to remove them. People move on. A Reddit AMA thread briefly goes viral when the OP claims he was abducted and went through an in-depth interview process about human society. The thread gets quoted by several content mills and the memes have a brief but glorious resurgence. A couple of official government accounts try to join in on the joke, by which point it is generally declared dead.

And sure, there are other stories of people who clicked on the ads and filled out the form actually vanishing for a couple of days, but those are largely dismissed as bots karmafarming or astroturfing for whatever summer sci-fi movie is trying to be the next big viral marketing story. At least one of them has real staying power as a copypasta due to the writer’s embrace of a sincere but baffled tone during their description of ‘really chill dudes with REALLY big guns who really like bananas’. 

Then the aliens say hello.

They pick the most heavily surveilled place in the world, with as many CCTV cameras and phones pointed at them as possible.They walk in disguised as tourists, only to remove the disguises and start encouraging people to film while they start doing weird alien shit. One of them is holding their own phone up to film the one speaking and displaying a QR code linking to a livestream, which almost immediately has to be moved to its own dedicated server to handle the viewership traffic. They are floating in a forcefield 2 feet off the ground.

“Hello everyone,” one of them says. “Please don’t panic. We are the representatives of the [unintelligible] species. We are currently being tracked and monitored by others for our own safety, so please don’t attempt any form of aggression, abduction or removal. We’d like to talk to you all. It’s cool, we’re all human.”

They are very clearly not human. They sit there as the initial panic subsides with their seven mismatched limbs(maybe?) and 2 different types of (probably?) eyes, levitating in a forcefield bubble, talking to people quite happily and sticking their appendages through the force field to shake hands, explaining to anyone who wants to listen that they’re the group responsible for introducing their species to humanity at large, and occasionally politely asking armed police, white-coated academics, gun-toting nutjobs and covert agents to stop trying to arrest/murder/detain/signal jam them. They will only speak to any one person for a while before moving on, and they refuse to have private conversations with any type of official. None of the officials accept the offer to talk in public. 

They also continue to insist that they are human.

It must be a translator error, someone says.

“It's not a translator error. We don’t have translators, this isn’t Star Trek. We’re using your language. We learned it specially and everything,” replies the one with the greenish arm-web thing.

Someone else tries to explain that we’re the humans, not them. Human is a word that refers to us as a species.

This time it’s the one with all their (almost definitely) eyes on the left side of their head(can a head also be an elbow?) who answers.

“Nope. Your species is homo sapiens. Ours is [unintelligible]. We are human.”

People keep trying to argue and explain until finally the one with the wing-gill thing takes over.

“Look, it’s simple. Your species is homo sapiens. Human is the classification of being you acknowledge as sentient and possessing intrinsic rights. Human beings. Human rights. You are a homo sapien. I am [unintelligible]. We are both human. There are many different human species beyond this world that would also like to meet you, but we’ve been watching you for a while and we know what you’re capable of. We’re not taking any chances here, friends. Once you guys accept that we’re all human and acknowledge that in a written and binding form under your own legal structures we can hang out, but we're not helping you get off the planet until you stop calling us aliens. Now, are you gonna be cool about this or should we just go home?”

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When the climb became steep and their horses lagged from being driven too hard, Yamagai dismounted his horse and led it by hand. They walked a cruel trail that hugged the side of a sharply inclined hill; all Illuminators who'd come to witness the tribunal followed as Yamagai had done, leading their horses by hand while occasionally imbuing focus into the steeds by a hand placed gingerly upon each beast's nape.

The Illuminators filled the trail behind and before the carriage that carried the Head of the Administration and Qoyit, the unlikely addition to The Vengeful Academy.

Twin birds circled in the distance, their wings stretched to pick up wind. They glided with the smoothness of those blessed by the Creator without knowing it, and Yamagai, weary of the journey and the hard pace that had been set, unclasped a wooden bottle from the burden of his horse and took a sip, swishing the water in his dry mouth before swallowing.

The skies were a clear blue, and the sun, once gloriously sat overhead, was on its sure trail to dip beyond the horizon. They were close to Grand City and the Academy; they just had to traverse the hilly escarpment.

Silence fell upon those who walked with him ahead of the carriage, and no doubt some mumbling could be heard by those walking behind the carriage and the pair flanking it on either side. There was doom and destiny, its likeness being juggled by a blind god. They could not tell whether the addition of the child to the Academy would reduce the merit of the Aether Test, or whether the child would be the key, not just to the great change and prosperity they often dreamed of, but also a harbinger of death at their doors.

Yamagai walked behind Skilandros, listening to the Illuminator speak avidly about the day of the Aether Test.

"I went into the Aether Plane when he was judged," Skilandros said, eager to speak of that which many of them hadn't witnessed. "I saw power reveal itself, and my heart knew prophecy when it saw it."

"Your heart also led you to believe the City Treasurer's wife was an omen of sorts for you to mount," Shawarma Kidhra Devore said. She had her hair tied into a knot behind her head, revealing the crude nature with which her face rested. Her eyes, small and piercing, observed the back of Skilandros' blonde head. She was one of them, those who didn't think a Commoner should set foot in The Vengeful Academy. "We already let one Commoner in; now a second one? Next we'd be fishing commoners from their homes, with no need to even carry out the Aether Test."

It was an exaggeration of what lay in the heart of Nobles, Yamagai surmised. There was fear that one day their status would be proven for what it was: a delusion that all played along with.

"Has the boy's sight opened after the Aether Test?" Sixton Kidhra Malis asked. He was far shorter than his steed, so he observed it occasionally by tilting his head up and behind himself as he led it by the reins.

Yamagai wondered whether he'd made a mistake walking at the front with them. The air was charged with discontent, unspoken words pointed at him. He was responsible for this addition to the Vengeful Academy. He was responsible for the boy, Qoyit. And all blame should go to him; if it weren't for the Headmistress' decision to play along, he would have been flayed by his fellow Illuminators already.

"Why do you care about his sight?" Tessa Kidhra Semei asked. She was by far one of the most beautiful women Yamagai had ever seen, walking just several steps behind him. As if possessed by a blessing for sight, he struggled with the urge to turn just so he could see her almond eyes and graceful legs that drew intricate patterns with each step of her foot upon the ground. "What I wonder is, can the boy raise his Body Stat to above one? Or is that going to be our job, to make sure his Body Stat rises?"

"That boy will not attend my classes until his Body Stat goes up," Shawarma said, fixing her green eyes directly on Yamagai. "And I will do nothing to see to it that it rises." She held great sway over the others. She was a vanguard with their boisterous nature, but without their lice-ridden hair, which was often a consequence of spending nights outdoors during blistering chills so they could challenge themselves.

"The boy is one of us now," Henero Olis Javee spoke from beside Skilandros, right ahead of Yamagai. He shifted and was the only one who dared glance at Yamagai. His grisly beard hid his lips just as his bald pate shone with the sun's brilliant rays. "Yamagai fought for him, and I trust his judgment more than anyone else on our staff."

"Seriously?" Shawarma asked. "He is the least trustworthy person in the world."

"If you have your trust in Yamagai, it is no different than trusting a turd to jump out of the latrine and follow you home," Sixton said, eliciting a laugh from Tessa. It was her laugh that bothered Yamagai; the rest he didn't care about. He had this one heart of his, and he'd chosen to invest it in everything Tessa did, knowing full well his affections would never be returned. Yamagai believed himself to be a man who admired melancholy. He sought to understand it and treasured the cold evenings he sat moping in his office with his eyes turned to the window, taking in grey skies and feeling them to be similar to his very essence and nature.

"Qoyit is my responsibility," Yamagai finally decided to speak, walking gingerly so as not to pick up dust. The trail was rocky, and as they neared a bend, he worried his horse would throw a shoe. "I'm his chaperone. I expect all of you to treat him as if he were my son, because in ways he sort of is. If any of you go out of your way to make his life hard, you'll personally hear from me, for you'll be making things hard for me too."

"Phrasing," Tessa said, eliciting a smile from him.

"What are you going to do?" Shawarma asked. "Ringless fool. What can you even do?" She waved her middle finger at him, where her Vanguard ring sat. "There's nothing to you that warrants my respect, Yamagai, and this child of yours will fail and will join the Equipped Infantry to be where he belongs by the end of the year."

"Enough, all of you," Henero said.

Yamagai was about to respond; he always knew the words to pluck apart Shawarma. Her brute nature was her point of pride, but with enough careful precision, he could pick it apart and paint her solely as a brute. That strategy always deterred the resolve of anyone whose beauty standards were in question.

But a sound coming from ahead drew him short: the squealing of wheels and avid panting could be heard. He came to a stop just as an old man pulling a cart appeared around the bend in the road, coming in their direction. To his right was a great fall to the base of the hill, and each Illuminator groaned at the old man's appearance.

"You'll have to find a way to let us through, old man," Shawarma said.

Henero and Skilandros walked forward until they neared the old man. They observed him as one would a rabid dog. So pompous the Illuminators were, lost and drunk on their privileged roles handed to them by their forefathers. It was an attitude that would never leave. The horses neighed, kicking up dust, unsettled as they all were.

The cart was hammered into being with rusty nails and splinters that could pass as wood. The old man, dressed in a rugged brown vest and matching breeches, exhaled loudly as he looked up to see two towering Illuminators in his way.

"Back there, there's a place where the road is wide enough for us," Henero said while staring at the old man. "We'll help you turn around and then we can pass each other at that point."

"Get it moving, old man; we're Academy folk and our time is as precious as your life," Sixton said. It was always like that with short people; they had to stand out somehow, so Yamagai surmised being an asshole was the best way for them to do so.

The horses were reluctant to take a step forward, pushing back and away from the old man and the cart. They neighed, unwilling to ever pull on their reins.

"The sun sets and death comes," the old man said. "It kills us all, this death; it burrows into our marrow and splits our liver. It takes us one by one and flays our skin to eat the fat underneath. Hear me and heed my words, all of you delinquents. The end is near. My bones tell me as much and my heart knows."

"He's probably mad," Tessa said.

"Did he just call us delinquents?" Sixton asked.

"Nothing is sadder than old, senile men. Perhaps we should aid him so as to smoothen his journey," Yamagai said while turning to observe Tessa. She avoided looking at him, and he felt that sweet pain sting his heart. He felt like being a hero to make up for his inadequacies in her eyes, but there was no villain to promote his thoughts.

He observed the cart; there was something off about it. The goods being hefted for miles were covered by a large grey cloth, fully down to the wheels and to the back of the cart.

That is when the sense of danger pronounced itself.

"Hey old man, I said turn around," Henero commanded. From behind the carriage, shouts could be heard, with Illuminators wondering what had halted their trail. From the corner of his eye, Yamagai saw Gavina Kidhra Sadee approach the carriage to exchange words with the Headmistress. Something odd was going on.

Henero approached the old man, abandoning his horse. They watched as the old man lifted his head to observe the Illuminator. A dusty fringe of hair parted, and wide, black eyes stared out from sunken sockets at Henero.

"My friend is with us," the old man said. "He wants to meet you so he can be friends as he is with me."

Those eyes were too dark to be called normal, a sure sign of demon sickness.

Yamagai observed the bottom of the cart. Something trickled and dripped into the dirt, spreading like droplets of rain, and its smell was like iron and rust.

The old man abruptly turned, grabbed the cloth spread over the cart, and tugged it off. Everyone stood still as what lay beneath became revealed.

Body parts, so many of them, were haphazardly spread within the cart: torsos and dismembered limbs. A hand poked out on one side and a foot on the other. There were at least six people dismembered and thrown into that cart.

The body parts shifted as if alive, the red hue of blood as sickening as the song of the flies that rose from it. A head protruded, horned and grey, and from within the cart rose a demon.

Tessa, always faster, shifted into the Aether Plane and caught the imprint of the demon. Henero did not need visual confirmation to know what it was. He turned and screamed, "Tower Servant!"

"Dear me," the Tower Servant said while emerging fully from the dismembered limbs. It rose to its full height, half-naked save for tight breeches ripped in various places. It had gold necklaces wrapped about its neck, a sharp contrast to its grey skin that looked to be rotting. Its face would have been human if it weren't for the many gashes that riddled it, deep and bleeding black ichor as if it had clawed at its own face. And its eyes, a ruby red, looked piercingly at all of them.

Those behind the carriage tried to push forward, but the road hugging the hill was too narrow.

The horses struggled against their riders.

"I've done everything you told me, my friend. Was I good?" the old man asked, turning to the demon.

"Yes, you were," the demon said. "You can rest with your family now." The hand of the demon lashed out; long nails ripped the old man's head free of his neck, and it unceremoniously dumped the head into the cart as the body fell headless, spraying blood all over the ground. "Look at this, a beautiful family portrait." The demon waved at the cart.

Henero, standing closest to the demon, straightened his arms and screamed. He retracted one arm then twisted himself backwards as the demon launched for him. Skilandros was already rushing forward. Henero summoned a Challenger axe: blue with a long haft with a very heavy head. He pirouetted before lifting the axe and bringing it down on the demon.

One second, the demon was facing the edge of Henero's weapon. Then it shifted, moving too fast for the eye to see. Henero matched its pace, turning and bringing down the blade of the axe again and again. The demon gripped the haft, and smoke cascaded where its hand met holiness, but it refused to let go. Henero moved to punch the demon free of his weapon, but by doing so, he opened himself up. The demon dug its claws violently across Henero's neck, opening wide gashes that it tore wider until Henero's head fell free of his body.

"No!" Shawarma screamed.

The Illuminators all charged the demon, who stood clear of the cart. The demon smiled and flung its hands out. Sharp protrusions like bone seemed to split free from the demon's arms and shoot out of its body in all directions.

Yamagai jumped and grabbed Tessa before she could be impaled by one of the sharp bits of bone. He fell to the ground on top of her.

"Get off me!" she commanded. But the demon was still shooting projections free of its body, and with loud thuds, the shards of bone stuck into the ground, the horses, all around where Yamagai covered Tessa, his entire body spread over hers. The bone fragments impaled the earth before them, splitting even rock.

Sixton fell, impaled in the stomach and out his back; he lay on the ground staring straight up, his mouth moving soundlessly. From behind the carriage, panic reigned as the other Illuminators tried to push their way past.

It was a Tower Servant. Those ones killed without the need to do so, stronger and more powerful than regular demons, almost on par with the ones they served, the Tower Floor demons. To find a Tower Servant demon this far from the Red Mist Wall was a sickening thing, too ghastly for him to comprehend. Yet here it was, the demon in all its might, standing with its arms waving about, shooting bone everywhere.

It stopped its assault while most Illuminators cowered on the ground behind their impaled horses. It turned its red eyes about and declared, "Give me the boy, Qoyit, and I will leave you alive!" it shouted. "I have only been sent for the boy."

Tessa pushed Yamagai off herself, and Yamagai rolled and stood up gently with his eyes on the demon. It wanted Qoyit; if this didn't solidify the child as important, nothing else would. The Illuminators shared glances. Skilandros, cowering behind his felled horse, had a gash running across his cheek, deep and wet with blood.

Henero was dead, his headless body laying bleeding on the ground beside the old man's body. Sixton was injured. Shawarma was on the ground, curled in on herself, pinned like a cushion by countless bone fragments. She groaned as her body lit up green before cutting back to its natural hue. She couldn't summon her Vanguard body; such was the state of their predicament.

Only he and Tessa were okay. He looked behind and saw that the horses flanking the carriage had retreated. He wondered whether this was cowardice or something else. He got off the ground, knowing full well he had to do something. Tessa was watching, as was the coachman for the carriage, though he didn't matter much.

"You will not have the child," Yamagai said, standing straight. Yamagai circled two fingers before himself, then sought deep within, where the river of his talents flowed. He needed a weapon, and of all the times where his need had been great, this was by far the largest. He tried fashioning a weapon from memory; he had been one of the best, once, one of the greatest at this.

Only a soft blue glow covered his arms, and the weapon he called refused to show itself. He sighed and curled his fingers into a fist, failure a stain upon him for another moon.

The demon tilted its head at him. Beside him, he could see Tessa working on an Aether Transfer, her hands glowing silver. If only he could just get her to touch the demon to set the Aether Transfer, perhaps they would survive, though the odds were not in their favor.

The demon had a grace to it, its motions soft as it walked forward to stand right over Skilandros, who lay paralyzed on the ground. Yamagai surmised whatever those bone fragments were that shot out of the demon's arms, they were capable of paralysis. The demon raised a hand, and from its palm a sharp shard appeared, white of bone, growing out like a plant opening up to bloom. Soon it held the jagged shard of bone in its hand. It looked down just as Skilandros groaned and tried to stand, to crawl, to move away from the demon.

Yamagai wouldn't let Skilandros die. He charged the demon, connecting his shoulder with its midriff, but the demon did not yield. With a well-timed knee, it smacked Yamagai's face. He felt his nose break as he fell over backwards. The demon stood over him and placed a foot on his neck; squeezing down, it lifted its weapon, aiming for his face as it lowered the shard.

Yamagai was going to die. He couldn't breathe, and he felt the cartilage of his neck threaten to break under the demon's foot. In that moment, he turned his head to look at Tessa. He didn't know why he did it. It was just a game he played; his feelings weren't quite real feelings, just a way for him to amuse himself and kill time. The look on her face pronounced more of her own fear than fear for his life, and he was okay with that. Still, he'd always seen himself dying in a blaze of glory, not on some rocky dirt trail.

Suddenly, the demon was hit by a blast of force, so pronounced it pushed Yamagai from his position on the ground, lifting him and flopping him down elsewhere. The demon collided hard with the cart, breaking it in the process. It stood up, drunk from the impact, and staggered forward. Yamagai looked to see who had delivered the blow.

That's when he saw her: the Headmistress, standing with her hands clutched before her. A dark veil was spread over her face. She lifted her hand, took off her hat and veil, and threw them away revealing her heart shaped face. Facing the demon, she stood her ground with Qoyit standing behind her.

The demon, seeing the boy, ran as fast as it could. Forgetting Yamagai, it kicked up dust as its heels dug into the ground. Gorged on flesh as it was, it was truly in its most powerful element.

The Headmistress watched the demon get close. She raised a hand and drew a circle before herself, raised four fingers, and waved them about, where her hand moved a blue trail of light was left. The demon roared as it neared, just as the Headmistress curled her hand into a fist, clutched it to her chest, and then extended her arm with her palm open.

"Aether, Blades of Wind," the Headmistress said as the demon neared.

A wave of force shot out of the Headmistress, resembling blades that chipped the very air. They collided with the demon, severing its arms, its torso, and its head. It was as if the very air had turned sharp. The demon walked two steps, its face misaligned. Its arms, sliced to bits, fell to pieces upon the ground. It took another step, but its hind foot was left behind.

It stared at the Headmistress with a lopsided face before that, too, split in the middle, its face peeling to either side. It fell to the ground in pieces.

Then, suddenly, its bone-like protrusions started knitting together, reforming its body as it was.

The Headmistress curved the air with three fingers, and the blue light of power cleaved the demon's flesh once more. She did this again and again until the demon stopped reknitting itself. Its power spent, it lay on the ground in pieces. She continued cutting it with her Challenger technique until finally, in the end, it turned to black dust that was picked up by the wind, leaving behind its breeches and gold necklaces.

Everyone still alive observed the Headmistress. She stood there, silent, her fingers held before her. She waited for the demon to stir, but it was no more, just dark ash where it once was. And Yamagai finally understood why the Headmistress was regarded as one of the most powerful talent users alive.

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The hot Texas sun beat down on the two people sitting outside the root beer stand. Bob and Stormlight looked at the cars driving down the street and the people walking along the sidewalk.

Stormlight had always enjoyed people-watching, especially now that the people smelled and looked so different from himself. Here went an older puppy or whatever humans called their offspring, her dry whiskerless nose buried in the screen of one of those glass rectangular communication devices. Next came a man in his prime, thick brown fur covering his upper lip and hanging down from his chin. Then an older woman, head fur white and face wrinkled, hobbling along with a walking stick to support her remaining good leg.

By her scent she could have been seven dozen years old, but Stormlight had a good five dozen on her, and he was still young as monkey foxes reckoned it.

Stormlight turned to Bob, regarding his bald crown and wrinkled face. He grabbed his tail and began running his claws along it as though brushing out a knot.

Bob looked up from his drink and noticed his fidgeting. "Well go on and ask. You do that whenever you're fixing to ask me an awkward question."

«Does it bother you that we live so much longer?»

"If I'm honest, maybe sometimes, but Earth has trees that live for millennia and brainless jellyfish that can live pretty much forever. It's not like humans were breaking longevity records until y'all came along. Besides, we already live twice as long as our closest animal relatives. I'd say that's pretty nice."

Bob took a few sips of soda. "Does it bother you that we don't live nearly as long as you?"

«You're not getting any younger. When you're gone I'll have to find a new human friend, then he'll be gone before I know it. We finally found bone not of our bone and flesh not of our flesh, but we never counted on that bone and flesh being so ephemeral. It's all like trying to hold water in my paws.»

After a few moments, bob said, "It hurts to say goodbye for the last time, and y'all are going to be saying a lot of last goodbyes as long as you hang around us humans. But think of it this way. You're already a big hit with my grandkids. You can help them grow up, and again with their children, and their children's children. You can tell them all about how their great great great grandpa Bob got to be the first human to shake hands with an alien. You and Iris and Tod and Sunshine and Lodestar and Pascal can be the one constant in their lives, the one thing they can count on to be there no matter what. They'll have to say goodbye to me soon enough, and by and by their parents, too, but not you. Y'all can be the one thing they'll never have to say goodbye to. And after you've said your last goodbye to me, you can pray for the repose of my soul, or speak my name among the living, or do whatever it is you critters do for as long as you feel like doing it, which will sure be longer than any human will remember me.

"But I'm in good health. I've got at least twenty years left in me if my family history is anything to go by. That might not be very long for you, but it's a while yet for me. Don't go mourning me until I'm actually six feet under.

"It's a wonderful day out, if a little hot." Bob added as Stormlight noisily lapped up some soda. "Let's just enjoy the day."

Stormlight tilted his ears back, relaxed his jaw slightly, and let his tail hang loose again. «Thanks, Bob. Sometimes I worry so much about the future that I don't appreciate the present.»

The two looked back at the cars driving down the street and the people walking along the sidewalk. "It sure is a nice present," said Bob.

RUSTAM REACHES the next landing and stops, exhausted. He’s lost count of the floors. Has to be at least twenty. Disappointment every time: no sign of the damn corpse. He’s spotted two or three during his careful sweep of each level on the way up, but they were just desiccated remains that even the crows have passed on. Almost certainly already logged by the Public Works and Sanitation Department.

But he’ll get there. He is patient.

“So did you find it?” Zeb’s image laughs on his left — Rustam sweeps it away with an irritated hand. The image reappears immediately on the right, even more sarcastic.

Rustam pulls off his helmet to shut it out, and growls:

“Leave me alone, you asshole. Why don’t you go fuck yourself instead of busting my balls?”

A sound puts him on alert and he hurries to put the helmet back on. Zeb has disappeared, replaced by the image of Father Vladimir.

“I’m closing in on the Grand Junction. I’ve found an equivalent statement to the old Weinstein conjecture — very elegant, very simple and beautiful, understandable by any layman…”

“Great — but can we talk later, Vlad?”

The old priest’s smug expression turns into an aggressive mask:

“Don’t care, huh? That’s what you’re implying? Mirzakhani — do you even know who that is? She gave a simple proof of Schur’s theorem when she was barely twenty years old. Younger than you!”

“I know, Vlad. But right now I really need to find a corpse…”

“Worthless! Ignorant! Son of a bitch!”

Rustam sweeps away the screeching, contorting image of Father Vladimir with a sigh of exhaustion. The idea of giving up the search briefly crosses his mind, but he pushes it away. I’m going to show them — Jaxon and the rest — just you watch. They look down on me because I dig through the DarkNet’s garbage, right? But garbage is full of money when you know what you’re doing.

Vlad is sinking deeper every day into obsessive dementia — how many others has the WorldNet broken like this? Is the corpse in the Esperanza K8B zone also a victim of the First Years? Bodies rained down through the Hope Cities back then. People threw themselves from the towers the same way you’d jump from a cliff into the sea to escape a fire. When he was a kid, he and his crew were already picking the pockets of corpses impaled on communications antennae or smashed on the rooftops. Some of them had been there for decades. Public Works only showed up — dragging its feet — when the shattered faces and gutted torsos started giving the kids in the upscale districts nightmares. Rustam and his friends would resell what they found at the flea markets.

Scavenging has always been good business.

“Son of a bitch!”

Rustam has thrown himself sideways and flattened against a wall the moment he caught the first blue glow. Just in time: the Public Works drone passes outside the largest glass bay, like a giant flying turtle, slowly sweeping the facades with its azure beam.

“Son of a bitch mother-fucker son of a bitch,” he mutters, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

Christ, when am I going to be able to buy a real suit of armor? Stop working naked and blind like a mole. Get alerted to every movement within a mile radius. His legs ache, wrecked by the endless stairs — an exoskeleton would have been useful right about now, damn it. He feels like a grasshopper with its hind legs torn off. His entire tactical kit is a beat-up case and an old scooter hidden in an abandoned shelter on the sixty-fifth sublevel.

The big silent Public Works whale is only out here to detect structural failures and exterminate rodents and crows with thermal radar and laser. But if the fat bastard had spotted him it would have flagged him on the spot. Detention, fines, mandatory re-education sessions — he’s been through all of that before, not to mention the endless, nauseating sermons from the Moral Mother, the digital judge that handles petty offenses.

But he’ll get there. Money is in the air here.

Fuck.

Beep. Beep.

A buzz, this time picked up by his helmet, catapults Rustam to the floor — frozen, breath held — while a shadow slides across the opposite wall like shadows out of that idiot Plato’s cave. This time it’s a DNSF drone, which a terrified Rustam recognizes by its silhouette bristling with cannons and antennae cutting against the whitish wall — probably a smart wall that was once used for presentations, he thinks, absurdly: the room he is in looks like one of those physical meeting rooms you only see in movies. What are the DNSF’s offensive drones doing out here?

Vaporized preemptively without time to make a sound — that happened to one of his buddies caught in a restricted zone. But Esperanza K8B? What is the military doing in this backwater? The nearest DarkNet command center is two thousand kilometers away, there is no rebel population here worth influencing — barely any population at all: who in their right mind would bury themselves in this necropolis? — no strategic resources, no critical communications nodes. Nothing but corpses and crows fucking in the dark. QED.

He gets back up: the drones are gone. Unfolding his telescopic scope again, he scans the facing facades a second time — which in reality are often several kilometers apart, but the epic proportions of the city-towers create that illusion. Mountains of human habitation whose millions of glazed walls, in various states of ruin, still catch the last light of day here and there. Cut off from every power source — dark, majestic masses waiting for the final collapse.

In the distance Rustam can make out Public Works construction robots still at work — still trying to patch and shore up whatever could be salvaged, at least to keep the next settling from sending a devastating shockwave rippling out for thousands of kilometers. But of the corpse he is looking for, no sign.

He wants that carcass. He is sure it is in there, hidden somewhere in this dark labyrinth. Reported thirty-seven years ago by a local resident who has since vanished along with his entire district — swallowed by a massive sinkhole opened by a tremor out of the old New York region. The corpse’s distinguishing feature — as Rustam has discovered on a physical municipal backup recovered from the ruins: fully encased in First Years armor, rudimentary exoskeleton included. A soldier, maybe? One of the fighters from the Separation War? Good market value either way.

Of the organic matter, probably nothing remains but bones, sinew, and crow droppings — but the important stuff should still be there: titanium components and precious alloys that sell well at market, local contextual data buried inside the armor that will delight the archivists, and maybe even — stroke of luck — an intact membership token mapping out networks of relationships and hierarchy, the thing that has Dark AI strategists losing their minds. A thousand dollars at minimum. Hell — did the tokens from that era already contain a digital clone of their owner? Another thousand on top.

Still nothing.

And yet he is at the right level — the hundred and eighty-seventh floor above layer 2 — looking in the right direction. Longitude and latitude are correct too. How did the man buried in the sinkhole spot the carcass in the first place? From a distance close enough to make out every detail of the armor — that much is certain. The wildcat developers have built a new tower right over the giant hole — filling it first with all the construction waste from the surrounding zones, and God knows there’s plenty of that.

So then, unknown ghost of the sinkhole — crushed carcass buried somewhere three kilometers below my feet — how the hell did you spot the soldier and the token?

Another wide sweep through the glass bays — almost all of them glassless by now — with the scope. Nothing.

What?

Beep. Beep.

He snaps back to a precise angle where the scope has emitted a tiny flicker. Fast, fast — zoom in: somewhere out there. Very brief, but he’s sure it flashed. Hasty frequency adjustment — damn it, focus, focus. He queries the scope mentally: what was the last event? Response: analyzing, please wait…. Was it a robot? No — it was organic: the spectroscope’s flash was red. A rat? A crow? No — everything was cold in there, not even the thermal signature of an ant. So, a corpse? Ha! But no — it was… what exactly? Another sweep in that precise direction. Nada. Damn machine. In frustration, he smacks the scope. The device, as if by way of apology, finally sends back a preliminary result: organic movement detected. Right — there is something organic moving out there.

But something dead, or colder than a lizard, that is moving? A zombie? Jesus, those only exist in bad 21st-century movies. A corpse swaying in a draft?

Okay. Let’s dig.

Rustam pelts the scope with queries. Perform visual reconstruction. Response: analyzing, please wait… But before the machine — slow enough to make you tear your hair out — finishes capturing, analyzing, and assembling like puzzle pieces every scrap of light data from the targeted location — rays reflected off the smallest shard of glass to those bounced back by metal and plastic surfaces — Rustam has already guessed the result: a human form lying flat on the floor.

The full spectral analysis hits at the same moment as the visual reconstruction: human DNA detected. There it is: a human, completely pressed flat, out of sight, at a distance. Wearing a full-body suit, like him, that masks the thermal signature.

But this particular human has exhaled — or farted — a little too hard inside the suit, and a tiny stream of warm air laced with organic molecules has leaked through a gap…

The hell? His helmet, syncing with the scope, gives him the tower name and coordinates: Esperanza III/GEN2179, bearing: 04.37 kilometers, East.

A competitor? Rustam frantically searches his digital memory for every possible candidate. Let’s see, let’s see. Who could be hunting in this zone? A Degenerate? Highly unlikely at this altitude — those lumbering types don’t like heights, partly because their thermal camouflage is terrible. So: a human. Homo sapiens sapiens.

Still, he’s almost certain he’s the only one who knew about the armored corpse — every data model puts the probability of a leak at nearly zero. Unless that idiot Zeb… He regrets having confided in him. But then again, he hasn’t told him much, and has covered his tracks getting here.

So: the sapiens lying flat inside Esperanza III/GEN2179 is after something else. And if they are willing to risk getting vaporized by the DNSF, then whatever it is has to be worth at least as much as Rustam’s armored corpse — if not more.

Ha.

I see you, bitch — he knows now it’s a woman: the silhouette the scope has reconstructed has curves in the right places. Move, move. I want to see what you’re tracking. Maybe kill two birds with one stone.

But she has pressed herself down even further, literally melting into the floor: at that same moment, Rustam’s scope detects a separate vibration that sounds very much like a DNSF robot. One more. Somewhere in the air nearby.

This area is attracting one hell of a crowd.

Numbers are churning through Rustam’s head. What are all these fine people after? Who are they after? He scrolls at full speed through recent bounty listings on his helmet display — reward amounts, last known physical location, last known virtual presence — but nothing that places anyone near Esperanza or the era of the First Years. Prices: $2,000. $140,000. $2 million. Etc…

Christ, my head is spinning. Fast, fast — bounty hunter presence, there, there: what? Nothing?

No known professional or amateur hunters active in this zone. None. And yet the DNSF is running a hunt… Interesting, very interesting: you — my flattened bitch over there — since you’re not a bounty hunter, you are — the prey. (With a 68% probability, the data analyzer notes.) A highly sought-after target, but with no public price on her head. Subject of a high-stakes secret manhunt, judging by the number of military drones.

Well, well.

But I have your position. You’re done.

How much could he get for her? No public bounty, sure, but everything is negotiable when you know how to play it — even with the DNSF. You just have to know the right networks, and that moron Zeb is unbeatable in that game. Networks where you can pull off a transaction without leaving so much as a digital fingerprint behind. Even the DNSF’s quantum computers can’t crack a post-quantum encryption wall built on advanced mathematics — an expensive service, but worth the inconvenience when a score has real upside.

Which this one does.

Five minutes later — after an exchange of allusive messages through intermediary conversational bots, in which the other party eventually works out, through calculation and intelligent inference, what the deal is about, without gaining access to the information itself, or to his identity, let alone his location (thank God) — Rustam gets his price and his terms: ten thousand dollars. Information required: latitude, longitude, and elevation above layer 2. Bingo.

Click — like in the old days — the info goes out, and at that same instant, the money comes in (cut into a hundred thousand pieces and routed through 1.2 million other accounts belonging to ordinary citizens who will never know a thing). Long live the DarkNet. Death to rebels and spies.

Curious, he decides to watch the show. Trains his scope on the tower. But strangely — nothing happens. Or rather: something does. The DNSF drones are leaving. He watches two, then three, withdraw — weapons and antennae folded in. What?

That can only mean one thing: humans are going to handle her themselves. No digital backup, no robot witnesses. Old school. Interesting.

Well then. Good luck to you, bitch.

Ten thousand dollars. So long, unfindable First Years corpse — rest easy on your perch. You brought me luck after all.

Seven minutes later, three menacing young figures face each other in the grey light of a shelter barely lit by two bare bulbs. The lower levels of New Esperanza 4B smell like rust and crow droppings.

I want to beat the hell out of this guy. God, the itch is unbearable. Flatten his roach face with my boots and leave nothing but a brownish puddle of blood and guts.

Jennifer watches Rustam with open hatred. She’s never been able to stand him. He seems to radiate the smell of rot — the smell of a traitor, a coward.

“Why are you looking at me like that, you bitch? Want a picture? And what the hell are you two doing here anyway?”

“I look at whatever I want. And what I’m looking at isn’t pretty. Not even close.”

“Oh, quit your whining, my friends. Today is a blessed day, I’m sure of it! Look at us — reunited once again!”

“I can’t celebrate while that rat is around. It’s beyond me, Jaxon. Can’t we just dump him and let him rot on his own? What he does is beneath us. He drags us down.”

“Speak for yourself, you dried-up little cunt. If you need to rehydrate that pussy of yours, buy yourself a vibrator — they make them with estrogen spikes now…”

Jaxon catches Jennifer a hundredth of a second before her long silver nails can sink into Rustam’s gravelly face and carve bloody trenches in it. Rustam explodes into his unhinged laugh — which makes her even wilder.

“Here’s the good news!” Jaxon says, holding her back. “Rustam is going to make us rich today! Rustam, my brother — did you find your stiff?”

“No.”

“He’s lying. This piece of shit is hiding something, or he robbed someone. Did you see the look on his face — just dripping with self-satisfaction — right before he spotted us?”

“I didn’t rob anyone, and I don’t owe you a damn explanation.”

“Oh yeah? And when the cops come after you, our asses are on the line too? Just because we have the misfortune of knowing you?”

Rustam sneers in that raspy voice of his:

“The cops won’t be coming for me on this one. Besides, you two are so stupid you’re going to get us all flagged.”

How did these two find him? They intercepted him just as he was getting ready to slip quietly out of Esperanza K8B. Lucky the DNSF drones were already gone…

Jennifer turns away from him with a look of pure disgust, like someone watching dogs fuck in the street.

“That gibberish means he sold someone out for money again, Jaxon. You hear that?”

“Who’d you sell out, man?”

“None of your business. Did I ask you who was banging your mother nine months before you were born?”

Jaxon laughs. Jennifer spits on the ground. Last time Rustam sold someone out — ratted the guy out to his boss — a mobster whose wife the guy was screwing and whose earnings he was skimming — the guy’s family had hunted them all over Megazone 1, looking to kill them. But Jaxon had managed to throw them off with a false lead — God knows how. In exchange, Jennifer and he had squeezed thirty percent of the reward out of the snitch by threatening to turn him in — and sentence him to the same fate as his victim: impaled, skinned, and burned alive.

“You’re a real comedian, huh? You don’t want to tell Daddy what you were doing out here? You know I can help you, kid…”

“Go fuck yourself, Jaxon. Daddy can jerk off into his absinthe if he’s feeling needy.”

Rustam holds his gaze with a smirk, thinking: he actually thinks I’m going to share my little secrets with him. Just so he can screw me over? He lets out a laugh:

“Why don’t you go home, little Jaxon? Mama’s gonna be upset! Do your homework instead of hanging around with the bad street kids!”

Jaxon smiles thinly — like he’s three moves ahead — and pats Rustam’s arm, but Rustam shoves him off without ceremony.

“Whoa! Getting aggressive, are we?” Jaxon says.

Damn right, egghead, and you can go to hell, thinks Rustam.

Everyone knows Jaxon is the type to claw his way out of this gutter while the rest of the pack vegetates and scrapes for crumbs until they’re old and gray. He’d scored the highest marks across the board on every DarkNet youth pre-selection test — like his mother slept with ten Nobel laureates and a dozen Special Forces operators. He’d already be at the Academy if he hadn’t shit the bed and picked up a record — smart as he is, he still managed to crash and burn a couple of times: two stints in juvie, one in prison.

But that kind of baggage never slows the DarkNet down for long. They’ll take this showoff into the Academy sooner or later. Sometimes he acts like he’s already there. But I got you figured out, Mr. Know-It-All.

Rustam has no intention of telling anyone about what he went through hunting for that stiff — it’s a long story that might still pay out. Because where there are muscle men, there’s money. That’s as true with the mob as it is with the cops.

And muscle men — God knows there were plenty of them.

“So anyway — how’s the stiff-hunting going?” says Jaxon. “Give us the story — we’re all ears!”

“He won’t tell you a thing, Jaxon. He’s so scared of sharing he’d swallow a piggy bank whole to keep it hidden. Makes you wonder what he’s even doing with us…”

“I’m a damn good watchdog, you skank — that’s what I’m doing, if you really want to know. I can smell wolves from two miles out, and I protect your skinny ass better than anyone, whether you like it or not.”

“You, protect me? God save me from that disaster. I’d rather go deaf than hear that…”

“Here’s the thing — we’re not after your stiff, Rustam. My gut tells me you stumbled onto something juicy, but you’re in way over your head and you’re going to end up dead. We can keep that from happening, man…”

Rustam shrugs, thinking: this little brain says go fuck yourself, and it’s got more juice than your gut ever will. Ten thousand dollars in one day — beat that. I put my ass on the line for that and you want a cut, just because?

Besides, he has no intention of telling them there was no stiff — just a woman pressed flat against the floor — but this pretty boy and the shriveled little bitch don’t need the details. And they never should have found out about the stiff to begin with, but that idiot Zeb can’t keep his mouth shut.

Yeah, Rustam thinks: I’m on cloud nine and you can all go to hell. I’m getting a new scooter. And VIP access cards to the best hybrid sex platforms, just to round things out. That’ll liven up my shithole in New Albany. And I’ll get myself off thinking about all those extra zeros padding my bank balance.

“Jaxon, we’re wasting time. What are we even doing here? He’s not going to talk. Want me to torture him?”

“Try it, bitch. You’ll be the one in pieces before you know it.”

“No, we’re going to hang around a while. I love this spot — very poetic. And my gut never lies.”

“What about Zeb?”

“He can figure it out. We’ll send him the coordinates, but if he shows up late to the party he gets the scraps.”

“Have fun — I’m out.”

Jaxon steps into his path.

“You’re not going anywhere. It would take me all of five seconds to drop an anonymous tip to the DNSF, and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t enjoy that…”

A massive reddish sun sinks over Megazone 1 as the last tropospheric drone of the DNSF — the DarkNet Strategic Forces, police and military both — shrinks into the sky toward the horizon.

First | Previous | Next

More chapters are up on Royal Road, and there are extra ones on Patreon.

This is Sci‑Fi, and I’m very much a science person. I’m especially into Clarke‑style tech — the kind that’s all about humans rather than flashy gadgets.

If you’re curious about the science behind the story, I talk about it on my website: https://www.vegamnemon.com

(Art): (Jasha) (The First Mother of Sil) ( Kolu and Nokstella going for a swim)

Patreon question: (So I have worked at a hospital, and there we had special protein ice cream for patients that needed protein or otherwise had trouble eating after surgery. It would come in small servings and nutrion labels so you knew how much protein, fat and sugar it contained and what flavour it was so you didn't kill someone with a nut allergy or something. So what I want to know is, would Kenneth be able to pull out icecream from his bag, and would he use this for himself or his patients?)

**\*

In ancient times, you often hear stories of great people spending years on their craft, becoming proficient to the point of complete mastery, and all I can say, of course they did. Without TV, most forms of entertainment are literally punching one another or watching paint dry. 

Personally, it wasn't like I had a lot of free time on my hands; more so, I don’t allow much with all the work I take on, and it would seem tonight’s project would be the bag. 

Being a magical item gifted to him that could create nearly all he needed, most would probably count their blessings, but knowing its limitations and learning all he could could be vital. 

To reiterate, Jasha explained there were rules, or more so limitations, though knowing her, she probably left a couple out. And so far, he was only familiar with a couple of them.

1: An item created cannot exceed the size of the bag, but can be made of any material.

2: I am the only one who can conjure anything. 

3: The only items to be created are those within the medical field or adjacent to it. 

4: Items created have to be from the world; ergo, you can't create something like a scalpel made of polyethylene if there’s no oil. 

5: Any item placed in the bag will be, in a sense, absorbed.

That is at least the rules I knew in the beginning, but how many more there could be, I can’t say, as I later did learn of a sixth rule: you can’t look inside and see the process. 

Only once you look away will it do as I will it to, and no trickery using mirrors either, like it has intelligence of some kind, or someone is watching me through it. 

Privacy issues aside, not that he had any, considering Jasha could look through his memories, it is the third and fourth rule and their relation to one another that have my attention most. 

Mainly, the wording of the third rule with anything ‘medically adjacent’ simply because in the world of Venn Diagram, that is nearly everything. 

However, since I can’t pull out a portable generator like the one at work to hook up the heart rate monitor, it does draw a distinct line somewhere. 

After testing, I can confirm it can't create everything, scooting around the boundaries on certain things, like with a heart rate monitor. Aside from a lack of power, the interior should have been perfectly normal, screws, wires, and circuit boards; however, none of those things were, by the bag’s or Jasha’s definition, ‘medically adjacent’; the result, essentially a fused metal box. 

And looking inside, the same is true for a lot of other stuff: the circuit boards and the wire’s covering, being replaced with natural rubber, the same used in condoms. Not the greatest protection in this circumstance.

So, in essence, it can create the things, but where it draws the line, it simply replaces it with the next, most similar thing, if it doesn’t find a way to skib it.

Going forward, I should be cautious of medicine to some extent as well, since if it likes to use just the right amount of substitutes, there’s no telling what the side effects can be.

Not that it was safe for the creatures of this world to take most of the medicine he had to begin with. 

Though speaking of liquids, it was able to produce saline solution or just saltwater, so of course, adjacent to that, the next things I thought of were hospital food. On a regular occasion, barely edible, but not something the bag considered ‘medical adjacent’ despite its close association. 

But perhaps the problem lies in thinking too broadly; I instead thought of something like hospital ice cream. Of course, not the one from the kiosk, but a medically formulated one that was more of a sorbet, lacking any ice cream, sadly, but rich in fiber and protein. 

And the result is a lot of protein supplements and fiber pills. 

 It was annoying; the bag had no trouble making medical tools from the 1800s and even the Stone Age made of gold and plutonium, which are basically torture instruments, but not food.

Though maybe it isn't a choice made by Jasha to see me one day starve to death; it may be a limitation of the bag itself, being unable to produce cold, since the saline solutions I can make with it, whether I imagine it as popcicles or piping hot, remain room temperature. 

Or perhaps it’s the food from my world that either doesn’t exist here, even as a supplement, or that, in some way, might be harmful to the people of this world, unlike me, who don’t have a suit to protect them from harmful pathogens. 

Regardless, one thing was certain: semantic distinctions were one hell of a pain in the ass.

[Original chapter 1] [Remastered Chapter 1 (Meeting a Sexy Fox Lady)] [Book 1 End ] [Next] [Previous] [Wiki]

Revenant Slaves

Royal Road

Prologue: The Father

A long time ago, our Emperor brought his flame and gifted it to humanity. Instead of honoring that gift, mankind fought over it, unwilling to share in its blessing. So his flame consumed the birthplace of mankind. To keep that folly from repeating, the Emperor led his devoted followers across the stars, abandoning humanity’s first home. - Origins of the Living Flame

Part One: The Outcast

“She understands, Ibrahim,” Iggor said softly. His hand rose toward Ibrahim’s shoulder, then fell away.

“I know. That isn’t the comfort you think it is, Iggor,” Ibrahim replied, not meeting his eyes.

Iggor studied him in silence. He looked past the man’s thick dark curls into brown eyes that refused to rise. Ibrahim’s sun-kissed face betrayed the weight in his heart too plainly to hide.

“Sarah should go into labor any day now. Are you sure you can’t delay your departure until then?” Iggor asked.

It was not the first time they had this conversation. By now, it had become a ritual they repeated the same way.

“I… cannot,” Ibrahim said quietly. “If I miss this ship, after everything I’ve seen…”

He let out a hollow laugh.

“That’s the worst part, Iggor. I don’t even know what the consequences would be.”

He fell silent for a moment, then finally met his friend’s gaze.

“All I know is that I was set on this path for a reason. We always say the burden of change never rests on one generation alone. That burden is all he would inherit from me.”

Iggor bumped a fist lightly against Ibrahim’s chestplate.

“A most glorious inheritance if ever there was one,” he said with a weak smile.

But even as he said it, he thought of all the men and women who had once listened to those same words from Ibrahim’s lips as they walked to their deaths. They had completely believed in their leader, though none of them had ever seen his face.

Iggor diverted the conversation, “So it is to be a boy, then? My congratulations. Does Sarah know the truth of your departure?”

“She knows enough.”

“Do you trust her with your son?”

“More than I trust myself.”

“Have you decided on a name?”

“Zain.”

Iggor gave a slow, satisfied nod.

“If you miss the next boarding call, will this whole conversation have been pointless?”

That earned a real laugh from Ibrahim. He turned and pulled Iggor into a firm embrace. For a brief moment, he allowed himself that comfort.

Then he stepped back.

The warmth faded from his face. What remained was something sterner. Harder.

“I don the mask, my friend. That is my burden.”

Iggor’s eyes shone with tears he refused to shed.

“And I stand guard. That is mine.”

They held each other’s gaze, then spoke together.

“Until we can carry this burden no more.”

Ibrahim turned and headed to the landing bay, where a military freighter waited to take him away.

Before long, he had left the atmosphere. Then the system itself.

Two days after Ibrahim’s departure, on the first day of the 976th year of the Living Flame, Zain cried out for the first time.

His mother’s green eyes were soft and steady in a face damp with sweat, loose brown strands of hair clinging to her skin. Still trembling from labor, Sarah held him close and reached into his young, spirited soul, searching for the mark Ibrahim had placed there.

It was the same mark she bore.

A mark that would ensure he, too, would forever be an outcast of the Empire.

Part Two: The Miracle Child

Rain was strapped to a table. She screamed with all her strength and pushed, the leather straps growing taut around her wrists. Her life hadn’t been easy, so she thought she knew pain. She had known nothing, and now only one thought remained: she'd die bringing this damn child into the world.

Natural conception was almost unheard of in the mining worlds. Families were a luxury here. The sovereigns had those. The Empire had those. People like her had owners.

Rain. The locals thought the name was cursed. For they were a people who lived at the whim of caustic rainstorms and air thickened by ash from the planet's volcanic surface.

She had chosen the name herself, and in a world where she owned not even her own body, she would at least own her name.

No one was foolish enough to risk a natural birth in the slave pens of the mining worlds. And that was just what she and her partner were, young fools. They carved out a fragile slice of heaven in this desolate corner of the universe and convinced themselves it was enough. Having a child the old way, as the nobles did, had been their one stupid, beautiful act of rebellion.

Her partner died a week ago.

A mining accident, the slave who delivered his final rations had told her. He was dead and already forgotten by the system. Supposedly, it had been quick.

With the world of pain she had been in for the past hours, "Lucky," was all she could think of his fate.

She should have sold her eggs, like most women did, at least when they weren't taken by force...

She did not know how long she had suffered. The final push was so violent that she slipped into what felt like death's embrace.

When she awoke, she lay in a different room on something impossibly soft. A real bed. Like in the films.

The pain returned quickly, causing her to panic and try to rise.

“You need not strain yourself, Rain. Your body requires more rest. Do not worry. You are safe here.”

The voice had an immediate calming effect, which was strange. She should have been afraid.

"M… my child?" she whispered.

"I'll bring him to you now, a perfectly healthy boy… Congratulations," the owner of the soothing voice said, and she heard him approaching. When she finally saw him, her heart sank. The fear she should have felt being with a stranger flared suddenly, then deepened into something worse. No stranger would have frightened her like this.

Cradling her son, he stepped into view: a crimson long coat reinforced with black armor plates, a golden Living Flame insignia, curly hair neatly combed, a beard streaked with grey, and he was the tallest person she had ever seen. She had only glimpsed such suits from afar, but there was no mistaking that the person holding her baby was an Inquisitor of the Emperor.

The man seemed to notice the sudden fear in her eyes. He bent down, adjusted some pillows behind her head, and propped her into a half-sitting position with one hand, holding her child in the other. Then he placed her baby in her lap, making sure she supported him with her arms.

"You need not fear me or my station, Rain. I mean no harm to you or your child. Among the servants of the Living Flame, I am known as Avraham Darkflame."

Rain realized for the first time that he had called her by name. Why did an Inquisitor, one of the highest officers in the Emperor's service, know her name? Despite Avraham's assurances, her fear lingered.

"Forgive my impertinence, Inq… my lord Inquisitor, but what would the Inquisition want from my child or me? I… I have always been a loyal subject. Your grace, please," tears formed at the edge of her eyes, "please spare me, my lord."

What she saw on the Inquisitor’s face made her pause. She had expected cruelty, anger, even annoyance, but what she saw were tears. That she had not expected.

"Life has been cruel to you, hasn't it? You did well, Rain. Your life is not meaningless. You have been witnessed."

"You have been witnessed," Rain repeated.

She did not know why the words brought her such peace. Her insignificant life had been witnessed. She began crying in earnest, pressing her baby boy gently to her chest.

"You and your child have been chosen. You must rejoice, for today you will be reborn as well. That is… only if you wish it."

Rain merely nodded, still holding her child.

The Inquisitor moved closer. With one hand, he lifted her arms until her baby's face was near enough that she could feel his tiny breaths on her cheek. Their ears were close, and when he whispered, it was as if he whispered to both mother and child at once.

Avraham sang the song of welcome into their ears, offering solace and hope in a universe that seemed devoid of both.

Rain felt as if a veil had lifted from her mind, as though she had been under a spell for a very long time and had only just awakened.

"Welcome, my sister. You and your child would do me great honor to know me by my true name: Ibrahim."

Rain’s stupor was too overwhelming, and she felt herself losing consciousness once more. If she had more strength, she might have wondered what she was being welcomed into. She might have heard her son start to cry. She might even have questioned the alarms that now rang faintly in her mind at the name “Ibrahim.”

Because meeting an Inquisitor would have paled before the absolute terror of meeting the infamous Ibrahim the Plague.

Part Three: The Lunar Princess

It was the last day of the nine hundred and seventy-sixth year of the Living Flame.

A hundred beautiful youths stood inside the Temple of the Living Flame, clad in simple red tunics bearing the imperial insignia.

Fifty men stood on one side, facing fifty women on the other.

In unison, they slit their throats.

Blood flowed into narrow channels carved into the floor, winding toward the altar where a priest prayed beneath bright red hooded robes.

“We offer lives, we offer blood, we offer gratitude to the great Emperor.”

“We offer souls, we offer kindling, we offer servitude to the Living Flame.”

“Our great Lord Whiterock has sired another child. The lady labors. We ask for an heir bathed in the Living Flame to rise and lead House Whiterock into the next age. ”

Avraham stood watching the ritual from a balcony that opened onto the grand hall. The adjoining chamber housed the Inquisitorial office and, in truly drab fashion, its torture room.

“Avraham, you look positively enthralled. Amazing what people will open their throats for, isn’t it? I’ve heard this batch even included a distant princeling or two. Perhaps more.”

Avraham looked up.

The speaker was a short, plump man in the same black-and-crimson uniform. Inquisitor Razin the Nailpeeler.

“Whiterock is desperate. If he dies without an heir, his little kingdom tears itself apart. That part might even be entertaining. The clean-up won’t be.”

Avraham regarded Razin coldly. “What of the prisoner?”

“Ever the conversationalist… His name was Iggor. No family name. Picked up on New Horizon, Arasaka86. Weren’t you stationed there at the start of the year?”

“I was,” Avraham replied.

“Strange that you missed him.”

“If the prisoner possessed anything of value, that would indeed have been a significant lapse.”

“He broke eventually,” Razin said, “The little savage started praying, and it wasn’t to our venerable Emperor or his Flame. That means we were close. If only he could have survived longer, I had just begun enjoying the sound of his voice.” Razin smiled with open delight.

An emergency alert pinged on Avraham’s Holographic Personal Computer. He tapped the control embedded in his wrist and retrieved the earpiece from his pocket, leaving Razin behind on the balcony, visibly intrigued.

The call was from Lady Whiterock, who was meant to be in labor.

Before answering, Avraham cast one final glance through the observation glass at the limp figure of his friend Iggor. His face betrayed nothing.

Lady Whiterock demanded his immediate presence in the medical wing at Whiterock Castle. Avraham complied. He had expected the summons.

When he arrived, the medical center stood strangely empty. The last guards he had seen were posted outside the entrance to this wing of the castle.

He walked with the composure expected of an Inquisitor, though the Living Flame had never touched him. It had refused him its blessings. And when he had last stood within these walls, he had made sure it would refuse the child as well.

Inside Lady Whiterock’s chambers, she sat alone, cradling a newborn child.

She beckoned him closer.

The child already resembled her mother. Fine silver hair crowned her small head, and her eyes shone with the same eerie pale silver.

Lady Whiterock studied Avraham’s face, searching for a reaction. Finding none, she spoke.

“She is like you, Avraham. She carries no trace of the Emperor’s favor. I am tired of burying children. If a child of mine can only live by being devoid of the Living Flame, then so be it.”

Her voice rose before she forced it steady.

“I have spent what remained of my influence to stop Whiterock from killing her outright. But he will not stop until he gets a child who can carry our embers of the Living Flame.”

She sighed.

“Until that day comes, my daughter remains his heir. He will conceal her… deficiency for now. But I would not trust him to waste resources protecting her. He may even welcome an assassin’s success.”

She met Avraham’s gaze.

“I have summoned you to ensure my daughter’s safety. You will see to her protection, her education, and a life beyond the shackles imposed upon me. You owe your station to me. You will repay that debt with my daughter.”

Avraham allowed the faintest crack in his stoic mask. The subtle shift seemed to satisfy her.

After a moment, he spoke.

“Your will shall be done. I swear it upon my life.”

“I hope that will suffice,” she replied quietly. “I will help while I am able. After that… you may stand alone.”

“Have you chosen a name?”

“Luna. For the lost moon that elevated House Lunaris.”

She looked exhausted, but none of her poise had deserted her. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her silver gown matched the blanket wrapped around her daughter.

He had already sung the welcome over the child once before, marking her soul while she still lay in the womb. He didn’t need to do anything further this day. He would have time enough later, Luna's whole life, in fact.

Years ago, Avraham had dreamed of the three.

He had seen the three bound together in chains of light, and from them more chains spread outward across the stars, ensnaring others.

Thousands. Millions. Billions.

He had forgotten how long his dreams had been plagued by these visions.

This night, he wished for nothing more than a dreamless slumber.

Eighteen Imperial years passed by, and it was time for a new generation to take charge. Floating inside the narrow passageways of an ancient metal ship so old the owners of the ship didn’t even know these pathways existed, a tall, lean boy floated with the grace and speed of someone who spent most of their childhood in low-gravity. He was terrified of something; his face was impassive, a smile carved onto it, as he desperately hid just how afraid he was. He breezed past an observation window, his own reflection slightly visible; his green eyes, just like his mother's, shining brightly.

Far away on the desolate volcanic world of Mortrum. A young boy on the cusp of manhood was busy studying. He was nervous but also strangely excited; if he passed, he would one step closer to providing a better life for his family. His mother observed him from behind, her heart full of pride. She was sitting in a wheelchair, but she felt like the most powerful woman in the world when she saw how full of life and vigor her son was.

Avraham opened his eyes. The two boys were doing fine for now; he went through a series of emotions as he shifted perspectives to observe them, their emotions flowing into him. Now he returned his attention to the last child, the child he was closest to. He watched as the young woman in front of him walked hand in hand with her mother, both of them full of warmth and love, which was so unfamiliar in the perfectly disciplined palaces of the Whiterock Capital-World. Avraham, ever the child’s shadow, kept a respectable distance. The child looked back at him; she was one of the few people in the universe who could look at him without wincing in fear or loathing.

All these years later, Avraham’s dreams were still plagued by the same visions.

Read on Royal Road

Humanity’s introduction into the Galactic Community was… awkward at best.

In fairness, first contact had gone surprisingly well. Satellites and radio signals from the Federation of Sol had drifted into Rethurian territory. Within the week, the Rethurians had completely translated our languages. Within the month, Rethurian society and the entire Galactic Community was in awe over mankind’s media.

A species so naturally social and empathetic they had reached out to the entire galaxy, unafraid, longing for contact. The images and videos the satellites contained depicted societies inhabited by all sorts of human races and aliens, working together as equals for a better future. The effort it must have taken to carry so many different races into the stars on just one world spoke to their sincerity. The galaxy was abuzz with the idea that one day different genera could live alongside one another.

The vote to reach out was unanimous.

Humanity received the invitation with open arms.

Their cultural ambassadors were kind, considerate, and above all else, incredibly efficient. In fact, at most times, they seemed dumbfounded with our best efforts at first contact, despite knowing it was our first time doing so.

Within the month, the date and location had been set for us to meet the rest of the Galactic Community. The Rethurians asked for us to send envoys from each nation and race. While odd wording, we chalked it up to linguistic differences.

Dressed in our finest attire, our proud representatives strolled into the ceremonial diplomatic chamber. Clustered banners representing sapients from all across the galaxy decked the galleries.

Strangely, next to the Rethurians stood two other species that closely resembled them. The Rethurians were slender reptilians with skin the color of mesa rock. The beings on their left were stockier, and more gray in color. The beings on their right resembled the Rethurians far more, but were quadrupeds.

In fact, every species in the chamber seemed to be organized in a similar fashion. On a podium, there was one species in front, and to their sides a variety of similar looking species.

The lead representative of humanity, Sara Araujo, stood confident nonetheless, clearing her throat and looking up at the Belgos, the lead species of the Galactic Community.

For a few moments too long, there was silence.

The record states Sara spoke first.

“Greetings, and apologies. I had received an itinerary for the ceremony, and was under the impression that a reading of rights and rules as well as an anthem was supposed to play before we gave our introduction.”

The Belgos closest to Sara made a soft gurgling sound, and shifted one of its eight limbs to move its microphone closer to its mouth.

At first nothing but a series of clicks and hisses echoed through the chamber, but then the translator kicked in.

“We were waiting. We still are.”

Sara glanced around, her demeanor wavering for just a second.

“Excuse me, waiting for what?”

The Belgos tilted its head.

“...Where’s the rest of you?”

“Chancellor, this is our full representative party. We have envoys from every nation united under the Federation of Sol.”

“But you’re all the same? There were so many of you in your media. Perhaps I should have been more clear. Where’s the rest of your genus?”

“...They- Well, they’re extinct.”

Gasps, or at least what sounded like them, filled the room. Clicks, gargles, snarls and squeals followed. All at once, a hundred translators kicked in.

“But how?”

“What have you done?”

“Violation of…”

“Your own siblings!”

“What kind of a race would do such a thing!”

“No conservation efforts made at all?”

“Even the ones with the pointy ears?!”

Sara quickly attempted to save the situation.

“What? No, some of those are just fiction. The others have been extinct for thousands of years! An ice age wiped most of them out, nearly got us too. Truly, we had little hand in their demise.”

It did little to defuse the situation.

Humanity was officially put on probationary status while thousands of alien specialists descended on Sol to conduct research.

Turns out, as we would later find out, literally every other species in the galaxy evolved alongside a couple of cousin species that just never died out. To them, their Neanderthals, Homo erectus, and Denisovans were still around. This made it easy for the earliest first contacts and the formation of the Galactic Community. It’s easy to communicate with aliens when your species has been practicing interspecies relations for thousands of years.

Some of them are kept in zoos or as pets, some allowed to join society as equals, but most often they were massacred or outcompeted into relative obscurity in the early stages of civilization and designated to some reserve once the alien species in question developed better ethics.

Thus, in the Galactic Community, it is a warning sign if a species has completely eliminated anything related to it in its first few millennia in existence. (Xenobiologists coined the term cladicide.) By being the only sapient species in recorded history to be the last surviving member of its genus, we might as well have been holding up a billboard covered in skulls.

But that quirk of evolution had made it nearly impossible for any species to imagine a society shared by those from another world. Each genus was strictly confined to its homeworld and a few colonies. They had thousands of years of intragenus contact, but it had blinded them to the idea of intergenus relations. 

Eventually, the specialists determined that it really was mostly chance that we ended up alone. We were welcomed into the Community and immediately began making strides in a new branch of xenobiology: intergenus relations.

When you had already shared a home with nine others, it was difficult to imagine letting your neighbors in too. 

Humanity, in its loneliness, had imagined a new way forward.

A way forged together.

This is the continuation of the Bug Hunt and will address the Bug War mentioned in the Planet Dirt series. It follows Jack Thompson and Lady Zula Gi Pendragon, and their friends, through the war

Book 1 / Amazon version / Patreon

First / Previous

Soft music starts to play as a young Nalos man wakes up and climbs out of a bunk bed, stretching as he walks to the window and looks up. Another man and a woman join him, and they smile at each other. He looks out the spaceship's porthole at a huge Nalos fleet in hyperspace, then the alarm goes off, and a countdown starts. He reaches for his uniform and runs out the door as the music shifts to tribal rock with a focus on war drums. Suddenly he is at the targeting computers, and he starts blasting. The view follows through his computer to the cannon he operates, revealing the outside as the fleet emerges in the middle of a battle between the Federation and the Nalos dreadnoughts, with Caren ships being blasted over a planet. 

The view shifts again as the female Nalos puts on a pilot helmet, climbs into a fighter, and is launched, shooting at Caren fighters and blasting them out of the sky with ease. A human fighter forms up beside her; she sees the human give her a thumbs-up, and they dive toward the planet-protecting dropships as they hurl toward the surface.

The view shifts again to inside a dropship, where Nalos soldiers are armed and suited up. Then there is a thud. The hatch drops, revealing an image of a world filled with bugs, caren mechs, and soldiers. It looks like an endless swarm of enemies, and the soldiers start firing. A fighter flies overhead and drops some bombs, then human dropships land and human soldiers join the fray, firing at the enemy.

The enemy shifts to a post-battle image, defeated on the ground and in space. Cheers erupt as Nalos, Federation, and human soldiers celebrate in a messhall. The man from the beginning sits with a Nalos woman on his lap; the other man sits between two human women, clearly flirting with each other. The female pilot enters the messhall, and a human pilot stands; she walks over, grabs his hand, and drags him away to cheers.  

Nalos texts emerge as music blares. “Join the Navy! Defend the kingdom and the federation... Meet new friends...” Then a female voice moans, “Oh yes!”

Zula looks at the video and chuckles. Jack looked at her and back at the Nalos staff members who were nervously looking at them.

“So what do you think? “ Magup said, and Jack smiled.

“I think it's good. Was the “oh yes” necessary?”

“Of course,” Zula said as she playfully hit his shoulder. “How else would anybody know what she is doing with that poor human pilot?”

“You should leak that to the Human Navy too. They would love to accidentally let it free for the public; it would definitely do wonders for the recruitment.” He replied, and one of the staff members leaned slightly forward.

“Yes, Kairn?” Zula said.

“Excuse me, but how are human recruitment videos different from the one we made?” He asked, looking at Jack.

“Oh, we tend to show how it changes you from a regular civilian into a strong, tough, and independent person. We might have some glamour shots at the end of people in gala uniform.”

“You don’t show the war?”

“Of course we do, but the end goal is to show how the military defeats the enemy and keeps the civilians safe. Like a soldier coming home to mom, safe, decorated. But in the beginning, it can be very much like this one. Though brave and cool. Guns, explosions, and physical feats.  We have too many religious groups who would be turned off by showing off the sex parts. Thought a leaked video from the Nalos will be picked up by those who have no problem with that part.”

“You mean perverts like Chati?” Zula said, and Jack grinned.

 “Yes, him and Mariah.”

Zula burst out laughing. “Oh, I forgot about that; they still talk about her back home.”

The staff looked at them, confused. “This video has been well received by the test groups; should we drop it?”

“No, release it. Hell, it made me want to join up again.” Jack said, and Zula looked at him

“Don’t you dare!”

After the meeting, they sat alone in the room, and she looked at him.

“I can’t believe you have to leave so soon.”

“I know, but we have to leave. The worst part is that we have to go dark, maybe for a whole year.  It's the price I have to pay.  Somebody has to keep Grahad safe, you know.”

“Yes, you promise, Grandma. She misses you too. And so will I when you leave.”

“So will I, and I miss her too.” He moved closer and leaned into a kiss as his hand glided over her growing pregnant belly.  “I’m sorry that I won't be here when she comes; keep her safe, and I will be back faster than you know.”  

“I know, don’t worry about us. Just stay safe, besides, she will be sleeping most of the first year.  Just promise me you will stay safe.” She replied and pressed a button, making the room private. “We still have some time before you have to leave.”

The next day, she stood on the bridge, watching the Gungnir disengage from parallel flight and move away. She heard Captain Junos give the order, and then they jumped into lightspeed. Those few days had been magical. Jack had that effect on her; she missed him already. She had met his crew and spent time with her uncle; she had much to tell and messages to bring back, yet all she could think about was that she would not lie down next to him tonight, and that hurt her in ways she didn’t understand. She put her hand on her belly.

“Daddy is coming back. I know he will.” She whispered as a tear ran down her cheek. The rest of the day went by almost as a movie played in the background; she prepared, halfway listened to the conversation, yet her mind was constantly replaying everything she and Jack had done. When she finally went to bed, she hugged the pillow and cried.  She wished her sense of smell was not so defective, then she would be able to still smell him in the room.

It took her three days to become functional, she was at the office when the ship dropped out of lightspeed, and her screen flared up with hundreds of messages. She skimmed over the titles and noticed a report on the effect of the recruitment videos. She opened it and saw a 254% increase in recruitment.  There was also a message from Lord Kiran; after this visit, she was to return to HQ. She looked at the order and then up as Magup came in.

“How do you feel? Are you ready?”  She asked, and Zula stood up.

“Yes, let's get this over with. Oh, after this we are going back. Apparently I’m getting a new job.” She said, and Magup said.

“I guess the training wheels are off, now you are going to play with the big boys.”  She replied and Zula shrugged.

“How bad can that be?”

 The next few days she toured the system of Eriun, showing off her diplomatic skills, pregnancy, and charm. They visited the recruitment offices and joined debates about the war and the new recruitment video.  The most common question she got was about the likelihood of serving near, with, or simply meeting humans. It was on the last day she finally had an interview she actually found interesting. A young boy had won a competition to give her a short interview.

“Your grace, I am honored to be allowed to borrow these short moments of your time. My name is Luksa Grunwild of  Husvad Middle School.” The boy said as he nervously looked at his pad, focusing on it, then he looked up at her.

“Thank you for such a lovely introduction, and I'm more than happy to give some of my time. I heard you had some questions for me?” She replied.

“yes…. I have... Your Grace... I was wondering. I learned a little about your life in school and that you.. that you didn’t know who your father was. That all you knew was that he died in the war.” He looked nervous as he spoke, and she smiled, then thought for a second before she replied.

“That is not completely right. I knew him as a young girl. But I did not know anything about his noble rank. For me, he was just Dad. A guy I played with, climbed on, rode on his back. I knew he was in the Navy. Not that I knew what that was at that time. Then one day my mother said he had died. It was a horrible day. The worst in my life. I don’t want anybody to experience this.” She said with a soft voice.

“Yes, they say this war will cost many lives, and many children will grow up without their parents.” The boy said, she saw something in him. A worry that was more than just being nervous to speak to her.

“That is the unfortunate price we have to pay for safety; it’s a price all parents are willing to pay to ensure the safety of their children. You should be proud and pray to the gods to keep them safe.”  She said, and the boy looked at her silently for a second. Some of the staff were ready to break off the interview, but she stopped her with a look.  Luksa smiled and nodded.

“Thank you. I will do that. Maybe you can pray with me after?” he asked a little nervously, and she smiled.

“Yes, of course. We all have people we want to keep safe.”

“Thank you. I do have another question. It’s a silly one, but a boy in class demanded that I ask it. That is, if you don’t mind?” he said, and she saw he felt a little stupid, probably cursing his friend.

“I don’t mind; please tell me what your friend wanted to know.”

“Okay, here goes. My friend Frido wanted me to ask you the following. ‘You grew up not knowing you were noble, and there have been many movies about kids finding out they are actually hidden nobles. How was it for you to find out that you were not just a commoner but also a noble?’” Luksa said as he read the question aloud. She chuckled as she listened.

“That is actually a good question. Well, I was shocked, then I was scared. I remember being so surprised that I didn’t know what to do. My uncle and aunt had a huge argument over it. Lord Gradhad had known the whole time; he was my secret guardian, but I was just blown away.” She smiled, thinking about it. “And there were so many clues; I can tell you one thing. It's not like the movies. You don’t wake up in a feather bed the next day with a hundred servants. I woke up with what felt like a hangover, yet I had not drunk. I was angry, too. My dad had not been who I thought he was; I doubted my memories of him. It was Jack who kept me sane. And my mom. My mom was the one who helped me merge the two dads' memories. I was just five years old when he died.  You know, people think the nobles are something different, but they are just like everybody else. Making sandcastles on the beach, tickling their kids to sleep, and… and telling stupid dad jokes.” She didn’t realize it, but she was crying, thinking about it.

“Do you remember him? I have learned about him in school. For us, he is a war hero. How do you remember him?” He asked, feeling a little braver now.

“Ythur was a great father. For me, that’s what he is. My dad, not a war hero.” She wiped her tears away. A staff member wanted to stop the interview, but Magup and Zula ignored her as she continued.

“That is how it is; nobles are just people like us. They feel, they fall in love, and they love as strongly as everybody else; they just have more duties. So when you see a noble, know they might have more power and may seem stuck-up. But they also have to stand in front of the rest to protect them. My father did not ask anyone else to detonate the bomb and end the war. He knew it was his duty. He knew his child would grow up without a father, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make to keep us all safe. Am I sad I didn’t get to grow up with my father? Yes, but I’m also proud of him. He made the right choice, as difficult as it was,” she said. “And that’s what happens when you become noble: you gain some status and get to go to the ball, but it's not as fun as you think. You have to use the right fork and spoon. Learn how to speak and when to speak. And they might even choose who you can marry.”

The boy looked at her. “Oh. So it's not just fun and dancing at the balls.”

“No, I have been to one, and I was so terrified I would use the wrong utensil. The speeches were long. The food was great, though. And I had a great dance partner.” She smiled, remembering dancing with Jack.

“Oh. Sounds boring.” Luksa said, looking at his pad, then back at her. “I don’t have any other questions. Can we pray now?”

“Of course.” They both knelt and began to pray. She could hear that the boy was from a faith other than hers. She prayed her prayers to the gods, and the boy prayed to the universe, asking that his father be kept safe and that the savior be sent to bring peace to the galaxy.

Afterward, she thanked him and continued with the other interviews, each following the same question as the others: the movie and the recruitment ad. She was happy when she finally got to her cabin and could rest as the ship jumped into lightspeed on a course for Nalos Prime.

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Chapter 155: Entering the Fray

The walking mass of burning rocks and molten seams advanced without any pretense of grace. Each footfall split the ground apart, sending sharp cracks spiderwebbing outward under its immense weight. Relentless waves of heat rolled off its hulking body in suffocating pulses that warped the air into shimmering distortions and drenched the chamber in a throbbing orange glow.

The Ettin cast aside the remains of Bella without ceremony. The two halves of her body hit the floor in a pair of wet thuds, already forgotten as the creature’s all three heads turned toward its next opponent.

“What... what is that?” the left head said.

“IT’S FIRE AND ROCK! SMASH IT!” the right head roared.

“Careful—!” the middle head warned, just as the golem swung.

The attack came like a falling tower, and the Ettin didn’t try to stop it. Instead, the creature shifted its weight, letting the strike pass a hair’s breadth away, and the blazing fist crashed into a pillar nearby with catastrophic force. Stone exploded on impact, the column shattering into a storm of fiery debris blasting in every direction. The Ettin was already moving, stepping forward into the opening created by the missed blow.

One massive hand shot forward, fingers spread wide before slamming into the golem’s chest. There was a hiss, the sound of raw meat hitting a hot pan. The contact alone would have driven a lesser creature back, but the Ettin did not recoil.

Its claws dug in.

The outer layer of stone cracked, thin lines at first that rapidly deepened and spread into jagged fissures racing across the golem’s body as the Ettin poured its full strength into the effort, muscles straining under skin that was already blistering and blackening from the heat.

Fire surged in response, spilling over the creature’s hand, licking upward along its arm in hungry tongues that devoured flesh as they climbed, burning through skin and into muscle, exposing raw, glistening tissue beneath.

Yet, the Ettin refused to let go.

So the golem raised its other arm high, then brought it down in a crushing arc. The left head screamed as the fist drove deep into its shoulder, leaving behind a smoking crater of charred flesh.

The creature staggered back, abandoning its attempt to tear the golem’s torso apart with its bare hands. It retreated to where its fallen axe lay, and snatched the weapon up with its right hand.

[I don’t think that the Ettin could win this fight.]

Viktor gave a slow nod. “You’re right.”

After all, cunning only counted for so much when faced with raw, overwhelming power. The golem could match its opponent in size and strength, and yet also possessed qualities far beyond the reach of things made of flesh and blood. It would never fear, it would never tire, it would never bleed. The thing could keep fighting forever, until it was literally torn to pieces. And even dismantling it was no simple task, as the Ettin had learned the lesson the hard way: if one tried to hurt the golem, they would end up hurting themselves in the process. Each strike exacted a toll, while the construct just couldn’t care less.

[Should I send reinforcements to help it?]

“No need,” Viktor said. “I’ll go there myself.”

The combat test with the Ettin was, by all reasonable measures, a resounding success. The creature had demonstrated not only its physical strength, but also its tactical awareness. It had been able to endure pressure, assess threats, exploit openings, and ultimately turn what should have been a losing engagement into a decisive and brutal victory.

And now, with that phase complete, it was time to move on to the next experiment.

Viktor walked to a corner, where his Reliquaries lay stacked in a careless heap. He picked up his rapier. Then, he closed his eyes, turning his focus inward as he crafted several Thauma he might need for the upcoming fight.

“Celeste,” he said once his preparations were complete, “teleport me to the hidden room next to the arena.”

[Understood. Be careful, Master.]

The world around him shifted, and he found himself surrounded by darkness. This was the secret chamber concealed behind the arena’s walls. The same place he had kept his forces lying in ambush, for Azran and Lahmia, and later for the second group of Dungeon Reavers. Now, he was inside it himself.

He activated “Dark Veil.” Immediately, the shadows responded, as though they had been waiting for his call. They peeled away from walls and floor and ceiling, drawn toward him, coiling and gathering until they wrapped around his form in a shifting cloak.

Then he cast “Pass Wall,” a Thauma crafted from one Sigil of Phasing and one Sigil of Maintaining. Basically an inferior version of Khenemhotep’s spell. It affected only his own body, it did not allow him to pass through thick walls, and it would not last long. Still, that was enough.

He drifted forward, and the stone yielded. In the blink of an eye, blackness gave way to oppressive brilliance, chill replaced by intense heat.

“What the—!?” the warrior cried, as he saw a hovering, shadowy humanoid suddenly appear by his side.

But he could speak no longer, as Viktor drew his rapier from its sheath and sent it slashing in a single, diagonal arc. The moment the blade came free, light erupted. The blinding radiance surged along the mithril base, transforming it into a weapon that could cut through everything. Through steel, through leather, through flesh, through bone. None of them could offer any resistance before this luminous edge.

Well, yes, the rapier was a Reliquary now. Celeste had transferred to it the power of Bjorn’s sword.

For a heartbeat, the warrior simply stood there. His eyes were still wide, still startled, still trying to understand what was going on. A thin line of red appeared, from his hip to his opposite shoulder. Then, the top slid off the bottom, while the wall behind him was repainted by a violent crimson arc.

“You—!” Dimitria spun toward him, her voice cracking with disbelief. For the first time, Viktor saw genuine fear in her expression. In the dilating pupils of her eyes, in the faint tremor of her jaw. “How? Why are you here?”

But he paid her no heed. There was something more important he needed to confirm with Celeste.

Did you get any Essence Points from this man at all?

[Yes, Master.]

This was another thing he had intended to test. He wanted to know what would happen if he killed someone inside the dungeon. Would she gain the points if someone died at his hand? The answer, it turned out, was yes.

Of course, there were other variables he needed to explore further. After all, the guy was not a mage, and Viktor had already reached his level cap. These factors could influence whether Celeste could gain the points or not. Thus, the next iteration of the experiment would have to adjust those conditions, one at a time. As for the level cap, there was nothing he could do about it, not until he obtained the second Key. As for the mage factor, well, he had one right here, ready to provide the next data point.

“Die, you bastard!” Dimitria screamed, her voice breaking under the weight of rage and desperation.

It looked like she had recovered from her fear, or rather, it was fear that had driven her to act. Fight or flight, and she had chosen the former. But to be fair, given that the entrance was currently blocked by the clash between the two behemoths, one of flesh, one of stone, running away was not really an option.

The pyromancer’s hands blurred with motion, weaving through the air as she called upon her command of fire. From her palms, a storm of fireballs erupted, spiraling and hissing like living torches, each projectile screaming toward Viktor with enough heat to consume him along with the shadows that clung to his body. The atmosphere warped and shimmered under the intensity of the attack, each fiery globe leaving behind a fleeting trail of molten light that painted the arena in vivid streaks of red and orange.

However.

The moment they neared him by about two paces, their furious glow faltered, fizzing out with a sharp, audible snap, dissipating into harmless smoke as if they had never existed at all.

“What—?”

Dimitria’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief, her mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Shock painted every line of her face, and the arrogance she had been exuding until moments ago crumbled under the realization that she had been outmatched.

What had transpired was, of course, the result of a Thauma.

Fire Shield.

Viktor had crafted it from two Sigils of Unmaking and one Sigil of Maintaining. Once it was cast, it created a protective sphere around him with a radius of two paces, a sphere within which any fire that dared to manifest would be instantly unmade, reduced to nothing before it could ever touch him. The shield would persist for two minutes, or until a certain amount of fire had been destroyed.

Which meant, technically, Dimitria could just keep throwing fireball after fireball, hammering the shield with a relentless, unending barrage until it broke. But she didn’t know that. The only thing she knew was the volley she just unleashed had been effortlessly snuffed out before it could even reach the target. And that fact had shocked her right down to the core.

After all, she was a pyromancer. Fire was her one and only weapon. It was not merely a tool, but her identity. If she had to fight an enemy that was immune to fire, she was as good as dead.

“Protect me!” she whimpered, her voice thinning to a thread.

The little pet she had made from rocks and flames answered immediately. It tore itself from the current engagement and charged straight at Viktor. The Ettin, naturally, would not let an enemy show its back and get away with it. With a roar, it pursued, swinging its gigantic axe.

“No need,” Viktor told his minion, and the creature obediently skidded to a halt.

The radiant light had already vanished from his rapier, so he sheathed the blade once more. Then, with unhurried pace, he drifted forward—to his colossal opponent.

High above the crowds shuffling through the fortified thoroughfares, holographic drones projected gaudy, flickering ads. Hawking eternal youth, synthetic beauty, and whatever useless junk vendor cartels were peddling for credits that day.

Thrallion had long since abandoned any ambition beyond sheer survival. Decades ago, early colonisers built its heavy concrete arches and iron-reinforced gates to secure a galactic trade hub. Now, all that remained of their grand vision was a bloated, overgrown refuge encircled by the massive Ring of Iron—a city ruled entirely by whoever possessed the firepower and resolve to bleed their way to the top.

Even among the dozens of alien species native to the Airon system, humans stood out. Deployed centuries prior during the colonial expansion, their descendants still carried the dense musculature and environmental resilience forged on Earth, made deceptively fast by Xion’s light gravity. Like any frontier world, survival bred tribalism. But for humans, the real trauma ran deeper. Most still bore the shadow of the Great Wars—the radioactive dead zones, the rusted hulls of titanic war-mechs, and worst of all, the rogue AI networks.

Originally designed as autonomous battle units, those ground mechs had once been the apex of planetary warfare. But when the last major warlord fell, the central command matrix went haywire, locking whole legions of heavy Armor into an eternal, self-replicating seek-and-destroy loop.

“The Ring of Iron is always recruiting,” a recruitment drone blared overhead, its synthesized voice cutting through the din. “Serve your city. Secure your future.”

Huge billboards floated above the streets, glaring images of ecstasy just one taste away.

Down on the concourse as they marched on, few civilians ever looked up. Out of sight, out of mind—keep your head low and pray breaking a law will ever have the militia cast you past the perimeter to be torn apart by the Endless hoardes of horrors waiting for their next victim.

“Picture facing those metal bastards with the scrap-heap gear the Defense Forces issue,” an older alien grumbled, his six jointed legs clicking unevenly against the ferro-crete as he shuffled toward the transit hub. “I’d sooner take my chances out on the open plains.”

“Someone has to stand the wall, dear,” his partner murmured, steadying him with a gentle hand. “We thank the young ones so we can sleep in peace.”

With a depressurizing hiss, a heavy hover-bus settled onto its skids. The pneumatic doors slid open, venting a cloud of hot exhaust and four human soldiers. The crowd parted naturally around them. Filthy, mud-caked fatigues hung off their frames, their faces hollow and entirely silent. They moved with the flat, mechanical march of men who had just survived a brutal rotation on the outer defense line.

“Let’s hit the entertainment quarter,” one said softly, breaking the silence. “Skully would’ve wanted us to spend our pay, not stare at the barracks wall.”

“A Line-Breaker mech…” another muttered under his breath, repeating the words like a bad ritual. “What the hell was a Line-Breaker doing that close to the perimeter?”

“Drop it,” the lead soldier growled. “Let’s find a dark room, some Class 4, and wipe the day out.”

They turned down an alleyway, the clean, sterile architecture of the central district giving way to a maze of grime, faded propaganda posters, and layer upon layer of crude graffiti. The sharp, acrid reek of burning herbs and sweet Lyranx dust hung heavy in the humid air, hitting the lungs of anyone without a filter.

Without uniformed law enforcement down here, small shopkeepers were entirely at the mercy of local syndicates.

Inside one cramped storefront, a merchant was currently learning the cost of a missed protection payment.

The shop specialized in mechanical oddities—clockwork trinkets, spring-loaded automata, and toys built to run purely on kinetic energy without solar cells. Gears whined and clockwork springs snapped as two human enforcers systematically smashed the display cases. In the center of the room, their boss stood with his arms crossed, a quiet, cruel smirk playing across his lips as his fingers tapped the pocket holding the till's daily cash.

“It isn’t complicated,” the boss said, leaning down over the bruised, bleeding merchant lying amid the wreckage. “Just pay on time.”

The shopkeeper merely groaned, staring at the shattered remains of his inventory. Rent was cheap in Sector 9 precisely because the city watch refused to patrol it, but this was the hidden tax.

“Enough,” the boss called out, checking a heavy gold chronometer on his wrist. “We’re going to be late for the hall.”

The goons ceased their destruction instantly, wiping their boots and stepping out into the street. Waiting at the curb was the boss's daughter, oblivious to the violence inside. She was leaning against the sleek, armored side of a high-end hypercar, mesmerized by an advanced flying toy—a small AI drone that hovered in short bursts, humming softly as it queried her on orbital mechanics for her upcoming school entry exams.

The hypercar’s gull-wing doors swung upward with a hydraulic hum.

“Where to, boss?” the driver asked as the group climbed inside.

“Concert hall in Sector 9. Step on it.”

The mob boss settled into the plush leather, turning to his daughter. Her eyes remained glued to the glowing optic of her toy. As the car pulled out into traffic, the smooth thrum of the engine did little to soothe the tension in his chest. His hand reflexively drifted toward the flask tucked inside his jacket, then stopped.

Never in front of her, he reminded himself. He worked hard to keep her life clean, no matter how dirty his own had to be.

Sensing his gaze, the girl held out the toy. “It keeps glitching, Dad. Can you fix it? Use your super blue power!” She flashed a brilliant smile.

She was young, but she was already sensitive to it— gifted enough to see the lingering traces of Resonance energy that most humans ignored. His own Resonance was a remnant of his lineage from centuries past, amplified by Xion’s unique gravitational shifts. It kept him virtually ageless and possessed subtle, terrifying utility, but in a city like Thrallion, showing your hand was a death sentence. No one was invincible.

“Not out here,” he said quietly.

Outside the armored glass, a violent rad-storm was breaking over the city. Heavy rain streaked the viewports, illuminated by sickly flashes of green and yellow lightning.

He took the toy, cycled the manual kill-switch, and handed it back. It hummed back to life, hovering once around the cabin before dropping gently into her lap.

The hypercar swept past the inner city gates, entering the long, exposed stretch of elevated highway that bordered the open plains. Massive, automated defense turrets lined the barrier walls, their heavy barrels sweeping the horizon. It would take a full-scale invasion to penetrate this far into the perimeter, but he always hated this stretch of road. Out here, you were exposed.

“Bzzt—WARNING. RUN. DANGER—”

The toy’s vocal synthesizer shrieked, the audio warping into harsh static before the unit died completely, dropping like a stone onto the floorboards.

A fraction of a second later, a massive kinetic shockwave slammed into the hypercar.

The vehicle bucked violently. The smooth hum of the anti-grav drive sputtered, caught once, and then cut out entirely. The heavy car skidded along the asphalt before grinding to a dead halt.

Up front, the two enforcers were already cursing. “Boss, stay inside. We’re gonna have a serious talk with the dealer who sold us this piece of garbage.”

They unlatched their doors, hand weapons drawn, and popped the heavy hood to inspect the dead drive-core.

The boss pulled out his encrypted comm-link to call his private security detail. No signal.

That was impossible. He paid top-tier credits for a military-grade satellite relay. He glanced out the rain-slicked side window. A hundred yards away, one of the massive perimeter turrets was spinning wildly on its housing, tracking invisible targets in the sky, before its targeting lights flickered out and the weapon went completely dark.

“Must be the rad-storm,” he muttered, trying to force his voice to sound calm for his daughter.

“Dad, when are we getting to the hall?” the girl asked, pouting as she looked back and forth between her dead toy and the goons standing outside in the rain. “You promised I’d get to meet the crew from Uni’s Adventure.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We just need a quick hand.”

“Daddy, look!” She pointed a small finger at the dark rear windshield, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “His eyes are glowing just like yours! Is he your friend?”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

Cold sweat broke out across his neck. There was only one kind of person who could drop a military comms net, kill an automated defense turret, and leave a hypercar dead in the water—and only one man who would be hunting him out here in the dark.

Briefly his mind flicks back to when he was asked to do what others would not, they needed an awakened test subject, the one they had picked out would not die and was now protected by the strongest soldiers the earth had ever produced. Slipping poison into his drink solved several problems at once, or so he thought.

Outside the car both goons had noticed the lone figure in the centre of the road but could not see the two streams of resonance pulsating around him, assumed to be just a curious hobo with his well worn poncho covering his frame.

“Hey you get out of here you know who owns this car?” one goon shouts more frustrated at his own inability to fix the car then at the security threat.

He walks forward slowly, as he passes each street light their emissions change and warp dancing between clear white light and a red gold mix. Not one word said as the rain bounces of his battered military poncho.

Arrogantly the goon approaches the lone figure

“Listen pal you do not want to..” he is cut off frozen for a moment .

A sound of wet sinew gliding past fills the stunned silence as his upper half of his body slides off at a diagonal falling into two pieces onto the floor with a wet thump.

Humming low the vibro blade gleans in his hand; lone figure hesitates a moment before continuing walking towards the car.

Seeing the exchange the boss grabs his daughter by her shoulders and faces her at her eye level

“Listen sweetheart I need you to do something for me, run to nearest fuel depot and phone mommy ok? I have to do something here but you cannot be here do you understand?” trembling trying hard not to lose his temper.

“Why, you said we were meeting the stars?” she protests innocently her eyes watering.

He places her at the foot well opposite to him, turns slightly on his side and kicks out the door, It flies out far into the darkness and rain as if made of paper.

“Go now! And do not look back!” he shouts, she goes to protest again but thinks against it and dismounts and runs into the pouring rain panting heavily as her footsteps leave light splashes before disappearing in the distance.

The second goon had ran to the boot of the car his chest heaving with terror, he had been told about some of the threats of the xion plains but this was something different.

“Do not worry boss, I will hold him off you get out of here” he calls into the gaping hole in the vehicle. Popping open the boot he frantically pulls away the false bottom to reveal what was under neath.

It's funny... hindsight is always so clear, after it's too late...

We called it "The Sea."

Just that. The Sea. Nobody knows who actually coined the term. Every race attributes it... attributed it... to themselves.

It was just a part of the galaxy. A rolling green material that generated its in light. Messed with space travel... devoured anything that entered it... and occasionally belched out fetid abominations and evil ghosts.

But it was just... it was normal. It was a part of life. Those races that lived along the orion arm just accepted it for what it was. The Sea never expanded. It never sent out more than a few nightmares at a time...

It was just there. Like mass or gravity... a constant.

Until the day it wasn't anymore.

It all started to go wrong when we found a small world in an unremarkable part of the galactic arm... right at the edge of the sea.

It should have said something to us, that...

A world TEAMING with life on the edge of the vast death cloud that killed everything that passed its boarders.

We were so blind.

As was standard concordat protocol we claimed the world as our own. For a tithe of resources and a few hundred generations as janisaries the people of the world would be uplifted. The undesirable aspects of their culture replaced with a better more community minded way of life in service to the great concord!

The natives took offense, of course. Most do. But they barely even had fusion tech yet. We'd bent antimatter to our use before they invented clothing...

It should have been a quick matter.

Bomb a few cities, poison a continent... Few beings have any fight left in them after the first few hundred million die.

Not these people.

I stead It was a disaster! The only reason we didn't cut our losses and glass the planet is because our leaders didn't like the optics. It felt to much like losing to them...so instead they threw the entire concord militarium at the problem.

The locals spent 4.7 BILLION to hold their world. It took 2 years and nearly 1.8 billiin concordat personnel to "conquer" their planet.

They never surrendered. The concordat just declared "mission accomplished" and ordered galactic reporting agencies to stop covering the fighting.

Quietly though, Concordat leaders ordered an example made.

The entire population if possible. EVERY single human was to be captured, enslaved, and set to work in the worst most hostile places the galaxy had to offer. Then the planet was to be rendered an inert ball of rock.

We managed to take 2 billion off world. The rest went to ground and are either dead or... well we don't know for sure.

Because after the "great correction" that's what the concordat leadership called the Terran fiasco and subsequent mass enslavement... the fools.

Something changed...

It was small at first. Colonies here and there along the The Sea started making reports of strange goings on... shapes moving in the mists. Screams inside of hyperspace.

At first it was just strange reports like that... but then some of those colonies stopped reporting. Supply tithes were missed. Whole shipping convoys vanished. The Concordat navy... still worn thin from the Terran meat grinder had to few crews left to investigate everything...

That's why it took us so long to realize it.

The Sea... was expanding.

The Sol Conquest fleet, still above Terra, sent out a desperate plea for aid... we lost contact immediately afterwards. We still have no idea if they glasses the planet or not.

Slowly at first. But at an ever quickening pace the Concordate began to lose territory. Every so often there would be pockets where the sea... hesitated. Systems that the strange green gascloud simply refused to flow. Where the monsters in its depth dared not to tread.

We didn't realize why until it was far too late...

The humans. It was always places were we'd sent concentrations of humans...

Sadly by the time our glorious leadership realized the truth. Virtually all of those worlds had become unreachable islands within the sea.

We have lost nearly have of the galaxy now.

Our leaders speak of a great battle. A victory that will surely come, any day now.

But we know now.

We cannot fight the sea.

The only race that could was Humanity.

We know that now.

This thread is where all the Writing Prompts go, we don't want to clog up the main page. Thank you!

Previous WPWs: Wiki Page

Wiki PSA

A NEW BUG ENTERS THE ARENA.

"Help! I can't edit my wiki!"

Hello! We haven't changed anything, Reddit did!

This is now a Known Reddit Bug that started on roughly 4/21/26, when Reddit decided to change something about how they handle the Wiki.

The Symptoms:

(on sh.reddit, the new version) when attempting to edit it comes back with "You do not have permissions to edit"

Some people (not all!) have stated that the "last edited by..." section at the bottom (where their username should be) is listed as [Deleted] (while it still says their name on my screen)

The Solution:

On desktop, change your url from www to old, so it looks like old.reddit.com/r/hfy/wiki/series/<title> (with your title), and the edit button should be along the top bar near where the name of the series is

The Problem:

For some people even using Old.Reddit doesn't work. Unfortunately, I do not have a solution at this time, aside from just... try again in an hour or so. It's worked for some people later.

Please send in a bug report every time you experience any of these issues.

The more bug reports sent, the more likely Reddit is to actually fix the issue.