Chapters are back! As long as I have a backlog, I’ll be dropping one a day, so see you tomorrow.
PS: You might want to re-read 463 before this one. For those of you reading multiple novels at once, a quick summary:
Priam trapped his mentor's phantom to temper his Energy Gate, then managed to defeat him with Pyro, proving he’s the best fire path mage in the Sector. While he wonders how far he can push this final Colosseum run (he’s going to Tier up before the end of the week), the world is just discovering his feat...
Enjoy!
*
Neitlan’h was having a bad day.
Most people envied her status as an Immortal, yet in truth her life was monotonous, her routine oppressive.
In accordance with the customs of her race, she awoke with the nearest star, then spent her morning answering the petitions of her clan. Though phoenixes were not the most fertile of species, their immense lifespans—combined with generous procreation incentives—had yielded a vast progeny. With no predators and under the protection of their Immortal Queen, they now occupied nine hundred and thirty-four star systems. A mere corner of the galaxy, ten times smaller than the Riusling, but how could one compete with draconic creatures? A recent survey had revealed that a majority of male drakes would rather lose an arm than their penis. Such perverts—
Focus! Neitlan’h admonished herself.
With formidable willpower, she brought her thoughts back into order. Boredom was excusable; its consequences were not. Three thousand of her clones presided over hearings across as many planets. In those tribunals, trillions of subjects presented their grievances to their Queen, whose judgments—impartial for over a million years—were revered.
Of course, even with a very high, evolved vivacity, processing millions of complaints each day was a chore. Yet it was her duty as sovereign. A mission she would uphold until another Immortal arose among her people. Which was unlikely to happen anytime soon. A few centuries ago, she had believed her son might one day succeed her—
Neitlan’h raised three thousand wings, and silence fell across as many courts.
Her main body turned toward her aide.
“Is there anything of importance on today’s agenda?”
The bird turned to a tesseract of ice, inspecting it—as though he did not already know her schedule for the next fifty years by heart—before shaking his head. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”
The Queen furrowed two flaming brows. “My thoughts slip. My subconscious stirs. Something is amiss.”
Every phoenix present grew solemn. Beyond a certain threshold of meta-chance, the aether whispered the secrets of the world into one’s ear. Like a harbinger, an Immortal’s instincts stirred only in the prelude to catastrophe—and rarely erred.
“Could it be related to the coming multiversal war?” a counselor ventured. “If our warriors are deployed to the front lines—”
“No,” Neitlan’h replied. “Spies will be deployed to undermine enemy defenses before the first offensive. Our soldiers will not be requisitioned for some time.”
“Then the Depths—”
Announcement to Sector Hope:
Priam Azura has triumphed over the 95th wave of the Colosseum (Tier 0)!Priam Azura has triumphed over the 95th wave of the Colosseum (Tier 0)!Priam Azura has triumphed over the 95th wave of the Colosseum (Tier 0)!
The notification rang out three times, as if to burn the insult into her very sight. The triple announcement being optional, this was deliberate. Had Neitlan’h’s heart been biological rather than a magical fusion reactor, it would have skipped a beat in fury.
“Thaal,” she sent across a secure channel.
“Yep? Make it quick, Luc just popped the champagne.”
“I wish to witness my son’s defeat. I am prepared to sign another NDA.”
“Say ‘please’ and I’ll consider it.”
“...” Neitlan’h longed to seize his throat and crush it. Burying the thought, she drew a slow breath. “Please.”
“Hmm. I’ve considered it. The answer is no. Bye.”
The Queen clenched her beak hard enough to hurt before spreading her wings.
“Court is adjourned,” she declared. In the past million years, she had cut proceedings short only twice: once for her mother’s death, once for the announcement of her son’s betrayal. Never twice without a third.
“Summon the council.”
“When, Your Majesty?” her aide asked.
“Yesterday.”
“… Give me five minutes.”
Three hundred seconds later, Neitlan’h rode the solar wind to a secured conference chamber: a sphere in close orbit around what appeared to be a dwarf star, but was in truth the corpse of her mother. Tier 7s were immortal, not unkillable.
The view was magnificent, solar flares blooming in the shape of phoenixes, yet the Queen did not spare it a glance as she perched at the head of the table. Unlike bipeds who favored thrones, birds preferred branches. A fossilized twig of Yggdrasil suited the Immortal well.
The gathered phoenixes took their places—and waited.
The assembled phoenixes settled in turn, then waited. Soon, a heavy silence descended. Her court, usually so eager to anticipate her will, seemed at a loss today. The first to break was the Minister of Education. He moistened his beak with lava before speaking.
“… Your Majesty?”
Neitlan’h ruffled her feathers.
“I want Priam dead. Any phoenix who encounters him is to attack.”
Because of Thaal’s absurd NDA, she required a justification to unleash her assassins upon the Champion. He had just provided one.
What happens in the Peanut Gallery stays in the Peanut Gallery? Sure. I won’t kill him for stealing my clan’s bloodline, nor for eating my wings-nuggets, but because I feel insulted that he had announced the defeat of a phoenix paragon to the entire Sector. This featherless upstart!
The ministers grimaced, exchanging glances before one of her oldest generals found the courage to clear his throat. “Your Majesty, I fear public opinion will not look kindly upon revenge.”
“To defend one’s honor is not merely the privilege of the powerful; it is their duty,” countered a sycophantic minister. “If people believe they can publicize the defeat of our prince with impunity, they will no longer fear us. And if they do not fear us—if our name ceases to deter vultures—then war is not far behind. Or perhaps that is what you desire, General Sang Rouge?”
“The spit of a million toads cannot reach the phoenix, especially when our clan possesses a weapon of mass destruction like our Queen. I reiterate my point, Minister Cimpbell.” The general lifted a wing. “Keltan’h was our prince. Today, he is a traitor. As a righteous faction, we must draw a clear line between our clan and a Depths officer, especially in light of recent rumors.”
Whispers spoke of a large-scale assault by the Depths upon the Hope Sector. Depending on its severity, the galaxy itself might not survive the coming decades.
The Queen sighed. The remark was unpleasant, but a wise monarch did not surround herself with sycophants. Generals capable of contradicting her were rare.
“Very well. Priam will not be placed on the official hit list,” Neitlan’h ruled, turning to her Minister of Media—a more palatable term for propaganda. “All information channels will publish the following: our clan congratulates Priam for erasing a regrettable blemish from our history.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
“But I still want him dead.” Neitlan’h turned to the old general. “Anonymously contact the Assassins’ Guild. Multiply the bounty on his head tenfold… and I want his ichor.”
He had eaten a nugget of her wings, and if even a single cell remained within him, she wanted it back. System forbids Hastenash to acquire it, as he would be happy cloning her, and fertilizing the clone.
“In Elysium, Priam is unreachable,” the general pointed out. “And given his performance, he has little to fear from human assassins during his next Reunion.”
“That is an understatement,” added the Minister of the Interior. “I know Tier 4s who would have to try hard to defeat prime Tier 0 Keltan’h. And in System age, what is Priam—six months? He is a chick!”
“His potential is frightening,” acknowledged the Minister of Education. “The Achievement speaks for itself: he succeeded where five thousand years of galactic prodigies failed. For context, assuming one hundred billion stars in our galaxy, with roughly one percent developed by the System, three habitable planets or moons per stellar system, and six billion living beings per world, we arrive at a population of eighteen trillion within our Sector. Over five thousand years, with a new generation every fifteen years and stable demographics, that yields a sextillion Tier 0s—”
“Priam is a genius standing atop a mountain of prodigies,” Neitlan’h cut in. “His peers are unlikely to eliminate him? Irrelevant. His second Reunion approaches, and I do not want a single hour to pass without some greedy human attempting to bury a knife in his back.”
“As you command, my Queen,” the Minister of the Interior bowed.
“Excuse me, but from which budget will this bounty be drawn?” interjected an elderly phoenix wearing spectacles—the Minister of Finance. “Pray forgive an old accountant for his lack of tact, but while Priam Azura may have tarnished our image, he does not constitute a threat to our clan. As such, the army is under no obligation to pay. Moreover, I find myself questioning the motivations behind this decision… and the convening of this council, which is ordinarily summoned in the interest of the clan.”
Bullying a Tier 0 hardly fell within that framework went unsaid but was clearly insinuated.
Neitlan’h fixed the old bird with a withering glare before mastering herself. Her faction was not a dictatorship, and his perspective was defensible as he was ignorant of Priam’s usurpation of their bloodline.
“You mean: is there any motive beyond the pettiness of a mother whose most cherished son has just had his last vestige erased?”
The minister winced. “I would not dare—”
“Call it a whim. Or rather, an instinct,” the Queen cut in. “Priam must die for our clan to be at peace… and if not by our hand, then by another’s. I intend to force him to live in doubt. To turn his spea—” Her NDA flared. “His blade against his own kind. According to the psychological profile compiled on the human race, there will always be ambitious fools willing to denounce their Champion, even when he merely defends himself. Every moment he spends protecting his life and his honor is a moment he cannot devote to progress, and you know how most Champions end. One of his rivals in Elysium will deal with him for us. As for the budget—yes Sang Rouge?”
“I doubt we shall have anything to pay,” said the old general with a thin smile.
“Oh?”
“We only pay the executioner. All the foolish humans who perish at their Champion’s hands without fulfilling the contract will cost us nothing, and in Elysium, Priam’s rivals will not have the opportunity to claim the bounty.”
“Brilliant,” the Minister of Finance conceded. “But if, by some miracle, a human succeeds in ridding us of Priam…”
The Reunions were no walk in the park even with a united civilization. If a Champion was betrayed, things could spiral out of control.
“In that case, I will be delighted to pay out of my own pocket,” Neitlan’h yielded, then continued with a dangerous edge to her voice. “Any further objections?”
None answered. At the end of the day, the clan was not a democracy either. Her will would be done.
If an Immortal wanted a man dead, then he was to die.
“Good. Now, prepare the astral gate for the Riusling planet,” the Queen ordered as she turned toward the exit. “If Priam wins one more match, I want to be in the front row to see the drake’s face.”
And should the Juggernaut fail to unseat the phantom of the ninety-sixth wave, Neitlan’h would wipe the smug smile from Hastenash’s face with her own talons. One way or another, she would not be the only one having a bad day.
*
Gaia, capital of the Sector Hope, Mercenaries’ Guild
Announcement to Sector Hope:
Priam Azura has triumphed over the 95th wave of the Colosseum (Tier 0)!
The Casino seemed to stop breathing for a second. Regulars stared at one another, eyes wide.
“The Traitor has fallen…”
“How long was he gatekeeping wave ninety-five?” asked a second mercenary.
“Five thousand years,” the barmaid replied.
“Damn. I remember taking Priam for a braggart when the first Achievements dropped. What was that first feat again? He’d survived four pathetic Tribulations back-to-back, I think.”
“And today, he’s kicking the Sector nobility's ass. Our dark horse has certainly grown up into a damn monster.”
“Now the question is whether he’s just a monster, or a full-blown calamity. Like… is there a world where he clears another wave?”
“Against Hastenash?” The barmaid shook her head. “Doubt it. The drake’s held his wave since the dawn of the Sector.”
At the bar, a barfly raised his glass. “At least, that’s what they want us to believe.”
“What?”
The drunk took a swig before continuing. “Nothing says Hastenash or the Traitor haven’t already been beaten, and that the winner just didn’t broadcast the announcement.”
“Who would pass up that kind of glory?” his neighbor scoffed. “It’s free publicity. At the very least, it helps build a Myth.”
Incidentally, the scientific community largely agreed that this was one of the primary reasons the System had implemented Achievements.
“Someone who doesn’t want to get assassinated by phoenixes or drakes, for once?” The tippler drained his glass, belched in appreciation, then went on. “You need either a hell of a background or a screw loose to dare trample on the pride of an Immortal clan. Those guys take honor seriously.”
“So what, you think the geniuses of our Sector avoid announcing their victories out of fear of retaliation?”
“Why not? The phoenixes will hunt you to the edge of the galaxy if you so much as acquire their bloodline. Beat their prince and shout it from the rooftops? You’d need a death wish. As for drakes, they’re harder to rile, but if you manage it, you’ve got about the same odds of being killed as you do of ending up seeded. If I were a prodigy, I’d keep my head down.”
“Depends on the drake,” his neighbor muttered. “If it’s a redhead…”
A third mercenary pulled up a chair and joined them. “Charming conspiracy theory. Too bad, I see a flaw: if some wizard already cleared wave ninety-five, as you claim, why didn’t their phantom replace the Traitor’s? That’s automatic.”
The conspiracist snorted. “Isn’t it obvious?” Noticing nearby conversations had fallen silent to listen, he puffed out his chest before answering. “The wave’s reward influences the System! If it’s the victor’s Wish, the Seven can grant anonymity. Like, you win, and nobody can train against your phantom.”
“Bullshit,” growled the second mercenary. “You’ve got no idea what the reward for wave ninety-five is.”
“Neither do you,” the drunk shot back. “Lasha, another round!”
The barmaid flipped him off. “You’ve had enough.”
“I’ve still got credits!”
“And I’ve still got slaps to spare. Interested?”
As the barfly grimaced, a fourth mercenary called out, “Hey, let’s assume you’re right and people are afraid to replace the Traitor.”
“Were afraid,” Lasha corrected. “Priam didn’t hesitate to announce his win to the entire Sector.”
“The kid’s got balls of orichalcum,” the mercenary admitted before turning back to the conspiracy theorist. “Well, what about the super factions? The Riusling young master went all out a few millennia back. He even replaced a well-known titan.”
“They get a pass. What matters is that the common rabble knows its place. The dignity of the super factions must remain untouchable so they can keep the masses in line.”
“Says a mercenary,” Lasha mocked, drawing laughter from the room. “You forgot that we’re one of the most powerful factions in the universe.”
“I didn’t, I’m just a hypocrite,” the drunk replied cheerfully.
A few meters away, near a gaming table, a humanoid with an alligator’s head let out a long breath. “Damn… Two legs down, one to go for Luc’s parlay, right?”
“Yep.” His drake companion shook his head. “I know I should be impressed by this Priam beating the Traitor, but I can’t stop thinking about the jackpot our boy’s about to win if he nails his last bet.”
“And the money we’re about to lose,” winced the reptilian.
“You bet against him too?”
“Not my finest hour, but yeah.”
“A lot?”
“… I mortgaged my apartment.”
“Damn dude! Your wife know?”
The alligator looked toward the entrance with sheer dread. “What do you think?”
“I think you should’ve kept some money aside for your funeral. What are you gonna do?”
“Normally, I’d shake the kid down for a few credits, but his girlfriend scares me…”
The dealer smiled. “No one roughs up Luc but me,” winked another clone of Lasha. “And that’ll teach you not to gamble what you can’t afford to lose.”
“The kid hasn’t won yet. And if he does…” A shrug. “I’ll sell my body to pay it back.”
“You’re not my type, but I’d pay for a round,” his friend smiled, groping him.
“Get off!” the reptilian growled. “I’m not talking about prostitution, I mean selling my hide! Crocodile leather’s trendy.”
“…But you’re an alligator.”
“As if anyone could tell the difference.”
*