REDEMPTION! THE DEATHLESS HAS JOINED THE HOLY FAITHFUL OF THE ASCENDANCY!
MAGNIMITY! MERCY! WISDOM!
These words, and far, far more, can be attributed to the glorious reign of our rural Council and the Ascendancy they represent. Though there were voices before, few they might have been, who doubted the leniency the Council showed toward the Deathless for his brutal transgressions of heresy and attempt to foment rebellion, all have now come to recognize it as another example of the prescient foresight of our leaders!
Once a vicious, feral beast disguised in the guise of a man, the Deathless has been fashioned into the fist of the Republic, and a pious fist at that.
That is right, dear readers. The Deathless has join the flock of the faithful. He has fully committed himself toward the faith of the Ascendancy and given himself to serving our Republic with his unending life. Already, the Deathless has begun his path towards absolution! Citizens and civilians have reported sightings of the Deathless serving in all manner of roles.
For him, there is no task too great and none too humble. He has been spotted on the borderlands against the southern invaders—keeping them at bay from sullying our virgin territories and fertile farmlands, and the ever-sailing Fortress-City Diego!
Indeed, ever since he broke the champion of the Wolf Of No Suns, the southern slave gods have been shaking. The sound of ringing links of steel echo from afar, betraying their trepidation toward the prospect of facing the Republic's newest convert—and per official sources, the southern gods have sued for another recess, trying to dictate terms of peace.
Leaders with good memories might recall ploys in times past where the gods of blood and sacrifice tried to turn these brief stalls in conflict toward their advantage, planning acts of subterfuge and most devious, dastardly deception. Yet, thanks to the Deathless, all invasive acts will be met with swift reprisal, and the Republic faces no losses with every retaliatory strike. Furthermore, other citizens have made mention of the Deathless's finer, more civic rehabilitation. They have seen him fixing roads, filling potholes, and otherwise preparing public infrastructure damaged by acts of terrorism. Yet more commonly, he has been regarded as a communal chef for the poor and needy, feeding the desperate and downtrodden of his own volition and time.
Truly, the Auroral Council's wisdom is unmatched, for their will and their mercy have reforged a beast meant for ravenous violence into a most upstanding citizen among us all!
Praise be to the Yellowstone Republic! Praise be to the Auroral Council! Praise be to the Ascendancy! Praise be to their flame which enkindles us all! Praise be to the Deathless!
And as we at the Post-Eruption pray, stay the course and earn your forgiveness! Perform your duties! And perhaps in time, even one who started as an adversary and heretic might find themselves ascended to the highest halls of representation.
—
CALLING ALL SELLSWORN AND MERCENARIES! THE GATE PIETY SPECIAL ECONOMIC COLONY AND LEGEND-DEMISAINT ADAM ARROW
NEEDS YOUR AID!
—The Post-Eruption (Yellowstone Inquisition mandated propaganda outlet)
VIII-1
Pieces on the Board
Hero-Inquisitor Lena Montoya fled toward the safety of her mansion, and the dreaded darkness followed.
She felt him nipping at the back of her neck, crushing waves of fear and nothing chasing her, slashing at her, trying to pull her into the darkness where no one could hear her scream and come to her aid. The rest of her personal guard had long been lost. Heroes, all of them, swallowed by the nothingness in a startling instant. One moment it had been midday, and then all light vanished, as if the sun had been swallowed by a monster too large to imagine.
Yet the falling dark wasn’t cast from the rising moon, but a monstrous skill. It was only the sacrifice of her oldest friend, Hero-Swordsmaster Ishida, that allowed her to barely escape the first strike.
She tried to catch a glimpse of the one hunting her, but as her Divination flared bright and the system granted her insight beyond that which Awareness could reach, she found herself blind regardless. The System whispered tales of her hunter, terrible, dreadful tales, horrific images of him shredding the very god she worshipped. She watched as Daughter the Deadly was scarred by her attacker, hewn to the spirit by a blow that cleaved soul-stuff and matter alike.
The Deathless had come for her. The Councilwoman's prized enforcer had finally slipped his leash and gone rogue.
The ambush happened just as she and her guard were on their way home. Small Temples District, located in the affluent Northern Corridor of the Yellowstone Republic, was a quiet place surrounded by its namesake: a series of small temples, each one dedicated to a specific Ascendant. The core residential area consisted of a series of colossal mansions with woodland in between the walled-off properties. Dimensionals and elite guards stood on watch at all times, hired based on their Awareness rather than combat abilities. For the moment an alarm was dispatched, the Prismatic Guard would send an elite response force to render aid.
The most common danger nobles faced in the Small Temple District was inter-house espionage. Aside from a few officially sanctioned duels, deaths were practically unheard of here, but though Lana screamed, howling for someone to come to her aid, her voice never reached beyond the woods.
The darkness had already spread to envelop the horizon. But all was not yet lost. She passed through her own home’s wards, deactivating them with a gesture and a hastily composed spell shape. Failing to offer the proper sigil sequence would see her dimensionals turned upon her and a series of trapping spells unleashed to pin her in place temporally, spatially, and forcibly.
As she passed through the threshold of her property, the darkness hesitated behind. There was still a small space around her mansion that remained untouched. That indicated her wards were still active. There was a chance she might be able to alert the prismatic guard that her personal retinue sacrifice wasn't in vain. She sprinted as hard as she could, every step ripping through the manicured lawn and turning beds of dappled flowers into mashed pulp beneath her bare heels.
Though she only possessed Adept-Tier Reflexes, her Physicality was still that of a Master, and the sheer energy she put into every bounding leap had long disintegrated the formal slippers she'd been wearing. But she cared nothing for decorum or modesty by this point. She simply needed to reach her house. She needed to alert her private guard, and…
Where were the guards? The dimensionals? The Scouts? They should have come running the moment she arrived.
She didn't have time to consider that, was her house. A second set of gates was all between her and her home, but they were no true hurdle, a display of wealth and taste, each one fashioned into a symbol of her house—the clown-faced jackal from their ancestral home in the south.
Invigorated with hope, driven by desperation, and gasping for breath, she leapt high and flung herself over the red-gold spear-heads adorning the top of the gate before tumbling over her daughter’s smaller near-mansion garden.
“Gracie, Maxime, Mateo! Someone! Someone call the guard! Someone call the guard right now! Tell them to send everyone! Spring from the wards to the safe room! The safe room!” She shouted as loud as she could as she plunged into her mansion. The structure ran 200 meters long and was made up of three separate wings. Its shape and design, much different from the surrounding mansions, was a point of pride in the Montoya family, for it held on to their old traditions and kept more aspects and esthetics of the south. Not those of the monsters that currently called the lands their home, but the Montoyos, who'd been pushed out of their ancestral lands by the gods of blood and sacrifice. But they had not gone quietly, and though their family's mithril warship they once sailed to do battle in the skies above eventually was cast down, its hull was laid to rest alongside Lena's great-grandfather, the one who'd secured them a spot of nobility within the Yellowstone Republic. For it was his commitment and valor during the war against the Storm King that won them a critical battle over the high tides of the Atlantic.
As such, her mansion didn't so much have front doors as it did an open space leading into a central hall, with the long lobby extending for twenty meters before breaking off in four different directions.
And there was not a single soul in sight. Outside, her guards may have simply been too spread out to immediately notice her, even if that was immensely unlikely, but here there should be servants and guards aplenty. At least one of her children should be near—
As she staggered further into her mansion, her heart dropped as the flame of hope within her was extinguished. The insides of her home were drowned in a sea of terror-inducing darkness, and a narrow valley formed amidst the black. A long path extended down, revealing a plush crimson carpet covered in clambering, grotesque monstrosities. They resembled flies made from muscle, sinew, and flesh, covered in skin, and each one the size of her torso. They skittered away like cockroaches disturbed by the light. All of them retreated into the darkness by the wayside.
The chasm of shadows finally finished parting. There on the floor was her Mateo, her eldest son. His arm looked like it had been twisted the wrong way. Definitely broken, and his legs were sprawled out, twitching and spasming. His eyes were rolling, and his armor was battered and cracked, broken and ruptured In ways she couldn't imagine. It shouldn't have been possible. One shouldn't be able to misshape adamantine like it was made from tin. Yet that was the state of her son's form, and she rushed forward, her mind going blank as parental instinct overcame her personal desire for safety. She screamed her son's name and gathered him into her arms. To her relief, she realized he was alive, his heartbeat thundering loud, but his eyes were white and bloodshot, and foam dripped down from his lips.
Then a spill of light fell upon her, a light that cascaded down from the ceiling as her crystalline chandelier was revealed. The darkness hugged the walls and moved like living fog—she couldn't shake the feeling that it was relishing in this moment, that it fed upon her terror. And then another shadow fell over her, a shadow that was preceded by heavy footsteps which shook the ground below. Lena Montoya went deathly still. Her blood went from thundering hot to being like frozen mud in an instant.
She didn't want to look up. She didn't want to lift her head, for she knew he was here. He had always been here and been playing with her from the start. Yet she was a Hero of the Inquisition. And even if this was to be her fate, she needed to muster some dignity after all. She needed to figure out some way to reveal his misdeeds here, to hint at the perpetrator behind her murder or abduction, so that the rest of the Republic might see her saved or avenged.
Slowly, mustering, gathering all her courage, she lifted her head, and it was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. It was like struggling against the weight of an entire ocean. A weight of nightmare and horror. A weight that pressed against her, but then, for seemingly almost no reason at all, receded. But she knew. There was a reason. There was another will. The darkness softened, and she found herself looking up at the exposed face of the deathless. He was more than what the papers said, more than how they portrayed him in the flame-sculptings and animated illustrations. He seemed large next to most humans, but In person, he was absurd to behold, a literal humanoid behemoth that was closer to the size of a small building than an individual.
Then there were his magic fields—the ones Lena could sense anyway. His Biomancy was coiled around his body. Twelve crimson heads of serpentine design were bound tight, clutching him in an embrace of flesh magic and power. Then there was a small, glinting fire that hovered behind him. It scintillated and hissed, but though its presence was paltry upon viewing, he felt an explosive potential within it, and it was simmering, filling the atmosphere with a yearning to immolate—almost as if it had a will of its own.
The darkness spilled out from behind him, dancing and gliding like an extended cape cast out from his person. His body was a temple of ridiculousness, for it was in part bone, several parts chitin, skull-like in design, but also fused together of bacon strips, of vegetables, of cream and other things at the top of his helmet. He stared at her from within the open slots of his helm. She saw his pale bright eyes and sensed his killing intent, and she struggled not to shudder. She struggled and she failed. She shook, she whimpered, and she let herself go, a puddle of piss spreading out from her, staining the body, staining the armor of her son in her indignity.
She couldn't do it. She couldn't think. She couldn't muster the courage required. She was no warrior, not nearly. All she could do now was beg and plead and hope.
“Please, no. Please. I don't understand. I don't know why you're doing this. I don't know why you're here. I don't get it. I don't. You—you—you—can’t do this! I am an Inquisitor and noblewoman—Councilwoman Chandler knows me by name! She does! You can’t do this!”
Lena's cries echoed through her mansion, and the darkness stayed. The deathless didn't shift a centimeter, not in posture, not in demeanor. Instead, he spoke, and his voice was smoother, more composed than she expected of a brutal giant that seemed ready to eviscerate her flesh and shatter her bones. “That might've been true about two days ago. Things are different now. Do you know what your greatest sin is?” The Deathless paused, as if to reconsider his own question. “You know what? I misphrased that. Do you know why I'm here, and do you know why Councilwoman Chandler is fine with me being here? Now I got the go-ahead to raid your mansion and have this conversation.”
Lena's mind spun. Her body was a leaf caught in a typhoon, and though she tried to think and control herself, she failed on both accounts. She could only shake her head. She wanted out. She wanted to pick up her son and leave, but her legs felt like they were fused to the ground. Her body wouldn’t listen for the terror returned in force.
“Too scared to talk? Alright, I'll tell you. I'll make this quick for the both of us. Now, before we get into your bad habits, I'm going to give you some good news. I didn't kill your friends. I didn't kill your son. I didn't kill anyone here. Now my plagueflies just spread a little fun disease that your eldest son resisted pretty well. My compliments to him especially: He put up a pretty surprising fight. He managed to jump me even; I was pretending that I disabled him before he got up and broke his sword against my neck. He's got a real future ahead of him, that one. Really shouldn't have held him back from joining the Prismatic Guard: He's going to be a hell of a Duelist. But I'm not here to talk about your boy. I'm here to talk about you: what you did against the Republic and what you did to get me on your trail.”
Lena was completely lost now. One moment, he was terrorizing her. He'd left her son in such a wounded state. Then he spoke highly of him and claimed that he hurt no one. He wasn’t making any sense—what did he mean by sin? What did he mean when he claimed that the Councilwoman authorized this?
Unless… No, he couldn’t know about that. She'd hid her tracks—wiped memories and squared things with the families. And her contacts… no one should know about them. Not even the Ascendants.
The Deathless read her dawning disbelief and let out a dry chuckle. “Y'know, I'm starting to get why Veronica keeps you all around. You as in nobility. I thought it's because of traditions and social entrenchment and how much influence you guys wield. All those great ancestors, patriarchs, matriarchs, High-Tier Pathbearers…Too much trouble to uproot you and restructure society. Too much cultural damage. But maybe it's more than that. You guys are really bad at this politicking thing, you know that? I suppose it's by design. You are all coddled and protected from consequence in most cases, so you don't really think about the bigger picture, and you don't cover your tracks nearly as well as you think you do. Why should you? There was no problem before. But yesterday is not forever, and your fortune just ran dry. See, your ultimate sin, the reason why Veronica's fine with me coming to collect you, and the reason why I came for you is ultimately the same sin expressing itself in different ways. You're a degenerate. So many of you are degenerates. And I don't mean that in the way where someone just fucks weird or has strange tastes. No, you don't have enough virtue.”
“What?” Lena's voice was small and brittle. She hated it. She hated herself for exposing such weakness, but what else could she do? In her daily life, she prided herself on social dominance—She turned inquisitors hostile and gnawed into allies by working at them persistently, by finding what they desired most and offering them an opportunity to sate their deepest needs. The Deathless accused her of degeneracy, yet that couldn't have been her sin. She was the one who controlled other people's foulness. She was the one who wielded the addicts, not the other way around.
“Oh, don't ‘what?’ me. Telling yourself you're the one who does the feeding, just giving them what they asked for. Well, sure, they're also degenerates, but you especially are, because your drug is power. Your sin is that you like to play with power, but you're still not powerful because you are a traitor. You are not the source. You are an influencer, but you don't really have the ability to decide. Your position is high enough, but there are still people on top of you. There are still people to the sides of you. Even though you carved out a nice little silo in the Inquisition, that silo… leaked.”
The first hint of true anger seeped over into the Deathless' voice as well. It came as a growl, and Lena would have emptied herself some more if she wasn't already dry of liquid terror. “Hank Sennlen, age 7. Connor Murphy, age 7. Myers Randahar, age 8—old among your batch. You recall these names? Ok, I see you don't. Let me name a few more then. Johnny Vasquez, age 6. Nothing? Nothing? Come on, Lena, you got a Master-Tier Memorization Skill. You can’t let something like this slip.”
Her lips quivered. She wanted to say something, but her mind was still frozen. In truth, she recognized the last name, and in that she plunged into a deeper darkness within herself.
They were expendable. They were terminally ill. She selected them because there wasn't much the Republic could do for them, not truly anyway, unless they dedicated significant efforts and resources, routed specific Biomancers or engineers to ensure their survival. They were just orphans. They weren't going to have good lives. They weren't going to be remembered.
“Let me tell you another name, then,” the Deathless interrupted her thoughts. “Legend-Inquisitor Simon ‘the Salamander’ Seymour. One of your finest customers, isn't he? Got a real appreciation for the children. He has been purchasing from you for a while—and I gotta admit, you covered your tracks pretty well. If I didn't accidentally run across your personal raven, you would have stayed in the dark—and not one that belongs to me. But luck’s a fickle fucker. And it doesn’t last forever. So, to answer the questions you refuse to, Veronica wants me to come here and convince you into resigning from the Inquisition. Afterwards, there's going to be a new spot open for you under Jessica Hawgrave. And you’ll run into some of your old friends there. Like Master Stormhalt! He’s been there the longest; me and him have been having a grand time down south.”
“Resign?” Lina felt like she was falling, but there was no ground to strike. She didn't know where this was going anymore. Seconds ago, she was near certain he intended to inflict harm on her; present, pain remained a certitude, but it didn't seem to be of the physical variety anymore. Instead, he wanted her to surrender her position in the transition and submit to his will, his will and, by extension, the Giantsbane…
South…
And all at once the pieces came together in her mind. Oh no, oh Ascendants, no!
This wasn't an execution. This was a forcible recruitment. She'd heard whispers from the other inquisitors, dismissed as rumors before, but there had been a series of High-Tier nobles suddenly leaving their positions to face the Pantheon of the Scarred down south. To the public, they claimed they were overcome by an urge to volunteer for patriotic duties that they didn't want to be outshined by a former heretic in the form of the Deathless. Yet the paranoid and conspiracy-minded among her cohort insisted that there was a shadow branch developing under the Auroral Council.
A shadow branch nicknamed the Unforgiven.
The entire concept was absurd. Why would there be such a need for a Shadow Branch, when the Inquisition already existed, the Auroral Council didn't lack for power either, and the Ascendancy was absolute. For something as ridiculous as the Unforgiven to be formed, it meant that the Council was all but declaring war on the nobility, for there was no great house truly unblemished of their own particular problem children.
Thus, Lena cast such thoughts aside, letting them drift out of her memory until this point, until consequence came into her home in the shape of a monster overflowing with shadow and malice.
“So don't worry. I'm not going to destroy your family name, much as I want to. I have to adhere to certain guidelines before I was allowed to do this by the Councilwoman. We both want results, but she values the stability and cultural cohesion of the Republic more. Disgusting as it is, I'm starting to see your point. After all, a nation pointed inward is a nation that is undoing its own support. After too long, that's not a nation at all; it's just a series of tribes that will inevitably stripmine the greater superstructure they belong to feed the warring, balkanized tribes they become.”
Somehow she got the feeling he was citing political theory at her as a form of practice.
“Sorry, I got a little carried away there.” The Deathless sighed. “I've been reading a lot of Montez recently, trying to improve some of my more intellectual skills—especially my writing. You read Montez? The Seeds of Sin? The Decay of Nations? Something about her pessimism tickles me.”
“I… I…”
“I’m sure you have. Anyway, we’ll have all the time in the world to talk about her works soon. At least until you work off your debt to the Republic, or you die in the process, because those are the only two ways you're getting out of the Unforgiven now.” He stopped talking for a beat and looked aside. A sudden impact flashed across his body, painting a platinum slash across his torso. The ground beneath him creaked for a moment—then several of her floorboards cracked. “Sorry, I'm having a conversation with the Salamander at the same time. He's no Jessica, but still pretty good with a sword—a lot better than me. Too bad it's not going to be enough for him, especially since I sent three bodies to talk to him at the same time. You'll be seeing him soon too. So, again, don't worry about feeling alone. Anyway. This is my polite way of telling you to resign by tonight, and head to Fortress-City Diego by tomorrow. We’ll find you once you get there. And if you think about running or trying to get you and yours of the Republic, I’ll know. I already have your pet Raven. Consorting with New Albion is treason. So. Make your choice. You can do this with honor and prestige intact, or we can pour all the mud we got on your family, and you can discover the nonexistence of noble solidarity when it comes down to the edge. Up to you.”
Without further comment, he turned as the darkness rushed toward him like a gushing tide. It splashed over his body and swallowed his presence, only to part once more as the Deathless peeked his head out. “By the way, fire your chef before you leave. I tried some of his grilled pork neck—that shit made me cry from how bad it was. Felling sack of shit poured so much cheap sugar on the pork that the meat’s practically candy. How you people managed to swallow that, I don’t know. I'll show you what you guys have been missing out on sometime, if you live long enough that is.”
Then, once more, he slipped back into the dark and departed. After a few seconds, the darkness settled as well. The oppressive shadows peeled away from the room, seeping out from the windows, peeling away from the walls until the Lobby was exposed to her once more, and true to the Deathless' word, he'd killed no one. Instead, her entire household lay in neat rows, all of them shaking, caught in the throes of a hellish fever as they foamed and twitched—infested by his grotesque plague flies.
“Ma—ma!” Her boy wheezed.
Lena held onto him. She held onto him and shook.
For what else was there to do? What else could she decide but to surrender? Even as her son continued gasping and writhing, trapped them in place between consciousness and delirium. She couldn't take her eyes off the shadows of her own shadows, even because there was nowhere where the deathless might not be anymore. There was no place that was safe.
Nowhere…
Nowhere…
Nowhere…
***
Elsewhere, Shiv finished having a similar but ultimately very different conversation with the aforementioned Salamander.
Three of his bodies stood over the brutalized Legend. The man's arms were broken in so many places it seemed like modern art sculptures rather than human limbs. His arming sword was likewise shattered: a good thing he brought that and arrived without armor to this little rendezvous as well, otherwise the ambush would have devolved into an actual fight—and the collateral damage would’ve been beyond Shiv’s ability to contain.
As such, the cut he suffered was a lesson, one that reminded him not to underestimate his adversaries—even if they were newly evolved Low Legends. Better not let Jessica hear about this, or she’ll have me doing defensive drills all day.
“Now, why couldn't you just come quietly?” Shiv growled at the moaning, broken mess of a man. “You could've behaved like your friend Lena. All I needed to do was scare her a little bit. Not you. No, the moment you stepped through that door and you saw me sitting there instead of a kid, you didn't even ask me why I was there. You weren't even asking questions. I just went straight for that arm sword and tried to take my head off. Is pretty impolite—even for someone like you. Master-Architect Jelena has similar habits, but she was pretty decent about the whole thing aside from all the sobbing and begging.”
A whimper escaped the Salamander. The guy flopped around, still looking for a blade to channel his Pyromancy through.
“Yeah, yeah, look, I'll fix you up in a moment, but just so you know, I'm going to beat the shit out of you several more times. I know it's kind of mean and cruel on my part, but in my defense, you're a godsdamn pedophile who drew his sword on me. So, uh, not a great start to our coming friendship.”
Shiv struggled against the urns to stomp the man's groin one more time. Considering it was more paste than penis by this point, there wouldn't be that much more damage he could do besides killing the man. That was one of his restrictions. Legends were precious. No matter what they did to those beneath them, a civilization was built on output efficiency and what the individual could do for the whole. In exchange, an extraction was to be made, or so Montez wrote. If that was the real shape of the world, the Deathless got why Montez took herself out of the game after just 40 years of life.
What a bleak felling world to live in. I get the arguments about efficiency and value of High-Tier pathbearers, but… what’s stopping the low from betraying their home to the supposed enemy if they live in hell anyway. This is why the Republic has a K-shaped crime problem, Veronica. Because it’s not a crime when nobles do this, and the citizens suffer in the end anyway.
Shiv just sighed as he looked up at the ceiling. Ceiling dotted with happy, smiley-faced stars. In front of him, covered in blood, was a blue-blanket embroided with happy unicorns and the words “You’re special!” in the form of a speech bubble. There was supposed to be a child here. A child spent to keep the Salamander topped off. “The fuck’s the difference between an individual and a monster if this is how we treat the children?” Shiv asked Simon—but also himself.
Neither of them had a good answer; both of them shared states of extreme discomfort.
All across the Republic, four other Vitaeforged vessels operated in tandem with fifty-four lesser golems as another night of conversations came to an end. Things down south were getting uglier than the rags were talking, but war might not be certain just yet. Especially if he could keep playing the Southern Gods against each other to break their massing forces before they concentrate and push.
But to do that, they needed more High-Tier volunteers. And more lives.
Always more lives.
Empire was a vampire. Just like society. Nobility fed from the common folk, and now Shiv—and by extension the Council—were feeding from the nobles when they could to supply a special military operations unit rather than involving the guard itself. Especially with the unexpected rebellion happening up in the north by the Brighamite Rebels.
Everyone beneath the top was pieces on a board, just like the Faceless Queen said.
“Well…” Shiv sniffled. “Gotta play the game to learn the game. And the best thing about being a piece like me is I can spend myself over and over again. Can’t stay the same for you, Simon. And I have to say, it’s not looking great for you. Not great for your friends either, but especially you. Because you’re going to be part of the frontliners with me, and I gotta tell you, when I’m involved, every mission is a suicide mission.”
A new series of noises escaped the Salamander. None of them were very dignified. But that’s the way of people. When the pain and misery got to a point where no one lived up to their own mythology, what could one do?
Alright. I think I’m getting ready to call this a night. We should have enough fodder for another few missions at least. Teach me to improve my Awareness too; not going to let the Bitch of No Suns stalk me back to another hideout and slaughter us again like last time. But that’s for later. Now, I need to shift my Awareness back over to the Gate—maybe that’ll finally drive my Legion of Self over the evolution edge. System knows I need it.
System knew the Gate needed him in play now more than ever as well. With Roland out of commission during his Respec Delve, the godsdamned invaders would be trying out all sorts of snake-fuckery to finally breach Gate Piety. The news was suppressed for now, but the Town Lord has been missing for three days now, and sooner or later, someone was going to figure out that he was really out of the picture for now—and that someone would move their ugly lips to speak a series of words that will reach the ears of some nosy idiot who would tell it to the next.
After that, it was just a question of who heard it first: the Lords of Law; the Blood Elders; the Southern Gods; or the Challenger—if the Challenger didn’t already know.
And this news might just be enough to have the Southern assholes join in and take the spot left open by the giants of the north.
And we don’t need another front. Shiv frowned. Already have enough bullshit to contend with down in the Abyss; I need to keep the surface clean so Uva doesn’t go insane holding two gateways at once.
As much as he hated the orc god, the bastard was a more preferable enemy to have. He wasn’t just trying to overrun the gate with raw numbers—though he had them. Instead, he let his orcs play to their own orchestral tunes, and right now, they were just skirmishing—content to let their lesser partners do the dying for them. And a lot of dying they did: against Shiv, Roland, Uva, Adam, Valor, the Rangers, and all the other monsters gathering at Gate Piety.
It wasn’t just their enemies who had numbers. Strife was easier to resist when it wasn’t just you on the fighting line. For all the time he spent in active combat, Shiv was a neophyte when it came to actual war. The thing about war: It was mostly extreme boredom and dull anxiety followed by desperate chaotic combat and coordination and then victory or death—but more often a temporary lull that left you uncertain if you won or not.
At least people could be rotated off the fighting lines to maintain their sanity. Shiv didn’t even know that shit was a thing for people. He didn’t even realize people suffered that much burnout and fatigue from combat. Most of its referential experience in combat were High-Tiers and outliers. Adam. Uva. Roland. Valor. The hard bastards he’d killed, and the ones he was going to kill.
Fighting alongside the “normals” was a sobering experience. Sobering in terms of battle, and sobering in how often they just died.
Shiv wanted them to do less of that. Which was why he chose to twin Golemancy as his leftover Quest reward from the Fairwoods. Which was why he needed to push his Legion of Self to the next Tier. Because he drank fire from death while it swallowed others and made them nothing.
These three days without Roland were bitter medicine. The moment he was out of commission, the invaders started their third push on Gate Piety. Shiv and the Town Lord had been sizing each other up in battle—but there was little question of who was finer in war. Without the Dread Horizon, more people died across all their sectors as infiltrators drew close and one crisis followed another. Shiv tried; Shiv could be multiple places at once, but even so, he didn’t have the right combination of skills, experience, and instincts to be Roland Arrow.
And that didn’t bode well for their coming duel still scheduled at the ned of the month.
Tonight’s the night we tip those scales, Shiv breathed. Just a little more and we’ll be through the bottleneck.
This time, Shiv would see things settled for good. Or he would be inspired to try again, because he wasn’t stopping until he kicked Roland’s ass once—even if it took a hundred years. It wasn’t even leftover animosity by this point; it was pure pride on the line, and more than just his. Over in Fortress-City Diego, Stormhalt and Jessica had been putting through the paces month after month. Back in the academy, he’d been filling his mind with knowledge as well. Experience wasn’t ever going to be his edge against Roland, but every little bit helped. And the only thing more dangerous than an overwhelming, indestructible monster was a competent overwhelming, indestructible monster.
Maybe that would be enough. With a little creativity, number superiority, and raw, monstrous power, it might be enough.
But there was still the question of what kind of Unique Legendary Skill Evolution Roland was going to achieve once he rose out from his Delve.
“Alright, Simon. Gonna fix you up now. I’m going to tell you not to try and attack me again, but actually, go for it. I wanna see you try that cut again so I can get used to that speed. Just think of it as a favor from you to me, alright? Maybe this might be the final push to break one of my recent bottlenecks? Like for my Legion of Self. You think you can do that for me, buddy?”
Simon curled into a ball instead.
“Aw. Come on. Don’t be a fucking child.”
Name: Tanner “Shiv” Lowe
Age: 19
Race: Human
Path:
Deathless
Feats [7/13]:
He Who Rises From Ash Eternal (Unique) – Allows the Pathbearer to quickly learn new Skills and advance existing Skills through repeated deaths.
Master of Rage (Master) – Allows the Pathbearer to infuse a skill with rage to increase its effectiveness. Consumes the Pathbearer’s anger.
Causal Scargiver (Unique) – Causes the injuries inflicted by the Pathbearer to be scarred upon their enemy across time and causality.
Dread-Tainted (Legendary) – The Pathbearer has left a divine being scared with terror. Gods have fled your presence. You are now a source of absolute fear. Allows the Pathbearer to lace their Skills with the divine entity’s lingering terror.
Grudge-Tethered (Heroic) – Allows the Pathbearer to strike once at an enemy who has wounded them from any distance.
Practicing Atheist (Legendary) - You have performed an act of unfaith, wounding a god using the powers of their very own Domain. Your insolence will not go unnoticed—or unrewarded. Your Magical Resistance has gained a new layering. Though the heavens might spit their edicts, you bear an apostate’s armor forged from your own deeds.
Inland Embassy (Legendary) - You have shaken monsters and rendered doubt upon gods with nothing more than your word and your words. Within your persuasion is a seed for peace or the fuel for war, but whatever you do, whatever you say, whoever you face, you know that to subvert another's will is to win a battle before it even begins. When you shake someone's heart and mind, you will leave a portion of yourself inside of them, and you will be able to talk to them regardless of their location, so long as they are capable of dialogue.
Skills:
Riding Proficiency (Common) 14
Lance Proficiency (Common) 5
Accounting (Common) 15
Engineering (Common) 5
Leadership (Initiate) 43
Baking (Initiate) 48
Barter (Initiate) 34
Poetry (Initiate) 34
Faith (Initiate) 22
Alchemy (Initiate) 25
Physics (Initiate) 50 (Skill Evolution Imminent)
Aeromancy (Initiate) 39
Geomancy (Initiate) 42
Cryomancy (Initiate) 43Racism (Initiate) 50 (Skill Evolution Imminent)Hypocrisy (Initiate) 4
Mathematics (Initiate) 34
Coping (Initiate) 44
Geography (Initiate) 23
Analyze (Initiate) 29
Portomancy (Initiate) 35
Magical Theory (Initiate) 40
Spear Proficiency (Initiate) 19
Hydromancy (Initiate) 46
Comedy (Initiate) 40
Deductive Reasoning (Initiate) 49
Gun Proficiency (Initiate) 44
Technology (Initiate) 40
Scheming Bastard (Adept) 50 (Skill Evolution Imminent)
Gardener of Doubt (Adept) 99The Snake Entombed of Lightning and Thunder (Adept) 96
Metaphysics (Adept) 31
Snapshot (Adept) 81
Target Lock (Adept) 88
Lessons of Scarcity (Adept) 53
Junior Lorescribe (Adept) 67
Character Actor (Adept) 52
Tactics (Initiate) 48
Subtle Firebrand (Adept) 71
Tome-eater (Adept) 88
Atlas of the Flesh Scryer (Master) 193
Return To Sender (Master) 190
Legion of Self (Master) 200 (Skill Evolution Imminent)
Horizon Caster (Master) 81
Aegis of Assimilation (Heroic) 277
Inertial Overdrive (Heroic) 431
This Vessel of Pestilence and Panacea (Heroic) 212Trespasser Shaped of Dread and Null (Heroic) 312Suffer the Implacable Dialectic (Heroic) 181
Vitality Drain (Legendary) 301
Leviathan of the Shapeless Tides (Legendary) 580
Harbinger of Tripartite Ruin (Legendary) 450
Skill Twinning Applied: This Severed Shadow of Blood and Bladed Soul (Unique) > Golemancy (Unique) 56
Continuity Error (Unique) 302
This Severed Shadow of Blood and Bladed Soul (Unique) 378
Garden of Wounds and Broken Things (Unique) 201
Nihilism Be My Hearth, My Banquet (Unique) 382Onus of the Scarforged Unbreakable (Legendary-Unique) 532
Lord Commander of the Slumbering Uneaten (Narrative)
Blessings:
Song of the Vigilant - Allows the Pathbearer to maintain absolute focus while the song is active. The song will expand out from the Pathbearer as a web and form a Resonant Perimeter.
Scion of Pain - I will come to know your highest potential, Deathless. And when the time comes, I will bleed you as you have bled me—or find a blissful end in the process. I grant you this boon as I have bequeathed you my former arm—Become the heart of agony; become the nexuses of destruction. Live up to your inevitable promise.