He levelled up again.
This time, the voice spoke to him and said in bright, cheerful, lime-green words that he was better than Garen Redfang. Higher-level, certainly.
Redscar appreciated the vote of confidence, but he didn’t believe it. The voice was just a voice. It was no warrior, or so he felt.
Warriors should not boast of such things. That was the purview of children and those who had never seen true battle.
‘I can beat him’, ‘I can take this bigger foe’, ‘I am the stronger one’—those were careless words that made you seem younger, even though you intended the opposite. Redscar remembered all his old boasts of that kind, and they were embarrassing.
‘I shall win’.
That was a different kind of statement. It was often a lie, but you spoke and put your life on the line to make it happen. He respected those words, even from enemies, and again, it was the difference between youth and maturity to understand why the similar-sounding statements were so far apart. Or even how you said the same words, but one was bravado, the other bravery.
A true warrior had taught him that. His father.
He would stand in Garen Redfang’s shadow forever. Garen was not his birth-father, but second one, the Goblin who had taken in a starving child and taught him how to use the sword.
The voice said Redscar had surpassed him, but in the [Blademaster]’s heart, Garen would always be stronger. Greater.
For all his failures. Garen Redfang had been a traitor, a murderer of his own tribe, a liar—to himself and his people—and a fool. These things Redscar also had come to understand by thought and reflection.
Garen would always be his beloved Chieftain and father. But these things could be—must also be—true. If he lied to himself, then he did not know his father and idolized a fake image. Garen had been so flawed.
Redscar thought of that too. Almost daily. His father’s victories and failures. His first son could not make the same mistakes.
——
The [Blademaster] opened his eyes as the Wyvern began to descend. Rags, [Student] Rags, was speaking in the speaking stone attached to his wrist.
“Redscar, Redscar, come in! Where the hell are you!?”
The Goblin flying his Frost Wyvern, Chickenruler, glanced over his shoulder, and Redscar lifted the speaking stone to his mouth.
“Hey, Chieftain. I took a Wyvern. Sorry.”
“Sorry!? I’m with General Shirka and—a Wyvern where? We need you! 2nd Army isn’t under Shirka’s control! They might assault Goblinhome, and the Kraken Eaters are still out there! We need you. Get back here!”
She was panicked, but she wasn’t lesser than his Rags, for all she felt like it. He had seen her take command of the battle, and she was, in her way, braver than his Rags. She believed in good things happening.
They needed a Goblin like that. Redscar knew there was a battle brewing behind him in the High Passes. It called to him.
Naumel, the Great Chieftain of the Kraken Eaters, was a terrible enemy. The [Goblin Slayers] poised to assault Goblinhome would kill everyone.
He should be there, cutting them down from the front. The [Blademaster] snarled, and the Wyvern he was flying whimpered. But the Goblin stopped reaching for his blades and replied, voice controlled.
“Can’t. I’ll be back if I survive. I have something I must do, Chieftain.”
“You—what—you’re our highest-level [Warrior] by far! We need you!”
“Leapwolf can slow down Naumel if he stays out of reach. You don’t need me for a siege. Fighting 2nd Army is impossible. You know it.”
“We have to stop them. No matter what.”
Her voice was so bleak. So determined. Redscar gazed down over the rainy Floodplains of Liscor as the Frost Wyvern broke through the cloud cover. It began to rain. He could still see it—a muddy ground where Goblins were dying.
Again and again. Redscar fancied himself a realist. He knew what was coming.
“I know. I can’t help you, Chieftain.”
“You’re…”
“I can’t stop them. I can only kill a few of them before I die. You saw the future. You know this. I could not stop Pawn. I cannot defeat Naumel without dying.”
If he even could. Shirka was right. Regenerating opponents sucked. The rain began to bathe the Frost Wyvern’s side, turning to ice on the cold beast’s scales. It didn’t touch Redscar, though Chickenruler pulled his hood up. Then the [Wyvern Rider] twisted around.
The water was slanting to two sides above the [Blademaster], as if there was an invisible, triangle-shaped umbrella over his head. Redscar grunted.
“I can only cut four feet high. She cut the sky in two.”
“Wh—Redscar? Where are you now?”
Then she sensed it. The [Blademaster] glanced down again, and the place he had told Chickenruler to take him, despite the urgency, despite the danger, despite his duties, was right below him.
The Wandering Inn.
“I’ll be back when I can. Or I won’t return. Wish me luck.”
The Wyvern passed over The Wandering Inn as he leapt. Now, Rags was demanding answers, shouting questions in his ears, but another voice broke into the line.
“Redscar—”
Leapwolf sounded afraid. He was too timid, except in battle. Redscar fell. He struck Bird’s tower and caught the wooden support shafts, redirecting his momentum. Then he was sliding down the tiles of the roof, and he leapt off the ledge and landed in front of the inn.
It was cooler than the Wyvern landing. He’d always wanted to do that once. Redscar raised the speaking stone to his mouth.
“Your turn, Leapwolf. Chieftain?”
Chieftain? [Student] Rags was quiet. Then all the other voices cut off, and she breathed.
“Good luck, Redscar. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He grinned and felt himself growing stronger.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Redscar turned to the door and strode through it. Someone had seen him coming down; a young woman in a [Waitress]’ outfit was staring at him with an open mouth. She was dangerous; she pivoted as he passed, and Redscar spoke.
“Hi. I’m going into the [Garden].”
“Her Highness isn’t here, uh—uh—”
“Okay.”
The [Blademaster] saw the common room was a flurry of chaos. A fight had broken out and been quashed; Drakes, some in armor, were having a standoff with the Calanferians.
No Ishkr, no Goblins, no Antinium. All the important people were gone. The two groups seemed ready to go at it again—then they looked at him.
“There’s one! Grab—”
The [Blademaster] walked, and the shadows in the room split into wavy threads and vanished. All the darkness, the natural shadows, disappeared, and the room was bright.
He didn’t draw the swords hanging at his side. The Goblin strolled forwards towards the open garden door the Calanferians were protecting.
Some of the Drake [Soldiers] wore Pallass’ armor. They backed away from him, flinching. Redscar grinned at them.
“In the name of Pallass, I need answers—”
One of the leaders of the Drakes croaked. He had a hand on his sword hilt, and Redscar slowed. The officer’s eyes slid sideways to his group.
“I am 1st Army’s [Major], Reidet! This is a matter of war!”
Redscar walked past him, and the [Major] recoiled. The Goblin didn’t react, though, he just kept walking. He poked his head out of the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door.
“Sorry. I have no idea what’s going on. I never do.”
——
The [Palace of Fates] was shaking. Redscar hopped down from the hole that led from the [Garden of Sanctuary] and listened.
“Sounds like bad stuff.”
Another fight. He longed to know who was fighting what; he was sure he’d see something amazing, but once more, that was not why he must be here.
The [Blademaster] had an idea. He had them so seldom that he’d decided to act on it. He walked through the [Palace of Fates], then cursed.
“Wait. Roots.”
There were none at the opening when he doubled back, and he vaguely recalled Mrsha hiding them. This was no good. He needed a root-thing. Redscar snapped his fingers, impatient.
“I need someone smart. Get me…a Goblin. Please.”
That was how it worked, right? He waited, hopefully, and then blinked. The [Palace of Fates] shifted around him as his eyes closed; he felt it, like a vast serpent faster than he was.
Everything in this place was stronger than him. Rhisveri, Visophecin, probably, even the woman in the mirrors…
Certainly, Pawn was, and his Painted Antinium were higher-level than Redscar—some of them. It hurt Redscar’s pride, because he was higher-level than Garen. He was the highest-level Goblin in the entire Flooded Waters tribe, even now.
He had survived it all. The war against the Goblin Lord. The Winter Solstice. He had fought the Titan in the darkness and been rewarded for it.
In his short lifespan of eight years, Redscar had reached a level that few people had. And it was not enough. He was still weak.
That [Hero] had proven it. Yes, Redscar could go back and help Student Rags, but he, the [Blademaster], could estimate his chances well.
At best, he guessed he’d be able to kill fifty, maybe even a hundred [Goblin Slayers] in the battle, if he was careful, if he had support and luck—that would not stop Shirka’s army, who would come by the tens of thousands to destroy Goblinhome.
He might kill Naumel, if he was lucky, but Redscar wasn’t sure, and he knew he’d be so wounded from the battle he’d lose his ability to shape things after that.
They needed more. That was the calculus he had made, and Redscar had found a solution—of a kind. Not an easy one. A risky one, a stupid gamble. But that was the only one he saw: neither Rags would order this of him. They were too kind.
When Redscar opened his eyes, someone was rooting around the [Palace of Fates], aimlessly opening doors.
Asgra. The Cave Goblin jumped and squeaked when she saw him. Redscar blinked, glanced around, and shrugged.
“That’ll do. You. I need your help.”
“What? Me? Where Rags? What happening? I mean, help! Everything bad is happening! Unicorn man won’t help, and there’s undead rats and Pawn and—two angry Dragons and—”
Huh. Teriarch must have beaten him here. The Dragon was certainly faster. Redscar longed to know what that was about, but he put a hand on Asgra’s head.
“No.”
“No!?”
“No. I need your help, Asgra. Do you have one of those…roots? I need to go through a door.”
The Cave Goblin blinked and studied Redscar. She knew him; she might not have been part of the Flooded Waters tribe as long as some, but the Redfangs’ nature as warriors and Redscar’s own prowess with the blade were common knowledge.
“I…Mrsha hid the roots.”
“Yeah. Do you know where they are? I need only one.”
Redscar wasn’t clear on how many were left, and he didn’t care. He had to have one; Asgra’s eyes grew shifty.
“Maybe…but what it for?”
“Help me and you can watch. I need someone to check on me anyways. Is Fightipilota here?”
“I haven’t seen her. You want me to go get—?”
“No. Just asking. The roots?”
Asgra was fidgeting. She didn’t know, but Redscar realized she was the person to ask. The Cave Goblin was, after all, used to skulking around and not being noticed. All these important people like Pawn and so on couldn’t figure out where the roots were unless they intimidated Mrsha into telling them.
And she’d vanished, so good luck with that. Unless she’s back yet? I hope so.
No clue. But Asgra glanced around surreptitiously and whispered.
“I think Roots Mrsha knows where roots are. She Mrsha too, so they think the same way. I think I maybe know where they is.”
“Okay. Where?”
The Cave Goblin beckoned and took Redscar out of the [Palace of Fates]. She explained her logic, which was actually very astute.
“Mrsha smart. Like me! This [Palace of Fates] is too easy to ask for things. You hide the roots and then someone say ‘where roots?’ And roots appear!”
“Right. So where would she hide them? Her room?”
That was where Redscar assumed they would be, but Asgra pshed.
“That stupid.”
“Thanks.”
“No, Mrsha smarty. Her room too easy. There only one place in the inn where you can hide things from everyone.”
“…The basement.”
“No, dummy!”
Asgra swung around and realized who she was lecturing and quailed a bit.
“—The [Garden of Sanctuary]! But not this one. Any of them. Get it?”
She was opening doors in the [Garden of Sanctuary], each one leading to more gardens. Redscar recognized one of them; the lightning room with the tree. The [Blademaster]’s heart sank. All of these were [Gardens of Sanctuary]?
He could search for days and not find the roots. Asgra was of the same opinion.
“Even with nose, you probably can’t track Mrsha.”
“So we need to find Roots Mrsha.”
“Nope! There one way to find the roots. Maybe. Here. We talk to the real guardian of this place, who sees all, knows all. You have bribe?”
“I have gold.”
“Eh…maybe we ask nicely. Here. Apista!”
Then they were strolling through the jungle of Erin’s garden. Asgra clapped her hands, and a sleepy Ashfire Bee crawled out of her nest and flew down. She circled them a few times, staring, then landed on Asgra’s hands as the Cave Goblin explained.
“There bad-bad things happening in the [Palace of Fates], Apista. I know you is knowing because you’re smart, so please—where are the roots Mrsha hid? We need them. Just one! Redcar needs it.”
Apista was smoking a tiny blunt, and she gave Redscar a suspicious look as if to say, ‘well, well, well. I’ll be the judge of this.’ She buzzed around Redscar, antennae waving.
He had long gotten over the ridiculousness of most things, but Redscar felt like having to justify himself to a bee on his life-or-death mission was silly. Garen Redfang would never have done it.
And that’s why I guess I’m here and not him.
“I need only one. Please. I need to get stronger to protect everyone. Give it to me and I will die or return as they need me to be.”
“Yeah! Wait, what?”
Asgra hadn’t known about the conditional aspect of Redscar’s quest. Apista, though, seemed to glance at her prosthetic, miniature legs and wings. She floated forwards, then landed on Redscar’s arm. She nodded her head up and down.
I’ve got you, friend. Go get ‘em, tiger.
…He assumed that was what she was thinking. Redscar had no clue; he just copied things Kevin liked to say. He missed Kevin. He hoped that if they saved anyone…
He could save his father.
The Goblin knew that, and when Apista flew into a door and came back a minute later with a single root, he held it in his hand and knew he could walk through one of those doors and come out with Garen Redfang.
Redscar stared at the root in his hand, and the curse and temptation of the [Palace of Fates] was upon him. He got why Mrsha and Rags wept for it. He hated the burden.
If he was selfish, he could get his heart’s desire. But if he did the harder thing and risked his life, he might be able to save what could be saved.
“I am Garen Redfang’s first son. He always taught me to do what was hardest first. Thank you, Apista. Asgra, I need you to watch. If I die, take this and tell Rags to get another Redscar. A better one.”
He plucked the speaking stone off his wrist and handed it to Asgra. She followed, babbling questions, afraid, and Apista buzzed after Redscar as he walked back to the [Palace of Fates].
——
Asgra made one change to Redscar’s plans, and it was this: she sent Apista back for another root.
“Two.”
She insisted, and Redscar pointed out he only needed one, but the Goblin put the other one in his bag of holding.
“Just in case! Mrsha didn’t have two. Just in case.”
Her eyes were big as she looked up at him, and Redscar relented and patted her on the head. Just in case. Then they went into the [Palace of Fates].
Apista followed, buzzing after the two Goblins as if to say, ‘yeah, I’m coming, I’m definitely part of whatever’s going on, don’t forget about me!’
…Or so Redscar assumed. He said nothing for a while, as they walked through the [Palace of Fates], and something occurred to both the Ashfire bee and Asgra.
Redscar didn’t chat. As in, at all. Neither one could ever remember Redscar, in all his visits to the inn, ever really, uh, saying things. It was always just him in the background with Rags or doing something sword-related. Come to think of it…had even Erin Solstice, the legendary pokemaster, talker of peoples, ever gotten Redscar to really open up and socialize?
Some people just weren’t talkative, but Asgra had to believe Redscar had a personality. He hung around the Redfangs. She, as a junior Cave Goblin, hadn’t really been around him much. So she wondered the same thing as Apista: what was Redscar like?
They were passing through Mrsha’s hallways, the corridors of her doors, and then out into the palace beyond.
Redscar said nothing.
After six minutes, Asgra broke the awkward silence.
“So, uh, how things?”
“Titan not entirely dead. One Seith Core left. Dragonlord wounded. 2nd Army’s vanguard stood down, but the rest might try to kill Goblinhome. Kraken Eaters also about. They fight well. Magnolia Reinhart and Lord Xitegen seem good.”
Wow. What a great summary of events. Asgra and Apista exchanged a glance, and the bee flew up. She was still smoking a blunt and seemed to say, ‘come on Redscar, old chap. Give us something to work with’.
He grunted, irritable.
“I don’t chat. I don’t know you, either. Rags is the good one at talking.”
Asgra opened her mouth, and Apista did a lazy barrel roll across Redscar’s vision. She waggled her antennae as she made her prosthetic limbs click together, like Mrsha poking two fingers together when she was trying to look cute and beg for food.
Please, buddy? Here we are, on an adventure of derring do, and we could all die, and we haven’t had one bonding moment! Have a cigar.
Redscar bared his teeth, not in a grimace of anger, but just a concentrated expression.
“No. This isn’t the time. I’m not interesting, and I don’t like being friendly and chummy. Notice how I don’t hug children or backslap with Erin? I am the warrior who fights battles. Thanks for the roots, but we’re not going to be best friends.”
He put so much venom into the statement that even the Ashfire Bee buzzed back.
Hey, pal, I was just trying to be part of the team. Don’t harsh my buzz. With an attitude like that, no wonder no one likes you.
“Plenty of people like me. My Redfangs. I don’t need to be your friend—”
“Um, Redscar?”
Asgra raised a tentative hand as Redscar and the bee bickered. The [Blademaster] glared at her.
“What?”
The Cave Goblin glanced between Apista and Redscar, hesitating and pinching her side. But someone had to say it. Asgra licked her lips.
“…Why you talking to Apista? She not saying anything.”
Redscar opened his mouth, glancing at Apista.
She buzzed at him winsomely, and if she could have spoken, Apista would have probably said that Redscar was doing a bang-up job at interpreting her.
What an interesting fellow.
——
What kind of a person could read a bee’s mind? Redscar. He stomped along as the [Palace of Fates]…changed around him.
Showing the Cave Goblin and Ashfire Bee who he was as much as his words. Redscar was highly embarrassed after the bee-revelations. He snapped.
“Warriors die. We don’t make friends except with other Redfangs because we die. Do you know how many Redfangs died even taking the mountains?”
“So that why you all tough?”
Asgra nudged Apista, who nudged her back. The two beamed at Redscar…then saw the hallway they were walking past and lost their merriment.
Redscar’s [Palace of Fates] echoed Mrsha’s in places, because he didn’t know what a palace should look like. But in other parts, it resembled the places he knew. Cave walls. Mountain passes.
And like those wilder moments of the Redfangs, the two saw something on the rock walls, daubed in red paint, the only thing the Redfang Tribe had ever really had. Images, neolithic paintings, some done clumsily, then with more skill, that depicted images in stylized, simple brushes of the fingers.
What the two saw were…Carn Wolves. Bounding Carn Wolves and little red figures on their backs. Redfang markings on the walls, depicting kills and honorable wounds in battle.
Symbols only Redscar knew. He passed by doors that were more like hides hanging on the walls. His eyes found one door and jerked away.
That door had two Carn Wolves circling it. Two Carn Wolves…and Asgra remembered who had died at the Winter Solstice.
Thunderfur. She lost her smile, and Apista clung to Asgra’s hair. They said nothing, and Redscar broke off looking at the doors. Saw their expressions.
“He’s dead. Thunderfur, my friend. So is my father, Garen. My friends. I haven’t drawn him on the walls yet. I don’t even know if the caves are still there. This is just my heart. Silly palace. No wonder it hurts people so.”
He stepped over to the wall, and his fingers traced the leftmost wolf, larger than the other one, howling at the sky. Redscar spoke to himself.
“I don’t like talking. You’re like Chieftain Rags. But she leaves me alone. What should I say? ‘It hurts?’ She’s bleeding. I’ll see them sooner or later. I just wish Erin had known Thunderfur well. For the garden.”
Embarrassed, he lowered his hands and turned away. He glared over at Asgra and Apista and saw water streaming from Asgra’s eyes. Redscar gazed at the sobbing Cave Goblin and Ashfire Bee.
He stomped off.
“This is why I don’t talk to children.”
——
Handsome fellows were more fun to talk to. Fellow warriors—though Redscar preferred to meet them on the battlefield. When Asgra and Apista caught up, they got annoying.
“W-why don’t you say anything? You talk good! Better than me!”
“Apista talks better than you.”
True, I am eloquent in my quietude. Apista sagely fanned her wings, and Asgra’s voice rose in a screech.
“What that mean? I can’t hear her voice! You making her up. What she say?”
Redscar repeated what Apista said, and Asgra grabbed the bee and stared at Apista. The bee nodded eagerly. The Cave Goblin glared accusingly at Redscar.
“She not say that. You making up this.”
“I can hear the voice of her heart.”
Redscar was straight-faced. Apista nodded.
“I am a 56-year old Naga woman with the heart of a champion and the scars of a [Warrior]. I would do poetry, but I enjoy smoking too much. You and I should talk, Asgra.”
The Cave Goblin’s mouth opened, and she gazed at Apista. She spluttered.
“Wh—y—Naga?”
Apista shook her body from left to right and buzzed accusatorily after Redscar, headbutting him in the back. He grinned and strode on. Asgra blinked, then began screaming.
“You tricked me!”
“Yeah, you’re easy to trick.”
“You making all this up!”
“Nope, just that last part. Apista actually said that you’re not the brightest Goblin around, but that’s okay. Neither was Headscratcher, and he did fine.”
Redscar felt better now. And Asgra was learning one of the reasons the [Blademaster] didn’t actually socialize that often.
He, uh…
He got on people’s nerves. He could be incredibly witty at times and fun to be around, unless you were the person that Redscar decided to harass. Asgra punched his butt several times; she was too short to get the back of his head. Redscar let her get four punches in, then threw Apista into her face.
When she and Apista had stopped screaming, he said the only thing that mattered.
“I don’t have friends here, Asgra. Apista is like the only person I like the most in the inn. Erin’s okay. I liked Halrac because he was quiet. Maybe…”
He scratched at his head, trying to figure out who he’d liked.
“…The Orangutan gave me a banana. I liked him. And Pekona was good with the sword. We talked.”
“You talked with her? She not talk to anyone!”
“Huh. That’s because she’s like me. Anyways…I think we’re here.”
He cut short the conversation because he didn’t want to hear how Asgra felt about all this. He didn’t want to like this Goblin.
He didn’t want her to be sad when he vanished. His father was, in many ways, the person that Redscar emulated. Garen Redfang. He had been a great warrior. A poorer teammate.
Redscar had seen what became of the Halfseekers after Garen’s betrayal. Fair was fair: Redscar had listened to the accounts from Jelaqua, Moore, and Seborn about what had happened. Garen’s team had great flaws too, but what became of the traitor? He formed a tribe, and in the end, that tribe left him.
The [Blademaster] was, perhaps, afraid of copying his father.
That was what Redscar didn’t say, you see. Because he was a stoic individual who didn’t need to share his feelings and blab his heart out. But he had made a mistake, and it was this:
If he could read Apista’s mind, she could read his. And the Ashfire Bee and Asgra were forming a telepathic link. The [Waitress] paused to blow her nose on the hem of her outfit.
“That so sad. We’ll be your friends!”
Whereupon she and Apista tried to hug Redscar. He tossed them down the hallway. But it made his spirit lighter.
Things should be silly. Garen had always taken himself so seriously. As if he was the main protagonist in his sorry story. Redscar was the side-character. Rags…Rags, Rabbiteater…he was waiting for them.
He just had to do this to help them. So, at last, the Goblin found what he was searching for.
There was no set door that Redscar wanted. He just asked and it appeared, and it, fittingly, looked right. When he saw it, he knew it was the one.
The door was appropriate.
It was made out of swords. Not ‘the metal of swords recycled into a door’, but literal swords joined together to make a door comprised purely of blades of every shape and kind. From the frame to the handle—blades.
“Whoa. What this?”
“The place I need. Don’t go through. Just watch, okay? If anything comes out…well, run. It can’t make things that much worse.”
Redscar hesitated.
“I think. It actually probably can. But it might be useful…whatever.”
His audience of two eyed each other, and Redscar realized he hadn’t explained anything. Dead gods, all of it was hard. You had a plan, you had to execute on it, but he’d forgotten the roots and to explain it—this is why he needed Rags. He was too much like his father in many ways. Redscar turned.
“I figured this out when I was in the future. I was weak. I barely survived against a [Hero], and he wasn’t even trying hard to kill me. I only lived because Pawn is insanely powerful.”
“Uh. A [Hero]? What future?”
Asgra had no idea, and Redscar did not want to waste time explaining. So he went on.
“I lost. I failed. I was useless—but I levelled up. Then I thought, if I can level up in these doors, I should. It’s hard to find battles that level you up. I levelled from the Titan—once. At my level, it’s very hard, let alone to reach the capstone.”
“Wh—what level are you?”
Asgra had huge eyes, and Apista was buzzing around excitedly. Redscar jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Not high enough. There’s only one way to reach Level 50 before Goblinhome is destroyed or the Kraken Eaters or someone attack. I asked for the door that could level me the most. I know where it goes. I may die, but that’s the risk I need.”
It was always what you required; Redscar understood the system of levels very well. He turned, with that said, and opened the door, wincing as the little doorknob of swords cut his hand.
Dead gods, there was such a thing as too many swords. He knew he was risking it all. He knew he was not the greatest planner, but in a sense—Redscar had confidence this would work.
Mrsha was trying to steal lives from the [Palace of Fates], to build a happier tomorrow. He admired her. He didn’t know how it could be done. But all Redscar wanted was to do what Goblins did best. He grinned as the door opened and he took hold of that root.
I will take everything I can as well. I will steal the moments I need, but earn them fairly. So Redscar pulled himself forwards—
——
The air was so beautifully calm. It was no raging war with rampaging legends of might and magic. It was not forty thousand years in the past, when the Dragonlords dueled in the shadows of Giants.
Even if Redscar could have reached those places, how were those fit places for him, a lowly Goblin, to level? He knew what he thought the best place to level was in his heart. The most fitting.
It seemed the [Palace of Fates] agreed.
Calm air. No longer tense. No longer frenzied with worry, excitement, or anticipation. For a single moment, as the combined contestants of Zeladona’s Trial of Blades stood there, everything was still.
Winter. The crisp crunch of snow on the ground not cleared for the <Heroic Quest> came from the onlookers. The Wandering Inn was virtually empty save for the waiting [Innkeeper] inside.
An army of people with blades were paused for the first strike, the start of this contest. Pallass’ finest, the Swordsman of Six, the Champions of the Coast, the adventurers such as the Horns of Hammerad, Griffon Hunt, House Veltras, Liscor’s Watch—travellers from far and wide had arrived.
It would soon be a bloodbath. For the injunction against killing said nothing about the loss of limb or even blood. The unwary Archmages of Wistram would suffer. The [Assassins] of Orchestra would certainly suffer. They were all standing together, a band of black-clad Drakes and Gnolls led by the Maestro, Linvios Reiscale.
Funny. For all the drama and dismay of that day, it truly did feel like better times. The funniest part was watching Typhenous and Facecarver Riz edging towards the [Assassins]. Because no one besides him had realized that the Trial of Blades had already begun.
The old man was clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention when something unexpected occurred:
Someone kicked him. It was a damn hard kick; Typhenous saw it coming and twisted. The former Face was fast with a blade, but not fast enough. He went down with a shout as someone slammed into him.
“Typhenous!”
Facecarver Riz leapt back from the ambush, and her blades were already out. She danced forwards, stabbing, then recoiled. The Gold-rank adventurer slid sideways, and her eyes were locked in shock on her left cheek—a line of red opened up, and she backflipped away, daggers crossed.
“Who—Typhenous!”
Halrac shouted, leaping to his feet, and the waiting contestants and observers who’d been staring at The Wandering Inn swivelled.
“Some idiot’s fighting! It’s not time for the Trials of Blades! Foul! F—wait, is it foul to start early?”
Ceria was cupping her hands together and shouting from the side. Everyone was on their feet now, craning their heads to see. A single figure was taking on what seemed to be Typhenous and Riz.
“Whoa! Riz is fast!”
The teammates of the deadly Face had never known her capabilities. Seeing her unleash her full potential in lightning-fast lunges that left afterimages and sweeping forwards in precise cuts and stabs opened their eyes.
“That’s not a Gold-ranker. She’s closer to Named-rank—who are they fighting?”
A single warrior was dancing between the two knife-experts, taking on both at once. It was incredible; Typhenous, for all his age, could fight in tandem with Riz, and they were flanking their opponent.
But he was deflecting their knife-stabs, despite the disparity between their smaller, faster weapons and his two blades.
Two…blades?
The Goblins of the Flooded Waters tribe had been waiting for their entry into the battle. They’d been more realistic about what this might turn into, but some of them had deemed it worth the risk, like Rags.
The [Chieftain] raised her head with a frown as every single Goblin turned.
“Who that?”
Redscar had been polishing his own swords, and he sat up suddenly as a weirdly familiar presence appeared. Rags’ mouth went dry.
“Greydath. That bastard—no. Wait. That’s not…Redscar?”
She glanced at him, then poked the [War Leader], and Redscar leapt to his feet. He gazed down the hill they’d positioned themselves on as Typhenous went sprawling, clutching at one leg, and Riz leapt away, cursing.
Redscar, of this time, peered down at a warrior holding two familiar blades. One was crimson red; the other was crackling with lightning, a gift from Erin Solstice’s [Garden of Sanctuary]. The Goblin’s eyes went round as everyone turned to him, then back to the figure.
They were identical, dressed in light leather armor for maximum mobility, which had a patchwork appearance except for the slashes of red paint adorning the sides and chestplate. Sitting on the sidelines in the background, Thunderfur sniffed the air and whined uncertainly.
“Who—?”
“I yield, I yield!”
Typhenous shouted as the red blade pointed down towards him. The figure turned to Riz, but she was beating a retreat towards the adventurers.
“Foul! Foul! Someone disqualify that lot!”
General Edellein and his forces were bellowing, but the smart people on the field, like Tyrion, had realized the truth. They were pivoting, suddenly tensed—yet every eye kept drifting back to that warrior.
He was not instantly recognizable as a Goblin. You see—he had a wooden box on his head.
He’d cut two eye holes to see through, but the box-man with two swords was anonymous. A mystery challenger! He turned from Typhenous, standing in the center of the battleground.
A new challenger had arrived.
——
—The disguise lasted as long as it took for Redscar to reach up and rip the stupid damn box off his head.
He’d thought it was a good idea when he’d heard of how, in another timeline, Shorthilt had worn a box on his head to join Ser Solstice abroad. But it turned out wearing a box on your head was not only hot and uncomfortable, but ruined your peripheral vision.
“Not doing that. How’d he even do it?”
Maybe Shorthilt just had better boxes. Redscar tossed the box down and kicked it into the distance. He rubbed at his hair.
Well, there went his disguise. The Goblins were screaming at him in confusion, and he saw another Redscar on his feet.
Huh, that is confusing. Redscar glanced around and wondered how much he was messing up. He shrugged.
“I’m a bad person. Here I go.”
“Redscar? What on earth are you doing?”
Typhenous was still close by. The old man was dusting off his robes and picking up his dagger; he seemed rather embarrassed by his sudden defeat. Redscar favored him with a grin.
“Fighting. Sorry, old guy. You stab people from the side when they don’t look.”
The old man’s tone was light, but his eyes were bewildered as he turned to Redscar.
“It is true, I am a dedicated side-stabber, backstabber, and I only go for front-stabbing when I have no choice. But…you just fought off Facecarver Riz. She’s a Face. Not to toot my own proverbial horn, but so was I.”
Redscar sheathed his lightning blade. It was nice and sharp, but the enchantment had to recharge after using the lightning attack, and he knew Garen’s sword better. He wasn’t bad with a single sword either.
“I know you two are good. Some of the best.”
He pointed his blade at Typhenous and wished he could have seen the old man when he’d been called Typhenous the Plague Knife. Or not—it didn’t sound like he’d fought fair.
Respect. Redscar bowed his head slightly, but he didn’t move. His body was relaxed, all his weight on the heel of his back foot, ready to move.
“Well, that’s that. I was going to give Orchestra a taste of their own healing potions, but I think that’s been ruined. Are you going to let me go?”
Typhenous was edging away from Redscar, and the Goblin laughed. He loved this old man. He brushed at the iconic scar on his face with one hand; it ran semi-diagonally down one cheek and across his nose. Garen had accidentally given it to him. Everyone had thought it was from his first battle. He beamed at Typhenous, who had his caestus glove on one hand and his dagger loosely held in the other.
“Cunning old guy. You’re only done when you quit. Come on. I came back just for this. I challenge you. I challenge everyone. This time—I’ll win.”
He lifted his sword, and Typhenous’ eyes went innocently round, then he threw his dagger and drew another with a curse as he charged.
——
It was fast. The second time Typhenous went down, there was real blood. His ageing body had failed him, but it wasn’t just that.
The [Blademaster] was too good. He stood over Typhenous and pivoted, casual. Someone had come back for a rematch.
Facecarver Riz. She’d decided she couldn’t live with the embarrassment of running. Not on television.
Not a Face. Not a [Knifemistress].
He called to her. The ‘cute’ rookie Gold-rank adventurer cut the neat little ponytail loose, and her hair fell around her as she put a dagger between her teeth. She had five, two held in each hand, and she lowered her stance.
Face! Face! Ser Relz had belatedly put two-and-two together and was screaming.
“Someone arrest that woman! That’s no Gold-rank rookie—that’s Facecarver Riz! She’s killed over two hundred people in Invrisil! She’s—who is that Goblin?”
He had sheathed his red blade and was walking towards Riz down the hill, grinning fit to bursting. She stared up at him, her manic grin between the dagger clenched in her teeth turning to uncertainty.
Her daggers were enchanted with something nasty. He couldn’t tell what, and she had on leather armor, but hers was flexible, and blended with the environment when she moved at high speeds. Enchanted armor and weapons made this a harder duel than if they were without their gear.
Good. Though if he remembered right…hadn’t the Trial of Blades been without armor or magical weapons in his world? The change was for him. The Goblin grinned, then felt Riz’s presence.
Redscar felt the [Knifemistress]’ aura pressing at him, like sharp knives seeking a weak point, a way past his defenses. It was almost a weapon in of itself; if he didn’t separate the real from the fake, he might react to a dagger-thrust that wasn’t there.
Neat trick.
Redscar knew he had an aura-thing. It was like his swords: an extension of his blades and sixth sense in battle.
High-level warriors who used weapons had a style. A…theme. They all felt different. For instance, Yvlon was like a metal beast leaping at your throat, snarling and roaring, trying to rip and tear you apart.
Typhenous was a kind, innocuously feeble old man until you saw the weathered blade hiding in its scabbard. Garen had been a fearless warrior rushing into battle, a heroic adventurer.
Redscar didn’t know what Riz saw. He saw daggers, a storm of them stabbing from every direction, the promise he would bleed. Fear and menace.
She was circling left, trying to maneuver him towards a depression in the hill that would interfere with his footwork slightly. They could have sized each other up for a while, analyzed each other’s footwork, stances, but he had no time.
“Sorry. I’m in a hurry.”
“You—you’ve got the gall to say that to me.”
Riz spoke around the blade in her mouth, and he jumped. The Goblin drew his blade from his scabbard and saw her blur away, leaving an afterimage. She lunged from spot to spot, and if you only fought her with your eyes, you’d be chasing fake images of her. When she came at him, it was with all five blades, cutting and tossing them into blind spots. An overwhelming offensive.
Dead gods but she would have made a beautiful Goblin.
——
“Forty-one seconds.”
“Milord?”
Tyrion Veltras glanced to the side at Jericha.
“That Goblin bested a [Knifemistress] in forty-one seconds. High-level battles are quick, but not that quick. She had plenty of repositioning Skills left.”
“She’s still able to fight, Lord Veltras.”
Jericha wasn’t discounting what Tyrion was saying, but the [Lord] shook his head. Redscar, or whatever the Goblin’s name was, was walking back. He pulled the sword out of Riz’s leg where he’d pinned her to the ground.
“She lost. I don’t know if this trial lets her continue, but that was conclusive. Watch him. It’s beginning.”
—But for the moment, everyone just kept studying Redscar. Tyrion had noticed the Goblin had a doppelganger among the Flooded Waters tribe. This didn’t bother him; he just assumed they were twins or brothers or something.
…But the Redscar in the middle of the field unsettled Tyrion. The [Lord] was trying to estimate his level.
“That’s impossible.”
“Lord?”
The young man wished he had all his levels right now.
“It’s impossible. Did we run into a Chieftain…Redscar during the battle at Liscor? Or is he from somewhere else? He should be a Goblin Lord. He’s over Level 40.”
Every person within earshot tensed. Jericha spoke through a suddenly dry mouth.
“You must be jesting, Lord Veltras. The Goblin Lord was Level 40, but no one else…”
“That Goblin is over Level 40. He’s not…someone find out his class.”
Tyrion was sweating. The Goblin was gazing his way. Grinning. Redscar pointed a sword, and Tyrion Veltras felt a shock as the tip pointed at him. Then Redscar was pointing again.
You. You. You.
——
Different members of the competing factions saw the Goblin lock onto them. He knew them. He remembered them.
Tyrion Veltras. The Maestro. The [Lieutenant of Perfection] Comois. Pisces. The other Redscar, Relc, Klbkch, Spearmaster Lulv, the Swordsman of Six, Colth, and Wall Lord Aldonss.
Redscar was waiting for Archmage Eldavin to appear as well. All of them.
He drank a healing potion; he was bleeding. Thankfully, the blades weren’t poisoned due to the Trial of Blades.
Wait, there was also Calruz, the Spring’s Warden, and that one-armed woman, Pekona. He felt like he were surrounded by the most attractive, interesting people in the world, each one someone he was dying to talk to.
This was the greatest day of his life—and yet he was focused. He could not lose once.
This was a blessing of the [Palace of Fates]. I may die. But—Redscar gazed across the field and realized the palace, or the unseen controller of it, had blessed him.
The Minotaur and [Blade Dancer], Calruz and Pekona, stood with the adventurers. And both of them had their arms. Two arms each.
“Hah. Hahahaha. This is everything I need. Thank you.”
Redscar raised his sword towards the [Palace of Fates] itself and inhaled the frozen air. He blew a stream of steam skywards, and someone croaked.
“You damn monster.”
Facecarver Riz lay on her back, her own stab-wound in her leg healed. She hadn’t taken another; when she’d been pinned, they’d both known it was done. She gazed up at Redscar, and his smile flickered.
“Aw. I thought we liked each other. I like you.”
He supposed it was because he was a Goblin, like always. Riz jerked her head, coughing as she sat up; he’d kicked her once as well.
“Not that. You think I haven’t met Goblins in the gangs? Even a Goblin Chieftain, that sadistic bastard. You’re the monster.”
Oh, monster in a cool way. Redscar pointed at his face with a pleased smile. He gestured at the other Redscar, who was staring down the hill towards him.
“That’s also me. You should say hi to him later.”
Riz’s face wrinkled up at the other Goblin as she inspected him, then she shook her head. She was laughing, incredulous, as she lay on the hard ground.
“Him? He could be a Face. But you? Who are you? Do you even know…what you look like?”
The [Blademaster] shook his head.
“I don’t have a mirror. Excuse me. I have to hurry.”
He began walking towards his younger self. They were not so far apart in age—barely a few months. But in levels? Riz started guffawing hysterically, but then her eyes were open wide.
Redscar didn’t understand why the other Goblin halted on top of the hill, and his eyes grew round. Why the younger Redscar wore such a disbelieving, astonished expression on his face, then gritted his teeth.
The [Blademaster] thought they’d be a good match. His counterpart even had the high ground, which was very useful.
He didn’t see what they saw.
——
The Redscar of younger days leapt with a howl of delight, swords slashing, teeth bared, a whirlwind of red-rust fur and savage, surprising grace. He bounded down, attacking, circling—snarling.
Like a wolf.
A Carn Wolf, and his partner howled, Thunderfur’s voice echoing through the Floodplains. Even when he fought by himself, Redscar was never alone. His blades were like twin wolves, attacking and defending as a team.
His older copy stood perfectly still, and the younger Goblin didn’t understand. When he locked blades with the Redscar of the future, he saw no wolves. The horizontal slash was fast and cut inwards towards the [Blademaster]’s chest.
[Angle Cut]—they both knew the other had it. Even if you blocked the blade straight, it might slice inwards.
The [Blademaster] met the [War Leader]’s cut and leaned out of the way of the slice towards his chest. It felt like the [War Leader] had hit a wall. The [War Leader] passed by his opponent, and his blades glowed.
Frost and intangibility. The [Blademaster] only had one sword! [Blade Lock] with the frost sword, catching and halting in place the [Blademaster]’s weapon, and then—
[Crimson Whirls My Blade].
The [War Leader]’s other sword, enchanted with intangibility, whirled through both locked blades, aiming to bisect his opponent from the chest down.
The [War Leader] didn’t think about the injunction against killing. He didn’t hold back—he didn’t think he could.
The blade scythed through air, and the [War Leader] felt no impact. He stepped backwards, blinked, and then jerked back from the stab from the other Goblin. How had the [Blademaster] done that?
He’d jumped. The two blades were locked together, but the [Blademaster] had leapt up, using the Skill holding him in place to rotate upwards like the arms of a clock, letting the sword pass under him. As their blades untangled, the [Blademaster] spoke.
“Sorry. I’m messing up your fun. I have something I have to do.”
“This is messing up my fun? Who are you?”
Again, the older Redscar seemed confused. The [War Leader] was blinking. The clash of blades was disorientating him—he realized his opponent wasn’t doing it on purpose.
But the younger Redscar couldn’t stop seeing a bisected Goblin’s torso standing there, dripping with blood. It was just an illusion, the [Blademaster]’s aura leaking out of him.
The younger Redscar saw a dead Goblin bleeding from a dozen cuts. He saw the cut torso—he was dancing through a battlefield of dead Goblins. And still—
The younger Redscar fought as he had always known, lunging from strike to strike, moving for the best vantage point, aiming to be faster, more precise, deadlier than his opponent. Those were the qualities that made him the best swordmaster among his tribe.
—But the older Redscar wasn’t matching him with the same ferocity. He barely attacked. The [Blademaster] met a [Flurry Strikes] Skill and turned the sword strikes away. He left another image of a grinning Goblin kneeling, bones cut, bleeding out. The [War Leader] rasped.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what? My turn.”
The [Blademaster] swept his sword across the ground in a horizontal cut, and the snow parted in front of him as the younger Redscar dove and rolled.
I’m dead. Rolling to your feet in the middle of a battle between two blade-experts was how you died. The younger Redscar waited for a blade to bisect him in half, like that vision, or just cut him deep—but it never came.
When the [War Leader] rolled to his feet, he saw his older counterpart holding the single blade at the ready. The [Blademaster] hadn’t attacked.
Younger Redscar’s eyes widened in outrage, and he snarled, truly angry.
“Don’t mock me. Fight!”
“I am.”
With a howl, the [War Leader] leapt again, slashing faster, throwing kicks, even headbutts into his onslaught. Anything to touch his opponent. He was fast, strong—
His opponent seemed to be moving so much less. The [Blademaster] chose his strike and brought his sword down once, knocking away the [War Leader]’s blades. When he back-stepped out of range of a headbutt, his sword only had to flick the two blades away.
He…was making the younger Redscar so angry. There was something that almost felt pretentious about the way his older self used the blade.
—As if he were above the need to slash fast or press his opponent. The younger Redscar sheathed his blades for a lightning-fast draw and unsheathed his swords as he charged.
[Sword Art: The Circling Wolves]!
His blades traced curves in the air as they lunged, and then he saw the [Blademaster] grin. The sense of unease that the [War Leader] had felt this entire time turned to a kind of startled certainty and chagrin.
Oh. He reminds me of the [Sword Legend] from the Village of the Dead. How he looked on television.
This was the moment the [Blademaster] had been waiting for. He activated no Skill; instead, he pivoted to the side and lowered his sword tip to the ground. When he slashed towards his counterpart, the [Blademaster] was not slow. Indeed, he swung as fast as he could.
But, the [War Leader] realized he was cutting something else. The younger Redscar tried to dodge, but he was locked into his [Blade Art]. His stabbing blades passed by something in the air, and he felt cold.
——
Across the battlefield, Thunderfur’s triumphant howling abruptly ceased. It became a whimper and cry of uncertainty—the Flooded Waters Goblins saw their champion stumble to a stop.
They were all on their feet, trying to see what was going on. Their Redscar hadn’t even touched his opponent! The [Blademaster] had moved back, swung his sword too early—
“No! He’s cut! How?”
Snapjaw shouted, and they saw red blood running down the [War Leader]’s chest. Slowly, their Redscar put a hand to his chest and dropped one sword.
——
Okay, that was pretty cool. The younger Redscar sat down. Blood was running from the cut that had gone down to his ribs. If his opponent had swung harder—he would be dead.
How had the [Blademaster] done it? Somehow, he had cut the air itself, or cut further than his reach and swords should have allowed.
He was still there, waiting. His sword wasn’t even bloody. The Goblin who wore Redscar’s face offered him a crook of the lips, cocking his head inquisitively.
“Another try?”
Wordlessly, the younger Redscar shook his head. He fumbled for a healing potion; drank it. His wounds began to heal, and he panted for air.
“That…trick. How did you learn it?”
The [Blademaster] nodded down to the [War Leader]. His head was already turning for his next foe.
“I reached a place where I had to be something other than faster or stronger. It’s not beautiful yet. This sword should cleave through everything. I can’t do more than air or steel. Then again, no one wears mithril anymore, so I can’t practice. You sure you don’t want to try again? You’re almost there.”
That promise was in his eyes, and the hand he extended. The younger Redscar gulped another sip of his potion. He croaked.
“No. Show me…what you learned.”
The older Goblin grinned and winked. Another opponent came forwards—a group of wary Drakes with orders to take this [Blademaster] out so that Pallass could properly engage.
The [Blademaster] walked towards them. These Drakes couldn’t see his aura. But the younger Redscar could.
The [Blademaster] charged a Drake with a pike, and the jab towards his head, a [Flash Strike], missed as he hopped onto the pike and drove it into the earth before kicking the Drake in the helmet.
—But a dead Goblin sagged in the air, impaled by the pike. An illusion, but something in Redscar’s heart leaking out.
His death. They followed him, dead Goblins old and young. A child with a dagger, a young Goblin [Warrior] without his first markings—the [Blademaster] before them all.
Dead. Each time he met a powerful blow in battle, he left behind a future where he failed to parry the blade or dodge in time. It was not unique to him. Who hadn’t seen their death in a chance collision or a slip of the feet?
But he remembered them. The [Blademaster] was smiling, his eyes alight as he finished the Drakes and turned to engage the [Lord] of House Veltras storming at him.
I believe you can kill me. I believe your skill.
But that was not the entirety of his aura. Tyrion Veltras locked blades with a Goblin who should have been dead a hundred thousand times. When he passed by Redscar, pirouetting and turning to face the Goblin after their first strikes, he stumbled through a battlefield.
[Knights] on horseback, Humans riding with lances, as a single Goblin on a Carn Wolf’s back fought alone. His teeth were bared, and he was swinging his swords with all the strength left in his body—
The memory of Redscar and the [Blademaster] swung a sword, and the [Lord] raised his shield to block it.
“[Great Sh—]”
——
The [Lord] hit the ground about forty feet away, and the [Blademaster] shook out his arm. Not nearly as strong as some warriors. Strength did not make a warrior. But it sure was nice.
He jumped and came down on the [Lord] and wondered what the man was staring at.
——
A Draugr. Tyrion Veltras saw the undead horror’s eyes glowing blue in a face of muscles and rot, roaring at him. It swung its fist—
The [Blademaster] struck his shield again and roared, spittle flying. He heaved, and the [Lord] flew again. Less far this time.
The second part of his aura were the visions of—his foes. Every blow Redscar dodged or parried was a death. When he swung his sword, his foes saw visions of every enemy he had striven against, every moment he sought to overcome and make his own.
A Draugr. Humans in battle.
Redscar glanced left, and Jericha was charging at him with a squad of House Veltras’ [Soldiers]. He pivoted, and Jericha swore she saw an undead Titan swinging down its arm—
“Jericha!”
The [Blademaster] sheathed his sword, and Tyrion Veltras’ head craned back. His trusted subordinate shouted.
“[Featherfall—]”
Then she hit the ground and rolled up. Jericha stumbled forwards dizzily, then fell forward on her face as Ullim raced over to cover her.
Redscar shook out his right hand and shrugged as he turned back to Tyrion Veltras.
“[The Titan’s Swing]. Not a blade art. Not going to use it again; I just wanted to see. Come on.”
He beckoned to Tyrion, as if he’d committed some kind of faux pas by using the Skill to beat Jericha. The Lord of House Veltras started forwards, blinking away the visions.
Dead Goblins and greatest foes. Oh—and majesty. Not his aura, just in his bearing. Redscar walked down the hill, holding his sword horizontally, and the two did not leap nor charge. They engaged at a walk, and Tyrion lashed out with his shield, his sword striking like a hydra four times, almost simultaneously.
His shield never rang again. The Goblin redirected two thrusts, spinning across the third and fourth, sword cutting in an arc for Tyrion’s neck.
[A Second of Time] saved the [Lord], and he jerked out of the cut. For a moment, Tyrion Veltras had the image of himself headless, blood spurting from the clean cut to his neck. He almost touched it, then set himself.
“There’s an injunction against killing here.”
He almost said it out loud, then felt ashamed to say that to a Goblin. The [Lord]’s armored boots dug into the ground as he charged. The Goblin wouldn’t stop grinning.
——
Healing potions were so nice. Redscar drank one as he waited for another foe. Stamina potions—not yet.
There was no fighting in the Trial of Blades except for the center. Some had begun, but it had petered out at once. What was the point?
A single warrior held the center of this place, challenging all sides. Until he fell, what was the point of jockeying for position, of taking out other competitors?
He was besting them all.
Groups of fighters didn’t have a chance. All but the Drakes had given up on even trying. The Goblin would just dodge or jump out of the way of a charging unit, take them apart from the sides, or barrel through them, moving, refusing to let them surround him. And if he felt like it, he’d just blow them away with that giant swing.
Nor was he kind. To the Antinium, perhaps, Liscor’s Watch, maybe. House Veltras, even, he was sparing after they carried their [Lord] away, blood running from his temples.
“Disengage! Disengage!”
Manus’ forces were losing limbs. His sword was too sharp. Lulv snarled as he watched the [Blademaster] dodge a thrust from a veteran [Soldier], then lop off their sword-hand.
“Rafaema, stay back. Zeter, I’m with you. We’re stopping that Goblin.”
The [Spearmaster] of Manus came off his hill, prowling forward, on the hunt, and Rafaema hesitated. For once, she hadn’t felt the desire to prove herself against a stronger foe. She couldn’t…figure out how to dodge some of his strikes.
“Both of you? Aldonss, isn’t that—?”
The [Wall Lord] of Manus made no comment as he watched. It was unfair. Everyone could see the famous Named-rank adventurer stomping towards the [Blademaster] as Lulv crept around his back. But which was worse? Taking the unfair strategy for victory, which Manus always did?
Or—admitting that both Lulv and Zeter were equal to the Goblin? Or even—
Behind?
No. Absolutely not. They were in the same level range! And yet—
——
The [Blademaster] charged forwards at last, meeting the Swordsman of Six’s two swords in an impact that shook the ground. Zeter had a greatsword in his hands, which was being held back by one of Redscar’s blades; the other was parrying a floating longsword.
The Named-rank adventurer’s eyes bulged in disbelief. He was matched in strength—with a Goblin? But of course, this clash of blades still favored the Swordsman of Six.
He had four more weapons floating above his head. And all four lashed out simultaneously, stabbing down at Redscar.
The [Blademaster] ducked a rapier-blade that pierced forwards and had to roll to avoid another of Zeter’s swords. He actually deflected the longsword as it swept at him, mid-roll, and sprang to his feet.
Few foes had survived Zeter’s simultaneous sword attacks. The Swordsman of Six was supremely confident in his abilities, his weapons, and his backup—but he felt a prickle of unease as Redscar reset his stance and walked towards him.
“Aura’s playing tricks on me, Lulv. Dead Goblins and momentary visions. Watch yourself.”
The Drake spoke into his private speaking stone. He wasn’t moved by Redscar’s aura. And the Swordsman of Six’s aura was…
Odd.
Zeter was true to the sword, but he didn’t resemble a stalking beast or a flurry of edges. Even Tyrion Veltras, levels lost, had still resembled a charging figure on horseback, a deadly onslaught of will and talent.
Zeter was a Drake with six swords, armored in plate mail, holding a greatsword he swung with economical cuts, the other five blades striking out, trying to catch his nimbler foe. He was just…a [Soldier]. His aura, his image of himself, was a [Soldier] covered in blood.
The blood never came off his armor, never washed off his swords. He struck, grim-faced, as Redscar met every single attack, dodging, parrying, dancing between the six swords, and Zeter snarled with incredulity—
And fear. But then he grew calmer, and Redscar felt a beast at his back.
Lulv’s aura was a wolf. Not a team of two, not a pack of animals, but a single, deadly creature who bounded forwards and caught Redscar from behind. His spear reached out, too fast, and nipped through Redscar’s side before trying to gut upwards.
Redscar’s dodge carried him out of range of the spear, and he had to deflect Zeter’s two-handed slash; he let the strike knock him away, out of range of both of the two warriors.
This time—the Goblin bled before he touched his opponents.
He left the image of a dead Goblin behind as the [Fangs of the Dire Wolf] closed, but there was only a single slice through his side. Lulv followed it up with a [Scythe of the Field] that actually struck Zeter; the Swordsman of Six staggered and slid sideways. Zeter snarled at Lulv and charged Redscar.
“[Quake Blade]!”
He brought his sword down in a simple strike that shook the ground. Lulv bounded around in a circle, opening up with a flurry of spearthrusts.
[Hurricane Stabs].
Redscar dodged the [Quake Blade] and hopped across the trembling ground. He parried Lulv’s stabs as fast as he could, gritting his teeth, then lurched back as the ground stopped shaking. Five stabs, each one shallow, on his legs and arms.
The teamwork of the two soldiers was too good. Zeter and Lulv pushed Redscar backwards, Zeter’s swords too deadly to ignore, Lulv attacking in the gaps, too many blows to block or parry.
Redscar retreated up a hill, taking a stab to the shoulder; he twisted, and one of Zeter’s floating blades cut his side open. But he did stab the Drake through the knee.
Zeter slowed, and Lulv snarled.
“Advance! Before he can recover!”
The Named-rank adventurer crunched a vial of healing potion between his teeth and spat out the shards. Now they were pressing Redscar downhill.
A trail of dead Goblins, Redscar’s aura. They were unsettling Lulv and Zeter; each version of Redscar grinned up at the two warriors. Then Lulv, advancing with his spear raised high, saw a Wyvern Lord swinging his tail around—
Lulv thrust his spear down and pushed up. He leapt over the wide slash that took Zeter off-guard.
Zeter blocked the cut with his greatsword—or tried to. He went stumbling backwards and clutched at his right shoulder. It was cut down to the bone. Rattled, the Drake lifted his sword, and Redscar stumbled. The heavy strike had upset his balance.
The Goblin stumbled, and Lulv aimed his third spear art down at Redscar as he fell from above.
Got you. [Spear Art: The Wyvern Dives].
Redscar was retreating downhill when the last part of his aura finally manifested. The plunging Lulv saw someone standing behind Redscar.
A little, white Gnoll girl.
Mrsha? It was just an illusion of Redscar’s mind, and Lulv didn’t hesitate. But Lulv also saw a Goblin [Chieftain] garbed in Wyvern armor and Carn Wolf fur staring up at him, fearless.
Leapwolf was leaning over the saddle of his Carn Wolf. Fightipilota stood next to Snapjaw and Icecube, and Rianchi and Dyeda were behind their wings.
Goblins. And a Gnoll girl. They stood behind Redscar, cheering, waving, or just watching.
His tribe. The vision flickered across the ground in the moments between Lulv plunging earthwards. Zeter leapt with a wild roar.
“[The Hammer of Manus]!”
Drake and Gnoll. Lulv missed his thrust downwards, but his [Spear Art] let him redirect his blow upwards, as he landed like a hunting Wyvern rising from its dive.
The Goblin could have kept moving back. But his tribe was right behind him. Just his tribe. No Garen. None of his comrades of old. His aura only held the living.
He had failed all his ghosts.
Lulv moved forwards into that image of Mrsha, and she wavered. Then the [Blademaster]’s eyes opened wide. His sword came up, and he swung it once.
Lulv’s [Spear Art] met Redscar’s sword, and the Gnoll’s spear nearly tore out of his hands. The [Spearmaster]’s eyes went round. That was a [Spear Art]. The [Blademaster] hadn’t even used a Skill—
The [Blademaster] leapt off the ground, a jumping Goblin meeting the falling Drake. And again—he thrust his sword forwards and met Zeter’s Skill in midair.
Lulv heard a scream and cursed. He saw two figures falling; one landed on the ground, nimbly moving back—the other slammed down, armor rattling. The overconfident Swordsman of Six lay there, clutching at something in his stomach.
Redscar’s blade was buried in it, pinning Zeter to the ground. That overconfident idiot. Lulv rushed the opening, attacking while Redscar was without a sword. He stabbed towards the Goblin’s chest—
[Elemental Quick-Draw].
Redscar unsheathed his other sword. He raised one arm and blocked Lulv’s spear-thrust. The Goblin’s left arm covered his chest, and the spear penetrated his flesh and bones—and got stuck on his ribs. Lulv tried to twist away—the lightning shortsword impaled him through the side. Lulv was electrocuted and frozen at the same time.
The Goblin twisted the blade and ripped it out of the Gnoll’s flesh. He kept moving, rolling as Lulv tried to spin.
Redscar’s backswing took one of the Gnoll’s legs off by the knee.
Lulv fell. The [Blademaster] rose, panting, the hole in his chest oozing blood. He reached for a healing potion and then dodged one of Zeter’s enchanted swords. Redscar walked over and stabbed downwards a second time, through the Drake’s chest. He gazed down at Zeter as the Swordsman of Six gaped at the blade’s tip, which had halted just above his heart. Lulv raised his spear to throw and saw Redscar glance at him.
Both warriors of Manus lay still.
——
Imperfect.
He was imperfect, he knew it. He had to use his Skills, he had to use every dirty trick and his observation of these other warriors to win.
That was the point. They were allowed to cheat. There was no such thing as honorable battle, and he knew…some of them were better than him.
The Archmage appeared after the Maestro. Redscar felt like the healing potions were starting to not work as well. He swore he saw the Unicorn healing some of the people he’d cut.
I could use some of that. Redscar’s body came alive as the half-Elf saluted him.
“Interesting. You appear to be a self-taught expert. In this era? I am Eldavin, the Archmage of Memory. In honor of the [Blademistress of Ancients], I challenge you.”
The [Blademaster] kept panting as he drew both blades, and Eldavin noticed. He flicked something into his hand after a moment’s hesitation.
“Need you a chance to rest?”
He was all courtesy, ancient skill—Redscar recognized him now. He was the Dragon, but not. The Goblin saw it now, in the eyes, the knowing way the half-Elf stood. His mastery of the blade.
But he wasn’t quite the Dragonlord. An echo, a shade too slow, too uncertain, someone going off memory rather than the certainty of experience. That was still more than enough. Redscar’s blood pulsed faster, and the [Blademaster] mumbled.
“She’ll hate you. But I…I can beat you. So long as you’re not complete.”
Eldavin’s eyes flickered uncertainly, and he glanced at Ryoka accusatorily. But Redscar didn’t need to be told.
He wondered how the Dragonlord of Flames would fight. This…copy of him knew the moves, but he hadn’t lived those battles. He was still—Eldavin blurred, and Redscar’s mind turned white—
Fast.
A spiral-stab like the King of Duels, which turned into a flick at Redscar’s eyes and then a diagonal parry and fiery cuts that left trails of actual flame in the air.
Blade-arts without the Skills. The Goblin survived the first clash, and it was Eldavin who raised a sleeve of his robes, blinking.
“How…did you do that?”
He should have had the [Blademaster], and both of them knew it. But it was Redscar’s blade that had nearly taken the Archmage’s hand off. The Goblin grinned.
“I saw you last time.”
The Archmage of Memory’s face grew slack, then uncertain. The Goblin jumped at him, grinning with all his teeth. Cheating. He had to reach the end. Eldavin moved back, feet tracing a pattern worthy of the finest Terandrian dances. Redscar’s eyes flickered, and the half-Elf vanished—and ran onto Redscar’s sword.
“No!”
Archmage Viltach howled in horror as he saw Eldavin impaled through the heart. The old half-Elf blinked—then grabbed Redscar’s arm. He yanked the blade out of his chest.
“Well, that will be hard to explain.”
“Aspat.”
The [Blademaster] agreed. He tried to break free; the Archmage of Memory calmly stabbed Redscar through the stomach and rammed him into the ground. He grimaced as he picked up his sword with his other hand.
“That was a bad trade. I see you, boy. Let’s try again.”
He lifted his left hand, flicking his sword up as Redscar coughed.
“Sure.”
The Goblin stood up, and Eldavin’s confidence wavered. Redscar had a hole in his stomach, but his spine and the nerves weren’t completely severed. He’d dodged at point-blank range. No, not just that…
“Ah. Galas muscle.”
“I feel stronger than I used to be.”
The air was pulsing around the [Blademaster]. He lifted his swords and set himself; the blood rushing from his stomach had stopped, because he had no time to bleed out.
The Archmage of Memory hesitated. His body was made of magic. He was as fast as Redscar, strong—if not stronger, and he could neither bleed nor die normally.
He was armed with the knowledge of the Dragonlord of Flames, who had earned the right to call himself blademaster countless times in any body. This was his battle to win, and the Goblin knew it. Yet the half-Elf made a mistake as he whispered a spell.
“[Greater Appraisal].”
Eldavin beheld his foe, and his confidence faded. He read the class above Redscar’s head and wilted.
Level 49 [Blademaster of the Crimson Battlefield].
The half-Elf backed up, breathing coming faster, sweat beading on his forehead. The Goblin’s lips moved as his eyes blazed brighter, turning the world red.
“Do you see me?”
——
—No one could take on this many masters and not bleed. He was losing his edge, but they were so…fascinating.
The—Slayer—met him harder than even the Archmage, who had lost his nerve. He was a curious insect. Redscar couldn’t even see his real body; it was all hidden behind the broken, ruined body. An ancient legend swinging its blades at him, frustrated by its every ineptitude.
Soft. The Slayer had gotten soft.
Relc was stronger, in his way. Like Redscar, his aura was conflicted. Redscar’s opponents saw his many deaths, his greatest foes—and when they pushed him—the reasons he had to swing his sword. A trifecta of who he was.
Relc was the same way. When the Gecko of Liscor lowered his spear, he charged forwards like the headman’s axe, a straightforwards javelin tossed to kill its foes. Soldier—the [Sergeant] was the easier foe to best. He and Redscar traded strikes that were economical, honed to kill. Then, Relc seemed to realize he would lose after the third time he and Redscar touched blades.
The Drake drew back, brushed at a cut on his cheek, and that headhunting officer vanished. A gentler, subtler figure held the spear then.
A spearmaster who loved the weapon he wielded and held it like a child’s toy, light as a feather. He made his spear dance—and Redscar whirled away, stabbed through the kneecap. But grinning in delight.
Unlike Zeter, Relc Grasstongue was transforming, and that Relc with the gentle thrust of his spear was the more beautiful of the two, past and present.
Even so—Relc faced Redscar and saw the [Blademaster] was upon his own journey. But unlike Relc, there was no time to walk forwards slowly for Redscar. Only urgency. Need. The souls he was striving to protect driving every cut of his blade forwards.
The Gecko of Liscor exchanged four more blows with Redscar, then raised his hands and backed away. The first of Redscar’s foes to quit without bleeding ichor across the grass.
Redscar respected Relc the most for that. Then came his next opponents: Tekshia and Embria—a faded flower content to only show her thorns when needed, and a young, uncertain sprout following her father’s steps—
——
Redscar was on his hands and knees when someone poured another healing potion over him. Not all of his foes wanted to kill him—and he had help. Help?
“Come on. The Drakes are getting ready. Keep showing me more.”
Redscar, the younger Redscar, poured the rest of the potion on Redscar’s head as the Flooded Waters tribe surrounded him, keeping the Drake offensive back. Typhenous and Riz were also brandishing their blades at the [Soldiers], ignoring the cries of ‘cheating’ from the spectators. Redscar pushed himself up.
“Don’t worry. I have to meet her. I—we—failed her last time. She seemed so disappointed. This time…I’ll disappoint her twice. But I need her help.”
“Who?”
The [Blademaster] laughed at his younger self. Why, the most beautiful woman in the world. The most beautiful; nevermind what other Goblins said about Rags or Erin or Lady Wuvren or anyone else.
The most beautiful…lonely woman.
One of the most dangerous fighters stepped towards Redscar as he lifted his weary arms, panting for air. The Goblin knew he had to focus. This enemy was deadly. Not because the fighter was the best with the blade here. No.
It was because the [Lieutenant of Perfection], Comois, had no mercy. And he had the best Skills. There was no respect in the Drake’s eyes. No appreciation for his foes.
“[Perfect Slash].”
The [Lieutenant] raised his sword and brought it down in a diagonal cut that swept out horizontally at the last moment. Nigh-impossible to predict; he could have cut vertically with the same gesture. So fast his sword wasn’t even a steel blur; it seemed to vanish and appear at the end of his cut.
Comois nearly took Redscar’s head off there and then. His strike was beautiful—but the [Blademaster] parried it, barely. The sword glanced off the edge of Redscar’s blade, and the Goblin stepped back. His arm was shaking.
The Drake gave him no time to breathe. Instead, Comois instantly sheathed his sword as he advanced.
“[Perfect Draw].”
He laid open Redscar’s nearly-healed leg, stabbing into bone. The Drake wrenched his sword free, and his [Perfect Parry] turned Redscar’s blade, which had been going for his right arm.
Too fast! The simultaneous attack and defense left Redscar faltering, only for Comois to unleash another [Perfect Cut]. Redscar jerked his head sideways. He felt at the tip of his right ear, and there was only a line of pain.
Damn it, he’d liked the top of his right ear. He bared his teeth and sheathed his sword. The Drake [Lieutenant] had paused to inspect Redscar.
Contempt was scrawled over Comois’ face. He sheathed his sword as well. I’m better than you are. Faster. The Drake’s aura was perfect arrogance, superiority made manifest. He glowed, and the rest of the world stood in the shadow of his light.
The two advanced forwards at a walk, contempt radiating between them. Redscar had longed for this too, selfishly, when he had seen Comois reaping his bloody harvest on the battlefield the first time. Of all those here—he hated this Drake and this Drake alone.
You’re over Level 40 too, aren’t you? One of the best. Maybe the best in your entire army. You are. Everything you do is…perfect.
Small wonder he could beat Yvlon, Typhenous, and so many others with such ease. Comois struck faster, more precisely, than they did. It was a literal battle against perfection, and so many, Redscar included, were imperfect. The [Blademaster] was the exact opposite of perfection, in fact.
Nevertheless, the Goblin held nothing but disrespect for the [Lieutenant] who had reached his level by his utter obsession with the blade. Redscar was sure the lady he longed to meet again would have felt the same.
All you are is perfection. Every strike, every block, every move you make is the best one…but it is always the same. A Golem’s motions. No originality, nothing else to it but what you were taught was the best.
The Drakes’ finest warrior tensed, and the [Blademaster] drew his sword almost lazily. Comois’ sword was so fast it vanished.
[Perfect Draw]—an angled, vertical quick-draw meant to bisect Redscar, so quick and precise even the [Blademaster] couldn’t dodge it.
Redscar used his other Skill taken from the Titan’s battle.
[Title Skill: Bane of the Titan – My Blade is Faster].
“Argh!”
Comois screamed. He jerked and backed away as his sword-arm spurted blood, slashing wildly. His eyes were huge, and he clapped a hand to his arm as one of the [Soldiers] surrounding them threw a potion over him.
“Lieutenant! Reset! You have him!”
General Edellein was roaring encouragement, and the [Lieutenant of Perfection] stopped stumbling back. Redscar shook blood off the tip of his blade and beckoned with it.
Come on, show me again.
This time, there was a crack in Comois’ confidence. He approached slowly, trying to bait an attack out. Then—
[Perfect Slice]—
Both swung their swords while trying to dodge at the same time. Redscar bled again as the two exchanged blows. The Goblin came away with a cut that ran down one arm, exposing bone. Comois felt at the place where Redscar’s sword had left a mark on his teeth, slashing open his entire right cheek. And the Drake’s confidence, like the Archmage of Memory’s—broke.
Redscar had lost that exchange. But he was faster. His Skill trumped Comois’ perfect speed. It didn’t even beat the Drake’s Skill, but the single chink in the Drake’s poise was enough.
Perfection broke so easily. The single, tiniest flaw and you fell apart. That glow of confidence around the [Lieutenant] was suddenly—cracked.
Comois’ eyes rolled right and left, now seeking a way out, and Redscar sheathed his sword.
“This time, without the Skill. Come on. Show me you’re worthy of her.”
All his teeth were bared, and the Drake didn’t understand, but he grasped onto that straw of hope. He was afraid, now, thinking this was a trick.
It wasn’t. Comois was at the end of the path he had chosen. Skills. All he had were Skills. Redscar had seen Skills were just a way of giving you what you shouldn’t have—early. Encouragement.
All you had to do was swing your sword without Skills, without magic. Just so and—
Ah—
They traded one final blow. Redscar staggered and peered down at the cut in his shoulder that had nearly taken off his arm. He still couldn’t do it right. But it was enough.
Twice, as before, so again, a headless Drake toppled to the ground, and Edellein howled as the Drakes cried out. Redscar shook blood off his blade as he gazed at Comois’ corpse. Then he wondered why everyone was screaming in horror at him. The Goblin thought about it, and then his eyes widened.
“Uh oh. I forgot. No killing—”
A ray of light that was brighter than sunlight, more magic than magic, touched Redscar, and he vanished.
Oops.
——
The rules were simple. The <Heroic Quest> was offered; conditions set. As the first <Quest> to have penalties for breaking the rules, enforcement hadn’t actually been implemented by the Grand Design at the time, but it had been clear.
<Limits: Must use a blade of any kind. No magic. No killing.>
This version of the [Palace of Fates] had even lifted the original restrictions about no enchantments and no armor to allow Redscar the greatest challenges he needed. But it had left that one bit intact.
No killing.
So, just as last time, the Grand Design copied what it had done in the original timeline and vanished Redscar. Whisked him away to a place until the Trial of Blades was over, to await judgement by the [Blademistress of Ancients].
Here was a question a few people had wondered last time as well as this time:
Where did you go?
At last, Redscar found the answer he hadn’t actually really wondered about because he hadn’t been paying attention.
——
It was…neither bright nor dark, but lit. There was no sun. There was a ceiling, oddly, but it had no material that Redscar could name. The ‘walls’ were like beige stone, but not stone. It was as if you took an idea, ‘wall’, and put it there.
The room was circular and had no exits or entrances. It was vast; it had to be to hold all the weird constructions in it. And all the writing.
So much writing. Lines and lines of golden text running down the walls, the words so vivid and powerful that they were beyond anything, even a Tier 9 spell.
The very heart of the world, a place that no mortal had been meant to glimpse. But Redscar had been taken here because he needed to be held, because this was an unprecedented event.
Well, the second unprecedented event in the Grand Design’s inception. It hadn’t corrected its enforcement mechanism for the Trial of Blades; why would it have? It had happened once, and that was that.
That was how Redscar found himself in the middle of a little circle in the ground, inscribed with neat, glowing words that contained him perfectly. Like the [Palace of Fates], there was no breaching the invisible barrier between him and the outside. He was stuck, trapped, a fool and a rule breaker and really uncomfortable because he was jammed up against the second rule breaker of the Trials of Blades. And this cage had not been meant to fit two people inside.
“Argh! Get off of my shoulder—”
“Your knee is in my balls.”
“Who the hell is—Redscar? You killed someone too?”
The Goblin was pressed nearly cheek-to-cheek with someone. A familiar, gravelly voice was in his ears, and he froze.
No. It couldn’t be. He’d seen him in the Trial of Blades. But when he turned his head and saw the flaxen hair, the stubble on the Gold-rank adventurer’s chin—
He smelled like frost, dried sweat, and the road itself, as if it had worked itself into his very bones. His skin was roughened from the weathering of the outdoors, and that, combined with his short-cropped hair and naturally pessimistic expression, made him look older than he actually was.
An old man in a younger body, cynical and crabby, masking the quiet champion who would raise his bow to help anyone he found worthy—which were so many people. A man who had not left his name in a trail of small deeds across a lifetime that had etched him, just like the one his boots had left over the wilds and distant lands.
A bowman, a ranger, and a hunter combined into one. Soldier. Adventurer. Captain.
There he was, suddenly, unexpectedly, smushed up against the invisible barrier in the air, wide-eyed with surprise.
Captain Halrac Everam. Redscar croaked.
“Halrac?”
The [Bowman of Loss] was very uncomfortable and didn’t have that speechless quality Redscar had. He growled, trying to shift, and they swivelled until they were almost scissoring each other, nose-to-nose. They were squeezed into this tube so close together that they were rubbing together.
Since this was not the intimate contact he wanted, Halrac swiveled around until he was back to back. With a sigh, Redscar did the same. He found this situation acceptable in that sense. The being squished in a tiny capsule instead of meeting the [Blademistress]…less so.
Now back-to-back, they spoke, voices strained.
“Dead gods, who did you kill? Are the Drakes massacring everyone? I had to stop that [Lieutenant]; he was too dangerous, and he wasn’t willing to quit.”
“Huh? No…how’d you get here? I saw you on the sidelines! I killed Comois!”
“You? You must have missed me. I took his head off. Was it another Drake?”
“No, Comois. That arrogant, stupid…wait, waitwaitwait…this isn’t right.”
Redscar’s back was crawling. He tried to jerk his head around and realized Halrac was doing the same. The adventurer, who was tetchy at the best of times, growled at him.
“You’re not making any sense! This was unpleasant enough before you got here—you killed someone else!”
“Did not. I killed Comois. In…that door. Wait. No. No, you’re dead.”
“I’m not dead. Do they think I am? I’ve been here—why are you staring at me?”
Halrac.
Not the Halrac from the world that Redscar had just been in; that was impossible. That Halrac had never drawn his blade. Never had to; Typhenous had never fought Comois. But then—
This could not be. For they were here in this holding place in the center of everything and nothing, a place out of any world, where they could wait to be judged.
A place out of time. So this Halrac was—no, it was impossible. Redscar’s breath came quicker.
It shouldn’t be happening. You weren’t supposed to ever see the dead. That was what Redscar believed. He hadn’t put as much of his emotions into the [Palace of Fates] because the dead stayed dead. All the people in the future had just been—copies. But he felt it, now.
Halrac was getting madder, purely confused by this situation and Redscar’s seeming lies. Because he had no idea what to do, Redscar stuck his lips out and kissed Halrac on the cheek.
“Mwah. Heh.”
It was too real, and he regretted it. Halrac exploded in fury.
“Stop that!”
The two struggled around as Halrac tried to hit Redscar, but the [Blademaster] was actually far, far more shaken than the [Bowman of Loss]. Because if what he suspected was true…
“Okay, no more fun. No one handsome ever likes other men. Except maybe Lord of the Dance. I killed Comois.”
Halrac rested his head against the [Blademaster]’s neck.
“Redscar, I am telling you, I killed him. I was teleported here before you. Logically…”
“Nuh. Shut up. You don’t get it. I killed Comois just now. In another…world. Dimension-thing. Timeline? I don’t actually know. But he was another Comois, another Trial of Blades. I’m the same Redscar, but that’s how we’re here. Yet you already escaped this place. So why are you still here?”
“…What?”
It took a long time for Redscar to explain, and he knew he did a bad job because Halrac kept interrupting him at higher volumes. But the [Bowman of Loss] got the gist of it in the end.
Hours might have passed. Frankly, and this wasn’t a good thing, days. They’d talked so long both were aware of how long it had been, but neither one had grown tired. Or needed to pee. And Redscar knew he was cut pretty badly, but he didn’t see any blood.
Halrac grunted.
“We’re not going to need to eat or drink or anything else. I don’t even sleep. I know it’s been a while, but I gave up counting after reaching…a big million.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what you get after nine hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine. I’m sure there’s an actual number for it.”
“I didn’t even know million existed, so that’s pretty good.”
The [Bowman] shook his head stiffly.
“Anyways. I’ve been here a while, and you’re telling me that you’re from this [Palace of Fates] thing?”
“Yah.”
“Which is a Skill that Erin Solstice doesn’t have yet, but might, and you got in here with the Faerie Flowers, which have magical roots?”
“Mhm.”
“—Which allow you to cheat and enter these worlds, so you decided you needed to hit Level 50 because there’s an Old One Titan running about, and so you took on the Trial of Blades again and killed Comois?”
“Right.”
“—And ended up here, just like me.”
“Yep. How crazy is all that, eh?”
Halrac tried to rub his face, tired, but just elbowed Redscar in the side.
“I wish I could say this is ridiculous, but it sounds halfway plausible. I know Erin, and I know those damn Faerie Flowers. What I don’t get is how you apparently saw me return and yet I’m here.”
“That’s a puzzling thing, eh? Probably time-weirdness. Because I went into the past, and you can go into the future.”
“Wh—lead with that? The future?”
“Yep. Rags and Mrsha, our Rags and Mrsha—there are more now—went into the future, and it sucked. [Heroes] everywhere, and Erin’s still dead in that timeline. Everyone uses stupid rings and teleports everywhere.”
“I need a second.”
They took six thousand seven hundred and eighty-eight. Then Halrac felt better and continued asking questions.
“Well, I’ve been here. If I get out at some point, that would be great. And it’s not the most unpleasant. You lose track of time—I imagine you would too, except that this is not comfortable.”
“Yah. What we gonna do about it?”
“Well, I have some magical cards in my bag of holding that I played with until I got tired. Then I just stood here. But if we’re stuck—and believe me, there is no way out, there’s no Skills or magic, and these invisible walls are impenetrable to everything I’ve got—then we’ll just have to talk. And try not to squish each other. Maybe if we took off our gear?”
Let’s see. Squished together for all of eternity in a too-tight box. Redscar thought about it.
“Well, if we’re stuck here forever, we can have mad sex.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m real good at it. You’ll get bored and want to try. It lots of fun once you give it a shot. I know tons of Goblins who try it once and decide it’s worth it. I think it’s way more fun than the ladies, but they get mad when I say that.”
Halrac refused to reply, and Redscar was mostly joking. Mostly. He had no desire to stay here when he had to help his Chieftain and said so. Plus…there was something he’d been omitting.
“Halrac. I have something to tell you. Something…difficult.”
“If you’re attracted to me, keep it inside. And keep your pants on.”
Redscar laughed. Then he grew quiet. This was hard. It was harder than losing someone, in a way, because he had never had to tell someone they were dead.
“Halrac, in my time, you came out of the Trial of Blades. We had some fun times. Eh, there was the beach…even I liked it. Then the Winter Solstice.”
“I think Erin was worried about that. What…happened then?”
Halrac knew. He knew from how Redscar spoke, and he glanced at the Goblin’s eyes. The [Blademaster] refused to look away. The grey eyes of the [Bowman of Loss] never flinched, even in the face of it. Redscar remembered that very well.
“There was some…dead god. A woman who controls death. She sent Draugr at the inn. Thousands of them. A hundred thousand. Drakes fought. The Five Families fought. We all did, and we were fighting to our deaths. Then…she came for Erin. And we tried to stop her. You died. So did a lot of people.”
Redscar’s words brought with them the fate-touched truth, and it sank into Halrac’s bones, and he shivered.
That was all. He didn’t deny what Redscar said, or weep. The [Bowman] took the blow and stood still, as if trying to see how bad it was, before realizing it was his end.
Halrac said nothing for a long time, too long to count. He seemed about to deny it, ask questions, or say something filled with casual bravado. At last, he murmured.
“Who else?”
“Thunderfur, Kevin, Moore, Ulinde, Gershal…”
Then Halrac flinched. His eyes opened wide, and anguish appeared.
“Moore? Kevin? Not them. They shouldn’t die.”
They shouldn’t die. Halrac’s voice was hoarse. His hands clenched, and his body grew still, head swivelling, looking for death itself to object. Then he sagged; a man who had always known he would die and only hoped it would not come for those he loved.
“Mrsha? Revi, Typhenous, Briganda. Erin? Did anyone else…?”
“No. No one else I know.”
A third time the man’s posture changed. His own death had not surprised him; his comrades and friends had wounded him. He took a long, shuddering breath, and the knowledge that no one else had died made the adventurer grow calm.
Almost proudly, he stood, bleeding from the heart. His next words were fitting of the greatest warriors that Redscar had known.
“Better us than anyone else. But Kevin…how? Explain it to me. And—I don’t know some of those names. Thunderfur?”
“Oh, Thunderfur is my Carn Wolf. He died. I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
Redscar swallowed hard.
“Thanks. Lots…let me tell you the full story.”
He was getting better at it, even if he was still poor, and he recounted what he remembered of Erin Solstice, from her kidnapping to the battle at sea to what had happened afterwards, from his perspective. When Halrac heard about what Erin had suffered, he was silent, tensed. Then, when the story was over, he exhaled.
“So I died. And that’s…that’s part of the reason Mrsha did all this? That girl—this is too much for her. Why didn’t you stop her?”
Redscar gave Halrac a shrug.
“Rags wanted to, but I’m not smart enough to. Mrsha saw the [Palace of Fates] and saw what you could do. Why would I stop her? Would you?”
“Yes! I’d do it for her! It sounds like a disaster!”
“Yah.”
“She’s too young, you idiot! Lyonette could do it or Erin or someone else! Anyone!”
“True.”
Halrac wanted to punch Redscar; the [Blademaster] knew he got on people’s nerves. Rags punched him all the time, or tried to.
“So—doesn’t it feel wrong? She’s a child!”
He finally got an arm around and hit Redscar clumsily. In reply, Redscar moved his head forward a fraction and gave Halrac a headbutt that hurt both of them.
“She’s older than me. Let her do something that matters, idiot. No, wait, sorry, you’re dead. I should be nicer to you.”
They fell silent as they nursed their injuries a second, and after a moment, Redscar murmured.
“I was sad when you died. I never really knew you or liked you, but it was very sad. Moore…was very sad. The last half-Giant of Izril, they said.”
Halrac’s voice was hoarse.
“He might have very well been. Moore. Kevin. Dead gods. And here we are, and—now I want to get out. I wish you hadn’t told me. Think! If you got trapped here—is there nothing we can do? What happens if someone else makes your mistake?”
Redscar gloomily shrugged.
“We get really uncomfortable. It might be Asgra, if anything. At least she’s small.”
He felt Halrac’s shoulders shaking and worried the man was having a nervous breakdown until he figured out the grim archer was laughing silently. It surprised Redscar, and then he laughed too.
It was so ridiculous. But this was Erin’s inn. At last, Halrac calmed down.
“Let’s at least see what we have to pass the time with or…well, you’ll get bored soon enough, and your mind just starts to wander. We might last longer together. Let’s hatch a plan if we can do anything. Check your bag of holding. I know mine by heart. Do you have anything to eat? I’ve missed that. Then I’ll tell you what I think this place is.”
“Oh, good idea. I have no idea what those tall, stupid buildings are.”
“Towers. They’re towers. I recalled a story about Wyverns building one once. That one, perhaps. And the writing…oh. Food.”
Halrac’s fingers closed around a sandwich. It had blue mold on it; Redscar had forgotten he had it, but the [Bowman of Loss] wolfed it down so fast that Redscar got the feeling he’d been here a very, very long time. The Goblin was more cautious about pulling more food out of his bag of holding, and he felt around.
“Let’s see. I’ve got…toothpaste. Blade oil. Lots of blade oil. Can you eat that?”
“Give it to me and I’ll try it.”
“No. It’s good oil. Hm, hm…wait, I have—oh yeah, a root.”
“What kind? Tree root? I’ll take that too.”
Halrac felt Redscar rummaging around his bag of holding, and then the Goblin produced a long, rope-like root. The Goblin stared at it.
“Asgra gave it to me in case I got stuck in the doors like Mrsha and Rags. Probably not great eating.”
He began to nibble on it experimentally and was fishing for a dagger to cut a bit off when Halrac stiffened.
“Wait, you have a Faerie Flower root here? The ones you used to breach into the [Palace of Fates]?”
“Yep. Tastes terrible.”
“A root that can pierce Skills and you had it in your bag of holding all along?”
“Mhm. Forgot. You want—”
“Try to free us from here, you idiot!”
“Oh.”
There was a moment of silence, then…the two men popped out of the containment cell so fast they hit the ground. Redscar rolled to his feet and saw the root hanging out of the air, just like the doors.
“Hah! It worked! Hm.”
He put his head in his hand and thought as Halrac leapt to his feet with a wild yell of relief, patting himself down. The Human man stretched with such joy, but Redscar was concerned.
Maybe I am stupid. He decided he needed to work on that. Then Halrac grabbed him and kissed Redscar on the cheek.
“We’re free. We did it! We’re free and—thank you!”
The Goblin was very receptive to the thank-you, but Halrac let go and began stretching his legs and exclaiming. The Goblin sighed.
“It could have been Saliss or Wailant or…”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. So what is this place?”
He sat cross-legged as Halrac caught himself and began explaining the room. The [Bowman] jogged around the vast dome.
“I’ve thought for ages about what this place is. I think it’s the heart of the system of levels. The actual system that controls everything. This writing isn’t magical, but it’s powerful. Now, the only thing in these rooms are these constructions. What do they look like to you?”
Since Halrac had given the answer away, Redscar craned his neck back.
“Towers. Big towers.”
Each one was massive, truly. In his containment cell, Redscar hadn’t gotten a chance to really crane his neck back and appreciate how vast each one was, but he realized, by comparing them to his memories of Pallass, that these were, in fact, the tallest structures he had ever seen in his entire life.
They were not all of the same height; in fact, they marched around the room in a clockwise direction by ascending height. Redscar tried to estimate the heights, and Halrac called out.
“It ranges from just over three hundred feet, in one tower, to eight hundred feet exactly to just under nine hundred.”
“Whoa. You sure?”
“Absolutely. I had nothing to do than guess the height. It was a great…day…when I realized that second tower is 800 feet perfectly. I used that to measure the rest of the room. For fun.”
So you had a bunch of towers, and the last one was near nine hundred feet tall. Right. Okay.
…The towers made no sense. Redscar focused on the second one from the start and saw it was made of precious metals. If he wasn’t an idiot twice…
“Are those Dragon scales?”
Halrac ran over to it and touched the scales. He drew his hand back from a red pattern around the base.
“It’s still warm. Yes! They’re definitely real, not just clever carvings.”
The entire damn tower was covered in Dragon scales. Having seen Teriarch’s, Redscar appreciated the magnificence of the magical armor of Dragons, and his brows shot up. A fortune to beggar any nation was embedded in this tower—and that was apart from the fortune in other materials!
Gold, truegold, silver, jade, nigh on every precious metal ever dreamt of was worked into this tower in ways that somehow passed beyond gaudy and excessive and looped around to actually impressive. The edifice was beautiful and written with words Redscar didn’t recognize.
“Some language…it’s not Goblin.”
“I think it’s Draconic. It looks slightly similar to Drake writing.”
“And that’s this tower. That one…”
There were dozens of towers! Not an infinite number by far, but Redscar gave up on counting because he had a feeling Halrac had counted everything. Instead, he focused on the other towers.
Curiously, the first tower Halrac had bypassed was far humbler than the magnificent Dragon one. It was a hair over three hundred feet tall and made of twisting vines and wood, flowering with blooms. Still impressive, but not the same. Only three hundred feet—then you jumped to eight hundred feet.
Why? The other towers were minutely taller than the last tower by a foot, a dozen feet at most, creeping up in height until the final one. Redscar observed another tower further around the room and frowned at it.
This tower was the exact opposite of the first one. It was…shit. Redscar knew shit construction; Redfangs were terrible builders. But this was bad, even by that low standard.
Pieces of wood and stone had been lashed together in a massive, crude base, then piled up to form a tower that was held together with rope, ice, other materials, and what looked like mud stuck together to form primitive glue. Each layer had been painstakingly built upwards, and you could see where the tower had clearly fallen or snapped; the builders had just rebuilt it higher.
Looking at it, Redscar saw damage in places; deep grooves on the walls of the tower, gash marks he recognized. That was what fascinated him, because unless he missed his guess…
“Those claw marks. Big monsters.”
“Yes! It could have been Wyverns. It’s too big for even Griffins. You noticed it too.”
Halrac was coming off his exuberant high at being free. He stomped over and pointed to the base.
“If they made it, it explains why it’s so badly done. There are other towers clearly designed by creatures without hands. Some are genius. Others desperate. See how wide they had to make the base?”
Redscar did. The entire construction began to list a third of the way up, and the frantic builders had gotten this final version to the requisite height by luck and speed. It appeared ready to topple over, but he suspected that like he and Halrac had been, the glowing magic was preserving it.
“So, maybe Wyverns made a tower, and so did Dragons. Why?”
It mystified him. A few people could have told him the answer, of course, but he wasn’t supposed to know. Mind you, Halrac had gotten close.
“I think it’s some kind of a test. Each species…no, look at these towers first.”
One of the towers was the most beautifully-designed piece of symmetry that Redscar had ever seen. It was so vertical, so perfect, the Goblin rubbed at his eyes.
“Who did this?”
“Golems. I think. Can you imagine anyone else…? And that magical tower? Djinni. Or perhaps Jinn. You can tell some species from their handprints or other features. See that tower over there?”
Redscar turned, shaded his eyes, and then shuddered.
“Yuck. Who’s that.”
“Selphids.”
There was an eerie quality to the tower that Redscar didn’t like. If he had been trapped here with Geneva Scala, the [Doctor] could have told him this bore resemblances to the Gathering Citadel she had been imprisoned in. Nor did the Goblin know the word trypophobia—the fear of tiny holes in a structure.
The design was simply and utterly alien to him. None of the shapes were logical to him—they very well could have come from the minds of Selphids, who saw the world in ways so dissimilar to other species that it gave rise to their unsettling architecture.
However—Redscar felt like Halrac’s conclusions were, well, inconclusive. He raised a hand as the [Bowman] wanted to hurry him on.
“How do you know it’s Selphid? Sure, it looks weird, but anyone could do that. Even the Dragon tower and Wyvern one might not be them. The Golem tower could be just…smart people.”
True, the Wyvern tower had a lot of supporting evidence, but for peoples with hands and minds, any tower could belong to any people. Halrac’s somewhat manic demeanor faded. He strode back over and nodded.
“It’s not purely based on the architecture. Though I think…these towers are defined by each species, because they were built when each and every one was young. Out of desperation.”
“Again, you say that, but how do you know?”
Redscar was getting mildly frustrated, and he realized it was Rags’ influence, her desire for logical conclusions and complex thinking. For answer, Halrac walked back to the other towers.
“I think they’re old, Redscar. So old you can see when each species found their moment or first appeared. Look. Here’s a proof I thought I saw for…ages. But I wasn’t certain because I couldn’t get a good angle to see. That isn’t the Golem tower after all; this one is.”
What he pointed out to Redscar made no sense from where the Goblin stood. The [Marksman] was, in fact, pointing towards the Wyvern tower.
“Okay, now you’re messing with me. That’s the Golem tower? How?”
It was ugly as could be, and the cool-looking, logical tower felt like…Halrac pointed to something at the base, and Redscar squinted, then came over.
Amidst the mismatch of half-collapsed walls and rubble making up the foundations of the rebuilt tower was an odd object. Something that didn’t quite fit the rest of the stone, but wasn’t visible from where you’d stand in the cage. Halrac walked around the bottom of the tower, and Redscar stopped.
“Okay. This is the Golem tower.”
After all—he and Halrac gazed at the raised arms of a Golem made out of stone, eyes dark and empty. One arm was broken away, but the Golem just stood there, half-crumbled. Holding the tower up.
“Its Golem Heart is shattered.”
Halrac pointed to an empty groove in its chest. Redscar stood there, suddenly terribly uneasy. He turned away abruptly.
“—Now this is sad. So—one of them just stood there? And died because otherwise the tower would be…”
Halrac’s manic energy had drained away completely. He stood, reevaluating his conclusions.
“Or maybe it was falling. I was wrong. It—it must have been under attack. By Wyverns or something else. This Golem held it up, and when it passed, they built on his—their back.”
“It’s so…clumsy.”
They gazed up at this ramshackle tower, held up with luck and, Redscar realized, spells. The frozen ice—he could imagine an Ice Golem desperately freezing the structure, using magic to keep it upright.
“But Golems are smart. Some of them. Everyone talks about Cognita.”
“Maybe this was before Cognita. Before Truestone Golems. Think. You’ve met Golems, Redscar, haven’t you? What if…”
What if they were the first Golems? Cruder, meant to be laboring giants. Or Golems with that spark of sentience who had to figure it all out. Build…build a damn tower in the middle of nowhere with no tools. Only desperation.
That was what stood out, suddenly. Redscar turned, and he began analyzing the towers through another lens.
Desperation. A few towers had been built deliberately, to be grandiose edifices, like the tower that he still thought Dragons had probably made. But the rest…there was a sense each builder had poured all they knew into the towers.
But it was also all they had. The materials around them. And sometimes—clearly—whatever could be scavenged.
There was a tower that had belonged to some seafaring species, and neither Halrac nor Redscar were sure it was Drowned Folk. But it had barnacles on the sides of ship hulls, pieces of rusted metal, wood and clay, and you saw how hard it was.
Nine hundred feet of materials. What a hellish task. What a cruel task. Each tower suddenly seemed horrible to Redscar. They reeked of…of…hope. Uncertainty. Desperation. Sacrifice.
Who had made them build it? Abruptly, Redscar wanted to punch something. Halrac’s smile had vanished, but he did have thoughts here. He rested a hand against the barrier in the air, leading to the Golem tower.
“Now you see all these towers, what do you think, Redscar?”
The [Blademaster] gave it a really good think this time. He searched his brain, trying to come up with answers, and because he had, well, forever, he finally came up with something.
“Wait…wait…each species is intelligent. Smart enough to build a tower. Even if this one wasn’t made by Wyverns…Wyverns might have made that one? Or that one? The Wyvern Lord wants to get with my Chieftain, I think. And Golems are smart, some of them.”
“What? Yes, this is definitely deliberate. Each species has a kind of civilization, even at a tribal level. It took me longer to think of Wyverns like that, but after Antinium—and speaking of them, look at one of the last towers. There.”
This one was sleek and tall, and Redscar scratched his side. With all due deference to not making a mistake again, he came to a swift conclusion.
“Antinium.”
He wouldn’t have gotten it from the tower; it was not distinctly chitinous or ‘buggy’. What decided Redscar was just one feature that made up support struts along the tower’s base.
The silverish, impressively hard material looked exactly like Klbkch’s swords. Halrac nodded; it was the obvious conclusion. The [Marksman] strode over to the writing on the walls.
“Now—I’m going to point this out to you, but do you see the writing around each one? Don’t bother trying to read it; it takes forever, and I can’t work out what it says, even after all this time. But there’s a line—here. And on Selphids and a few other species.”
When he pointed it out, Redscar could identify the same line on the others. After that, the writing grew far more complex and varied, and he noted the towers without this line had less writing.
“Oh. Oh…they passed a test.”
“Exactly. And the test was—I think it was—to gain the ability to level.”
Halrac breathed the words, and Redscar had no idea if he should gasp or scream. So he just nodded.
“But why did the others fail?”
That was the tricky question, and the [Bowman] walked over and confessed he had no idea. He sat down, and Redscar broke out his food. They sipped water and drank food. Then Redscar got up to pee and realized there was a problem.
“Uh oh. I just peed.”
“…On the Creler tower?”
Redscar leapt back from one of the last towers built. He stared upwards, then whirled to Halrac.
“Crelers built a tower?”
Halrac’s face was grim. He nodded to the tower before which Redscar stood. Again, it didn’t look like a Creler tower. It was made of neat frames of ivory, hides, and had a quality that Redscar might have associated with Gnolls. Then he thought about it again.
Ivory. What did you use if you had nothing to make something with?
The things you killed. The prickling on his back grew worse. Halrac’s proof it might have been Crelers were, again, pieces of mangled chitin ripped off in huge sections and which formed the base.
“That’s Adult Creler armor. Or bigger. I hope they cannibalized some of their own to make that. They made a tower too. And failed. You’re right there’s some decisions I don’t understand; I’m positive that the writing here explains it. It’s not the same for those who pass. My guess is there’s other requirements, and this is the…reasoning. Negotiations?”
Again, he was guessing, but when the two stared up at the delicate writing that was too complex for their minds to handle, they couldn’t read the words. But the intention was almost vividly clear.
Negotiations. A back-and-forth that conjured two sides in Redscar’s mind. A desperate flurry of voices and one implaccable one. Bargaining. Threats? Refusal. Pleas—
He tore his eyes away from the Creler tower, disturbed. Because if he hadn’t known better, he would have felt almost bad for the negotiations that took place over this failed tower. He gazed around and saw similar writing over each one.
So you had to build the tower and then…speak to someone.
Something.
That idea was fascinating to Redscar. You had to build a tower and do other stuff and then you’d get classes? The idea of Wyverns with classes was scary—and cool—and he wondered aloud.
“What tower did my people build, then, or yours, Halrac?”
He couldn’t see anything inherently Goblin, but he could bet some of the towers were theirs! Halrac shook his head.
“I…don’t think we had to build any. It’s just a hunch, but I don’t see towers for Dwarves, half-Elves, or a lot of species. That first tower could be half-Elves, but I have a theory that this is for new applicants.”
“Like Selphids? I thought they were around forever?”
“Forever, Redscar? Or did they appear as a species some day? Were they created? Because if that is a tower for Golems, I think this is for species who appeared. There’s a Stitch-folk one over there.”
Wait, so every species—the [Blademaster]’s head was exploding, but he informed Halrac of the problem he had discovered.
“I peed.”
“And?”
Halrac was licking his lips as he finished his food. Redscar pointed at the slight puddle over by the Creler tower.
“That means I needed to. That means I lost water. You’re hungry, and so am I.”
The Gold-rank adventurer froze, and his eyes flicked down to the food he’d devoured. He pinched himself, grunted, and pulled a hair from his head.
“Fuck.”
“Can’t do that, we’re going to get thirsty. We’re going to die now.”
Redscar happily informed Halrac. Well, sort of happily. When the Gold-rank [Bowman] shot to his feet in alarm, Redscar waved a finger.
“Don’t worry, we’ll survive. I know because you reappeared. Right? So we’re not going to die.”
“I used to hear stories of [Chronomancers] who did stupid things with time. You can change things, or so I understand. What happens if things happen—different?”
“Oh. Shit.”
Suddenly, they were on a time crunch and things got less fun. The two wandered around, speculating like mad.
“We could try to use pieces of the tower—”
“But we have no roots, and they’re all protected. How did I return?”
“Uh—uh—just hungry! As if you’d been without food or water.”
“Shit—and anything else?”
Redscar snapped his fingers.
“You had an arrow! The arrow.”
Halrac blinked at him, and then his eyes lit up as Redscar told him about the arrow that had changed so much, including Elia Arcsinger’s Skill.
“Dead gods. And I used it…?”
“You had to. It was the only thing that almost hurt the Three-in-one. Here, scrape some off the cell we were in. Hey! Maybe if we break this thing, it’ll piss off the system or something! And we can go home!”
Redscar was grinning until he realized the catch with that idea. But Halrac just knelt down and critically inspected the seal around their prison.
“No…I think there’s more to it than that. I might not know how to read this, but I thought of this like an Archmage’s trap. Similar to the one Ryoka told me about. Think on it. I’m trapped here—until I am judged and sent back. This probably is meant to hold me in place, right? If I break this, perhaps we’ll both get sent back.”
That was an idea. Redscar liked it, except for one part…Halrac gazed up and nodded, face blank.
“Then I’ll go back and die.”
“—You don’t have to. I’ll do it. I need to go back, but you…could stay here maybe? Or—or—”
The [Blademaster] was searching for an answer, like Halrac growing plants or finding a way out of this, but he wasn’t smart enough. And then he saw Mrsha’s despair right here. He thought he was so clever using the [Palace of Fates] just to level. He thought it couldn’t hurt him.
I am stupid. The Goblin had no answer beyond the one in Halrac’s eyes. The [Marksman] exhaled.
“I don’t like being trapped here. If it means I can leave…there’s no choice, just me talking myself into it and you reassuring me.”
So saying, he drew an arrow and began scratching at the golden runes before Redscar could stop him. In that way, Halrac was the realest person that the Goblin had ever known; even other Goblins would have respected him.
If I get back, I’ll tell them all about you. Silently, the [Blademaster] sat down and watched. He pulled a knife from its sheath and played with it, staring at the golden runes. Redscar knew how dangerous that arrow had been. And now he was watching Halrac collect it.
There wasn’t actually that much dust on the ground. Redscar had assumed Halrac had gotten it on the arrow easily, but, in fact, the runes were so delicately drawn that he had to scrape to get them onto the arrow. There was the barest sliver of gold by the time he erased an entire section of flooring, but it did come off.
Both Halrac and Redscar felt like this was sacrilegious in some way, dangerous, but they didn’t understand what was happening until Halrac leapt back and pointed at the floor.
“What the hell is that?”
Redscar leaned cautiously over the place where the golden writing had vanished. Then his eyes went wide, and he covered them.
“…Everything.”
Silly them. This room was just one part of the heart of levelling and the system, wasn’t it? What happened if you rubbed out the writing that made everything work?
You saw down into the core of…Halrac bent down and peered through the gap in the floor at—
Everything.
Literally all of it. Not other worlds, not glimpses into one fragment of reality or another. Everything, all at once, visible from a perspective that no one, not mortals or even immortals, should have. The view that belonged only to the divine, and the system of levels itself.
He jerked his eyes away, covering them, because this was true madness, and the two men backed up. Halrac returned to the spot and, averting his gaze, began to chisel at the ground again.
“That’s our way out. I’m going to pull the runes off the ground.”
He was removing the entire circle of space. If he did that…Redscar saw the floor begin to vanish as the reality around it literally came away, and the gold began to resemble that faint edge on his arrow.
Then there was a hole in the ground leading down…down…into the rest of the world. Redscar saw a line coming up through the floor that became invisible, but the line belonged to him.
“Hey, that’s the other world I came from. And there’s…your world. Right there. Right where you vanished.”
Glimpses ‘down’ into the hole revealed things to them, if they looked long enough, but they had to avoid staring lest they lose themselves. Redscar backed away; this frightened him. He felt like it was beyond any levels he could hope to achieve, and yet, his first thought was—
Could I cut what lies below, those threads? And if he could—he feared himself.
But Halrac leaned over the hole longer until Redscar touched his shoulder.
“Halrac? We have to jump. You don’t have to…”
“I’m looking. Give me a second, Redscar, I’m searching for something.”
The Goblin peeked over Halrac’s shoulder, squinting, and saw the older man’s head rise. Halrac Everam sometimes seemed white-haired, but it was only because he had flaxy blonde hair. His beard did have hints of white in it, but he was mostly lined by his experiences.
A veteran [Soldier] who had become a Gold-rank adventurer. A boy from a farming village named Windrest who had achieved the dream of all boys his age…but never found the other things.
Never married, never found a family. He had companions who had come and gone, and a host of regrets and failures. What he mostly had, across Izril, were the graves of his comrades. He wore his enchanted leather armor, and he carried that invisible bow on his back; he could kill…but dead gods, he seemed tired.
Was this the man that Redscar was going to tell to jump down and hopefully go to his death.
No. Never.
“There’s a way for you to survive. Maybe you jump a bit right? Maybe it messes up everything, or maybe there’s two Halracs. Or you reappear and…”
Redscar was brainstorming now, desperate, but Halrac shook his head. They both had a sense that the lines connecting them with their reality were the only way down. If they missed, if they floated into that void—that would be far worse.
“No, Redscar. I’m searching for…will you help me? See, down there? All those different fates being made. Millions of them. That must be your [Palace of Fates].”
“Wow. Yeah. Someone’s working hard.”
The glittering network of lives and possibilities spun out, and yes, it might be worth less than their reality, but Halrac gazed down. He whispered.
“Help me. Show me a world in which Halrac Everam…lives. I can find so few.”
“What? That’s silly. There are tons of…”
The Goblin [Blademaster] strode over to the edge and peered down. Then he stopped, because it was true.
There were almost none. Even in the [Palace of Fates], if you looked for a world where Halrac Everam, as he was, with no crazy twists of fate just for him, lived to a long life, to retirement—there just weren’t many.
“I meet someone—here. I marry Briganda and help raise Cade. Hah. There’s one with me and Erin Solstice. I make her so miserable. And even one with you and me.”
Halrac the Grim was smiling as the light of infinite possibilities bathed his weathered face. He appeared almost relieved, despite how bitter so many futures were. Redscar jerked his eyes away from the countless mistakes Halrac could make, the people he could hurt.
“But in some, you’re a hero. In the future…you killed the Mother of Graves. Stop looking, Halrac. It’s too much.”
Goblin Lord Rags had told him of one future where Halrac had died saving Liscor. Redscar had to avert his gaze; he felt like he was vanishing the more he stared. But Halrac refused to gaze away. Why would he? He could see his fate. The Human man sat and rested his legs in that hole.
“Perhaps that’s the best I can do. Go out doing something that saves people. Is…is that what I tried to do? At the Winter Solstice? We don’t get to choose how we go, Redscar. I’ve known that all my life. Ulrien didn’t. And you know it.”
The [Blademaster] sat down as well, head bowed.
“That’s true. But you’re not dead. You’re the Halrac, the real Halrac that Mrsha wants. Take my hand. I’ll pull you with me.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid! Just try—”
Halrac caught Redscar’s hand, and his eyes were following the shining threads of what-if below. When he looked up, Redscar jerked away, because that universe was contained in Halrac’s own gaze. This was madness. No—it was the truth. Too much of it for a mortal mind to handle.
“If I’m not there, who dies, Redscar? My entire team was there, weren’t they? Erin was there, and Mrsha…did I make a difference?”
The Goblin wanted to lie and say that Halrac hadn’t mattered in that battle at all, but he didn’t know. Halrac peered down and breathed.
“I have a choice. I have always had a choice. I can back away from the monster. Or I can go down there. Maybe we’ll forget either way, but if I play my part perfectly—at least I know Mrsha will make it, and Erin.”
“Don’t do it.”
Redscar was shaking, and he had feared nothing, not the Titan, like this. Halrac’s eyes glinted as the Gold-rank adventurer stood.
“Just tell me one thing, Redscar. When I die, when the final moment comes—I can see him calling to me. That Green King. I’m needed, aren’t I? That’s nice. It’s not an easy part to play, but someone has to. I see. So—at the end, when I face this woman, this Three-In-One—how do I die? Does she come at me from the right or left?”
That was the only question he asked. The [Blademaster] was wiping at his eyes. He answered with a laugh.
“I—don’t remember! You were reaching for the arrow, and she touched you. Don’t let her touch you, stupid! But you’ll know that.”
Halrac the Grim smiled faintly, and he shrugged.
“I’ll try. If we don’t meet again, let one of our futures be happy.”
“Don’t do it. Don’t—”
There was no stopping him. Halrac crouched over the hole in the world, a dead man heading towards his fate. The Goblin reached for him, but the [Marksman] looked so quietly proud of himself.
An expression he never let anyone else see. The smile he wore only after the battle was done, and no one was watching. The triumph of a lonely man who had kept the world from shrinking. Halrac’s hand tightened on the arrow, and he pointed downwards.
“She’s waiting for you down there, Redscar. I can see your meeting with fate…and beyond. It’s not even written yet. What a wondrous view.”
The [Bowman of Loss]’ eyes were shining with things no mortal should be allowed to see—he had looked too long down there, and it didn’t matter.
So that was why he didn’t remember. Redscar turned away. Halrac knew his death was coming, and he was running towards it. Poised to leap at death itself. In this moment, Redscar realized he was no true adventurer. Not like this man. Even now, Halrac Everam was waiting to dance with death again, despite knowing the ending.
Redscar closed his eyes, then felt at his belt and shook his head.
“I don’t have anything left to drink. I should send a warrior to battle with a drink and a cheer.”
They were thirsty, hungry, and Redscar knew things were replaying. Time sucked. This palace sucked. But he glanced back once, hungrily, memorizing that man’s face. Halrac Everam bent down over the hole in the ground. He crouched there, then glanced up.
“We don’t have customs like Goblins do. Sometimes I think your people show that they care more. Let’s do it like adventurers.”
“How’s that?”
For an answer, Halrac Everam held out a hand. Slowly, in a dream, Redscar rose, and he shook it, matching the man’s grip. They looked into each other’s eyes, then Halrac turned with a sigh.
“Tell Mrsha…tell them all I was here. And tell them yes. I, too, was happy.”
The [Bowman] raised a hand. Then he took a breath and leapt downwards. Redscar followed him with a shout, reaching for his leg—
And missed.
They hurtled downwards, and he swore he could hear Halrac laughing, the terrifying laughter of a man who wasn’t good at it. The Gold-rank adventurer waved—
Then Redscar was plunging through reality, unravelling, following the trail of his destiny back. Falling through the void where the universe lay around him. Falling—carrying his own reality and fate downwards after him, like a waterfall of destiny.
They passed by worlds and endless trillions of lives in a blur, each one separated, a glowing network of what-ifs and other worlds. Searching for their own. They fell past a white and green speck in the infinite cosmos that contained every color in creation. Redscar wondered if he would fall forever, or vanish into everything at all. Halrac.
Where was Halrac?
There was no fighting this. It was overwhelming, so Redscar closed his eyes, but it didn’t stop the visions. Then he realized someone was following him. Two beings—one following Halrac down, catching him, and the other for him.
The Grand Design.
It spoke with a voice louder than anything in his ears, but gently as well.
<ERROR. <REDSCAR> OUT OF BOUNDS. RESETTING COORDINATES. INITIATING JUDGEMENT.>
The Goblin twisted, shouting Halrac’s name. He cried out, reaching across reality—and saw the [Bowman] offering him one last grin.
And then they vanished. One version of the Grand Design went with Halrac, and the other took Redscar. It asked its version of Zeladona what should be done with him. And he heard the reply as he was held in that all-encompassing grip.
Kill him? Keep him locked away?
No. The response came from that edged soul. And the Grand Design lifted Redscar up in its mighty grasp.
She wanted to meet him.
——
Time continued. In one place, Halrac Everam appeared, just as he’d been meant to, dishevelled, hungry, and clutching a mysterious arrow. Time didn’t break, splinter, and need fixing, because he was right where he’d chosen to be.
Chosen.
In another place, at the same time, but a different world, a Goblin reappeared, holding his hand out. Tears were in his eyes, and he stood over the corpse of Comois, the [Lieutenant], a moment after he had vanished.
“HALRAC!”
Redscar bellowed, and the Drakes drew back from him. A [Bowman] rose to his feet, confused, and everyone turned to him.
——
Halrac Everam would have shouted something in reply, like ‘what?’ Or perhaps asked if Redscar had the wrong person.
He didn’t know Redscar well. He didn’t get along with the Goblins, really. Everyone knew that.
But when the Goblin turned to him, the man hesitated.
Halrac Everam had no knowledge of what Redscar had seen. This Halrac had never vanished. Yet…perhaps it was that journey through reality itself. Perhaps it was the machinations of the fae or the Grand Design, but Halrac’s eyes widened.
The adventurer met Redscar’s eyes. Then he bowed. He bowed as his teammates and everyone looked at him, a graceful, dignified bow.
When he straightened, he couldn’t have said why he did that. Only that it fit.
The [Blademaster] tore his blades from their sheaths and raised them into the air. Saluting the [Bowman], and he wept.
No one knew why. No one could say what was going on, but when Redscar turned around, he had no more enemies left.
No one with the heart to stand against him. No one who saw victory when they met his eyes. Whatever he had seen—
Onieva stowed her blade and ignored Chaldion’s hissing at her. She walked on back as Ksmvr did the same thing, and in the distance, the World-Pact Adventurer Gadiekh tossed down his weapons.
Not him. Not today. Then, an [Innkeeper] cried out in her inn. She clutched at her chest.
“Wait. Nononono. It’s so soon? What’s going on? Wh—”
And she came, just like last time.
——
Redscar was weeping when the door to The Wandering Inn opened. He knelt on the ground, forgetting how excited he was to see her.
Only this time—she didn’t come as she had. A woman emerged from the inn, green-haired, eyes like blades in and of themselves. A fearless smile on her lips and a single sword by her side, taken from Pekona’s arsenal.
She still split the sky when she looked up casually. He saw her will breach the sky; she needed no blade. She was a living blade, the most beautiful thing in the entire world—or so he’d thought.
Zeladona. [Blademistress of Ancients]. A Level 84 heroine of ages long past. She who had bested Dragons, who knew more sword techniques than any being. One of the closest beings to the gods themselves there had ever been.
He didn’t look at her—but she gazed at him as she walked down the hill. Walked, not leapt. She could have soared through the air and split the ground all the way down to the Free Hive of the Antinium.
She could have killed everyone and everything before her with a sweep of her sword, but her eyes were only on him.
Only him. When Zeladona Ischen spoke, he glanced up and saw her.
It was Erin’s body she wore, but Zeladona’s turquoise hair, her worn, brown cotton skin and golden stitching, and her grey, sharp eyes were reality. Her aura, her presence, transformed Erin into this being of old.
She did not make the earth tremble as she walked. She could have. She did not cut every blade of grass upon the Floodplains when she touched her sword.
She could have.
Zeladona Ischen should have set off every [Dangersense] in the world. She should have made the mighty tremble in their castles of magic and stone, for she could cleave their empires apart. But she cared not for them, and so she walked this world like what she was: a ghost. Only what merited her attention would bleed.
—Right now, the being who drew Zeladona’s attention felt the intensity of her focus on him, and he felt like she cut his soul. Her curiosity was warring with another force in her light, melodic tones.
Anger. The [Blademistress] halted, and her eyes were bared blades of her ire. This is what she said:
“I can tell that I am not real. I care it not; the [Innkeeper] has provided me with a fine festival to whet my appetite. It matters not who I am, only that I am. But I am curious, for you woke me with your raging soul, sharpest among them. I didst wake and anticipate our meeting and what you might teach me, Strange Goblin Who Sings. Then thou disappointed me. Thou killed and dishonored my festival. Yet you stand before me, which is curious. No force, even mine, could escape that ruling. How is it done? Tell me before my wrath overtakes me.”
Her eyes narrowed further, and Redscar felt his wounds reopening, as if she were slowly re-cutting him with a blade. Blood ran down his arms, from his legs, down his cheek, trickling across his ribs, until he focused.
The bleeding stopped. Redscar took a shuddering breath.
“I forgot about no killing. You…you don’t care about that rule.”
The [Blademistress] tossed her green hair back, and blood filled the air in a mist as every wound Redscar had healed bled. The Goblin fell to his knees, and she snapped.
“‘Tis the rule that was set! It is true, I care it not; it was the [Innkeeper]’s will, and so it was mine. You have no right to stand before me.”
He was bleeding as she snapped at him. Still…beautiful as he remembered. But something was different. Redscar tried to figure out what it was as he bled onto the grass.
Zeladona spoke in an older accent, and slowly, as if words came to her with effort and she were not used to speaking them at all. A lonely sword.
That was all he saw. Oh, he saw her song, a melody of a big million voices and styles, all her experiences blended into one being, exquisite beyond any piece of art. She was like him, a product of her foes, her own experiences, her determination. If she drew her blade, he would hear that song that could cut the world in twain.
But he saw her differently as well. He saw…a coastline of dry earth above that beautiful sea on Chandrar’s soils. Behind was the great desert beyond the tantalizing land.
In the middle of this endless desert, there was a sword. An entire world might lie beyond those sands, filled with kingdoms and adventure, monsters and glory. Yet there was only that sword.
A sword planted in the ground. Alone, the sharpest thing in the world, able to cut anything and anyone.
…That was all. That was how she’d died. Zeladona Ischen had become what she aspired to be and lain down without anything else to cut.
She was still beautiful, wondrous, and his eyes stung as he met her displeased gaze, but he had just witnessed something far more important.
Again, the Goblin’s bleeding stopped. He knelt on the grass, closing his eyes, and wept tears. Not blood. This enraged Zeladona, and she snapped.
“I have answered your call, warrior! Though thou art Goblin. You have disgraced my festival, but you are the greatest here. Now, you kneel and weep before me for what? Draw your blade! Show me the sharpness of your soul and claim what I offer, or fall upon your sword and begone! How dare you sully this festival twice with your tears?”
Her wrath at his killing of Comois the Goblin accepted as his due. But her next words made his head rise slowly.
“Am I not allowed to cry?”
This was not how he’d envisioned meeting her. He’d seen himself striding towards her and begging for a lesson, a rematch.
Zeladona was caught off-guard by the question. She floundered, visibly, and replied with irritation.
“Those who follow our path may weep over a blade that meets its end or battle done that leaves this world emptier. When we sing together, yes, weep for that, but only in your heart! Only after!”
Then she drew her sword, and the snow around the Floodplains and the arena flew into the air. It began to snow again as Redscar saw the slumbering grass beyond. All the snow of the Floodplains flurried into the sky, then rained down—blotting out the sun in a blizzard of white darkness.
He rose to his feet, unable to stay kneeling as she inspected him.
“Goblin. I cannot believe a Goblin sings, but I hear it in your blades. How is it that this is so? Then again—you are but a [Blademaster]. I had hoped for a worthy challenger, but you are first of these children and pretenders. Save perhaps the old master…but he will not draw his sword.”
Her eyes flitted regretfully to the white-haired Unicorn, who avoided her gaze. For an answer, the [Blademaster] wiped his eyes. He smiled.
Halrac. I have a duty as well. Watch me, brother in arms.
His voice rose, and the [Blademaster] pointed his sword at Zeladona’s chest.
“You said the same thing last time. But you found me worthy of a piece of your lesson. I am Redscar, and I have been here before. I failed. This time, I need to grow stronger. My tribe, my people, everything that matters to me is in danger.”
She tossed her head, dismissive, and turned away, sauntering back as she sheathed her sword.
“Ach. I see it over you. Your admiration behooves you. That I witness. But those you ‘must’ defend…I came for your will and your blade. Not to serve a purpose. If I must, I must, for it was promised. But if you claim to impress me once, I believe it not.”
The Goblin grinned; she could read every fiber of his being, but she did not see him. Just like last time. He had provided a fit offering, too, though.
“I come from the future. I have faced you once, Zeladona. I have come from a place even you cannot cut. In my time, you have been bested, even when called from death itself.”
She stopped as snow fell around her, too afraid to touch the woman’s hair, and Redscar felt her bored eyes open wide. Like someone had lifted the blinds on a window and all the light of her attention was upon him.
The grass began to rustle across the Floodplains of Izril, and the million tiny blades that were her irises focused on Redscar.
“You speak the truth? You do. I…have been defeated? I knew it, that I had, but ‘twas not a fair fight. I remember that much. Yet I was bested in any manner?”
Ryoka Griffin, Tyrion Veltras, the Immortal Tyrant, Rhisveri, Silvenia, Czautha—Redscar had heard the tale. His eyes opened wider.
“Yes.”
Zeladona blinked, then she threw back her head and laughed in pure delight. Her sheathed sword came up, and she took hold of the handle of the katana. Then she knelt before him.
“Oh, strange warrior. Thank you. For I thought none could best me fairly in this or any other time. And you say—you jest so well. You say there are things I cannot cut?”
Her head rose, and her challenging look told him that if he pointed at the moons overhead—they would be cut.
For answer, the Goblin just pointed.
“It’s inside the inn. You walked past it. Can’t you sense it?”
Zeladona’s brows crossed together, and she swung around.
“No! Please don’t!”
Lyonette screamed, then cowered as the [Blademistress] put her hand on her katana’s hilt. Everyone waited and ducked, expecting the inn to be bisected or maybe to turn into fragments from countless cuts and just dissolve away.
But Zeladona didn’t do that, because she didn’t have to. Redscar sensed her swinging her sword, gently, like someone probing every inch and section of the inn. She could have cut a cup inside the bar without destroying any part of it.
True mastery over space as well as the ability to cut anything within it. But her brows crossed as she came to something—a root and an object she could not name.
“What is this?”
Abruptly, she turned back to Redscar. Almost shamefaced, she nodded.
“I sensed it not. Neither root nor…I could not cut it, then. And I doubt mine own understanding of that little root. What is it? Should I try, nonetheless?”
He drew his swords.
“I’ll tell you afterwards. We have a duty to fulfill. Both you and I. Teach me—please. I have never had a teacher except my father, myself, and my foes. You are the only one I wanted.”
He would not be worthy of her this time, he feared. He had already failed. But at least one…
At least that.
The [Blademistress of Ancients] studied the strangest being to ever come before her and ask to learn from her, and she had taught Dragons and Jinn, Selphids and cats. She drew her sword, and the world flurried around them as a song began, quietly at first, then all-encompassing.
“Your father taught you well, child.”
That was her remark, her highest praise, the words of the greatest of heroines and legends, for the world to hear.
Redscar shook his head. He chuckled at her puzzled expression.
“No. He wasn’t perfect.”
Then the Goblin stepped forwards and showed her everything he was. And he was laughing, cursing, striving, sweating, weeping—
[He Walked and Shadows Split]. The Goblin sauntered forwards through the falling snow, and the shadows each one cast vanished—the world turned bright, and a thousand drifting flakes of snow were blades of darkness that flurried around Zeladona.
She walked through the cloud of shadows, a beaming, laughing sword cleaving out of reality, true to only herself. Zeladona walked across this world as she had passed through time, leaving a wake of her deeds in her path. A trailing sword drawn across the ground, like a child holding a stick and walking across the sand.
A worthless trail to be washed away when the waters rose or the wind blew. But that was not all she had been. When she laid eyes on him, her careless walk faltered—and then she took a step forwards, hesitantly, as if she had forgotten how it was done.
Slowly, then she adjusted how she came, and he saw it at last. A reflection of his own visions. A thousand, nay, a hundred thousand lives she had changed with the swing of the blade.
Enemies. Friends. Those she had saved and damned lining her long road. No matter how much she had forgotten, no matter how much she gave to the blade—it was part of her. The Goblin saw the [Blademistress of Ancients] pick up her pace, trotting, then running. Then—she raced into the tide of time and left a trail across the sea, eyes shining as she followed the path her soul had carved.
He ran to meet her, a child taking his first steps into the water, unsure of how to keep going.
She came down the path of stories and led him forwards.
——
It felt like he had spent a long, long afternoon playing in the water with someone else. A…teacher. A mentor, someone whom he’d never had, except in his father, Garen.
Not all of it had been fun. He’d floundered, tried to swim, struggled—but he’d been happy, and the narrow world he’d known had opened up; he’d finally seen the sea, not the puddle he splashed around in.
This was, of course, a metaphor. The Goblin hurt. He couldn’t remember how much he’d bled, but she had closed each cut by swinging her sword back, as if that made sense. Most of what she said made no sense. But she showed him, and like a child trying to copy an adult, he just watched and tried to remember it all.
He was closing his eyes, lying on the cold grass, at peace, when a voice spoke and a foot nudged him in the side.
“Hey, you. Finally awake, are you? Or is it you did not sleep yet?”
Redscar opened his eyes as he lay on the ground. He blinked, and the [Blademistress] offered him a hand.
“Not…yet. I didn’t sleep yet.”
“The voice will come for you. Or I come for it. Now tell me your promise, warrior.”
So he did as she paced around him excitedly. The ground was scarred and devoid of snow. They sat on an island, a cliff of dirt, and in places, smoke rose despite the winter’s chill. In others, it was cut flat with such precision that some children were deciding that this was the best football pitch ever.
But mostly, people just watched the two of them. Zeladona seemed pleased.
“Goblins. I would have learned another piece of my song if only your kind had met me. I might have reached the next stage of my levels had I met but one like you while I lived. You are my redemption, brave boy. Even in death, I have experienced that which the true Zeladona might envy. If you ever meet her, show her this.”
She gestured at him. Redscar was still feeling pleasant. He was beyond pain. He sat up—then decided he wasn’t actually beyond pain.
“I have to go soon. Thank you.”
She tilted her head playfully.
“Thank me not. I care only for the sword.”
It was a lie—partly, but it was the one she told herself, so Redscar levered himself up on one arm. He had seen who she had been, and he half-shook his head.
“Yeah, I’m understanding that. But you weren’t always like this. Everything else that mattered—vanished. Was it lonely at the end?”
Zeladona’s face grew troubled, and she felt at her long hair, thinking.
“Perhaps. But those who were worthy of the causes to which I raised my blade ceased to be—or changed until the reasons sickened me. Perhaps I knew them not, but when I was alone, it was because there was naught else to keep me. Not apprentices nor foes nor comrades.”
“I see. I think…mine are better than yours.”
The [Blademistress of Ancients] hesitated, then sat next to him. She drew her knees up to her chest as more of the island of dirt crumbled away beneath them. But for a moment, they sat there and talked.
She didn’t deny his claims. That was the saddest part. Zeladona brushed at her hair wistfully and gazed into her own memories.
“Mayhap. I wish it so, little warrior. Walk the road that I could not. Then we might meet when you are grown! Oh, swear that it will be so! If the [Innkeeper] can do this, surely!”
Her morose gaze faded, and she grew excited at the notion. Like a child herself. The Goblin exhaled.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Beyond that door, there are all the battles you could crave.”
He’d told her about the [Palace of Fates] while she let him rest. Zeladona sprang to her feet, excited as a little girl.
“And myself. I have dreamt of how I might meet myself, and our battles shake the world. Take me to it, show me how to leave. Then I shall go and claim the last levels between me and the ending. Then…hah! I hope but greater tests lie beyond!”
He could almost see it. If Zeladona reached Level 100, she’d just find something else to cut. She might cut her way out of reality itself to find the Green King that Halrac had meant. Or start with the dead gods and find live ones.
Redscar almost wanted to see it. But he coughed and stood with great effort, leaning on his swords, arms shaking.
“I have to go first. My battle.”
Zeladona nodded, sombering.
“I would offer to end whatever foes you have with a swing of a sword, but ‘twould take from your journey, brave boy. I offer you one thing, though. Nay, two! You have walked with me. You are not the greatest apprentice I took, nor the most talented.”
“Thanks.”
She really wasn’t a people person after all. Erin was right. Zeladona went on, eyes dancing.
“Yet you have fought me twice. I see it on you. You…I deem worthy. Redscar. ‘Tis a simple, curious name. I know it not, but have you another?”
“Hm? No. Goblins don’t. Redscar of the Flooded Waters tribe is my name.”
The [Blademistress] liked that. She drew the katana and struck his shoulders, once on each side. Redscar sat back down.
“Then I grant you the privilege! Call yourself not merely ‘Redscar’, but Redscar Ischen! It is the name that I pass onto you. And this—a student of mine should have a better blade.”
Redscar glanced down, and the worn, beautiful Redfang blade had notches in it. It had always had damage, building up since Garen had first commissioned it from Enchanter Hedault, but now it was cracked, damaged from the final battle. His head came up, not about to refuse, but…
She plucked the blade from his hands and ran her own palm along it. Before Redscar’s eyes, the metal straightened. The red alloy, which was just a clever alchemist alloy to ordinary steel, took on a darker hue. The blade didn’t alter in symmetry, but it shifted—adjusting for the new material, balancing out until she held it on one finger.
“There. ‘Tis but Adamantite. A fitting material to hold up to the swing of your sword. Bear it until you find aught better.”
Redscar accepted the blade back, and Zeladona had no ceremony nor true tact or grace. She was just the warrior and gave him all of five seconds to hold the sword before she clapped her hands together, impatient.
“Now, show me this palace! That I might challenge every warrior under every heaven!”
She drew her katana and laughed—and yes, if you wanted to be picky about it, it might sound a touch diabolical.
He loved her for it anyways and wondered if she would have made another strange mother if he and she had met in another lifetime.
…No, she’d probably be worse than Garen. Redscar nodded, and they began to walk up the hill, he limping, she pacing forwards and coming back to hurry him along.
“Zeladona Ischen. Thank you. You have given me all I needed. This Trial of Blades…I hope it pleased you this time.”
He turned at the door to the inn. The [Blademistress of Ancients] paused and gave him a beaming smile.
“It is not what I wanted, at first, but then I was satisfied. Now? I am delighted.”
She strode for the root, and Redscar called out.
“You beat me, and I admit my defeat. No one can best you.”
Zeladona half-spun, confused.
“That was never in doubt. Why…ach! You—!”
She put a hand on her sword hilt, shocked, betrayed, and annoyed. She could have drawn on him, even as the Grand Design reached down to complete the <Heroic Quest>. Her eyes narrowed, and Redscar had one chance in the world. So the [Blademaster] spread his hands wide and grinned.
“Cut your way free first. Or what right do you have to the palace?”
Her eyes widened, and then, ruefully, Zeladona chuckled. She pivoted and drew her sword slowly. Slowly, swinging it uncertainly, like the newest [Swordswoman]. Trying to cut…
Zeladona Ischen gave Redscar a rueful smile, and vanished with a sigh, mid-swing. Then, someone staggered, and then Erin Solstice was standing there, holding a katana and appearing rather silly. She blinked—then collapsed.
“My back! My legs! My spleen! Everything hurts! What the heck happened?”
Redscar laughed in relief as he hobbled over to her. He held out a hand to help her up as she writhed on the floor. She just continued wiggling, so Redscar took hold of the root.
“Thanks, Erin.”
“Thanks? What the heck—Redscar? Redscar?”
——
The Goblin pulled himself through the door. Then he closed the door behind him. He stumbled, and Asgra and Apista were there.
Since they were both tiny, he had to catch himself, and they circled him, eyes wide. They had seen it all. Redscar wiped at his face, then spoke.
“I’m going…”
He took one step forwards and fell flat on his face. Asgra cried out.
“Don’t die!”
“Get me a Frost Wyvern. Hurry. How long…”
How long had he taken?
He knew it not. Apista buzzed around Redscar as he clutched his sword. Presently, Asgra came back with Chickenruler, and with the Hob’s help, they wrestled him up.
Up, out of the palace and the garden, in the inn, rushing him past confused Calanferians, Drakes, all the chaos, and outside, onto the Wyvern’s back. Redscar was lashed into place, and he only said:
“The tribe. Take me to them.”
If he was too late, he would be too late. But he hoped he was not. The Goblin closed his eyes as the Wyvern flew, and the voice was waiting for him as he slept.
Well done. That’s what he thought it said. The voice who was no warrior but had given him all these levels and Skills. He had been so harsh to it at the beginning, because it was hard. But it had helped make him, a parent as much as the others he’d had.
It was waiting for him, even with everything happening, with what he deserved. But it had a question, and Redscar knew it. It was the same question he’d received, oh, months ago.
Are you not a Goblin Lord?
No. For so many reasons, no. He was no leader, and while that did not matter as much, the truth was…Redscar murmured.
“Not yet. Not yet. Not until she is.”
<Very well.>
He swore he heard it. Then he was sleeping, and it spoke. His voice, without commentary or notes. The Goblin was smiling as he slept for a little bit.
Until he was needed.
[Conditions Met: Blademaster of the Crimson Field → Blademaster, the Path of Legends Class]
[Blademaster, the Path of Legends Level 52!]
[Skill – Walk of the Blademaster, Path of Legends Learned!]
[Skill – I Cut the World Unseen Obtained!]
[Sword Art – The Floodplains Vanished Created!]
[Condition – Body: Slashing Resistance Obtained!]
[Title – The Student of Zeladona and Garen Obtained!]
[Title Skill – Combination Blade Art: The Lonely Swords Sing Granted!]
Author’s Note:
I have had a revelation with the last few chapters. Well, not really a revelation, but something I had noticed. If I hand ducks (readers), a huge, 60,000+ chapter, they will read it in an hour and complain.
Not all of you. In fact, I rather suspect this is a phenomenon limited to readers who are waiting for the chapter as it comes out. But I do notice that when people are given a huge volume to read—and they read it in one sitting—I get complaints about the pacing and how individual scenes are less weighty.
Because readers are waiting for it, and thus eat it too quickly. Rather like someone sitting down to eat a magnificent meal and scarfing it down because they’re so hungry.
What I’m getting at is…the problem isn’t me, it’s you. I need to release shorter chapters, so the impact of the words is more concentrated.
Like how if you water down orange juice too much it’s no longer good. This is my analogy, and why I’m releasing a shorter chapter.
Yeah. 26,000 words is short. I’ve given up on the jokes, but I do actually think there’s something behind the psychology I’m talking about, here. We’ll see; this is also a good chapter on its own, but it’s not crammed as full as others.
I’d be most interested if readers who have finished the entire Palace of Fates arc without having to wait for each chapter have a different experience of it than readers who read through while waiting for each chapter, week-by-week. I’ll definitely address that in the post mortem I keep promising.
—But we’re not there yet. The chapter for next week is already written and just needs edits. Look forwards to that, and, well, I hope you enjoyed our chapter of swords and Redscar. Every character deserves their chapter and this one hopefully fits him. And Halrac.
Thanks for reading and try to read this one slowly. Eh, if you’re here, you know what you did.
Honor by Nanahou!
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Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wanderer_nanahou/gallery
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Student Rags and Gothica by Yura!
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Honor and Dragonscale Ressa by Lanrae!
Calruz vs Skinner by Manuel!
Pope Pawn by Amiel!
Yvlon and Bloodlust Yvlon by Spooky!
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Arrema and Future Arrema’s Gear by AVI!
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Redfang by LeChatDemon!
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Stash with all the TWI related art: https://sta.sh/222s6jxhlt0
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Titan and FutureNanette by olento!
Bloodlust by katiemaeve!
NormanBonk by Chalyon!
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Door by Mystikdruidess!
Titan Head by Brack!
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Honor Squires of Jewel by Moerchen!
Drassi by Stargazing Selphid!
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