10.35 (Pt. 1)

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For one dazzling moment, it was a child standing at a festival of the future. An airplane roared overhead, and orange smoke trailed from its open belly that became a vivid, glowing rain of fire as it touched the ground. The airplane curved up, past a colorful, green blimp, flying high overhead, propellers spinning in the deafening, ringing silence.

Airplanes and blimps and all kinds of flying machines were in the sky. Dragonplanes, made out of fabric, flexing as their wings caught the air like the Ancestors of old. Oldbloods flying upwards on their wings, breathing Dragonfire, [Mages] using [Flight] spells, encased in glowing barriers.

From afar, it was a beautiful display. You couldn’t see the bodies. At a distance, the roar of artillery and the chattering of gunfire, like a Giant’s teeth striking, wasn’t all-consuming.

The bloom of artillery shells that sent dirt and bodies flying apart might seem like a flower of fire from above, and you wouldn’t smell the gunpowder in the air, nor the blood, nor hear the voices crackling over radios, desperate and defiant until they ceased.

For one moment, the Gnoll child standing in the medical camp, with white canvas roofs, could believe the lie. Then the first pieces of ash began to fall from overhead, the wind blew blood with the stench of the gunpowder and death towards her. Her ears popped and rang with the thud of explosions rattling her bones and the thunder of gunfire. Mrsha saw the planes dropping out of the skies, twirling pieces of flaming wreckage falling like leaves over a forest fire.

The illusion of the festival shifted—into a vision of hell. The girl flinched as another artillery shell hit the ground close to the rear of Xitegen’s army. It was a stray shot, which continued to explode as pieces shot out of the crater and exploded around the initial burst.

“Boom Tree Shell!”

One piece went spiraling straight at Mrsha and detonated. She flinched, but the glowing blue shield around the medical tents merely rippled, and pieces of metal hung in the air a moment before dropping, spent of their kinetic energy, to the ground.

Stray round. The Goblins weren’t targeting Xitegen’s medical camp, which was far beyond the clash of the two armies. If they had been, Mrsha would already be dead.

Nevertheless, the explosive round had blinded the girl’s eyes, and rubbing them only cleared them a few seconds; then the Floodplains of Liscor lit up again and the girl couldn’t see for all the spots in her vision. The lights flashing across the Floodplains from the gunfire dazzled her eyes; there was too much to see in every direction.

The gunfire? Someone had put earmuffs on her linked to Lord Xitegen’s alliance forces for her own protection, but Mrsha’s ears were still ringing and ringing, an endless tinnitus from the blasts of sound.

Smell? All she smelled was fire and blood. This was a battlefield. She knew battlefields, not as a warrior or strategist, but as someone who had simply seen them, been on them.

This was like any battlefield she had known. It was just—

Faster.

They died faster.

Both armies were too close. They should have been spread out across a hundred miles, but their mutual desire to annihilate each other had led them here, to this place. The opening volleys were ripping apart troops in the open.

Artillery. Like long-ranged spells, but you couldn’t see the death falling until it blew open the ground, only hear it whistling as it came down. Then they fired their guns such that anything caught out in the open without armor was instantly dead.

Hence the flat ground. Perfect for killing the foe. The opening engagement had killed—Mrsha couldn’t guess. Now, she saw the ground shifting.

Earth magic. In the future—it was Moore’s magic, the humble school that Viceria Strongheart belonged to, that ruled the battlefield. Because—Mrsha saw an entire stretch of ground lowering as walls rose, and [Soldiers] streamed down ramps of earth, which absorbed the deadly shells raining down around them.

She couldn’t see what it was at first, so Mrsha activated a Skill.

[Other Me’s Skills — Hawk Eyes]!

That allowed her to pick out what the strange formations on the ground were.

Trenches. Xitegen’s army was creating a network of trenches and obscuring their forces from the Goblins in real time. The same thing was happening on the Goblins’ side of the battlefield—only, their lines were glittering with…Mrsha tried to see from the explosions.

Stone? She swore she saw stone covering the ground, turning sections into concrete warrens from which the Goblins could fight. Bunkers, built into the passageways—and [Soldiers].

She had a view of one new trench from her perspective, and the girl saw a squad of Goblins advancing down it, trying to push their attack on the Alliance. They all took cover as a shell blew apart the ground next to the trench; smoke poured around them, and dirt cascaded down into the walkway.

The squad of Goblins emerged out of the smoke and nearly walked into another group of Drake [Soldiers] from Manus. Both sides opened fire instantly. Mrsha didn’t see the bullets. She just saw figures toppling over, taking cover—the magical flash of a barrier spell being deployed. The Drakes hid around the trench’s passageways, firing at the invading Goblins, who had a magical barrier, an oval of glowing, pink light, which protected them.

One of the Goblins threw a small, round object, and the Drakes tried to run—

Another explosion, smaller. The Goblins’ barrier flickered out as a Drake exhaled flames onto it, and one of the Goblins ran out, arms flailing, until the [Soldier] jerked and fell over.

They kept firing.

 

——

 

Twelve Goblins versus nine Drakes. Both sides killed each other in the time it took Mrsha’s heart to beat twenty-nine times.

Five Goblins were on their feet after the shootout. They were stepping over the corpses of the Drake [Soldiers], firing a single shot into each body. Then, one of the Goblins checking on their buddies looked up. Whirled as if shouting to the others—

A thump, so faint Mrsha barely felt it. The ground fountained up in a shower, and then there were no Goblins on their feet.

The trench was a crater of ash where the two groups had fought. All was still for a few seconds.

Two more squads of Goblins advanced, these ones under domes of light. More squads of the Alliance moved to cover the trench, firing as walls of earth rose to provide defensive cover. Smoke rolled over that section of the battlefield, thick and green, and covered the advancing Goblins…

Then someone covered Mrsha’s eyes. Doctor Withra. She was waiting for the first patients to come to her. The battle had barely begun, and right now…if there was anyone alive, they were far from the back lines. Far from healing.

The Drake’s voice was hoarse; she was used to this sight, but she was giving Mrsha an agonized stare, as if a fresh set of eyes made it so much worse. She whispered as she tried to pull Mrsha back.

“Don’t look. Children shouldn’t see this kind of thing.”

Mrsha wrote in the air absently.

I have to see the future. Not because I can stop it. Just so I know what’s coming.

The Drake’s expression was bleak, but she did take her hands away.

Mrsha had lost track of the trenchline and the area she’d been watching. Something else caught her attention: rolling shapes moving down the center of the battlefield, using tunnels and walls of stone and dirt for cover. Doctor Withra pointed to it.

“That’s Engineer Kevin’s armor—tanks.”

They seemed so strange, to Mrsha. Like armored bugs with those treads. There were tanks rolling forwards, stopping to fire and lurching back a few paces with each shot—complete versions of the one Mrsha had found. They resembled angry beetles with long noses to her, spitting flames at each other and exploding, seemingly at random.

That was the thing. Mrsha couldn’t see the shells and bullets. Sometimes, a spell would flash across her vision, and she did see some soldiers with swords, but it was like a guessing game. People would fall over and die because someone pointed a gun at them and it flashed. There was no time to react. Even arrows you could see most of the time.

You blinked and you died. Mrsha heard voices now, crackling across the headset. It must have been tuned to a command frequency, because she kept hearing Xitegen’s voice among others.

“Assail the Goblin King now. Put a hole through those magical shields—”

“The Goblin Lord has too many protective layers, Lord Xitegen. Once he breaks formation—”

“Damn those shields. Kill them. This entire battle revolves around those two. Advance. Advance!”

His army was moving forwards. Just like he’d promised, there was no large-scale maneuvering—the Alliance and Goblins were scything each other down. Neither group was retreating.

—But there were Skills at play. Mrsha heard a boom and flinched; a group of Goblins appeared on the western edge of the battlefield and began attacking. Another group moving at the speed of sound where the Goblin Lord of Civilizations willed it. She heard a curse.

“They’re repositioning. Kevin!”

Then another voice spoke, a man’s voice, the barest bit familiar. A cracked grin of a voice, strained, like someone trying to tell a joke at a party and failing.

“I see them. Breaking off five to intercept. Clear me a path towards the Goblin King.”

Kevin? He sounded like…

Like…

Erin at the Winter Solstice.

Mrsha shivered; she saw five of the smaller tanks break off and move towards the Goblins, firing as they went. They passed by the largest tank on the battlefield by far, a rust-red behemoth turning a turret with two barrels and obliterating Goblin tanks with each shot. This warmachine led the column pushing straight down the middle of the battlefield. It was fast—it accelerated like a bullet as the ground exploded behind it, and a glowing, blue nimbus around it flickered.

“That’s the Tortoise. The personal carrier of Master Engineer Kevin.”

I know. He’s going to kill Rabbiteater?

Kevin and Rabbiteater. Doctor Withra gave Mrsha an odd look; she was used to just calling him the Goblin King, but to Mrsha, they were just her two friends.

Suddenly, Mrsha understood the naming of the tank. A story from Earth that Erin had told her that had never made sense.

Tortoise and the hare. It was a Kevin thing to do. A joke—but when had he become a soldier?

Where’s my Rags? I just want to go home.

Mrsha had no clue, none, where her Rags might be. But that was the thing. Even in the future where war was faster, some things didn’t change.

Skills, at least. Mrsha closed her eyes as the first bodies began coming in.

“[Life-Saving Intervention]! Doctor—”

Soldiers were appearing, teleporting into the beds or being carried back. Skills were keeping some of them alive, and the Drake doctor turned and ran, already shouting orders. Mrsha stood there, next to the armored jeeps parked with the few soldiers assigned to guard this point, and closed her eyes.

[Other Me’s Skills – Find My Friend].

There. She opened her eyes and realized that her Rags was pretty much dead center in the battle, on the other side of all the chaos. A massive, metal-and-stone bunker was under siege, refusing to crack despite the constant flashes of artillery bursting on it.

Probably where Goblin Lord Rags was.

Great. Then Mrsha glanced up, and her eyes went round as her Skill told her someone else was here.

Fighti? No way.

 

——

 

The girl was so distracted that she didn’t sense the danger to her for a good moment. After all, why would there be any? The Goblins weren’t focusing on Xitegen’s back lines; they were trying to stop his insane advance towards the Goblin Lord of Civilizations and their Goblin King. Even then, the medical camp had shields and soldiers.

Mrsha was a single child in all this chaos, and only the Goblin Lord had any inkling of who she was and why she mattered. She was safe.

Safe…until an armored head rose across the Floodplains and seemed to sniff the air in turn. A voice spoke from the depths of a helmet.

“Mrsha?”

Then the Goblin King spoke, and his was the more terrible of the two beings.

“I sense fate curling. A class unlike any other. Impossible, like the child.”

“Mrsha.”

The Goblin King hadn’t moved. He stood in the opening throes of the battlefield behind so many magical shield spells that the air had become a miasma of dazzling lights, walls of power trying to keep him from harm.

He had been plotting his charge, and the Alliance coming towards him had slowed to a crawl, anticipating it. When he moved, the entire battlefield would change. But the Goblin King was distracted. He ignored the orders being given to him by Ragathsi and spoke to himself.

“A ghost. Go back to sleep.”

It wasn’t an argument; there was no equality here. The Goblin King dictated everything, and his will was a vast ocean. A tiny island was the other voice, Rabbiteater’s remaining will, so often lost. But right now…

That dreamy voice replied, an exhausted, empty tone of someone who had lost everything. Adrift, grasping for one last straw in the wind. Rabbiteater the Traitor replied softly.

“That day you last died. You hesitated. Velan refused to dodge.”

A conclusion he had come to.

A way out.

The Goblin King bared his teeth in a snarl of annoyance.

“Our people need us. This battle is not yet over. If I must, then I will remove your ghosts.”

“No.”

Rabbiteater tried to resist, but it was impossible. The Goblin King’s head snapped around, and he focused, picking out the child among all of them on the Floodplains.

They had been standing at what seemed to be the bottom of another sea; practically submerged by so many barrier spells that the flashes of light were muted high, high overhead. Now, the Goblin King awoke from his stupor. To his right and his left, he could see elements like the Battleborn waiting for his move. Supporting units, prepared to advance and capitalize on his openings—but not follow him, nor obey his orders.

He was alone. An irreplaceable, hated piece on Ragathsi’s board. The Goblin King grinned behind his helmet, a smile so twisted and drenched in the misery of other beings that it had forgotten any other moments but death.

The Goblin King took a step, and everyone around and behind him reacted.

“He’s moving—”

The Goblin King leapt out of that bubble of protection, passing through the magic in the air and erasing it on contact. Not towards Lord Xitegen and his vanguard, but past them.

He soared over the rolling Alliance tanks, above the squirming anthills of [Soldiers], who glanced up at him. Then he landed in an open section of ground. Ahead of him, the Alliance was firing from behind gigantic seith manacore shields of energy that let them attack with impunity.

The Goblin King drew his sword. The oldest of beings spoke with distaste and contempt, like someone opening a convenient box.

“[Cleave the Mortal World].”

The Goblin King swung his sword, and everything in front of him vanished. Golem Soldiers surrounded by crackling electromagic shields, two Armadillo-tanks firing towards him, a squad following a Battle Golem into combat—

Gone. Even in the frenzy of this battlefield, it left a gap that took time to close—and that open wound in the Alliance’s lines gave the Goblin King a clear shot at another unique figure.

A [Lord], wearing his ancestor’s clothing, unarmored, turning his head towards the Goblin King as he jogged forwards, a sword in his hands. The air was still around Lord Xitegen, but every passing second, more arrows flew from the storm above his head, raining down on the Goblins’ forces. They locked gazes, and Lord Ragathsi spoke in the Goblin King’s ear.

“Xitegen. Kill him!”

The Goblin King ignored her howling. He ran, outpacing the roaring fighter planes trying to strafe the enemy and give him cover. Straight into a storm of metal as every [Soldier] and tank around Lord Xitegen fired on him.

Hundreds of bullets and armor-piercing rounds struck his armor and tossed the Goblin King backwards. That—hurt. Rabbiteater’s armor was stronger than Adamantium. His body was enhanced by countless Skills, but the sheer kinetic force of the storm of wrath would have pulverized his innards, armor or not. The first time they’d done this, it had nearly killed him.

Nearly. These days, the Goblin King understood how to stop it. He threw up his other hand; his shield seemed to expand until it was covering the ground in front of him, and the hammering impacts ceased for a precious second.

In that opening, the Goblin King drew Skills together, magic as well, weaving the two from the many lives he’d held. It wasn’t easy, but it could be done. For wars of magic, you focused your aura and became a constant in a shifting sea of mana. With his bare hands, he could tear apart Djinni.

For this?

He expanded his aura and turned the air solid as steel. Reinforcing the ground, the magical barriers. As Sóve had once done—the Island Queen spoke with the Goblin King. Two souls uniting in intent.

“[Realm of the Eternal Tempest]. [Freeze the World].”

Thus, the air thickened until it was as if it were packed a thousand times denser, and it froze, a cloud of naught but air.

Next, he called upon a Goblin King who had held a fortress and made the air itself even stronger. Another who had been a Terandrian and learned their ways until she had reached this point; the aura reinforced the air.

Velan, nearly last. This aspect of himself spoke with more reluctance, but he did speak.

[Body: Rapid Regeneration]. And—[Body: Greater Bludgeoning Resistance].

The being who was all Goblin Kings, but always himself, was cocooned in waves of armor that hung in the air and moved with him. He appeared to be a tempest, a literal storm of cold and might racing across the ground.

Xitegen’s army fired at him and destroyed the air, bullets and magical spells sinking into the protections the Goblin King had created, ablating each tendril of air, lodging in the condensed atmosphere of his aura—that was how it was done, you see.

An expendable shield that lasted just long enough. The Goblin King took fire in the last microseconds of his charge; it tore into his armor. A [Lucky Round] burned through his guts, and he ignored it; his body was already healing.

Then he was upon the first [Soldier], and he swung his sword through the Gnoll and kept moving. His body crashed into a Minotaur and hurled the corpse aside. The Goblin King kept running, killing as many from sheer impacts as his swinging sword. They had not expected him to try to get past them; he was in the second ranks before they could even react.

He was not immortal. He just had so many lives to draw upon. Using so many Skills and spells tired him; it was his current body, Rabbiteater’s, that he had to fall back on now.

That was enough. Xitegen was running towards him, and perhaps, if they had met at that moment, the Goblin King might have died. But—the Goblin King tore left, grinning, away from the heart of the Alliance’s forces. They tried to catch him, but now he was running.

Like a rabbit. Away from the roaring line of tanks that had been moving to surround him and cut him off.

Catch me if you can, the Goblin King thought at his pursuers. A childish thought, from a child to a world of toys. Stop me.

Try and stop me.

 

——

 

“—Sixth rank and he’s still moving! He’s not aiming at Lord Xitegen or Engineer Kevin!”

Mrsha could see the Goblin King’s charge. She could feel it. She was shaking; it was as if the entire High Passes were being pulled forward by a single being, collapsing on the Alliance’s forces.

How could anyone stop that? It felt like the Goblin King was charging at her, though that was ridiculous. Those poor [Soldiers].

Xitegen’s voice.

“Pierce his armor before they can re-shield him! All forces: Char rounds, anti-healing munitions. I want him dead.”

Then—Kevin’s.

“I’m coming. Hold him down and I’ll finish this.”

The cyclone of arrows and that defiant aura that marked Lord Xitegen’s position was indeed bearing down on the Goblin King. But then Mrsha heard a curse. Xitegen, once more. A breathless realization, and a note of fear.

“It’s—he’s not aiming at us. It’s her.”

For a second, the words didn’t register in her head. Mrsha had heard a second sound, and someone else had stolen her attention.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was moving. Mrsha heard a roaring sound…no, she didn’t hear it. She was too far away. She felt it.

Rm. Rmrmrmrmmmrmmmrmmmm.

Then it became a roar, like a car without a muffler, the roar of an engine. The Goblin Lord was attacking.

A single figure appeared out in the open in front of her fortress. Just a tiny dot—but when the Goblin Lord of Civilizations strode forwards, her people seemed to come alive, fighting harder, moving faster, blazing with inspiration.

The true heart of the Goblins pointed, and a wing of fighter planes scythed downwards, saving a platoon of Goblins from a rank of firing tanks. She glanced right, and artillery began to target magical barriers protecting a position of the Alliance forces. Dying Goblins looked up as [Medics] leapt off aircraft, diving towards them with [Feather Hop] spells that caught them at the last moment.

She was the entire battlefield. Every element was under her control; the Goblins fought like the Antinium of Izril could only have dreamed of twenty years ago. And yet the Goblin Lord herself was a weapon. She pointed something—a weapon?—and a blazing line of fire swept over the Alliance’s forces. Then she became a blur, racing into combat.

It was her heart that Mrsha was sensing. A mechanical heart, a piston of metal and magic burning like an ember in the Goblin Lord’s chest, combusting, sending her blood through her body in a never-ending torrent of fury.

But the Goblin King was still the more terrifying of the two. And he kept…approaching…

He was slicing west along Xitegen’s vanguard, avoiding plunging into them, running, and Xitegen’s forces kept pivoting. Where was he trying to strike? Artillery on the back lines? The…western flank? Was he cutting out to plunge back in? The rear itself? Why? They’d surround him and kill him. There was nothing there. Nothing except—

A Gnoll child. She realized it at the same time Lord Xitegen did, and he roared into the speaking stone.

“It’s you. Mrsha. He’s after Mrsha! Doctor Withra, send her south! Summon the Lightning Runner! Don’t let him reach your camp!”

 

——

 

The Goblins realized the Goblin King’s target as well. The Goblin Lord’s furious advance towards Xitegen actually curved away, but she was as unable to stop the Goblin King as Xitegen. Both gave desperate orders.

Too late, too late. Chieftain Rags began to run, and someone tackled her from inside the command bunker. She tried to fight them off her.

Mrsha! Not Mrsha! 

Across the battlefield, the Gnoll girl sighed.

 

——

 

She really, truly hadn’t believed it would happen again.

Not in the future. Not on this battlefield where everything was beyond even the best of her friends. This war would have been beyond Teriarch, yet somehow, exhaustingly, it always boiled down to the same old song and dance.

Mrsha saw Doctor Withra running to her. The medical camp was a flurry of panic as they realized the Goblin King was charging at them. The [Doctor] had a pistol in her hand. A single sidearm, and she pointed.

A healer, prepared to kill and die to protect her patients. She was pointing towards the center of the camp, next to the magical generators projecting the blue magical shield.

“Right there in the center, Mrsha. We’ll cover you.”

The blue shields rippled, like a bubble about to burst. Mrsha’s eyes fixed on the desperate Drake in her army fatigues.

Doctor Withra was going to die. She wouldn’t stop the Goblin King. Not one second. Mrsha knew it, Withra knew it.

Xitegen knew it.

“Evacuate her now, Withra!”

“She can’t outrun the Goblin King! Nothing can!”

The [Doctor] shouted back. Mrsha glanced at a figure who’d leapt into one of the remaining jeeps. He was Xitegen’s driver; he must not have had a combat class. The Human man glanced up.

“I’ll take her. But I can’t outrun that thing.”

The storm was pushing forwards, like a knife through the Alliance’s forces. They had maybe a minute. Withra grabbed Mrsha’s arm.

“Lord Xitegen can reinforce our position. If you take her out there, she’ll be in the middle of a battlefield.”

No good solutions. Then a voice crackled over the stone, muted by gunfire and explosions, but so terribly familiar.

“Send her my way. I can stop Rabbiteater this time. Mrsha? Is that really you? This way.”

Kevin. It was always Kevin, somehow. Mrsha glanced at the [Driver], and his eyes lit up. He grabbed something and began charting a course. Withra hesitated—it was Mrsha who leapt into the jeep.

The Human man grinned at Mrsha, and he had brown skin, a once-broken nose, and he raised something to his lips and kissed it. Then he spoke in a husky voice with a faded accent she couldn’t place.

“Hold on. Don’t raise your head for anything.”

The [Driver] gunned the engines. Doctor Withra turned, gazing over her shoulder. Mrsha glanced back at her once, and then the car accelerated, so blindingly fast she felt like Magnolia Reinhart’s carriage would have been in slow-motion.

The world became a blur—and behind her, Mrsha saw the air darken. The tempest fell over the medical camp, and the Drake [Doctor] turned, firing. An armored figure with glowing red light coming from their helmet dashed into the camp, almost lightly, trailing debris and death behind him carelessly.

Like…a child who had smashed through a dozen sets of toys. He searched around as the shockwave behind him caught up, and the Goblin King met Mrsha du Marquin’s eyes. He pointed at her.

Her heart stopped.

It didn’t beat as Mrsha collapsed in the car, convulsing—the hand jerked away as bullets struck his helmet, and her heart restarted in her chest.

Mrsha lay there as the jeep swerved, and the [Driver] swore an unending litany of curses. She poked her head up, behind the armored glass, and saw the Goblin King running after them.

Goodbye, Belavierr nightmares. Hello, new ones. But she felt like he was—slower. Wounded?

Or was someone fighting him inside his own body? The girl sat there one second until they hit the battlefield, racing through the Alliance’s lines. They passed by the first bunkers of stone, zooming past long tubes of metal spitting fire upwards, then under the shadow of summoned fortifications. Even a castle, manned by [Soldiers] who fired from the crumbling ramparts. Then past the first of the trenches, heading towards that giant Goblin bunker-fortress in the distance.

Mrsha’s heart plunged in her chest as they shot down a ramp, scattering [Soldiers] who were locked together in hand-to-hand combat with special forces fighting behind their lines.

Then she was in the middle of a warzone. The Goblin King slowed as he ran into Xitegen’s forces, coming to kill him, and everyone was lost in a sea of battle and death.

“Hold on and keep your head down! That bastard—he’s on us! Vai pra puta que te pariu!”

He roared something back at the shape neither of them could see, but could feel pursuing them, and Mrsha blinked up at the stranger and saw something wrapped around one hand. Her eyes fixed on a golden cross, and she realized something.

Oh. He’s an Earther. 

The jeep swerved as thunder shook it; someone was firing at them, and Mrsha jerked and ducked down as spiderwebs appeared in the glass on her door. The [Driver] spun them right, so his side was taking fire, and accelerated.

For nineteen seconds, Mrsha just sat there in her surreal little bubble as the jeep shuddered and swerved, and she could still be that child everyone tried to save. Then she heard a poc sound and peered up.

The car slowed. Her driver was leaning on the wheel. There was a hole in the side of his helmet, still smoking, and blood. He gazed blankly ahead, dead weight resting on the wheel. The girl stared at him. Then, slowly, she climbed out of her seat. Opened the door and pushed him out.

Sorry.

He fell, and a golden cross tumbled to the ground, still clutched in his fist. The girl peered down at the bloody seat and the levers on the floor of the car. She had watched him driving this thing just in case, asked him how it worked. Mrsha bent down and anchored a [Tripvine] spell to the accelerator, nailing it to the floor. Then her paws rose, and she grabbed the wheel, clumsily, as the car sped into motion.

Then it was just a child, swerving and speeding into the battlefield, as a monster chased her, warriors fighting and dying around her.

Just like it had always been.

The car accelerated up the ramp of dirt, carrying Mrsha past the next layer of the trenches, and it flew as it emerged, catching air for a moment—Mrsha saw a group of Gnolls blink up at her, and then the jeep struck the open ground and went roaring forwards.

There was blood on her paws. She kept wiping at it as she jerked the wheel, sliding, skidding—she hit something, and the car spun, then the wheels finally got purchase and dragged her forwards.

Past a second line of Drakes in trenches, who peeked up and nearly shot at her until they stared at the girl driving past them, eyes wide with terror, white fur blowing behind her. She began to turn towards them, then saw the Goblin King running from the right—so she swerved left.

Across the no-man’s land, past a burning tank, an explosive round hitting the ground and blowing fragments of dirt into the windshield like shrapnel. The car listed, and Mrsha swung the wheel frantically left—then curved right, around the crater.

The Goblin King leapt at her and missed—an explosion sent him flying past Mrsha, and she flinched, but kept going.

There was an art to this. She was, perhaps, one of the best people in the world at this.

Running for her life while a battle raged around her. The secret was to keep moving, to never stop. Friend, foe, it didn’t matter—you ran. And zig-zagged—Mrsha was twisting the wheel right and left, leaving a snake-like trail in the ground.

You ran at the enemy, you did what no one was expecting—a line of Goblin tanks was firing at retreating Drake [Soldiers]. One of those terrifying turrets swung towards her, and her jeep roared towards it, then twisted left at the last second. It fired, and Mrsha went deafer as heat blasted over one window of the jeep, but then she was racing alongside the tank—and deeper into enemy lines.

Yes. You kept running. Until the moment you stopped. That was the only trick there was to it. The girl swung the wheel desperately, trying to move away from the tanks, but her car began to skid—she wrestled with the wheel, trying to get it to move forwards again, but she was helpless until the wheels finally obeyed her.

Mrsha didn’t understand how to drive this car. It didn’t matter—go faster. She swung the wheel around, and the car listed onto one side.

The girl felt the car nearly roll—she was on one wheel for a terrifying moment—then she saw Goblin infantry.

They were advancing. Mrsha swerved away from them as she zigzagged back towards the Alliance’s lines, and both sides were firing. At each other, at the vehicle, at the Goblin King.

Luck, her insane speed, the Goblin King all saved the girl from being a target. A Doombearer’s luck and the hesitation of [Soldiers] who saw a child driving a car at breakneck speed through the battlefield.

—Then another salvo of smokescreen rounds hit the area and turned everything dark. Both sides were fighting in close-quarters, warriors drawing enchanted blades and assailing tanks; War Golems advancing to be cut down by magical munitions.

The first round blew a hole through Mrsha’s car, tearing open the back door. She swerved right.

She didn’t know where she was going.

The Gnoll girl nearly ran over a squad in the smoke. No clue which species it was; their masks swivelled up, and they opened fire.

Half the bullets cracked on the glass, leaving spiderwebs over her vision. The other half went through. Mrsha bent over the wheel and kept going. After a moment, she felt at her side.

She was bleeding. The girl bent lower over the steering wheel, giggling. She hit something—the car roared as it strained against something, then tore left, leaving a part of it behind. More gunfire. The child kept laughing as the bullets punched into the car around her.

You weren’t supposed to make it. At last, she was getting what she’d escaped so long. At l—

Something hit the car with a roar of sound, and she stopped laughing. The impact snapped her back in the seat, and she reached for the wheel. Then the gunfire grew louder. The next impact twisted the vehicle, and she was rolling, still reaching for the wheel.

Run and run. Until—

—you—

—stop.

 

——

 

They had lost sight of Mrsha. Both Ragses were fighting now, side-by-side. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations did not advance recklessly into battle like the Goblin King.

He was expendable. She was not.

Her heart was roaring, an engine in her chest, and it seemed to bring that weary form to life. She pointed.

“Reposition. Kill those batteries.”

A bomber flickered out of the air and appeared above the spot she wanted gone. It unleashed its payload. The Goblin Lord spun.

“Battleborn 1st. Go.”

She activated another Skill, and Lord Rags sensed Goblins moving in another point of the battlefield turning into Fomirelins, each and every one of them, and hitting the Alliance’s lines.

Then the enemy was on them; they had reached the command bunker in the center of the Goblin’s lines. Thousands of Goblins were within, firing to defend the blackened walls, while medical and command teams worked in the center of the creation. The Drakes charged into the killzone at the base of the fortress.

“Pallass! For Pallass and—”

Drakes. Chieftain Rags didn’t hear the rest. The Goblin with a sword and headphones jumped and cut the first Drake’s head off. Then he was dancing amidst them, his sword cleaving off limbs, killing the squad as they tried to turn and fire.

[Blademaster].

“Find me that child! Hold the line, here! Battleborn 2nd!”

The Goblin Lord pulled more reinforcements out of the air, and then it was pure battle. Not that Chieftain Rags saw much of it. One of the other [Bodyguards] checked her to the ground. He pulled up a rifle and began shooting behind a low metal cover. It shuddered, and his personal barrier spell flashed until it went out.

Rags raised the revolver she’d been given by Captain Leafpear, but she had no familiarity with it. The Goblin next to her was firing so fast through the smoke and chaos that she couldn’t see half his targets. He must have had a Skill to differentiate friend from foe; Rags nearly shot her older incarnation when the Goblin Lord appeared.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was still gleaming. Not with an aura or with battle-lust; her right arm was metal. Her chest was dully reflective, and the cylinder of metal over the left side of her chest kept pumping in and out of her body, steam and orange light escaping each time it retracted.

Like a Golem of war—but her face was that of an older Goblin, teeth bared, eyes shining crimson. She pointed her metallic hand as her other held the submachine gun at the ready.

“Tanks coming. Fall back! Get her into the bunker! Blades!”

Now, Rags saw the new symmetry of warfare. Guns killed everything so damn fast. Unless you had armor—even if you had armor—they were too powerful. But tanks?

They rolled forwards, and one ignored an explosion on its Adamantium armor. Turrets turned, firing machine guns and larger guns as the Goblins fell back into the bunker and trenches.

You needed a bigger gun to kill a tank. So that meant artillery or your own tanks or heavy weapons. Or—

A sword.

The headphone wearing [Blademaster] appeared on the body of one of the Alliance tanks. He crept up on the vehicle, then sliced the turret off. He heaved, and it went flying, then he leapt into the crew compartments.

When he emerged a moment later, Rags heard music thumping from his headphones. There was more blood on his sword. The [Blademaster] leapt for the next vehicle.

The Battleborn 2nd went with him, Goblins armed with enchanted blades, intent on carving up the heavy armor in close-quarters combat. They ran straight into armored figures. Gnolls, Drakes, Humans, Golems—most carried their own blades as well as sidearms.

Then it became a melee that Rags was familiar with, but she didn’t move from her position at the bunker’s mouth. Everyone here was wearing the future-armor or traditional plate armor.

The plate armor was mithril at worst. Chieftain Rags didn’t dare move, even for Mrsha.

Where was she?

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations finally raised her weapons as she met the armored column. She barked one last order, raised one finger, and the air became pure lightning. It blasted everything in front of her that wasn’t a Goblin with pure electrical force—several [Soldiers] dropped, but most, amazingly, came on, staggering.

So Ragathsi brought up the submachine gun in her other hand and squeezed the trigger. Her magical weapon discharged the first piece of paper out the other end. From the muzzle of her magical gun came…

A [Fireball]. A blooming, familiar orb of orange and red. Not a [Fast Fireball]. Not a [Grand Fireball], let alone a [Siege Fireball].

Just a regular Tier 3 spell. It shot forwards, fast as a baseball, and detonated on the first [Soldier] it came across. Every time a talisman cycled through the gun, another [Fireball] exited the muzzle. It was less like a gun and more like a…a wand that ran on magical ammunition.

Only, infinitely more advanced. Rags’ eyes caught one of the spiraling, spent ‘cartridges’ of the spell, and she saw it was unrolled, a tube of intricately-written parchment, each inch of it covered in writing so intricate, it almost seemed to be a pure square of red from a distance.

Magic. A scroll, miniaturized from its usual size of a two or even three-foot long scroll into a tube of paper rolled up to be shorter and thinner than her finger. Not hand-printed, but written with magical ink printed by machines and gemstone dyes.

Each time the submachine gun ‘fired’, another tube ran through the inner workings of the Relic-class weapon, activating the spell in full, forming the strands of fire together, and launching them—in the milliseconds it took each round to fire.

No [Pyromancer] could process spells that fast. No mortal mind—the [Fireballs] kept shooting from the muzzle of the gun as spent scrolls of paper fluttered down around the Goblin Lord of Civilizations like confetti.

The submachine gun fired hundreds of [Fireballs] in the first minute it roared. Then the Goblin Lord yanked another clip from her belt and attached it; it began firing more [Fireballs].

The shockwaves of the first [Fireballs] were flipping the tanks backwards, thousands of pounds of metal hurled back from the kinetic force of the blasts alone. The ground was shaking; an earthquake from the nonstop explosions. But the Goblin Lord of Civilizations kept firing, sweeping her gun right and left, a wild grin on her face.

Abruptly, she stopped midway through the clip. Spoke one word.

“Advance.”

Chieftain Rags saw the only tanks in one piece were on their sides, Adamantium armor dented and smoking. The blasts had tossed Alliance soldiers into the air, if not killed them outright.

“Wh—wh—”

The Goblin Lord caught Rags’ eye and bared her teeth. That bloodthirsty smile of someone relishing battle, despite it all..

“There are only five of these in all of Izril. Each one costs…well. The budget of a Domed City every time it goes to battle.”

She hefted the weapon onto her shoulder, and it wasn’t even smoking. It wasn’t even warmed up. The most devastating weapon that Rags had ever seen—even dreamed of—rested on Ragathsi’s shoulder.

It could have turned the tides of the Creler Wars—any war it existed in. It had wiped out a wave of the Alliance’s soldiers, and with it, you could best an army of Pallass. Become a one-Goblin army. Even threaten the Goblin King.

All these things were true, but Chieftain Rags’ eyes found the Goblin Lord’s weapon—and her heart didn’t soar at the achievement of Goblins. It simply squeezed a bit.

“What a waste.”

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations’ broad smile faltered, and she gave the Chieftain an uncomprehending look. Some of her bodyguards glanced at the Chieftain with just as much confusion.

A waste? The most impressive weapon in this, or any other world? A—

The Goblin Chieftain thought of Erin Solstice’s cake, which had too much frosting and wasn’t good for you. Or Kevin’s bicycles, which were inferior to magical carriages or the [Portal Door]. Or…she couldn’t picture anything this future held, because she was from the past.

But she wished she could have seen it. A vision of what might have been, something to inspire and amaze her. A [Garden of Sanctuary], but made in technology and out of genius, rather than a Skill.

Instead…her eyes fell on the submachine gun, and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations’ smile faltered. She lowered the weapon and gazed at it, as if only now seeing it.

“All it can do is kill.”

The rest of the [Soldiers] eyed Rags without comprehension. But Ragathsi got it. She murmured, no longer able to meet her younger self’s eyes.

“I’ve forgotten how to make anything else, these last twenty years. Come on; let’s find Mrsha.”

She swept an arm out, gathering her bodyguard to her in a single gesture. They fell into a single unit around the Goblin Lord, and she descended into her bunker until she realized that her younger counterpart hadn’t, in fact, moved.

Chieftain Rags was still transfixed, gazing at the burning bodies. When she jerked to attention, they locked gazes, and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations licked her lips. The pinnacle of Goblin culture, their new era of rational achievement and superiority, encountered the judgement of the simple Goblin she’d used to be.

She didn’t like it. Unsettled, the Goblin Lord averted her eyes. She snapped at one of her aides.

“Find me Mrsha.”

They retreated into the bunker, and descended down flights of stairs into the war room, where the [Strategists] and other coordinators of the army were demanding answers to the same question: where was Mrsha? They were asking the question of soldiers fighting for their lives and getting few answers.

The Goblin Lord’s eyes were locked on the main projection of the warfront. A gold-colored icon was meeting a purple one in the confusion of the battlefield; an entire sea of red dots surrounded the purple icon, and only a few blue ones had made it that far in.

“Lord Xitegen is engaging the Goblin King.”

The most important moment of this war—the Goblin Lord tore her eyes away from it and traced a line over the table.

“She was headed this way. Plot her trajectory.”

A Goblin did before indicating the smokescreen that had overwhelmed the vision of everyone engaged. Ragathsi’s eyes flickered as she performed calculations too fast for the younger Rags to keep up with.

Then she highlighted several blue units.

“These ones.”

She strode over to another monitor and spoke into it as one of the Goblins pressed a button.

“Firescorch Company. This is Command. Has a Gnoll child in a vehicle passed your position? Any vehicle besides a tank at all? Keep the child alive at all costs.”

It took her a few seconds to get a response. The crack of gunfire and the screams of pain filled the air behind the breathless voice.

“Lord…? Vehicle? Gnoll child?”

“Have you seen one? A white Gnoll girl.”

There was a moment of silence as the gunfire grew louder, and then the company commander snapped back.

“We’re under assault from—nol-fina tihma? Se tai pilamast nol-fina si chep-kep tihma? Chóvain tihma? Ten pies mapakava’n tan va, kru tithil Mirak Pasai!”

She slipped into Goblin, screaming the question, and both Ragses waited. The Chieftain’s fingernails were digging into her palms. After a break in the gunfire, a response came back.

“We saw one. And a child! We thought it was a trap—”

“Is there a Gnoll child in there? A Doombearer? Get me a transport. Air!”

Both Ragses started forwards, and the Goblin Lord pointed at the location on the map as the war room burst into a frenzy. A green dot appeared, zooming towards the bunker, but one of the [Strategists] was pointing to red dots that instantly veered towards it.

“Lord, we can’t. It will be shot down—”

Ragathsi overrunned her; she slashed a hand, and blue dots moved to intercept. She was giving orders without even speaking.

“Transport, now! Secure that child, commander! Confirm, a white Gnoll child!”

The commander’s voice was slow to reply.

“It’s not…a white Gnoll child, Lord.”

“What?”

Chieftain Rags spun on her heel, confused. Was there a second Gnoll girl out there in this battlefield? Then she heard the commander’s voice go uncertain.

“It’s a red-furred…o aspat. Ten trok-zech! Trok-zech! Ten hir [Medic], tak!”

Rags understood only part of the fluent Goblin. She didn’t need to hear more. The blood drained from her face, and she turned. The Goblin Lord’s head rose.

“Get me the best medical team you can. Flying transport. Move.”

They emerged from the bunker as an aircraft like the larger command cruiser descended from the skies and hovered in the air. Now the thunder was reaching its peak, and somewhere, the Goblin King was laughing.

Then it all fell—silent.

 

——

 

—She woke up when someone began cutting the burning steel off her. The good news was it didn’t hurt. The bad news was that it should have.

Almost there.

The girl didn’t feel warm. But she didn’t feel cold either. Just a bit chilly, like someone waiting to warm up by the fire. She felt tired, and she wanted someone to hold her and tell her a story.

Someone had told her a story, you know. When she’d first come to this place with her plan in mind, she’d found a door and gone through it. She’d asked a question of the person inside, the dying young woman lying on a raft.

“—off! Get it off! [Medic]! Lord Ragathsi is coming! Secure this area!”

Something was lying on top of her. No…it and she were connected. The pieces dug into her, then the pressure released as something began to lift. The girl waited.

She had told Mrsha a story, the woman in the door. It was a simple story to answer Mrsha’s big question about what she was about to do. Erin Solstice had told her the truth.

Yes. You could do magic. You could work wonders or do the impossible.

It just cost a lot. How much you were willing to pay—the burned [Innkeeper] had grinned as she showed Mrsha her scars and pointed to the wreckage around her. Even if it wasn’t you.

Someone always paid the cost.

“The Goblin King is moving this way. Hurry! Get it off—”

Mrsha had known that. She felt the prison of metal finally release its grip on her, but they didn’t immediately pull her out. Instead, the scary people with no faces pried the metal apart further. Then stopped.

“Aspat. That’s—potion! Potion!”

They splashed liquid on her. Nothing changed, and the figures shouted louder.

“—[Medic]! We need transfusions and burn jelly! Those were Evercut Rounds! Get down there and lift—don’t pull—you’ll tear her in—”

They were trying to put her on a stretcher when gunfire burst out again, and they dropped her. A line of Humans advanced out of the smoke and engaged the Goblins. Mrsha tried to get up. And she realized she could. She sat up and saw why the Goblins hadn’t immediately recognized her as a Doombearer.

Her fur was crimson. The Gnoll touched the tacky, damp fur covered in her own blood.

Well, that’s one way to stop being a white Gnoll. Almost done. She nearly got to her feet; she got her knees under her, then faltered.

“Stay down!”

Who shouted it at her? Which side? Mrsha didn’t really care. They were slaughtering each other. This wasn’t her world; she wished she could feel for these future peoples, but she was so tired.

All my fault. But I promised to try.

Her head rose as she sat there, holding her leaking side, and then she turned. The Humans firing at the last Goblins on the ground whirled around, and she heard a cry from their lips. They all felt it.

The girl looked up, and a figure halted on the battlefield.

The Goblin King.

 

——

 

They’d caught him after all. Or had he caught them?

The armored figure was still moving. But walking, now. Winded.

A sword was buried in his chest, aimed at his heart. But it had missed and struck the right side of his body.

So close. Almost—the Goblin’s armor was bent, and there were holes leaking blood in it. But he stood, walking towards the figure who’d fallen down.

A sword was buried in the other man’s chest. They’d traded blows. A glowing woman was trying to kill him from above. The Archmage of Dawn collapsed in the sky, her blood raining down around them, but neither man looked up.

The Goblin King pulled his sword out of the slumped figure and inspected those eyes. A dead man gazed up at him. Dead—but still moving. He spat as he tried to rise.

They did not always look like this. So many shrieked, begged, or simply froze. But this man wore that face that wearied the Goblin King most.

That eternal gaze of defiance.

A hand reached up and gripped the blade in the Goblin King’s chest. The Goblin seized the arm and removed the sword.

He planted the second sword in the throat of the man—but the expression of defiance never shifted. Never wavered. The Goblin King snarled as the Archmage of Dawn pointed, and the light shone bright.

The Goblin King swung his arm up to throw the sword at the woman above, and hands seized him. He, the strongest being in the world, beat at the corpse that locked its hands around his neck.

Squeezed until the metal of his armor crunched and his very throat was in the bare hands. The Goblin King stabbed again and again as the Archmage swooped away, and that gaze never stopped haunting him. Even when there were no more eyes to stare.

At last, the Goblin King broke the grip and got to his feet, coughing. He turned to end it. Then looked back over his shoulder.

Headless, arms severed—even as the mortals despaired—

The Goblin King still felt those eyes on him, weighing him down with nothing but contempt.

The Goblin King spat onto the ground from his ruined visor, then retreated from the corpse.

 

——

 

Xitegen was dead. Mrsha felt him go. Everyone did.

That vast, bluff, brave, and immovable presence supporting Mrsha from behind had suddenly vanished. Like a castle at your back collapsing into dust. She heard a sigh—and Mrsha had an image of that overweight fellow, Lord Xitegen. His clothing was bloodied, and he wore an expression of genuine regret as he bowed.

A magnificent man, wounded and bloodied by war—bowing as low as he could, as if he were apologizing to her. Apologizing to them all, for failing to do the impossible. When he raised his head, she saw how profoundly weary he was. Weary—a boy who had never asked to be a warrior, who had lost everything and continued on.

He would have been relieved to lay down his burdens, if only he could have done one last thing. So, regretfully, he bowed—then stepped back, and that tension left him; he became a boy again, tears of regret in his eyes. Never strong enough.

But he had tried. Mrsha wept for him, a kindred spirit.

Then, Lord Xitegen stepped back again, and she knew he was dead. Mrsha gazed over the smoky battlefield and knew from the swirling smoke and flames where the Goblin King stood. She saw something flying upwards into the sky.

Arrows. Lord Xitegen’s famous Skill was activating one last time. Arrows rose upwards—then rained down. A storm of them falling over friend and foe. Raining from the sky—then blowing northwards.

They kept falling by the thousands. More and more of them. More than even Lord Xitegen’s Skill could create. Mrsha sat there as a new weather pattern swept across Izril and the High Passes. A rain of arrows, created by the death of the highest-level [Lord] of Izril.

Goodbye. She hadn’t even known him, not really. Mrsha’s eyes still stung. She lay there as the Humans advanced, crying out for vengeance—until the roar of wind and more gunfire drowned them out.

“There! She’s there!”

Chieftain Rags found her, somehow, amidst all of the bodies. She ran over, screaming and shouting, and a tall Goblin in worn armor with a heart that rumbled strode over. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations gazed down, touched Mrsha, and spoke.

“[Fight Until the Last]. Medics! Evercut wounds! Transfusions—now!”

More Goblins came running. One took a single look at Mrsha and made a sound. That’s how you knew it was really bad. Mrsha lay there as they tried to load her onto a stretcher.

“We need Gnollish blood. We don’t have—someone contact New Celum. Get the hospitals in every city north of here to search for Gnollish blood, B4.”

“Flesh patch. [Hemostatic Pause]! Just stop that—close all those wounds. Goblin Lord, she cannot move. Don’t sit up!”

That last one was for Mrsha. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations ignored the voices.

“He’s coming. Get this plane moving. Head to New Celum—now—”

Then she cursed. Mrsha didn’t see what was going on—she heard snarls, a shout; Chieftain Rags was there, just behind the press of bodies working on her.

“Mrsha. Hold on. We’ll get you to the inn. There are Gnolls there. Liscor’s blood bank—Mrsha?”

I know. We’re almost home. 

They were rising into the sky when the front of their plane disappeared. Then they were going down—a Goblin grabbed Mrsha and screamed.

“[Protect the Patie—]”

Whumph.

She tumbled, then hit the ground.

It was him. He had no right to be here, not after Lord Xitegen—but even the Goblin King felt less…present. Wounded. He was hurt. But he was still the eternal Goblin King, and she felt his hand at her throat, clutching at her heart.

Silly Goblin King. She was already…

Mrsha lay there, then heard more screaming. Rags’ voice. Two of them. One was roaring in fury. The other was familiar and quiet.

“Stay away from her.”

The girl sat up as someone lifted the metal off her. When she gazed up, there he was.

The Goblin King.

One last problem. She bared her teeth silently at him, snarling.

 

——

 

His armor was even more battered than before. There was a hole in it along his chest, a gash exposing scarred green flesh beneath. He was grievously wounded.

He didn’t care. The armored figure tossed the wreckage of the aircraft off the Gnoll girl, ignoring the revolver that Chieftain Rags was pointing at his head. He squatted down.

“Curious. Now, I feel like…I am the one dreaming. I am and always have been myself. Is it showing me this strange dream? Now it all feels fake. Even Rabbiteater. Except for me. And you. And you.”

His claw moved, pointing at Mrsha, Rags, and touching his own chest. Even the Goblin Lord of Civilizations was…

“But it doesn’t matter. If it is one or a thousand, worlds must burn. And I have damned worlds they tried to make, empires made out of the suffering of my people.”

The Goblin King reached down for Mrsha. The girl stared silently up at him as Rags fired. This time, the Goblin King held up a hand and blocked the round. He twisted and punched the Goblin Chieftain. She went flying. The Goblin King swivelled and blocked a cut from the musical [Blademaster].

The Goblin Lord and her bodyguard attacked. The Goblin King swung his sword and cut one of her people in two. He took two rounds from the rifle of one of her bodyguards, then punched the Goblin away. He grabbed a spell in midair and snapped it. Then the Goblin Lord was grappling with him. The Goblin King’s helmeted head went back, and he headbutted her. Once, twice—she sagged and then tried to stab him with a sword—

He tossed her so far that she was a speck. Then, as if nothing had happened, he bent down. The Goblin King reached out and picked up the card written with the girl’s own blood. He stopped; the helmet tilted, and he read it, bemused.

“A request? A war besides this one. No, I won’t listen. You are making Rabbiteater weak. If there is another war, I will find it.”

So saying, he bent down again, dismissing her words. The Alliance’s army was fighting the Goblins around them. Somewhere, they were massing for a final push, and a behemoth of a tank was rolling this way at speed with a promise for the Goblin King carved into each shell.

He didn’t care. Fighter planes were falling from the sky around the Goblin King as the Goblins won control of the airspace and began strafing the Alliance’s forces. The Goblin King glanced up, as if a thought had suddenly struck him. The dented helmet tilted up, and he breathed another familiar name in two voices.

“Four. Fightipilota?”

 

——

 

A strange, blue bird descended until it was hovering over the ground.

Hovering, not flying. The base of the aircraft had opened, revealing glowing runes which stabilized the aircraft. Levitation spells. It bobbed, a toy plane amidst this sea of battle.

There was a Goblin inside, one hand on the control stick, goggles on her face. The Goblin [Fighter Pilot] saluted the Goblin King with two fingers.

“Hi, Rabbiteater.”

Fightipilota ran her eyes up and down the stranger wearing her comrade’s body. Then she pulled the triggers on her flight stick and held them down.

The Skyshadow’s guns roared, and the Goblin King brought up his shield just in time. The oversized autocannon rounds deflected off it; Fightipilota juked left with the levitation runes and shot him in the legs.

Then she jabbed a trigger, and a pair of magical rays shot out from under the autocannons and hit the Goblin King as he stumbled. He burst into flames—then quenched them, but his armor was still superheated, glowing red or orange in places. The Goblin King sprang away, forcing his shredded legs to move. Fightipilota kept firing. A round tore into his side and she saw blood spurt from the wound—but he raised his shield and deflected the rest of the shots.

Every voice in her headset was screaming at her. Fightipilota turned off her radio and took off. She came up—and down, still firing. A bounding, leaping shape jumped away from her. Then he threw something at her.

Her craft blink-teleported left just in time; the cone of air generated by him throwing his sword made her tumble.

The levitation spells steadied her as Fightipilota tried to track the bounding figure, but he was too fast. She circled, and he kicked the ground. It looked like a wall had appeared; the spray of dirt took her shields from maximum to 6%, and her craft hit the ground.

“Uh. Shit.”

Fightipilota tried to reactivate her thrusters, take off, anything, hammering on the controls. She couldn’t see! She disengaged the seal of her cockpit, and dirt showered off her, affording her a view of the Goblin King. He was right in front of her.

Fightipilota froze up. She should kneel. Or obey whatever he said. Some kind of voice in her was saying that—she pictured Chieftain Rags and yanked a dagger out of its sheath as she took hold of the flight stick, trying to get her craft up—

The Goblin King had another weapon in his hands. A throwing axe. He raised it—then spun. This time, she saw him set his stance and even activate a Skill.

The thunder and explosion in the air still sent the Goblin King flying. The shockwave hit Fighti’s craft and flicked it; she hit the ground and would have been thrown from her chair but for the harness.

Shields gone, plane screaming damage warnings at her. What the hell had hit her? Not her—the Goblin King.

It was like a Giant had struck a flint and tinder, and the Goblin King was the tinder. There was another boom—and a vehicle rolled forwards, firing again.

The biggest tank Fightipilota had seen in the entire battle was storming after the Goblin King, firing a trail of tracer-rounds through the darkness as he leapt away. Fightipilota felt the oppressive figure retreating and started breathing again. Then she decided to hell with it and undid her seatbelt. She leapt out of her harness and shouted.

“Mrsha!”

The [Fighter Pilot] left her aircraft and ran over the ground to where she’d seen the Gnoll girl. When she got there, she halted. Someone else had beaten her there.

Chieftain Rags had Mrsha in her arms. Fightipilota wasn’t sure if she should…pick Mrsha up. But her Rags just panted at her.

“We need to get her to a city. She needs blood. They shot her with Evercut Arrows—Bullets.”

“Damn idiots! Come on—this way!”

Fightipilota pointed and then tried to support Mrsha so they didn’t jostle her about. They ran her to the fighter plane, and Fighti hopped in it, relieved to see the dashboard was still glowing.

“Get in.”

“You take Mrsha—”

“Get in.”

Rags hesitated, then squeezed herself into the one-woman cockpit with Fighti. Mrsha was on her lap; Rags was squeezed against the cockpit’s canopy as it closed. As Fighti reactivated the engines and got it levitating, someone raised a wand and wrote in the air.

You actually did it. You found a fighter plane. Good for you.

Neither Goblin had realized Mrsha was still awake. Fighti grinned down at Mrsha desperately.

“Yep. Got the class too. You just—lay there. Don’t move, okay? We’ll get you to the hospital.”

“New Celum. Or—anywhere. Where’s the speaking stone?”

Fighti flipped a few switches as she transitioned from the hovering mode to flying. She heard countless voices as she pointed; Rags toggled the dial, flipping through radio channels.

“This is Chieftain Rags. Goblin Lord, we’re in Fighti’s aircraft. Keep the Goblin King away.”

“Who? Fighti, what are you—”

The enraged voice of Major Hotwing was cut off as the voice of the Goblin Lord rasped.

“He’s fighting the Alliance’s armor. But he’s still aiming for you. Get out of here. New Celum Airbase, direct that plane to your hospital and have transfusions of Gnoll blood B4. I don’t care how you have to get it. Teleport it. We’ll get it from soldiers on this battlefield if we have to.”

Fighti took the plane up as fast as she could without rocking Mrsha. Blood was on her flight suit, and she kept glancing down at the girl. Trying to smile.

Mrsha’s eyes were so—calm. Unsurprised. Like someone waiting, holding onto the edge of a cliff. Chieftain Rags breathed at Fighti.

“Where’s the damn door?”

“New Celum. In the streets. Should I…?”

“—No, the hospital has better medicine. Get us there—now.”

Fighti accelerated to maximum speed, taking them out of the Floodplains and through the canyon that ran north. She didn’t want to try to climb over the mountains to get there, even the shorter ones in the High Passes. Besides—they were moving at incredible speed. Her speedometer said they were in excess of a hundred and eighty miles per hour. Celum would take…what? Thirty three minutes?

The [Fighter Pilot] glanced down at Mrsha and flipped open the teleportation toggle. She hit it once, twice, aiming for the longest jumps she could, then realized it was actually slowing them down because she had to adjust with each jump. The Goblin directed all the energy she could into her engines.

After a second, Rags cursed.

“He’s following us.”

“No way. You sure?”

All the hairs on the [Fighter Pilot]’s neck rose, and Rags turned her head to stare down through the plane at something. Fighti felt it too.

It was like the biggest beast in the High Passes, compressed into a tiny form, running after them. She heard a voice confirming it a second later.

“The Goblin King has broken away and is following the three of you! Fightipilota, I am going to take you to New Celum directly. Reduce speed and prepare for transit!”

“How—? Right! Ready!”

Suddenly understanding, Fighti reduced speed, then felt the Goblin Lord of Civilizations activate her Skill again. The world zoomed suddenly, turning to starry lines and a blur—and then a second later, they emerged in a thunderclap of air.

They’d just moved at the speed of sound. Fighti saw the landscape had entirely shifted from the brown ground and smoke. A city was below them, darkened by rain, but aglow with too-bright colors. Their umbrella shield spells were activated alongside the neon lights, and more voices were speaking from the radio. Fightipilota didn’t hesitate, but took her plane down.

“Hotwing! Where’s that hospital thing?”

She shouted at the other voices until they directed her to a glowing rooftop with a bunch of Goblins waving at her. Fighti hit the levitation spells again and came down as fast as she could without jostling her passengers. She was still hearing voices from the battlefield behind her. Goblin Lord Rags spoke.

“He’s accelerating. Encircle him—ignore those Alliance tanks. Let them fire on him! Just slow him down! I’m heading after him. Finish the battle. Rags, he’s running, and he’s—fast.”

Neither Goblin replied as the cockpit popped open. They saw a dome of light—a waiting team of Goblins, all dressed in those familiar scrubs Rags had seen. The [Doctors] and technicians rushed forwards the instant the cockpit opened.

“Don’t lift her! Let me see—”

They shoved Fightipilota and Rags aside, and then the two Goblins were running after the floating stretcher. What relieved Fightipilota was the red bag of blood and other fluids they connected to Mrsha’s arm. But they didn’t have much—and she knew what their problem was.

“Evercut enchantments? What kind of monsters shoot a child with—?”

Healing potions wouldn’t work. It looked like they were taking pieces of stretchy, pink flesh and stapling them over the wounds the girl had, but that wasn’t any kind of medicine Fightipilota wanted to see in the future.

To her this was a brutal method of closing wounds. Almost like they’d gone back to Redfang-style medicine. She answered the offhand comment of the lead [Surgeon].

“Us.”

That distracted the Goblin medical staff for a second, so Chieftain Rags dragged Fighti back.

 

——

 

They found themselves outside the operating room, watching. There was a window to see into the operating room from above.

Fighti wished there wasn’t. Goblins, adult Hobs, were crowded around a tiny little body in the middle of the room. They were trying to repair…everything?

She had seen wounds in battle, participated in patching someone up without a healing potion many times, but the [Fighter Pilot] still had to look away. Her claws were cutting into the palms of her hands. She looked around, desperate to do something—but no one was listening to her.

Fightipilota’s authority had ended when they left the airplane. However Chieftain Rags’ took over. She shook Fighti twice, before the Goblin tore her eyes away from the red blood and the tools working on Mrsha.

“What? What?”

She nearly punched Rags for distracting her, but the Chieftain’s voice grounded her.

“Show me, exactly, where the root is, Fighti. We can all leave. We just have to reach the root and get out of here. You—tell those doctors—”

They had to find the entrance to the operating room, and Rags grabbed someone rushing towards the doors. The orderly recoiled.

“Don’t touch my outfit! You’ll contaminate the operating room!”

The Goblin shrieked at Rags, and the Chieftain roared back.

“You have fifteen minutes! Tell the doctors that! Then we need a stretcher to get Mrsha out of here.”

“Are you insane? You’ll kill her! We need to put her in a [Stasis] spell until we have a second shipment of blood—”

Rags’ voice was deceptively calm. She pointed out the door, and Fightipilota sensed it too.

“There is no time. The Goblin King is coming to finish the job. Fifteen minutes. Or less. Go.”

She shoved the orderly through the doors, and Fighti saw the team inside glance up, then redouble their speed. The [Fighter Pilot] yanked her eyes away from the girl.

“There’s no way he can run that fast. Celum is a hundred miles from Liscor.”

“He’s the Goblin King. Besides, we need to get to the door.”

That was all Chieftain Rags said, so Fightipilota believed her. At last, the Goblin let herself feel again and rubbed at her face. She realized she was getting Mrsha’s blood all over her.

“That—was Rabbiteater. Yeah? He didn’t look like—”

“It was the Goblin King. He took over Rabbiteater. Rabbiteater’s still in there, but the Goblin King is the one who killed Erin and everyone else in this world. He’s…the first Goblin King. The one who wants to end everything. We have to leave before he reaches us. Now, I understand.”

Rags wiped at her own face, and Fightipilota opened and closed her mouth. Then she searched around.

She needed a weapon.

 

——

 

Sixteen minutes in, Rags made the call. She strode into the operating room.

“We have to go.”

The doctors nearly threw her out with a Skill, but she was higher-level. She didn’t aim her revolver at the [Surgeon] who was barring her way, but he seemed ready to take a bullet to stop her. Only her reasoned argument swayed him.

“The Goblin King is coming. He’ll tear this entire hospital, this city apart to kill my friend. She has to go. Help me.”

He hesitated—then seemed to understand how dire it was. Even so, they wasted precious minutes on getting a new stretcher for Mrsha, another floating one.

Rags stared at Mrsha during that time. The girl was…

Not better. She’d seen them trying to heal her, pulling bullets out and trying to seal her bleeding, but it looked like a raw patch of flesh over—the girl had tubes hooked into her arms. Blood pumping into her little body.

She was, somehow, still awake. Mrsha blinked up at Rags as the [Surgeon] ran with them, shouting instructions.

“You cannot put her in more danger, do you understand? She needs a second transfusion. B4 blood. I don’t care what the Goblin Lord says—”

“Got it. Run! [Rapid Retreat]!”

They sped down the hospital’s corridors with none of the triumph Rags had felt before. She passed by soldiers who’d been teleported from the front. Goblins who turned and gawked at her, Fightipilota, and Mrsha.

How long did it take to get out of the hospital’s front doors? Landing from the sky plus the transit to and from the operating room and the wasted time…call it thirty minutes even? At least someone had had the foresight to park an ambulance outside, ready to go.

How fast could the Goblin King run? Sixty miles per hour? Faster? Fightipilota had pulled the location of her arrival up on the smartphone she’d stolen. She navigated as a stupid Goblin’s voice gave them directions.

Ten minutes of moving through the damn city, even with the sirens going. At one point, Rags leaned out the window, intending to fire the revolver at the ground to get the damn cars in her way moving. She didn’t care if it was a red light.

The driver and surgeon kept her from doing that—and it seemed like the Goblin Lord shared Rags’ mood. The arrowstorm sirens began blaring, and then all the vehicles left the street.

“Almost there—almost—there! I think it’s here!”

Fightipilota screeched, and the ambulance came to a stop. Rags bailed out of the back, swivelling around in the middle of the neon-lit square, barrier spells shining above everyone like a thousand magical umbrellas.

A city of the future. She turned and helped move the stretcher out of the ambulance. It floated there as Mrsha raised her head slightly.

Almost.

She wrote with a glowing fingernail. Rags grinned at her.

“We’re going to get home. Just wait—Fighti!”

The Goblin [Fighter Pilot] was running back and forth, desperately searching the air for where the root was. The problem was that she’d been in the center of the square, and it was raining again. Rags heard the city’s alarms shrieking louder, but no storm of arrows was falling from the sky. However, she guessed that Lord Xitegen’s deadly rain of arrows would plague the north, perhaps forever. The legacy of the Lord of House Terland.

“We can’t make this future any worse, at least. There’s that.”

The [Emergency Driver] and [Surgeon] gave her such a strange look at the wild grin on Rags’ face. Rags took a deep breath.

“Almost, huh?”

She swivelled around slowly as Fightipilota’s desperate searching of the air halted. Rags lifted the revolver and pulled the trigger. It clicked.

Right. Ammunition. She pulled the crossbow from her side and fired it. The enchanted bolt struck the armored figure in the chestplate and lodged point-deep.

He didn’t move. In the center of the rainswept city plaza, with the lights of advertisements and electric billboards shining down on him, he seemed to be as out-of-place as she was.

A battered figure in armor, with a damaged sword and shield, standing, hunched, in the plaza across from them. His chest rose and fell, and blood washed off his armor onto the ground, but the stain of red just kept spreading no matter how much rain fell. More and more blood, an ocean of it leaking from his boots.

The Goblin King.

He was panting for air, but he’d run here. All the way from the Floodplains of Liscor.

“Just stop. We’re not going to be here any longer. Leave us alone.”

Rags fired again, then reached for her sword. Too late, she remembered it was broken. The figure charged, and then there was gunfire. A roaring shape passed overhead and fired, tearing up the ground.

“Fighti!?”

Rags saw the Skyshadow plane pass overhead as the Goblin King turned, drawing that throwing hatchet back. But it wasn’t Fighti—

Major Hotwing angled the aircraft again, coming in for another attack run. He fired, catching the Goblin King with a burst of rounds, and the Goblin King threw the axe.

The aircraft struck the ground and crumpled as Fighti screamed, and Rags seized Mrsha. They were running, now, and the Goblin King wanted them. He snapped the neck of the [Surgeon] who tried to get in his way. Then there was another boom of air.

This one nearly knocked him off his feet, but the [Supersonic Repositioning] Skill didn’t have enough force. It just let you move from one space to another—fast.

That was enough. Goblin Lord Rags pointed.

“Fire.”

An entire company of Goblins opened fire. The Goblin King charged into them, and now Ragathsi was running. They were all converging on the door. Fightipilota had hold of something in the air, and her head disappeared.

The sight of a headless Goblin who wasn’t a casualty of the Goblin King distracted even the Goblin Lord. She swung around.

“Oh.”

Curiosity flared beneath her weary gaze, and excitement. Then she twisted around, raised her submachine gun, and her bodyguard tensed around her. But Ragathsi held her fire. The Goblin King was too close.

The [Soldiers] were dead. The Goblin King stood amidst their bodies, and now she could see the Goblin beneath the armor. It was torn so badly by the bullet holes she saw his flesh beneath, bloody and red—but it was already healing.

So was the armor. It regrew like a second skin, and that endless gaze burned in the sockets, the rage that had endured since the founding of their world. Her nightmare and sin, her greatest failing.

That monster.

The Goblin King was holding Chieftain Rags by the neck, using her as a shield as he stalked towards Fightipilota.

How many of our people have you killed? A vise of steel was around Rags’ throat, but if she could have asked how many he’d slaughtered—the Goblin King’s gaze was dispassionate behind the visor of his helmet. But he, too, was curious.

“Close the door. Go!” 

Rags rasped, twisting her head towards Fightipilota. The Goblin pulled her head out of the door and hesitated.

She saw the Goblin King coming and let go of the root. She held the dagger up against it, and Rags wondered what would happen if they were all disconnected from the door. No one would shut it from the outside, so it would just be—severance.

“Lower that blade.”

The Goblin King gave the command, and Fightipilota’s arm jerked. Then it came down, trembling. She tried to resist, but his authority over her was absolute.

He wasn’t her Chieftain. He was the Goblin King, and his will be done. Rags was seeing spots, but she had a thought. A kind of…realization. She forced the words out of her mouth.

“Playthings. Playthings. That’s why we have to obey you. It’s what we were made to do.”

Follow a Goblin King. If you were designing an ‘evil monster’ species, why not? It made so much sense. Only, the first Goblin King had been too powerful, and every Goblin King since had become instruments to his will.

Or was this all part of the original grand design? Either way—the Goblin King didn’t appreciate the comment. His grip tightened on Rags’ throat, and she convulsed.

“Let go or I will end you, Rabbiteater. It will be both of us.”

Ragathsi had her finger on the trigger of her submachine gun, and she was too calm. In response, the Goblin King just chuckled. He tossed Rags down, and she gasped for air. He didn’t need a hostage; they were all within his range.

“This city will die without you and I. That Human is coming. Can’t you hear him killing his way towards us?”

There was a thundering sound in the distance, above the sirens and rain and screaming. The Goblin Lord’s eyes flicked southwards.

“All this way? Go kill him.”

“No. I can tell it’s all falling apart. That endless voice Isthekenous made is falling apart. I can see fate’s tendrils through this door. It smells oh so faintly of that resplendent meddler-king. That grandiose ruler of pranksters, the irreverent folk who chose a side and never deigned to justify themselves. Show me.”

“Don’t do it. He’ll slaughter everything.”

The Goblin Lord warned Fightipilota. Chieftain Rags pushed herself up and aimed her crossbow at the Goblin King’s back. If they fired, they died—and he might die, but the root would be gone. The Goblin King knew that, and he hesitated, because even he didn’t know what lay beyond the door.

They paused as the thunder grew louder, a metal rumble tearing through the city. The person who broke the stalemate was Mrsha. She sat up and, holding her side, slipped to the ground. Chieftain Rags whispered.

“Mrsha. Don’t—”

The girl held up a wand as the Goblin King glanced at her. She wrote in the air.

Come with us, then. Both of you. We cannot stop you, and you cannot stop us. We’ll both be trapped here if you try to kill us.

“Mrsha—”

Chieftain Rags didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he were unleashed. Not now, not here. But Mrsha was baring her teeth, and they were bloody. She had the same final thought as her counterpart.

“Your other war. What lies beyond?”

Your dead gods. And someone trying to make new ones.

How he twitched at that. The Goblin King snarled, and he raised an arm, as if to backhand the girl and make her vanish. But he hesitated.

“I have always known they survived. I know all their names. They who rot and die in darkness deserve nothing more. How do you know them? Who has escaped their just fate?”

She didn’t answer as the crimson light from his helmet shone over her. The Doombearer was giggling silently as she limped over to the door. Rags got up, and she and Fightipilota stood there. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations was gazing between the two.

I don’t know, but it is all falling apart. Come, come now. Don’t be scared. Just promise me something, King of Goblins. Slaughter. Destroy everything. There’s a lot that does need destroying. But promise me you’ll only destroy what needs to be destroyed. Our inn is beyond there. Our family. Protect them.

A bargain with the Goblin King. He didn’t laugh or snort, but he replied, amused.

“Why would I listen to a dying child?”

Mrsha’s eyes flicked up, and she gave him a puzzled expression as she took hold of the root. She traced one last message in the air as she pulled herself through the door, and Fightipilota seized her paw. Rags grabbed Fighti’s arm and saw the golden, glowing letters in the air.

I wasn’t talking to you.

The Goblin King stiffened, and for a moment, another figure rose to the surface, like a bubble of hope. In every way, he became lesser, for a moment.

Less imposing. Less powerful. Less able to defy reality itself. The glow of crimson light faded behind the helmet—and for one moment, they saw the Goblin King of Traitors.

A [Knight], a [Champion], a man wearing armor, not anything more. A figure to stand in your nightmares, against everything wrong.

The raindrops changed color. That was the only difference. Rabbiteater held out his hands, and they fell, glowing drops of rain in every color, like the fire of the woman he had killed. A beautiful rain glistening off his armor. Each drop of shining light worth more than the Goblin King’s might.

The Goblin King who should have been gazed at the child, and his voice was weak, but he nodded to her.

“I’ll try. Go.”

For a moment, Rabbiteater held the Goblin King and his rage back and lifted his hand as the three travellers whirled.

Then Rags, Mrsha, and Fighti were moving between worlds, and Rags saw Fighti helping Mrsha step through the gate. Chieftain Rags yanked her hand back as the Goblin King reached for her—and another hand caught her wrist.

The [Chieftain] twisted—but the taller Goblin just clung on. Ragathsi winked as she held onto Rags’ arm.

“I couldn’t resist. Go.”

She pushed, and Rags stumbled and crossed the divide in the air. The other Goblins in Rags’ bodyguard leapt after her, seizing her armor, her shoulders—the last of all was the Goblin with headphones. He didn’t seize the root. Instead, he swung his sword as the Goblin King grabbed the root—

And cut it off. The Goblin King recoiled, root in his hand, and the [Blademaster] hooted in victory. Then the Goblin wearing headphones twirled on the spot, his music blasting as he faced the Goblin King alone.

 

——

 

They tumbled into the Palace of Fates. Mrsha in Fightipilota’s arms. The Goblin Lord, her [Bodyguards], and Chieftain Rags.

“Huh?”

They had all twisted, assuming the Goblin King would follow them. They could actually see through the doorway, which came as a shock to only Mrsha, Rags, and Fightipilota.

The black censor wall was gone. Had they broken it by coming through the other side? Or had their knowledge of the Goblin King revealed this world?

What they saw was the root, falling to pieces and turning to dust—and the Goblin King on the other side of the door.

He hadn’t made it. The Goblin King was so quick—but there was the leaping, dancing, musical [Blademaster] on the other side of the door. He was freestyling, sword in his hands, breakdancing on the floor, twisting his legs around in the air, grinning as he flipped onto his feet and waited for the Goblin King’s wrath.

The figure hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, tilting his head left and right. Rabbiteater was gone, again. But they’d done it.

Chieftain Rags was grinning even as she eyed the Goblin Lord warily. Then—her smile melted away as she felt a horrific sense of déjà vu.

Mrsha gave Chieftain Rags a weary eye as Fightipilota grabbed the door with her free hand. The Goblin [Fighter Pilot] slammed the door shut.

The door bounced off something. The [Fighter Pilot] recoiled as an armored hand reached through the barrier in the air. It was covered by the finest membrane, like a bubble, but even thinner.

“It gave me Skills fitting of me. [Hands of the Uncreator]. There is nothing made of Isthekenous’ design I cannot undo.”

Another hand emerged through the door frame. Then, the Goblin King ripped the air in half. The Goblins holding Mrsha backed away as rain blew through into the [Palace of Fates].

“Run.”

Both Ragses said that. Fightipilota began to run, and then they heard the screaming.

The [Palace of Fates] was filled with screams. Fighting. Something terrible was happening. Rags peered at Mrsha, and the girl was nodding. It always went like this. Only this time—

The Goblin King stepped forwards, through the window he’d torn open. The [Blademaster] followed with a howl, racing after his Goblin Lord.

The open tear in the air was closing—as one, no, two desperate beings tried to mend the gap in reality. The Goblin King stepped through, then turned around and threw up a hand.

An explosion blew the hallway in the [Palace of Fates] apart. Someone had fired through the doorway and hit the Goblin King.

Chieftain Rags glanced over her shoulder as she ran and saw the Goblin King leap out of the flames and miniature black holes. There was another explosion, but whomever was firing at him lost their angle. The Goblin King ignored the fire around him.

He was casting around. Inspecting the other doors. Like someone trying to find where to begin pulling this place apart.

Rags saw the Goblin King begin to run at them, truce ended. A white paw rose; the corridor flickered, and he vanished.

The most basic trick in the [Palace of Fates] caught the Goblin King off-guard. Mrsha lowered her paw and nodded at Rags. In the distance, they heard a low sound. Then the palace began to shake.

“This is the end.”

Yes. It is. Let’s go find out what it looks like.

The Gnoll girl wrote, then closed her eyes. She took a breath, and then they emerged into the hallways amidst glowing, open doors. Fightipilota felt Mrsha slip from her arms and grabbed for her. Then she gazed up—and saw the madness before her.

 

——

 

The Goblin King ran, a howl of contempt on his lips for the playthings, for this world of shifting sand. Most of all, for the dead gods. The portal he’d torn open hung there, growing wider with each passing second.

There were voices from beyond. Goblins screaming for their missing Goblin Lord. A war at its ending.

One last weapon of war rolled to a stop and depressed the barrels of the turret as far as they would go, but there was no way to fit the massive tank into the gap in the air. So, a hatch opened at the top, and a single figure emerged, ignoring the voices of caution.

He ducked as bullets sparked off the tank; someone else popped up, and the turret swivelled and opened fire. But the man—and he was a man, over forty years old now, wearing a flak jacket festooned with red shells, just eyed the hole in the air.

“That door’s too small to fit through. Hold this position as long as you can, then follow me through if you’re able. Fall back if they overwhelm your position. I’m going after them.”

They were all screaming at him to stay, as if they could win with Lord Xitegen dead. He knew it was suicide; the [Engineer] unslung a custom-built shotgun from his back and racked the chamber once.

But he’d seen that Gnoll girl, and it had been a long, long time since he’d felt that old magic. Better to follow it than wonder forever.

“Narnia, here I come a second time.”

Kevin Hall strode through the crack, ducking as it grew over his head. He swept left and right, then decided to follow the screaming. Despite it all—he was chuckling as he ran.

Like how a man laughed at the end of the world. He followed them all, and as for that white Gnoll girl bringing more doom to the end of her plans and dreams?

She finally came home.

 

——

 

<Primary Dimension — The High Passes, 2nd Army Main Camp outside of Monster Fortification #1, designation “Goblinhome”>

 

The rank just below [General] in any Drake army was [Commander] or, depending on the hierarchy, [Colonel]. This might seem confusing to the uninitiated, but there was a logic to it.

You see, in other hierarchical structures like those of Earth, you had a [General]. Then below them a [Lieutenant General]. And below that a [Major General]. And then a [Brigadier General], and then you started wondering how many damn [Generals] you had. People tried to make it easier by calling them ‘four-star Generals’, but that didn’t work in this world.

[General] was a class, and an army could only…generate so many officer ranks depending on its size, organization, and the city or nation it came from. So, rare was the army that had [Colonels]; even the King of Destruction didn’t bother with that class.

In practice, ranks generally went like this.

[Soldier], [Sergeant], [Captain], [Lieutenant], and sometimes, [Major] and [Colonel]. [Commander] was the wild-card. Anyone could get the class, so it was used as the shoo-in at the company level all the way up to regimental. Throw in [Strategists] and other classes and you had an eclectic system of military varying by species and location.

So. The Drake who spoke into the scrying orb was a [Goblinslayer Supremacy Colonel] named Rathiss Ivscele. His eye sockets were scarred by deep cut marks that made it hard to stare at him long; his eyes were intact, but he had nearly had both gouged out by a Goblin during the Second Antinium War.

Long funnels of flesh had been gouged out of his very bones, and though they had long since become scar tissue, the web of scars around his eyes almost resembled a mask—at a distance.

At this time, he was the highest-ranking officer in Pallass’ 2nd Army. There were five other [Colonels] present; all were lower-level than him. Two were non-[Slayers]; the other three had the same kind of class as Rathiss and had deferred to him.

2nd Army was in a crisis of command. General Shirka had been removed from duty, effective immediately. The entire vanguard and its command structure had refused to replace her and had been ordered to stand down.

The order came straight from Pallass, from High Command itself. A Drake [General] disobeying orders? Unthinkable!

…But the orders were bad. General Edellein had his own tail shoved so far up his ass it was coming out of his mouth. Goblins had fought alongside 2nd Army against the Titan, and it was a damned stupid order to attack them in their entrenched fortress that lay just beyond the trapped valley.

2nd Army could see it from here; they were well out of range of their own ballistae’s ability to fire on the Goblins. Mostly because the Goblins had siege weapons too. And the Goblins were ready, Rathiss knew.

Oh yes, he could sense them there. His [Foesense], [Advanced Dangersense], and other Skills were telling him they were in the rocks. Probably dug into the canyon walls. If 2nd Army advanced, they’d bleed.

Bad orders. So, Shirka had walked, but Edellein needed someone to get the job done. He’d been faced with a second crisis that might have resulted in a disaster. 2nd Army loved Shirka. They were closer to her than most armies were with their [Generals]. She might be newer, but her Skill and her reputation among her own soldiers meant most of her ranking officers might have followed her example.

Except for the [Slayers]. They were old-guard veterans from the Antinium Wars. [Antinium Slayers]. [Monster Slayers].

[Goblin Slayers]. They liked General Shirka. She’d won their respect. But in this particular case…

“Ah, Colonel Rathiss! Wonderful! The damn communication spells are finally working. Sorry about that. Encryption on both ends, you know. The [Mages] get slower each time.”

Edellein’s voice was chipper, conversational. Rathiss, and several other officers eavesdropping on the call while drinking tea, didn’t like it.

Shirka got to the point. Also, who the hell threw the [Mages] under the wagon, even as a joke? They were doing their jobs.

“Sir. I am in temporary command of 2nd Army, following your orders. There is dissent in the ranks.”

Rathiss’ eye-gouging stare made Edellein wince; he was in a war room in Pallass with a few [Strategists] and his people visible behind him. Another thing Rathiss didn’t like; it meant this conversation would be all over 1st Army. It was just different operational styles. Edellein took a gulp of what was not wine, or Chaldion would have beaten him to death with the nearest object available. If the Cyclops had still been functional, that was.

“Ye-es. Nasty business, that. This is for your discretion, Colonel Rathiss. General Shirka is, at this moment, standing down with her forces in the High Passes. They have orders to hold position until this business is settled. You understand she defied a direct order?”

“Yessir. After putting the Draconic Titan to flight. Has pursuit and destruction been initiated?”

“What? No. Not at this time. It’s gravely injured, as far as we can tell, and pursuit into the mountains is suicide, or so I’m told.”

Another grimace and gulp. Edellein’s eyes flicked over Rathiss, and he was savvy in his ways. He had the reputation of being a [General] who was better at politics than he was at war. How much that said about his political acumen was up for debate.

“We have a monster problem, Colonel. And General Shirka’s judgement has been compromised. Are you prepared to lead 2nd Army and get the job done?”

Rathiss had been asked the same question last night. Though the real question neither Drake was stating outright was…will 2nd Army follow orders?

Here was the thing. [Soldiers] were [Soldiers]. Many might want to follow General Shirka, but they weren’t with her, and their entire thing was obeying the chain of command. Rathiss was well-liked among all species of 2nd Army, nevermind his [Supremacy Colonel] class; that was more about his ability to triumph and push his forces ahead.

“We’ve lost some of our best leadership, General. Our [General], [Spearmaster], and our [Strategist] are all out of this battle.”

“Yes, but you are the backbone of 2nd Army. How many [Slayers] are there?”

Edellein should have known the answer. Rathiss broke down the ranks by class, and Edellein nodded.

“General Shirka left ample forces to take Goblinhome.”

General Shirka left them here because she didn’t trust them to fight alongside Goblins. Which was fair. Rathiss might have balked at her orders. But it also meant there were high-level anti-Goblin specialists here.

“Even so. We’re understrength, General.”

“Against Goblins?”

1st Army’s [General] was actually making Rathiss angry. Edellein glanced past Rathiss, and the [Colonel] narrowed his eyes.

“They have Frost Wyverns. Our Oldbloods can’t hold the skies against them, especially if that Wyvern Lord shows up on their side. Can we count on Manus’ wings? However, we outnumber them two-to-one. ”

That was a conservative estimate. There were thirty thousand [Soldiers] here. However—this was a siege. Edellein drummed his claws on the table.

“Manus’ air forces are a bit chewed up right now, Colonel. If I can route some of our own fliers your way, that would deal with the aerial problem. Three Wings? Led by [Wing Commander] Asiv, a nephew from 3rd Army. Solid. He’s already heading north to relieve General Shirka of command formally.”

“…That would work, sir. I believe 2nd Army will not have any insurrection in the ranks beyond grumbling. We will attempt to draw the Goblins out of their fortress. Their Chieftain is nearby; she won’t get past our cordon.”

“Ah, bait the rats out of the cave. Very good, very good. And once you’re finished with this, Colonel, I think we might discuss an elevation in r—”

The [Goblinslayer] spoke over Edellein as if he were ordering a [Counterfire] Skill.

“—I’m sure General Shirka’s return will bolster morale at that point, sir. Though hunting the Draconic Titan sounds like a wet Gnoll in a thunderstorm, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

He followed the inappropriate interruption with his own attempt at a casual smile. It looked like he was being stabbed.

High General Edellein reacted to the hint instantly, and only the tiniest crease of his brows revealed the smile on his face as anything but genuine.

“I hate tunnel-fighting. Naturally, General Shirka will have to account to High Command and perhaps the Assembly of Crafts over this, but I am, personally, fighting for the fairest treatment possible. Emotions running high. 2nd Army wouldn’t do without its [General], would it, Colonel Rathiss?”

“No, sir. We’ll make do for this moment, given the circumstances.”

And there it was. Edellein’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he was all smiles, going over the plan of attack, and the message was sent. Rathiss didn’t turn around to note the non-[Slayer] officers stepping back, and he didn’t have to tell General Edellein that a deal had been struck. The [General] got it.

The last thing Pallass needed was a revolt among its [Soldiers]. Those were the ones with all the weapons and training and levels. General Shirka had made her stand. Her veterans disagreed with her judgement, but they could get past it.

All they had to do was kill the Goblins. What Rathiss didn’t do was underestimate the foe.

“Intelligence about the Goblins is needed, sir. I’m ordering the ballistae to advance and start cracking the walls, and we will begin tearing down their defences at the valley mouth. It will take time; they have a superior vantage on us, and we will have to shield the artillery from counterfire. But I would like to know of any other—complications.”

Like that giant damn, pink, flaming comet everyone saw. Or the Wyvern Lord. Or…General Edellein nodded.

“It’s forthcoming, Colonel.”

He didn’t like surprises any more than other soldiers. 2nd Army did not intend to bleed overmuch on this. But High Command was worried, and their answers were not here, but at that place.

The Wandering Inn. Colonel Rathiss grunted and wrote it off his bucket list of places to visit. Maybe he’d stare at it on the way back. He turned as the scrying orb shut off.

“Flaming munitions. Set the outer wall on fire.”

Shouts went up, and the two ballistae began rolling forwards. The siege of Goblinhome had begun. The [Colonel] swept his eyes across the moving [Soldiers] and nodded at his fellow officers. A mere third of the forces advanced towards the valley mouth. The rest remained, mounted units checking all sides.

Waiting for the rest of the Goblins.

 

——

 

<Primary Dimension — The Wandering Inn, Common Room>

 

What. Was. Going. On?

Not just that battle against the Draconic Titan. That was what ‘everyone’ was still focused on, but it was becoming increasingly apparent something was happening in The Wandering Inn that any veteran could recognize.

“Where’s Lyonette?”

Relc Grasstongue was on-duty, but he was off-duty. He stood in the inn, not having a drink, but prowling around, investigating. Zevara had sent him, or rather, ratified his request.

“Down there. Wherever ‘there’ is. I would be there because it sounds fascinating, but I don’t wish to encounter another emotional blow.”

Valeterisa was sitting and staring at a table; they weren’t a direct part of it…but the two’s conversation was instantly noted and logged and compared against other statements made.

Several Drakes, Gnolls, and a pair of Dullahans were trying to appear normal, but anyone with eyes could tell they were military. They had come in, ordered drinks, and tried to just hang out, but their agitation had only grown. After the Mortemdefieir Titan incident…the stress upon them had become a boulder. They had orders from an increasingly anxious High Command to find out what was going on.

The problem was that the entire staff of the inn save for the Calanferians had vanished. Lyonette du Marquin was gone. Mrsha, gone.

Every important person in the inn had disappeared into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and no one could get access in or out. Fair was fair; the new Humans seemed just as confused and worried. But [Soldiers] did not like worry.

Amidst all this, people were still flowing in and out of the inn. Most were just using it for transit, but you also had [Farmers], country yokels who came in with literal straw in their hair, and sat down.

“Dead gods, is this th’ inn I’ve heard so much about? Fancy as can be. Could I have one of them blue fruit drinks?”

They might have been from Celum or any village, really. They wore [Farmer]’s clothes and came in a group, nearly two dozen of them, men and women. Another group of all-female guests swept in; [Merchants] or middle-class women. One of them had a thick cane, which she leaned on.

“Oh my! The inn! It’s so quaint, but delightful…Miss, could we have a seat for nine?”

She caught one of the new Calanferian servants, Xinthe, and received a beaming, if distracted, smile.

“This way, Miss. Can I take your order…?”

Service was a bit interrupted. Calanferians were dashing in and out of the kitchen, taking orders from the only ranking staff member in the inn. Calescent.

“Cups are in that cabinet. Juice there. I need someone to cut up blue fruits. Carefully. I’ll show you how to do it. Otherwise, it’s poison.”

“I have [Poison Detection], sir.”

—A Human man hurried up, trying not to stare at the Goblin, but the [Spice Chef] was too busy for his awkwardness. In a way, this was the most naturalizing thing ever. Nevermind he was a Goblin; they had a damn inn to run, and it was hard because the new staff didn’t know where anything was. Only the [Field of Preservation] let them come out with food and drink regularly.

“L-lad! Over here!”

One of the [Farmers] helped an awkward young man into a seat; he’d nearly collided with some of the nervous Drakes, and the [Farmer] caught him and ushered him into a chair where he read the menu…upside down.

“Country idiots.”

A Drake swore and ignored the glares he got from the table. He’d just gotten another message from General Edellein, so the [Major] got up and strode over.

“Excuse me. I’ve been waiting for two hours. I wish to speak to the current proprietress of the inn. Now. I am on the business of Pallass and 1st Army.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Lyonette is unavailable.”

Xinthe smiled and curtsied, and the Drake leaned forwards and showed her his badge underneath his plain clothing.

“In that case, I insist on access to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. This is a matter of war! This inn is collaborating with Goblins in direct conflict with 2nd Army, and I have the authority to lock down the door from Pallass and place this entire building on a blacklist!”

The young woman was trying to earnestly protest.

“We can’t let you in, sir. We don’t have the ability.”

“You will get me someone in charge, or—”

The argument was interrupted by a too-friendly hand falling on the Drake’s shoulder. He half-spun, and his buddies got up slightly. A male adventurer was standing there.

“Hey, sir. Let’s all calm down, yeah? We’re in charge of making sure no one causes trouble in this inn, got it?”

Blaik, one of the Silver-rank adventurers of Gemhammer, wore that friendly grin of a [Miner] a head taller than the Drake—and his entire team was in the inn. Captain Todi was speaking with Embria in a corner of the inn, looking worried. He hadn’t gone to the [Palace of Fates]. Neither had Master Elosaith, who’d left after coming back from the grove meeting.

Ages ago. The [Major] turned to face Blaik.

“I require answers. Now. Let go of me.”

“Why don’t you sit down, pal? We don’t want any trouble with you and your buddies, buddy.”

Blaik was doing his best Erin Solstice impression, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t the best idea. The Drake’s eyes narrowed, and he brushed Blaik’s hand off his shoulder as five more Pallassians got up.

Active-duty [Soldiers], Eyes of Pallass, and 2nd Army’s people on leave. All with different reasons for being protective of their forces abroad, unified by the fact that this was not subtle.

“By order of the City of Inventions, you will grant me access to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Now. Or I will force entry.”

The [Major]’s voice was too cool, and Blaik was about to grab his shoulder and escort him out of the inn when he noticed the Drake had a hand on his sword hilt. And it was an enchanted blade.

[Dangersense]. The Silver-ranked adventurer hesitated, and two of his friends squared up. The air grew tenser, and Xinthe hurried over.

“Guests, please. This is an inn! No one can gain entry to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Magus Grimalkin himself failed. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll try querying Miss Lyonette again.”

That didn’t defuse the situation, but the Pallassian [Major] heard sense in the woman’s words. But then, if she couldn’t enter the garden herself…his head followed Xinthe as she strode back.

Towards the kitchen and the only member of staff left. Calescent.

A Goblin. Of course, intelligence and a connection to Goblinhome.

“Him.”

The Drake pointed, and his squad advanced on the kitchen. The [Spice Chef] didn’t realize the danger he was in, nor did Blaik for a crucial moment. The Silver-ranker was muttering insults at the Drakes’ backs.

The Drake [Major] passed a trio of servants hurrying out of the kitchen, stepped into the doorframe, and at that exact moment, Ishkr Silverfang appeared behind the bar’s counter with someone else.

The two Gnolls stumbled, and Yelroan lowered a bloody cloth from his nose.

“I’m gonna hurl.”

“Here.”

Ishkr handed him a cup, and the [Mathematician] opened his mouth—then held it in. He sat down hard, and Ishkr handed him a cleaner bar rag. Both Gnolls appeared beat up, but Ishkr didn’t take a moment. He just whirled around.

“Xinthe, Todi, Earlia! Calescent, I need a word! Where’s Elosaith? Have any Goblins from Goblinhome arrived—?”

At his words, the entire inn focused on him, and Todi, Xinthe, and Earlia all appeared. Calescent emerged from his kitchen, worried, and the [Major] stepped back.

“Excuse m—”

Todi brushed past him, and they all gathered around Ishkr. Everyone leaned in.

“What happened, Ishkr? Yelroan, who decked you?”

“Pawn.”

“What? Pawn—”

Ishkr lifted a finger to his lips. He was breathing hard, and yes, his uniform was banged around and had a bit of his blood on it. His eyes were—manic.

“Hold on. [For Your Ears Only]. Listen—”

He began speaking as, abruptly, all sound ceased and his mouth blurred as if someone had turned a rectangle of air around it blurry. The spies, guests—the entire inn watched as the others recoiled.

What? Captain Earlia was rubbing at one ear as she probably said that. Todi was groaning, and Calescent drew a knife and a bag of spices—then relaxed as Yelroan put up two paws. The [Mathematician] was waving his arms around overhead.

What was going on? Well, Captain Todi drew his Wand of Fireballs from his belt, grim—then he visibly blanched, and his face drained of color. He put the wand back in his belt, held up his hands, shaking his head.

Earlia, the former [Miner] and captain of Gemhammer, glanced at her team, hefting her warhammer and gesticulating. Ishkr was shaking his head nonstop. He pointed as a pair of Goblins raced into the inn, summoned by one of the Calanferians.

“Is bad! Ishkr, someone just sent Dyeda a [Message]! Student Rags in danger and Goblinhome! They attacking! We need—”

They entered the Skill and began screaming at Ishkr. Then, after listening for a moment, their shrieking stopped, and they wore looks of such horror that Ishkr had to stop. He closed his eyes—then pointed a finger towards the door.

The Skill ended. Ishkr strode out of it, calling to the others.

“—Fast as we can. Lock down the inn. I’m getting Relc, Valeterisa, and everyone above Level 40 I can find. Excuse me, everyone! The Wandering Inn is closing! Leave, now!”

He hopped on a table to shout that. Now, when you heard that—what did you think was going on? At his words, every regular guest who knew the score got up, tossed coins on the table, or just went.

“I’m not getting eaten by Crelers. Come on. Let’s go!”

Menolit grabbed for one of his friends, hauling up the protesting Gnoll who wasn’t done with his pizza slice. The rest of the guests, like the new [Farmers] and the Pallassians, didn’t move. The [Major] blocked Ishkr’s way as the Gnoll stormed into the hallway.

“Excuse me, sir—”

“Not now. Get out of the inn. Don’t mind the bill. Liska! Liska, stop letting people into the inn! This is an emergency! Liska!”

After a second, Ishkr’s sister came to the hallway. She blinked at Ishkr, clearly having spent the last few hours lounging on the couch.

“What? Ishkr, what’s—”

“There’s a crisis going on. I’ll explain everything. Just transit everyone out of here, and—”

Ishkr stormed for the door, then a clawed hand yanked him back.

“In the name of Pallass and 2nd Army, I demand answers. You will accompany me to Pallass. Now!”

The [Major] had lost his temper. The Gnoll [Server] tried to break the Major’s grip.

“I don’t have time for this. Wait—tell General Edellein or someone in charge to stop attacking Goblinhome. Tell them to come here, and I’ll try to get Lyonette to—”

“General Edellein is not your lackey. You are coming with me. Squad, form up!”

The [Major] barked, and his ‘squad’ of different groups appeared. A Gnoll hissed at him.

“We are not kidnapping a citizen of Liscor! Server Ishkr, we desperately need a word.”

“Let go.”

Ishkr was agitated, unusually so. He swivelled, and the Drake growled. But that familiar hand fell on his arm.

“This guy bothering you, Ishkr? Just say the word and—aaah! Fuck!”

Blaik tried to yank the [Major] back, and the Drake seized his arm and levered it up. The bigger man tried to fight, but the [Major] had [Enhanced Strength].

“Let him go! Let him—”

The Silver-rank adventurers grabbed for the [Major] and found higher-level [Soldiers] checking them. A female Dullahan flipped Fea when the woman lunged; Timgal got a boot behind his knees, then one on his back.

Silver-rankers. Earlia and Todi halted, both of them with hands on their weapons as they counted. Pallass had sent eleven people into the inn. And more were coming out of the portal room before Liska sealed the door on them.

“You are coming with me now. Someone get the [Mathematician] and the Goblin.”

The [Major] growled at Ishkr. The [Head Server of Tales and Fables] eyed the Drake. He was the affable Ishkr, the pleasant, mild-mannered Gnoll who kept the inn running in the background. On any other day, he probably would have gone with the Drake, injected some sense into Edellein’s skull, then teleported back to the inn just in time to serve someone a blue fruit juice with ice in it.

At this moment, the Gnoll was aware of an army of faith-based Antinium in the [Palace of Fates]. He had just seen people who should be dead, and Mrsha and Rags had vanished right before his eyes. He rubbed at a bruise on his chin and muttered under his breath.

“So that’s why Erin’s right again. Sometimes, it’s just the fastest way. Never hitting Level 50?”

His comments made little sense; they were to himself. The [Major] hauled Ishkr several steps down the hallway, then felt the Gnoll break his grip.

“Don’t make me arrest you!”

The Drake spun, and Ishkr hit him in the face with a mug. It was a big, glass mug, one of those steins that you could pour a generous helping of ale into.

It didn’t break when it thunked into the Drake’s temple. So Ishkr hit him in the face with it again, and the mug snapped off by the handle.

The [Major] went cross eyed for a second and staggered, but that was about all. Then his face went hostile. Ishkr punched him in the face. The Drake didn’t move, and Ishkr winced. His face was like stone.

“Arrest—”

The Drake grabbed Ishkr and teleported. The Gnoll stumbled back.

[Emergency Evacuation]. 

An outraged Drake landed outside in the rain and leapt to his feet. The rest of the Pallassians reacted with soldiers’ instincts.

“Get them!”

The Dullahan dodged one of Ishkr’s paws and swept his legs. Ishkr went down, cursing, and she yanked his arm up.

Yelroan hit her with a chair. The [Mathematician] kicked the Dullahan off Ishkr as the Gnoll teleported, reappearing in the common room behind the bar. The normally equanimous Yelroan was as agitated as the [Server].

Everyone stared as he brought the chair down a second time on the Eye of Pallass—then Earlia threw a punch that did flatten a Drake rushing at Yelroan. Todi kicked another [Soldier] straight between the legs and headbutted the screaming Drake.

“Kick them back to Pallass!”

A brawl began in seconds as the angry Pallassians swarmed towards Gemhammer, and the Calanferian staff, Rianchi, Dyeda, and Calescent began fighting in the hallway. Ishkr reappeared with mugs and began tossing them into the melee; they were filled with hot, spicy soup, and he was amazingly good at hitting people’s heads.

“What’s going on? What’s going—”

Liska was the most unprepared for the fighting. She actually ducked back into the Room of Portals and watched as the security for the inn began fighting Pallass’ soldiers. The inn had the advantage for about eight seconds. Then the [Major] tore the door to the inn open and charged at Blaik.

“[Heavy Blow]!”

The Silver-rank man threw a punch; the [Major] caught it.

[Rapid Counter]. His return punch took Blaik off his feet and out of consciousness. The Eye of Pallass flipped back onto her feet and swept Earlia’s legs out from under her.

They were higher-level. Calescent and Todi gave a good accounting of themselves, one with his patented death-spice he blew into people’s faces and low-blows; Todi with even lower-blows. But the [Major] just stormed forwards, knocked two [Servants] down with quick punches, and seized Ishkr. He ignored the Gnoll and dragged him towards the door.

“Hey, let go of him! Let go of—get away from the door!”

Liska was struggling by the [Door of Portals]; a Drake had set it to Pallass, and more [Soldiers] were coming out. In armor. Six made it out, then one slammed into an invisible wall.

The [Doorgnoll] grinned triumphantly before someone pushed her into the wall and twisted her arm up.

“Open the door! Now!”

Liska froze in genuine trepidation. This was Pallass’ Watch—no, their actual army. She hesitated—the door opened again.

“Keep the door closed!”

Calescent kicked one of the Drakes back through the portal door, slowing the others. One of the [Soldiers] reached for his sword.

“[Hamstring Cut]!”

The Drake lunged as the [Spice Chef] cursed. A flash of light interrupted the Skill, and the Drake went blind. He stumbled and ran into the Goblin’s fist.

Yelroan’s sunglasses were cracked, but the Gnoll’s [Skillblocking Flash] turned off all the Pallassian’s Skills. The [Major] felt Ishkr touch his shoulder and twisted—

 

——

 

—He appeared outside in the rain again. This time, he was surrounded by what looked like angry caterpillars that were half-bush, half-mud.

The Shamblers jumped on him.

 

——

 

Ishkr appeared in the common room of the inn with Liska, and the Calanferian staff whirled. The Gnoll shouted.

“Liska, keep the door closed! Get rid of these idiots!”

“Get them!”

The rest of the inn’s security dashed back into the common room as the Pallassians, three dozen of them, poured forwards. The staff gulped.

They were hand-picked by Ielane for their talents in a lot of things, and countering the odd [Assassin] or supporting the Thronebearers were in their skill sets, but they weren’t full-time [Warriors]. They were facing some of Pallass’ finest, and all the [Servants] had were buckets and brooms.

They did have Relc and Valeterisa, but one of the [Soldiers] instantly pointed at the [Spearmaster], who had his spear in his claws.

“Stay out of this or we’ll draw blades.”

Relc hesitated, eyes on Valeterisa. If she cast a spell, the situation would get lethal—fast. Not just because they were crazy; Valeterisa didn’t know the word restraint. Even so—Relc tensed, and a full group of four broke off to face him.

“Get out of my inn.”

Ishkr growled. He was counting the odds, and he really didn’t like them, but he’d lost one fistfight for the fate of the inn already. His paws were on one of Numbtongue’s hidden crossbows, and he was wondering how far this would go.

The Pallassians hesitated, aware of the inn’s reputation for lethality, but they had the advantage. They spread out, moving past the tables of frozen guests yet to leave.

Like the [Farmers]. One of them leaned back at his table.

“What’s this? Looks like a scrap. Why don’t we all calm down, gents and ladies?”

He raised his straw hat and hooked his thumbs into his overalls as he stood. One of the [Soldiers] put out a hand.

“One side, sir. Don’t get involved. This is a matter for the Walled Cities, not civilians.”

The [Farmer] gave him an earnest, crook-toothed smile. At his table, the rest of the men and women got up, save for the young man who was still reading his upside-down menu.

“I reckon it is our concern. Y’see, we like this inn. And so what if it’s a Walled City? The Unseen Empire’s got a stake here too, don’t it?”

“The what?”

Half of the Pallassian’s warning Skills had activated when the man began talking. But then Master Ram threw a competent right hook into the [Soldier]’s face, and the rest of Riverfarm’s people rose.

[Farmers]. Village-folk. The only person actually in disguise was Beniar, who leapt to his feet as Gamel covered Laken Godart.

“By order of His Majesty, stand the fuck down or we’ll beat you there!”

It wasn’t the most official statement, but it worked. Laken Godart grinned to himself as he tossed the menu down, using Gamel as his eyes. The Pallassians swung around, cursing, but without real terror.

“Country yokels. Watch out for their swing.”

The Dullahan Eye of Pallass advised the others, retreating as they formed a semicircle towards the far wall. She bumped into a table, spun slightly, and saw a woman getting to her feet with her cane.

“Stay down, Miss—shittails—”

The thick cane kneecapped the Dullahan woman so fast she was lying on her side, holding her leg before she could move. That was the thing about canes or long pieces of wood.

When you got right down to it, they were very good at directing force onto bits of other people’s bodies. And few people took them seriously—until they saw you swing one into their heads or someone’s knees and realized you had the muscle to use them. That was why Witch Agratha loved them so.

She stood there, and nine [Witches] got to their feet, putting on their hats or tossing off their shawls. One of them dropped an illusion spell, and a Drake [Mage] pointed at her.

“[Witches]! [Paralys—]”

Witch Thallisa beat her to the draw, flicked an orange bird towards the Drake, which exploded in a flash that sent the Drake tumbling across the room. The Great Witch twirled the wand across her fingers, and another young woman got up.

Alevica pointed her wand at the Pallassians, teeth bared. She was panting with nerves.

They were attacking a Walled City! Which was great—also horrifying. But she’d called in the cavalry. Hedag sauntered forwards, axe on her shoulders, and now the Pallassians were surrounded on three sides.

“We are the City of Inventions, and you are aiding monsters! Put down your weapons!”

The Drakes formed a circle, and Laken Godart sat up in his chair.

“I am the [Emperor] of Riverfarm, and this inn is under my protection. Draw your weapons and you will regret it.”

The Drakes still hesitated with that quintessential arrogance of people that came from one of the most important cities in the world. Some upstart empire and an inn wouldn’t force them to surrender!

“Where’s the [Major]?”

They were waiting for the Drake [Major] to reappear; he was Level 37, and he’d even the score, [Emperor] and [Witches] or not. It was inconceivable even a bunch of those bush-things could take him down so easily.

Which was true. So when the common room of the inn opened, the hands that hurled the Drake [Major] into the room weren’t those of the Shamblers. They didn’t have hands.

But the glowing red eyes of a big Skeleton Bruiser revealed a posse of undead, and behind them, a dozen [Necromancers]. Master Elosaith nodded to Ishkr, then eyed the surprise [Witches] and [Emperor].

The old village head was beaming, though he was missing some teeth. Rain poured down behind him and the [Necromancers] posing against the open doorway. They were lit by the lurid glow of the undead’s eye sockets. And behind them, the corridor had gone silent. Deathly silent; a few stragglers from Pallass were surrounded. A trembling Drake had six blades encircling his throat.

Skeletal eyes fixed on the Pallassians as they slowly advanced into the room. Elosaith’s voice was clear and carrying, as if there were no other sound in the world. Like a man speaking in the middle of a graveyard at midnight.

“Thought you needed some backup. Looks like I was wrong.”

“Undead! Formation!”

One of the [Soldiers] shouted as he swung a spear up and pointed it at the undead. But at this point—the Eye of Pallass clutching at her knee gazed up, counted, and raised her hands.

“You must contact Strategist Esor in Pallass, now!”

She said that while surrendering. The other soldiers glanced at her and thought they had a chance. Then the [Soldier] with the spear felt someone poke him in the side. He looked down, then up.

The Gecko of Liscor was grinning at him. Spearmaster Relc had snuck up on the Pallassians, and now they were all within his range. Behind him, Archmage Valeterisa was floating behind a dozen barrier spells.

“[Bound Spell: Chain Lightning]. [Bound Spell: Chain Lightning]. [Bound Spell…um…Chain Lightning]. Oh, and [Spell Alteration: Selective Targeting]. Very important.”

Her hands crackled with lightning as she took aim at the Pallassians, who promptly dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

“You can’t do this!”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re all under arrest or something. I don’t have the authority to arrest you, but I think we can kick you back to Pallass. How about it, Ishkr?”

“Get them out of here. Your Majesty—why are you here?”

“My [Witch] told me there was a problem. So I brought as many people as I could. When I heard there were Pallassian soldiers, we decided to enter the inn quietly. It seems I wasn’t needed.”

The [Emperor] seemed a bit disgruntled at not being the hero of the hour, but he clapped his hands briskly.

“Take me to Lyonette.”

“No.”

The Unseen Emperor faltered. Ishkr called over to Elosaith.

“How many high-level undead do you have? Everyone, I want you to prepare for a fight. I’m going back in there. I’ll let you know what’s happening. But no one, and I mean no one, enters this inn unless they’re high-level and on our side. Got it?”

“What about Pallass?”

Yelroan called out, and Ishkr nodded at him.

“Can you talk to General Edellein or someone in charge?”

“Me? I—alright.”

The inn was in a frenzy, and Emperor Laken stood there as Gamel shouted, outraged.

“His Majesty gave you orders! Whatever the issue is, we are here to resolve it—”

Ishkr swung around. He knew that Laken couldn’t see him, so he laughed, weary, with that manic edge to his voice.

“Your entire army couldn’t solve this. Welcome to The Wandering Inn, Your Majesty.”

He offered Laken a sardonic bow as the [Emperor]’s face went slack. The Gnoll glanced at the open door to the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“No one can stop what’s coming next. Get ready. Evacuate everyone else.”

The [Witches] stirred as Ishkr panted, swaying. Witch Thallisa called out.

“Young man, we are higher-level than you think. And our job is solving problems.”

It was true; [Witches] didn’t like to be told there was anything they couldn’t handle. The Gnoll regarded them. Then he began laughing. Hysterically.

 

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”>

 

“What’s happening?”

It was a question that was being asked across multiple worlds. What was going on? In the future, everyone could see Painted Antinium surrounding The Wandering Inn. Thousands—and they were fortifying the ground.

It reminded Pisces Jealnet, captain of the Horns of Hammerad, of those old days when the inn felt like it was the center of the universe. It just went to show, he supposed, that some things never changed.

Only this time, he wasn’t on the side of the Painted Antinium. At least—they weren’t letting him through. When he tried to advance, hands raised, spears lowered towards him.

“Captain Jealnet. Step back or die.”

“It’s Pisces. Please. Come on, you know me. We’re friends. I daresay I’m one of Pawn’s few friends. Acquaintances, surely!”

The [Necromancer] tried his best winning smile on the Painted Antinium. Sadly, it worked about as well as on most of his ex-wives.

“Move back or die.”

They didn’t exaggerate, so Pisces quickly stepped back. He ostentatiously brushed at his robes, covering some light magical armor, and sniffed.

“Damn. Well, so much for that. We can either fight our way in or wait. But we haven’t heard from the other Rags or anyone else. Where’s Moore?”

“Still inside, I think. Dude, can’t you sneak in somehow?”

Kevin Hall was resting on his motorcycle, and Pisces glowered at him.

“Even if you hadn’t said that in earshot of the Painted Antinium, they could detect someone with [Greater Invisibility]. I’m not a [Rogue]!”

“Sorry, dude, just asking.”

The adventurer felt nostalgic, out of place, wrongfooted—classic The Wandering Inn syndrome, really. Typical Solstice moments.

It had been so long. He realized the rest of his team had caught up now. Gold-rankers, a panting half-Giant, two half-Elves, one with a bow, the other with twin scimitars, a Stitch-man—well, kid, really—

The new Horns of Hammerad. None of them were from the old days, and all were wide-eyed at seeing Kevin Hall, two Archmages of Wistram, so many stories.

“Captain Pisces, what’s going on?”

They whispered at him, and Pisces stared at the children and felt old. He did. Even though they were technically older than he’d been when he’d made Gold-rank. But some of them were literally children, like Temoin, the [Summoner] Stitch-boy.

“I’m not sure. Just get ready for a scrap. It could turn into one if this is really like the old days. But don’t start anything.”

He met Temoin’s eyes, and the [Summoner] protested.

“I won’t! ‘Sides, auntie always said the Horns of Hammerad started every fight.”

The other Gold-rankers who’d grown up on stories of the ‘original’ Horns of Hammerad eyed Pisces. The [Necromancer] groaned.

“Don’t listen to Revi. She was the worst of Griffon Hunt. She started just as many fights with her tongue.”

“She said you’d say that.”

Temoin grinned smugly, and it just reinforced to Pisces why he should never take adventurers who were related to his ex-wives. In this case, Temoin was one of Revi’s second-nephews. Kevin came over with his motorcycle.

“Temoin, right? Hey, it’s good to see you! You were a kid last time Revi and I met. I still can’t believe Pisces left her.”

The Stitch-boy jumped, then shook Kevin’s hand.

“I can—I mean—hi, Aunt!”

Someone pulled his ear off his head, and Revi Cotton appeared. The [Summoner] seemed as good as ever, which wasn’t hard for a Stitch-woman, but the glare she gave Pisces hadn’t reduced in sharpness.

“What’s going on, and why is it your fault? Pisces?”

“Revi. Not my fault. This one’s all Pawn, Moore, and potentially Rags. Well, two Ragses. And another Mrsha? Two Mrshas.”

Pisces was trying to explain as Imani rolled to a stop in Magnolia’s carriage, and more people appeared. It was a menagerie of old faces.

“Two Ragses? What are you talking about? Temoin, your stitching’s all loose. What did I tell you about knots?”

“Aunt!”

She began stitching his ear back on his head as the Gold-ranker squirmed. Pisces saw someone else float over.

“Mons. Montressa!”

He waved at her, using her old nickname, and she grimaced.

“Pisces, what is this mess? First I hear of Goblins being caught trying to use a portal station, then the Painted Antinium nearly fought Rhir? Where’s Moore? He told me he’d have the city in hand, but I just heard they caught someone infested at the gates.”

Everyone’s head swung around, and Pisces paled.

“What? How?”

Montressa only had some information to go off of—so she dialed someone up and called.

“Lyonette? Where are you? We’re all outside the inn—”

Lyonette walked out of the crowd, and Pisces went to hug her. She was pale-faced.

“Where’s Mrsha? Is she inside the inn? Pawn won’t tell me what’s going on, and the Painted Antinium won’t speak to me.”

Not even to her? More people approached, all old faces. Temile, wearing a full suit and mask from playing The Phantom of the Opera, seeming distinctly nervous, with some of the famous Players of Celum. Relc pushing along his daughter, Embria, Yvlon Byres, standing as far away from Pisces as possible and talking to Krshia and Selys—ex-wife #1—

The only person who didn’t join the hubbub was Ceria. She floated there, casting spells, trying to find out what was going on inside the inn and clearly failing. She didn’t get annoyed. She didn’t get exasperated. It was like a block of ice and intelligence floating there.

Pisces jerked his eyes away from her. Yvlon’s stare could have melted a tundra. Old friendships, grievances, loss—all of it was here. A glorious day, a sad one, filled with hope and possibility.

That’s what it had been meant to be. But what was this? Pisces had no clue. He was speculating, asking about the infested situation, until Lyonette dropped a Tier 6 spell into the conversation.

“The infested child was—I swear it was Mrsha. My Mrsha from ten years ago, and a Hobgoblin. I thought I was losing my mind. Moore refused to tell me what—”

“We saw them too! Only, we saw Rags, and I swear I saw Rianchi and Dyeda and Redscar. But they are dead. Rianchi and Redscar are.”

Kevin broke in, and Pisces felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He gazed at the inn, and Lyonette’s jaw worked.

“It sounds like a bad joke from Grimalkin. Remember his old theories…?”

The [Councilwoman] shook her head, and Lyonette rubbed at one eye.

“Don’t do that to him. I miss…wait. No way.”

Imani was peering at the inn. She murmured.

“We have to find out. If Pawn’s blockading it off, it means something important’s going on. There are enough of us to force our way in.”

“Nuh-uh. Don’t even think of it. The Painted Antinium don’t play around, Imani. I once saw one of them kill six people in a bar fight over someone saying Erin wasn’t a goddess.”

Kevin grabbed her shoulder, pale-faced. Imani glowered at him.

“I don’t mean by force! Let me give them a Snoop Pie. Lyonette? I could use some charm Skills.”

She headed towards the Antinium after grabbing something out of her wagon. Pisces watched, then shaded his eyes.

“[Witches]. Dead gods, they either heard about Nanette or they were coming for the reunion.”

A trio of [Witches] on broomsticks were descending; there were flight laws around Liscor, but they claimed immunity to the laws that governed most other people. That was contentious, but [Witches] were contentious in general. All of them had armored vests on, and he bet they were carrying nasty weapons. These days, [Witches] were armed, flying problem-solvers who could use magic or just kick down a door with steel-toed boots.

One of them had green skin, though Pisces only knew that because he knew her; you’d never see it behind her facemask and body armor.

Changing times. Why was he so nostalgic? Pisces saw the doors open as Imani and Lyonette were rebuffed. Someone went stumbling out—

Lord Moore. And Rags. The Goblin Lord and half-Giant were being escorted roughly down the hill, then they were followed by Mrsha!

“What’s going on? Even Mrsha?”

“Don’t do this! Tell him to come back—”

Mrsha was howling, but the Antinium just shoved her away and formed a cordon.

“There will be no second warning. If you have any faith in your hearts—keep back and keep silent. Seal the perimeter. Kill anyone who attempts entry. Even friends of the inn.”

The [Paladin]’s words were cold, but also filled with such zeal and hope they gave Pisces shivers. He strode over to the trio.

“What’s going on?”

Moore was white-faced, uncharacteristically rattled, and Rags just whirled.

“I’m summoning my tribe. We need an army.”

They were in agreement about that, but Lord Moore still hesitated. Fighting the Painted Antinium was a disastrous outcome for both sides, no matter who won. Mrsha, clearly thought the same thing.

“Dare we stop him? If he’s right, Rags—”

They’d still have Erin, right? But the Goblin Lord of Dreams spun and screamed at her.

“This is not how it should be! We can bring her back, but this is madness! I will not let him damn worlds and do nothing.”

Everyone went silent. Rags strode away, and the Painted Antinium watched her grimly. Pisces had thought they were all on the same side. His head swung to Mrsha.

Bring her back? His heart fluttered in his treacherous chest, and he saw her turn to him.

“Oh, Pisces! We have to stop—”

Pisces’ head rose towards the inn, and then he felt it, even before Mrsha began trying to explain. Archmage Ceria Springwalker’s cold face slowly turned, and Pisces saw the Painted Antinium pulling more reinforcements from abroad.

Then—he really wished Drassi wasn’t broadcasting this on the news. Because he had a feeling they were running out of time.

Yet he still didn’t know what was going on.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 1 — “Better Days”>

 

If you were standing still and trying to figure out what was going on, you were already too late. That was the tragedy. Time was running out.

There was a door to true reality, and it could close at any moment. It already had—once. The entire world was a figment, a Skill, and you might continue existing after the door closed or the Skill de-activated. But would you take the chance?

No.

The immortals were moving. No, they were running. This wasn’t a disaster, a war, or their identities or locations being leaked. This was oblivion, and at this very moment, three of them were heading for the door with everything. Everything that mattered.

Picture the scene. You had just found out this was a fake reality. You have time and means to pack things away, to carry artifacts with you on the off chance you’ll keep them. What do you grab? How much time do you waste?

The answer might surprise you.

Teriarch, in his cave, grabbed the most valuable relics and prizes from his hoard, swept them into a containment spell, and dithered for exactly five minutes and eleven seconds before he took wing from his cave, cursing himself for a fool. Because he had been here before.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”>

 

Belavierr wasted zero seconds, zero minutes. She abandoned everything and ran for the door.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 1 — “Better Days”>

 

Az’kerash took twenty-two minutes. He was striding through his castle, shouting for his Chosen to grab everything of value, orchestrating all his buried undead to rise and plotting a path through the Bloodfields. He was hampered by his minions.

“Master? Why are we leaving? What is—”

“Don’t argue, Ijvani! Go! Stand in the teleportation room! Get Bea, Oom, Toren—everyone! Kerash. Kerash is too far—”

He was agonizing; the Necromancer saw the skeleton and healing slime skidding around the corridors of the castle, running from Venitra. They had no time for this! But he wasn’t panicking; he wanted to take all of his magic and minions, you see. He was preparing for an exit from this reality in force.

Az’kerash might have actually taken longer, taken as much as an hour or two getting ready, but on the twenty-third minute, his monitoring spells detected movement around the inn.

Namely, the Dragonlord of Flames landing, visible for the world to see, smashing through one of the walls, and vanishing into the inn.

Teriarch, in public, probably on television, broadcasting that he was alive and well—and heading straight out of this reality into the real one. Az’kerash saw that—then panicked.

“—Teleporting. Activate the ritual now, Ijvani! Now!”

He already had the coordinates locked. Too late, Az’kerash realized his mistake. How seriously the Dragonlord had taken this revelation. His mental broadcast was for all his Chosen.

“We are going! Now! Kill nothing—just go to the place where Ishkr is holding the root and do not harm him! Go through! If you feel me disappear, follow! Go!”

“Master! But what is—”

The teleportation spell took ten long, long minutes to activate. Which sounded like plenty of time, but the Chosen and Az’kerash were scattered through his castle, he seized everything he could as the ritual spell began to activate, then [Flash Stepped] towards his teleportation room.

Ijvani was standing dutifully to attention with a Chest of Holding containing his best artifacts. Bea appeared, panting, carrying another bag filled with books from the library. No Venitra, no Toren, no Wesixa or…

“To me, my Chosen! Now!”

Devail made it in the thirty-eight seconds of Az’kerash throwing all of his mana into the [Long-Ranged Mass Teleport] spell. He leapt forwards, and Venitra appeared down the hall. She had Toren, Healing Slime, and a Chest of Holding from the armory containing lesser relics she was dragging behind her.

“Master! Wait for me! Mast—”

Az’kerash saw her running. If he canceled the spell, he’d require another thirty-seven seconds and mana he didn’t have to activate it. His heart ached in his chest.

“Follow.”

He disappeared, and Venitra’s cry was torn from his ears as the world shifted around them. For a few moments, they entered the world of twisting reality that was the teleportation spell—then Az’kerash popped out onto the Floodplains of Liscor, just in front of The Wandering Inn.

“Venitra? Master, you left…”

Ijvani stared at the place where her friend had been. The Necromancer of Terandria breathed, and he felt terror in his heart.

“We are entering the inn. Disguises. [Mass Illusion]. Do not raise an alarm. Bea, touch nothing. Come on. We are all gone if we…if we can, I will try to recover her.”

We are all of us fake, my children, myself.

Pisces. I could take Pisces and his team.

The Necromancer stumbled for the door, wearing the guise of a Plains Gnoll. The inn was already in chaos; fittingly, the sky above was black, and an eclipse shone from above. Like his eyes, almost devoid of light.

It was the Winter Solstice after all.

Today.

This day.

 

——

 

“—just smashed through! Then he was gone! I swear I saw a Dragon! Seriously, Erin!”

Relc Grasstongue was in the middle of the shattered inn, snow pouring in, as people peeked out of the beach [Garden of Sanctuary] and stared at the wreckage.

The [Innkeeper] had once told Relc she’d met a Dragon, and he hadn’t believed her. She wished she could feel smug now. She glanced up towards the second floor of the inn. She could see a rattled Gnoll gazing down at her.

“Ishkr, you good?”

“Hanging on, Erin! But he went through! He—went through!”

Ishkr was very shaken, as a Gnoll who’d just been grabbed by a Dragon might be. The Dragonlord had passed through the door, which had expanded to accommodate him.

But the Gnoll [Server] still held the root, like he’d been told to do by the real Lyonette on the other side. Erin licked her lips.

“I know it’s a Dragon, Relc.”

“You believe me? Wait—really?”

“Yeah. I do. I think….I think we should get everyone up there. Into that—just get everyone, Relc.”

“Who? Mrsha, Lyonette?”

Erin turned to the [Guardsman]. He was half-grinning, in the way of people who were trying to deny the worst was actually happening. Because, after all, it hadn’t. Not really.

Not in this world. But the [Innkeeper] thought about what she’d seen, noticed, and the other Mrsha, and she took a breath as her heart began to beat painfully in her chest.

“Yeah. Everyone. Right now. Go!”

She pushed Relc, and he stumbled towards the beach garden. Then he began shouting, but everyone was coming out to see what was the matter anyways.

“Erin, that door…Pyrite’s inside, and Kevin. Should we all go?”

No one was certain what lay beyond, which was part of why they hesitated. But at that very moment, someone came out of the air. Erin drew her knife to throw, then lowered it.

“Headscratcher!”

The Goblin Lord strode down the stairs after taking a moment to gawk at the destruction to the inn. He rumbled as he reached Erin.

“You okay? I saw the Dragon go through. He running.”

“I—yes, we’re fine. No one’s hurt except the inn. What’s going on in there?”

“More bad things. An army. Might be on our side, might not.”

That was cryptic and made Erin wish Pyrite had come back; Pyrite had a gift with words, like Numbtongue. But she was relieved to see the Redfang. Headscratcher had a hand on his axe, though, which was concerning.

The Goblin Lord of Sorrows was shaken from everything he’d witnessed, but he’d returned—to make sure things on this side were good. An important thing, as it turned out.

“Okay, an army? What’s in there, Headscratcher? Seriously?”

“Another future. Lots of them. Army is Antinium from a bad future. They might not attack us—but scary.”

He shrugged; that was as far as he’d gotten, and Erin nodded. Her head flicked left, and two other people started.

Moore and Halrac. Halrac had his invisible bow in hand; he’d actually fired a shot at the Dragonlord as the Brass Dragon had gone past. It had, uh, done absolutely nothing. Erin glanced at the door and despite Headscratcher’s warnings, her decision remained unchanged.

Something was wrong.

She could…almost hear it. Sense it, perhaps. They all could. At first, no one, not even Erin Solstice herself, had sensed that opening into the [Palace of Fates] and the nigh-invisible Faerie Flower root. Even when she had noticed Mrsha vanishing and reappearing, it had been hard to trace.

But now, it was as clear as day to Erin there was a kind of…hole in her inn. A doorway that was calling increasingly loudly to her to enter.

She could not hear the words being spoken. But she could feel them. If she could have heard it, the voice would have said this.

 

<ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED.>

 

<ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED. ERROR IN FUNCTION.>

 

<ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED. ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED.>

 

The notifications kept coming, like the beating of a disrupted heart. Faster and faster, each time a bit louder. And with each notification, that crack in her reality seemed to grow…

The [Innkeeper] whispered.

“Halrac, Moore? Go. I’ll get everyone through.”

The half-Giant bit his lip.

“Erin, are you sure? It’s not as if—”

“I think if Teriarch just ran for it, we should go. Now.”

They hesitated, and Moore palely rose. He turned to the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“Ulinde. I need to get Ulinde, Seborn, Jelaqua—and our things—”

“Don’t do that. I’ll send them after you. Just go!”

Erin’s voice rose with that dreadful certainty in her now. She had seen how terrified Teriarch was. If that giant Dragon was so afraid…she barely noticed as more people entered the inn.

“Hello, hello. What’s all this, then? We’re just searching for a quick place to rest—don’t mind us.”

A weakly-grinning Gnoll entered the inn with three others, all of whom had chests or big packs. Erin’s eyes slid towards them as she beckoned.

“Peggy! Get everyone out of the beach. This isn’t a drill! Do it now! Sorry, the inn’s closed—”

She saw the Gnolls walking past her, towards the stairs. They had a familiar…one of them was familiar to her. Not their face. Their aura. Erin’s head spun. She saw the Gnoll in front was tall, gangly, and afraid, and he smiled at her.

“We just need to…to…”

He trailed off and eyed the stairs. Erin stared at him, then forced a smile onto her face.

“Go for it. We have a spare bedroom on the third floor.”

She stepped back, ushering them forwards, and he ducked his head awkwardly. The Gnoll was halfway up the stairs, helping one of the others pull the huge trunk up, when someone spoke in Erin’s ear.

“Erin. Get back in the beach garden. I’m having Perorn assemble her forces. That’s not a Gnoll. It’s a monster.”

She jumped and nearly swatted Niers Astoragon. He was on her shoulder. He’d snuck up there—again! Headscratcher nearly slapped Niers off as well, but the Titan was intent.

He was staring at the Gnoll quartet, and his teeth were bared.

“Altestiel, Belchaus, Ilvriss, all our highest-level people are on alert. Just stall them, but don’t get close. My poison detection spells are going off. I’ll bring Foliana here if I have to—”

“No, let them go, Niers.”

Erin put out her hand, and he stepped onto it. The tiny [Strategist] gave Erin a look. More people were coming out of the garden. The Horns, confusion growing to concern as they saw the damage. Grimalkin and Pryde…

“Erin, that’s not a regular guest. I don’t know who you think—”

“I recognize one of them. It’s one of the adventurers who murdered Ulrien. Don’t. Start. Anything, Niers. Not right now. Something terribly bad is going on. So bad that I think—”

Erin’s eyes found the Necromancer as he tugged the chest up the stairs, and she shook her head. Niers’ mouth opened in an incredulous smile.

“Erin, those are horrors over there. If what I think I’m seeing is right—that is him. The Necromancer.”

His Ring of Greater Sight on his hand. He never took it off with Foliana about. He pointed at the undead Lich, and Erin snapped at him.

“Niers, shut up and listen to me! There is worse happening!”

The [Strategist] bristled, then her tone got through to him. Erin handed Niers to Headscratcher.

“Headscratcher, explain! Lyonette? Lyonette, get over here!”

The Goblin Lord put Niers on his shoulder and began to explain to him, which wasn’t optimal because Headscratcher was no Numbtongue or Pyrite, and he couldn’t explain it all like them.

The two saw Erin marshalling people in the inn, directing those who were merely guests for the beach out of the inn via the portal door, and moving her friends towards the stairs. She hadn’t told them to go to Ishkr—yet.

“Whoa. What happened to the inn?”

Ceria exclaimed, lowering some sunglasses she’d been wearing while tanning on the beach. The [Cryomancer] was in her bathing suit, literally, and she saw Pisces warily glancing around.

“My rapier’s in my rooms.”

The [Necromancer] was no [Slave] of Roshal in this world. He didn’t have his bone rapier. He was starting for the stairs when someone came down and grabbed his shoulder.

“Pisces, is that you? Excellent, come with me. And, uh, bring your team.”

The odd Gnoll. Niers and Headscratcher stiffened, and Pisces recoiled.

“Sir? I’m afraid I don’t know—”

The [Necromancer] only had swim trunks on, and he didn’t know this Gnoll—until the Gnoll leaned forwards.

“I taught you a bit of swordplay, among other things. We’ve been talking. Every week. It’s me, Per…ric. Perric! No relation to King Perric of Medain.”

“P-P-Perric?”

Suddenly, Pisces went white. He stood stock-still as his team peered at the Gnoll. Ceria scratched her chin.

“Pisces has a pen-pal? That’s…odd.”

“Yes, and I have something to show you. Urgently. Come on.”

The Gnoll wanted to guide Pisces up the stairs with terrific strength, but Pisces was, suddenly, afraid. He gaped at Erin, his team.

“Sir—what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be about at your age. W-what—”

“It’s all going to be okay. Just come with me. I swear. I want to help. I want to…save you.”

Such earnest words. Such ominous words if you were Pisces. He began to struggle, and Yvlon stepped forwards.

“Pisces, who’s your friend? Excuse me, sir…”

The [Armsmistress] was advancing, and it began a struggle for Pisces at the stairs. Erin swung around as more people entered the inn.

 

<ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED. ERROR IN FUNCTIONALITY.>

 

The voice spoke, and the world—flickered. So fast that no one caught it, not even the Necromancer. The tiniest of moments when everything halted and failed.

A gap.

Then the world kept moving with one addition to it that had not been there a moment ago. The crowd of visitors rushed towards the inn.

“Wistram News Network, Noass, here. Did someone see—?”

“Hey, there’s a huge hole in your inn! Where’s Mrsha? It’s time to play!”

“Hello, I would like a drink. And a place to rest.”

Noass, Ekirra, and a Human man entered the inn, followed by more crowds. Erin shouted at them.

“Get the fuck out of here! Not you, Ekirra. Go find Mrsha—now. Everyone else, out. Pisces, go with him!”

She spun and pointed, and the [Necromancer], both of them, were astonished. Erin was turning the crowd back with great effort. Ekirra gazed at her face, then ran towards Mrsha. Noass was protesting.

“You can’t keep the truth away from me! What’s going on? The public deserves to know! Is that a real Dragon or—”

“I am thirsty. I would like a drink, Miss.”

The Human walked forwards, and Erin shoved at Noass, turning her head towards the beach. The inn was crowded, the winds were blowing in, and then she glanced at the man again.

He was just a man in robes. Clean-shaven, but ordinary. But he wasn’t moving back in the face of her [Inn’s Aura], and something about him…she stopped.

“Do I know you? Have we met?”

The closer he got, the more disheveled he looked. Wretched, actually. The man wore grand robes, fit for a [Grand Mage]—or even better—but they were tattered, and his skin was beyond parched. A tattered hood covered most of his face as Erin tilted her head to see him. The man’s eyes glittered in their sockets, and he reached out.

“Not we. But I am so very hungry and thirsty. I was trapped with no way out. But look. They did not foresee this.”

“Sorry to hear that, buddy. There’s a drink in the kitchen. Go get that…”

Erin recoiled from the grasping hand. She didn’t know why. But she wasn’t fast enough. His palm grazed her arm as she took a step back. It was just a touch. Erin—

Vanished.

There was nothing else. She just disappeared, and her clothing and possessions fell into a pile on the ground. The man licked his lips and laughed, and Niers and Headscratcher gazed up from their discussion.

The Necromancer and Pisces stopped struggling. Lyonette made a sound as Mrsha hung in her arms, blinking at…nothing. The [Innkeeper] was gone.

“Erin?”

The figure turned and licked his lips.

“Ah. Ahaha. Yes. This is enough.”

“What—what was that? Teleportation? Did we get that on—”

Noass was dumbfounded. He gaped at the camera-Drake, then recoiled as the hand reached out. The man touched his chest, and then Noass faded away as well. Then the camera-Drake tried to dodge—

The scrying mirror hit the ground and cracked as Niers breathed.

“Erin?”

Then the man threw back the hood of his robes and chuckled.

“I am free. I did it, you damned tricksters. You couldn’t predict everything! I am Emerrhain, and I cannot be bested—”

Thunk. He blinked, stumbled, and eyed the tiny bolt coming out of his chest a moment before it detonated with all the force of a [Fireball]. People screamed and fell back, and Lyonette dove to the floor, shielding Mrsha. When the blast cleared—the man was just standing there.

“Exactly like Kasignel. Excellent.”

He strode over and began touching the people at the entrance to the inn. They were consumed; a scrum of them were gone before the ones behind realized something was wrong and tried to back up. And he fell on them, touching, hands moving and erasing them. Mouth open with delight, like a starving figure eating a feast—

“Erin?”

Pisces whispered. The Necromancer seized his arm.

“We have to go. Come on!”

The Horns of Hammerad didn’t move. Then—Pisces conjured a flaming rapier and descended the stairs. His face was white, but he advanced on the God of Magic without a word.

“Don’t fight him!”

The Necromancer gazed down at Emerrhain and saw his head twist around.

“There’s the exit. Fools.”

He came for the door—until something kicked him through the air like a mule. The God of Magic went tumbling down the hill outside the inn and came up, blinking. Unhurt. He stared at the wall of water that had flicked him like a bug.

“He’s invincible to Tier 4 magic. Move the geography, not him. Perorn, get over here! I am going to kill him. Clear this inn.”

Niers Astoragon was standing on a table, face utterly blank as he gave orders. Earl Altestiel stood there, hands raised, as Queen Geilouna trembled in the cold.

“What’s happening? We were in the garden, and then it—vanished—”

The inn. Doors and cupboards were exploding as their contents no longer fit in the compartments of holding. The inn groaned and shrieked, and Niers Astoragon never took his eyes off the grinning man walking up the hill. This time, Emerrhain cut a wall of water in half with a wave of his hand.

“Evacuate the inn.”

“No.”

Headscratcher’s eyes glowed. He cast around for his brothers, and they were there, staring at the inn. They jerked when he spoke, and the Goblin Lord of Sorrows felt stronger than he had ever thought was possible.

“All of you. Get to Ishkr. Run.”

The God of Magic walked forwards, smiling and opening his arms wide, like a man who believed he was entitled to the world. The first volley of arrows struck the ground around him, and then it was chaos.

It was all—falling apart.

 

——

 

<Nowhere, Formerly Kasignel>

 

Kasigna, the Maiden, and Kasigna, the Crone, watched it happen, just as both had known it would. Death watched too, a score of them.

How had he done it? The answer was simple.

“His prison. It was sealed in every way and means, I am sure. But not from an identical world. There must have been a door. If there were even the tiniest connection, he would have wormed his way through. All he needed was this.”

 

<ERROR; PROCESSING LIMIT REACHED. ERROR IN—>

 

They all heard it, and the two dead goddesses felt the infinitesimal flicker of the system itself failing. A gap into which someone could do…anything. If they existed beyond the Grand Design itself. Emerrhain had seized that advantage.

He was surely not the only one who had noticed. And there were other aspects that gave them power, especially in that world. After all, it was the Winter Solstice, there.

A Solstice. A moment of power, nevermind it was another reality. Emerrhain was absorbing all that energy, devouring the souls there. Then—what would he do? Likely, he’d pull himself out of his world and infiltrate another reality where he wasn’t in The Last Box, just in the same geographic location.

He must have been buried deep, but that was their nature.

Survivors.

They always survived. Now, the God of Magic was at a banquet of souls once more. The Crone murmured.

“I did not know we could absorb them like the ghosts. It must be that they are Skill-made. Not yet anchored like the living. Do you see it? He has taken his chance. Now, it is our turn.”

She pointed at another of those half-real realities generated by the roots. Kasigna intended to go to the future, where so many were gathered around the Painted Antinium and the inn. A bounty for her.

“You and I will secure enough power to rebuild our strength. Now—”

She was drawing the veil between realities apart with effort, forming her own ‘door’ to walk into the other world, when she realized the Maiden hadn’t moved.

“No.”

Kasigna, the younger, was gazing down at Emerrhain, full of confidence and triumph once more. She locked eyes with the Crone, glittering with malevolent triumph, but none of that was in the younger Goddess of Death.

“You have another plan? Another place?”

“Neither. Are you not tired of it? This repetition? Are you not ashamed to steal souls while we are watched?”

The Maiden pointed, and the Crone hesitated. The eyes of Death were upon her, but she snarled an answer.

“We have always done what we must to survive. Of all concepts, Death should understand that!”

The Crone turned to point at their audience and flinched.

They were smiling. Not a smile of acknowledgement, necessarily, or agreement. Just that grinning skull’s smile across each and every face. The Maiden argued with herself.

“That is not my perspective.”

“Stay here and wither, then! But we are one being—and you know your end will come without more souls!”

The Crone whirled. She tore the veil open and began to enter the world beyond. The city. She set foot in it, a greedy, wizened Drake reaching out for the first passersby.

Kasigna the Maiden stood there. And it was she who bowed to the silent reapers watching her.

“I am ashamed. You are here for a great reason. Not for me. Why? Will you not give me guidance?”

They did not reply, and she heaved a huge sigh.

“—Of course. Then I shall find it myself.”

So she sat, head in her hands, watching. For mortals, for that child who had started it all—

It only grew worse by the second.

The doors. The ones with the roots were—gaps in reality. And they were getting—

Bigger.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”>

 

At first, it was just enough space for a root to appear. But the longer The One Saved held it, the more he felt air coming through, heard voices on the other end. By the end of the fistfight with Rhisveri, it had become about the size of a gold coin in diameter, and he could hear the faintest voices.

After an hour, some of the Painted Antinium could peer through the head-sized hole. Or put hands through while the others marched past him.

Now—it was larger than a door, a spreading crack in reality that splintered in each direction, and the world frayed as the hole opened wider. It was expanding faster and faster.

“Tell Apostle Pawn something is wrong.”

The One Saved did not let go. He was the largest of the Painted Antinium, the strongest. He had been told Heaven rested on him holding the root, and so he would not let go for anything. But he told the Painted Antinium marching through to fetch the [Apostle]. The tip of the crack in reality was almost at the roof beams, now, and bits of wood kept falling into the [Palace of Fates], chipped away from the inn’s ceiling.

This was Wrong. The One Saved believed that the salvation of The Wandering Inn would not destroy even the smallest part of it. So he waited—and outside, he heard the arguments between the friends of the inn, who were Friends of the Inn in the teachings of Goddess Solstice, arguing with the faithful.

And this too struck The One Saved as Wrong, for were they not on the same side under Her?

 

——

 

“Let us in. We just want to see. We are all friends of Erin Solstice here, but we must see. Don’t make this a battle.”

Pisces Jealnet’s voice was reasonable. His hand on his enchanted rapier was less reasonable. Montressa, Moore, Yvlon, and the other highest-level friends of the inn were right behind him and mostly unreasonable.

The Painted Antinium knew very little fear, but they could count levels. The ones in front of Pisces kept their spears pointed at him, but they hesitated.

“By order of Apostle Pawn—”

“Get him out here. Mrsha is here, and Lyonette.”

“His Holiness is not to be disturbed—”

Someone lost her patience. Selys Shivertail pointed a finger at the Painted Antinium, and the [Guildmistress] snapped.

“[Listen to Me]. You are going to disturb him right now or we are going to walk into that inn. And unless you want to lose every single high-level ally on the continent, you won’t make this a battle. Get moving!”

The Painted Antinium peeked at each other, and one backed up.

“I—I will ask. Stay there.”

They vanished, but that left the problem of everyone having to stand and wait for a reply. Which wasn’t ideal, because Pisces had this sense they were running out of time. How did he know?

Well, he had never been the greatest of [Mages]. Selys had always gotten on him for not doing more studying at Wistram, and he’d actually gone back with Revi to study until being around Ceria and her altered state thanks to the circlet and amulet had been too much. Then Jecaina had funded a library for him, but that had been pretty much the backbone of discontent with the third—

You know what? His ex-wives aside, Pisces just wasn’t as good a [Mage] as he was an adventurer. But Montressa was, and the Archmage of Barriers was muttering to him.

“They’re blocking most of my spells, but some of it doesn’t make sense, Pisces. I got an explorator spell in there that measures space, and it’s returning infinity.”

“…What?”

“Infinite space. It mapped out the inn, then entered—somewhere—and I barely got a few tracers back. I fired over five hundred, and two reached me; they seemed to think there were hallways and—there’s something in there. If I know, she knows.”

She meant the Archmage of Frost. Ceria Springwalker was growing more animated as she cast spells, and that meant she thought there was something valuable there too. It hurt Pisces to see her, but he steeled himself and walked over.

“Ceria.”

“Pisces. We must enter the inn. The Painted Antinium are hoarding something of extreme value. A pocket dimension.”

She spoke absently to him, no other words for years of not seeing each other. Pisces bared his teeth, his best attempt at a smile.

“You mean, a Solstice event.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I recall that being the word for such things. How long will you wait before we force entry?”

Pisces was aware of everyone else watching Ceria with as much reserve. Yvlon was trembling; he replied slowly.

“…Five minutes.”

That was a sign of how much his instincts as a Named-rank adventurer were saying something was wrong. At his words, those not able to fight, like Kevin, drew back, but even Imani produced an emergency wand.

One of the [Witches] pulled out a gun with a click-clack, and Pisces eyed them. The Painted Antinium were growing restless, now, sensing the danger.

Not just from the Horns. Multiple news crews had appeared with Drassi, and now they were trying warily to get into the inn as well. Drassi herself appeared, breathless, abandoning her news crew.

“Hey, everyone. What’s going on? I’m not on the job—sorry about the commotion, but I thought it wasn’t going to be this! My [Journalist] instincts are going off, and it’s telling me this is the scoop of the century. Not necessarily in a good way.”

Pisces turned to catch her up to speed, but Selys beat him to it. Drassi swore under her breath.

“That’s not good. Pawn’s already crazy—”

“Hey!”

That came from Lyonette. Drassi went on.

“—Absolutely crazy. I interviewed him after the volcano thing. He’s got Rhir riled up, and everyone with a [Dangersense], [Newsworthy Event], or other Skill is focused on the inn. Mrsha, what’s in there?”

Every eye focused on the young woman, and she looked up. Moore was sitting with her, and the girl wrestled with the truth, then spoke.

“Another world. Many of them. But Pawn doesn’t need to go through! We can revive Erin! We know how.”

“What did you just say?”

Pisces felt all the hairs on his neck rise and whirled. But not to Mrsha; he gazed at Ceria, and her eyes came up, gleaming. They were green, not the pale blue he remembered on the [Cryomancer]’s face. Montressa and Pisces exchanged a look, and Lyonette paled.

“Mrsha! How—?”

It got worse. Lord Moore and Embria received an alert from Liscor at the same time, and the Watch Commander cursed.

“Something’s in Liscor, attacking people! Moore—”

He hesitated, and then it happened. There was a scream. Pisces’ blade was in his hand. He whirled—and saw a Drake clawing at a spear in his chest. Some idiot from the news channels had tried to sneak past the Painted Antinium, and they’d run him through.

“Dead gods.”

Pisces whispered as the Drake’s desperate clawing stopped. He was dead before they could even try to heal him. The Painted Antinium wrenched the spear out, and the television crews fled backwards.

“That’s it. Embria, assemble the Watch. No one else dies here.”

Lord Moore’s voice was heavy. Embria raised her speaking stone to her lips. She hesitated, then bit off a single word.

“Witch.”

A woman, tall beyond belief, dressed in robes so darkly blue they might as well have been black, was striding across the Floodplains. Not up and down the hills, over them. Through the air, holding her hat on her head. A little, too-thin figure was following her, and Pisces recognized Nanette, the Witch of Sorrows, first.

Then someone murmured.

“Belavierr.”

The Witch of Webs silenced the screams, the alarms beginning to come from Liscor, the spectators, even the guests of the inn. The Painted Antinium pivoted towards her as she walked forwards, and Montressa breathed.

“That monster. She swore to stay away from Mrsha. We have to stop—”

The Archmage of Barriers made Pisces recall Belavierr’s threats against Mrsha. He set himself; the young woman was visibly trembling as Lyonette put her arms out, shielding her.

“Belavierr! You swore never to approach my daughter! Begone! Begone, for your promise upon your craft!”

The Witch of Webs didn’t stop walking, but she slowed a second. She didn’t seem well. Her usually blank face was taut, and there was something lurking behind her ringed eyes.

Fear. When Lyonette spoke, she jerked, and her skin writhed. Her shadow halted, as if part of Belavierr was trying to move back. But she kept walking, and Pisces saw something rip out of her face.

Threads. They spooled out of Belavierr’s flesh, threads of every color, her magic and power itself. Without a single backwards glance, the [Witch] produced a pair of shears and cut the lines of power.

“Did she just rip out her craft?”

Imani squeaked. Nanette gathered the threads up in her arms. She handed a skein of power to Belavierr, and the Witch took it. She knitted something out of the thread, needles flashing into the air, and a bird made of red stood upon her hand. It tilted its head, spread its wings, and then flew at the Painted Antinium. It grew bigger and bigger until the ichor-colored bird was larger than the inn. The Painted Antinium gazed up—

[The Carrion-Hawk of Amegedia Vair].

Pisces had tackled Selys to the ground. When he glanced up, the thing was breathing on the inn, spewing smaller birds of blood. A barrier of faith was shielding the inn, but the Tier 7 monstrosity was on the attack.

“Get to Liscor! Fall back!”

Relc roared, and Pisces drew his sword.

“No. Kill Belavierr! Stop her!”

As soon as he said it, he wondered if he was insane. She had dozens of those skeins of her power. And she looked—

But The Wandering Inn was right there, and he had always, always defended it until the moment he was too late. So Pisces Jealnet stepped forwards, and the Horns of Hammerad were with him.

Young and old. Montressa fell in, and even Archmage Ceria, though her face was as calm as ever.

“Stitch Witch. I am familiar to you. You know me. Shall we parlay and join forces?”

Ceria’s voice was treacherous—Pisces jerked around as Belavierr walked towards them. The Stitch Witch’s eyes narrowed as she focused on Ceria, but then she shook her head. As if Ceria were important any other day but today. Belavierr reached down and pulled something up as Pisces tensed.

She lifted a shrivelled, shrunken head from her belt. Dead flesh. Eyes stitched open. Belavierr spoke to the head.

“Cara. Scream for me.”

Pisces saw the mummified head open its mouth. Then the [Banshee’s Shriek] spell hit him a second after he covered his ears. He convulsed as agony flashed through him, trying to [Silence] the voice that wailed death into his soul.

When it stopped, finally, an age later, he rose, deaf, blood running from his ears, and saw everyone but Ceria was on the ground. Belavierr was at the inn’s door.

She disappeared through it, ducking her head to let the tip of her hat pass into the opening. Pisces forced himself up on one arm.

Taken out like a Bronze-rank…the Singer of Terandria? That’s why she was missing. Monster.

—But it was a decade after Erin Solstice had died. The Demon King was dead. They lived in the future, painful and bright, filled with the resplendent light of the Empire of Rhir and the King of Reclamation and his [Heroes]. And the painful radiance of faith.

A pillar of light shot down from the heavens and speared the bloody carrion-bird through the back. The air flashed like someone shooting fireworks up, but there was no flare of mana.

Faith. Pisces saw Antinium crawling up the vast bird, cutting down the lesser monsters it was birthing with blades of color. One clasped her hands together as the bird pecked down, tearing the [Priest]’s shell apart.

Green blood. The Antinium collapsed, a third of her body torn away by the razor beak and teeth. Light shone from her eyes and her damaged innards. A terrible, cutting light, which blasted away the Carrion-Hawk’s face. It recoiled, mouth open in a scream he couldn’t hear, and the light focused on it, piercing holes into its body made of blood.

“The inn.”

Pisces helped up Montressa; the scream had pierced her barriers. The Archmage mouthed at him, then she touched his arm, and his shattered eardrums mended.

Abruptly, Pisces heard the horns blowing, the shouts, and the unearthly howl of the carrion-bird. Then a whumph.

The inn’s roof exploded outwards. Pisces flinched and saw a familiar sight.

The inn. A glowing sword erupted out of it, then a shower of needles blew out the side.

“The inn! Stop her!”

Moore roared as he got to his feet. Pisces was focused on the horror the Painted Antinium were fighting.

“That bird! We have to stop it! On me, Horns of Hammerad! Ceria, lock it down—”

He ran for the bird as it reared back on its haunches and shrieked. Hundreds of droplets of blood fell from its wingtips, morphing into carrion birds. Pisces knew it was some kind of summoning horror. The longer they let it live…

The screaming horror’s head vanished. One second it was opening its beak to the skies, red as sinew, blood forming a gaping socket, beak edged with teeth, screaming like a barghest—

Then someone cut its head off. Pisces’ eyes opened wide, and he stumbled to a halt. It was so fast that even he, a Level 48 [Adventurer of Necromantic Duels], could barely see it move.

He swore he saw a red katana being wielded by a…half-naked half-Elf? Pisces’ eyes focused on the figure.

“It’s him again.”

He breathed as more blood fountained up from the Carrion-Hawk’s head, trying to rebuild itself. However, the Painted Antinium began focusing their miracles on it, disintegrating the magical construct.

That half-Elf—he had faded away the moment he attacked, and Pisces only knew he was there because it wasn’t the first time he’d seen the figure. Or had a miracle happen when he and his team were in mortal danger. Pisces swung around, about to ask if anyone else had seen that, then the inn’s tower exploded.

A second pillar of light shattered the roof, and there was a shriek from inside the inn—then silence. Pisces turned and saw The Wandering Inn in ruins.

The Stitch Witch had destroyed that beloved building in seconds. He could see parts of the common room from here. Pisces began running. He was halfway up the hill when someone shouted.

“Pisces!”

Archmage Montressa threw up a barrier just in time. The Captain of the Horns leapt back, and a hand slammed into the barrier in the air.

“Back! gET bAck oR DIe!”

A [Paladin] had two swords and two shields raised overhead. The Soldier was shaking with fury. The Painted Antinium had re-formed around the inn, and hundreds were pouring out of the air.

“The Stitch Witch! Let us fight her, you idiots!”

Pisces roared. He would have charged forwards again, but squads of [Crusaders] armed with their crossbows knelt at the top of the hill and pointed down at him. The [Paladin] swung around.

“She has left through the door. The Apostle Pawn will slay her. Get back or perish.”

This was insanity! Pisces took another step, then dodged a hail of crossbow bolts. He backed up, swearing.

“They’ve gone crazy!”

“We have to fight our way in. I request reinforcements from the Watch. Hm. Summoning [Greater Ice Elementals].”

Ceria agreed calmly. She began creating huge blocks of ice, and the Painted Antinium rebuilt their lines deeper. There had to be two thousand around the inn, and more had entered it already.

They’re pulling every single Painted Antinium in the world to this spot. Pisces turned to Moore.

“We can’t make war on the Painted Antinium. They’re the only thing that gives Liscor—that gives the Hives and everyone else strength!”

Without them, the Terandrians in the north would push on Liscor! But Moore just leaned on his staff like the old days, head hanging low.

“We must reach that door. Embria, the Watch.”

“Something is in Liscor, killing our people!”

Madness; oh, Pisces forgot how he used to hate this feeling of mad helplessness. He stood there as his friends and the other guests of the inn rejoined him.

One fact was clear: the Stitch Witch had vanished into the same spot that Pawn had gone. That was enough to alarm anyone with half a brainstem.

The world’s oldest and most powerful [Witch] had just gone against the Painted Antinium for a reason. Not only that; she had just sacrificed an unbelievable amount of power, forsworn herself—

For what? If every eye was not on The Wandering Inn right now, Pisces would drink the entire valley of blood that was the Carrion-Hawk. There was only one problem.

The inn was open to the sky. The Painted Antinium had an army around it, but they could not hide what was inside of it. Even as his eyes found the inn, Pisces saw the edge of…something.

Poking up over the shattered roof. Higher than the common room. An edge, like the most complex spiderweb hanging in the air, showing him…something on the other side.

The [Necromancer] stopped, and all thoughts of everything else fled his mind. He stood there and saw the door to the [Palace of Fates] growing. Growing wider, even as the Antinium tried to project walls of faith around it.

“Moore. Mrsha. What is that?”

Mrsha lifted her face upwards, and it was despairing. The tear in reality kept growing. Wider and wider, and she whispered.

“No. He has to close the door.”

—But Pawn wasn’t there. The One Saved still stood in the destroyed center of the inn, needles buried in his carapace, pierced by the poisoned water. He had failed to stop the Stitch Witch. But the door would stay open.

He would never let go. The Antinium’s head rose as magical spells probed the entrance. Scrying spells beheld a portal to another realm. And these people, made from a Skill, soulless—at least by the definition of the Grand Design of Isthekenous—saw reality waiting for them.

In the hush, as blood ran downhill and pieces of wood fell, clattering to the floor of the inn, the Painted Antinium’s faith beheld their holiest of sites in ruins. On this, their promised day of glory.

Their faith shone ever brighter, and they had need of it. For two minutes, there was only the panting, desperate silence and the faint voices echoing from the world beyond.

Then the first [Heroes] of Rhir teleported into the Floodplains with soldiers of the Blighted Kingdom.

They launched the first wave of assault on the hill instantaneously.

 

 

<Primary Dimension – [The Garden of Sanctuary], Sheta’s First Garden>

 

The Dragonlord of Flames, Terrium Archelis Dorishe, stumbled. For once, he had a right to it.

His right foreleg was snapped; his wings were filled with holes. He was using magic to support himself, a limb of emerald magic that supported his right side as he walked, but the rest of his limbs had given in.

He fell, and that hurt too. His shredded brass scales revealed red flesh underneath; his hide pierced. At least, he did not bleed.

One of his wings was braced to keep the bones at the right angles. He looked smaller; he knew he was smaller, having lost layers of his scales against the Draconic Titan. He had not been wounded thusly since the Creler Wars.

Perhaps not so badly, even then. He might have come closer to death, but never taken so many sheer wounds.

The Halfling, then the Draconic Titan. Even during the Creler Wars, when he had battled the worst of Crelers, he had gauged his strength, retreated rather than take unnecessary risks. He had held his life like a precious thing—too precious.

In this era where I am needed most, I am at my weakest. The Brass Dragon didn’t feel like the victor of a battle.

He felt like a coward, fleeing when he should have marshalled 2nd Army and attacked the Titan before it could rebuild its strength. They had both spent everything. The Titan had one core left. If Teriarch were daring, if he were willing to bet his life, he could end this.

Instead, he was here, limping through The Wandering Inn, searching for answers. No…running away.

His nerve had failed him at the last. He knew he was fleeing under the guise of seeking reinforcements. He had looked death in the eye and flinched. For a moment, he lay there in the shadow of her wings.

A statue of a young Harpy stood in the original [Garden of Sanctuary], just as it had been in his memory, one of the few times Teriarch had ever been allowed in here.

Sheta had been so shy when she showed it to him. She’d been…what, seventeen years old when it had come to her?

A [First Princess] by virtue of the others having died. A too-old girl faced with the burdens of leadership in her troubled Empire, confiding in the Dragon Protector to the throne. 

It hurt him to look at that statue. The shadow of her spread wings shamed him too much, so the Dragonlord pushed one claw under him, digging his talons into the soil, and rose.

Dirt fell away from his filthy scales, and he raised a ragged mane upwards.

“You never told me about the rest of it. Not this [Pavilion of Secrets]. Not this palace. Did I mean so little to you? Or…did you not trust me with it?”

He had been her guide, her companion, her first warrior, her teacher—never anything so damning as a lover, no matter what the courts had said. She had spent more time in his company than any other being save Dragons.

He had taught her everything he knew of morality and the weary weight of this life. And she had—not always done what he believed was the best. She had committed tragedies, but she had still ended the Empire of Iltanus. The last Empire of Harpies had not thrashed about as it lay to die, painting its exit with blood and misery.

Perhaps it should have, for so few remembered it. And her people were a fragment of a fragment on Rhir, thought of as no more than monsters.

“I tried to protect them. Truly, I did. But they were a people like any other, with heroes and villains, and I—grew tired. Where is it? And how? Where is your palace, Sheta? I am weary. I tried to fight, and I was bested. I was never the strongest or most cunning or bravest of the Dragonlords. Merely the last.”

He was wandering around in a circle in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The Dragonlord had slipped in, unseen, via The Wandering Inn. By the roof, you see; that hole in the domed ceiling. What did people think it was for?

Sunlight, a connection to the world beyond, weather, yes…but it had always been meant as a way for fliers to enter and exit, especially those too large to enter any door. A way in, if you knew how to ask for it. If you had wings.

—But he couldn’t find it. No matter how hard he searched. The Dragon peered around the different biomes, places Sheta had wanted to visit or been to, her little embodiment of the world in this private place.

“Where is it? Rhisveri guarded it like his life depended on it, the fool. It has to be…but if she had that kind of power, would I have not known it? She never had the strength to bring back the dead, beyond the Scrolls of Resurrection. Madness, yes. She knew things even I did not. The Queen With a Thousand Ears. I never thought it of you, dear Sheta. Only that you knew so much…”

He was rambling. Walking in circles around the hill until he collapsed again, like an ant in a death spiral.

Then he lay there, not weeping, because he was too ashamed to do so in the shadow of the first girl he had failed so utterly.

 

——

 

How long he lay there, the Dragonlord could not have said. But at some point, he opened his eyes as a peculiar sound filled his ears. A buzzing.

A bee came along, flying in such an erratic pattern it seemed not even she knew where her wings would take her next. Forwards while spinning, up and down, corkscrewing, juking, the most chaotic flier he had ever seen.

She landed on his snout, and the Dragonlord’s exhalation nearly blew Apista out of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She buzzed around him as the Dragonlord’s weary eyes followed her. Apista waved one antennae at him, as if to say—

“Enough. I am so weary. [Translation: Animalspeech]. What?”

Apista…hesitated.

Wait, he could understand her? 

“Yes.”

The Dragon buzzed at her with a voice like the largest metal bee in the world. Apista whirled back, astonished and a little mortified. No one had ever spoken to her! Redscar had come close with some generous misinterpretations of her actual internal voice due to his [Beast Tamer] class, and so had Lyonette, Mrsha, and Niers, but this—

“Where is the [Palace of Fates]? Where has everyone gone?”

His eyes transfixed and held Apista. She wasn’t sure if she should tell him, but the Dragonlord’s authority was a weight in her mind. Apista vibrated in place, then confessed.

So, the weary Dragonlord rose.

“Below Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary]? Imposs…roots. I see. I see. Doors and people coming through? Thank you.”

In the end, it was what he had suspected. The Dragonlord didn’t question it. Another time, his mind would be aflame with possibilities, denial, a need to control or stop what would surely happen.

It has already happened. It befits this day. I need help.

So he crawled out of this place and found a door that opened down into the [Palace of Fates]. The Dragonlord’s heart skipped a beat, despite it all, as he stared down into the opening.

Then he eyed the door, the Human-sized door, which was smaller than his head was. He sighed as Apista buzzed around him, then waved a claw.

The bee flew, staring, around the vast door that opened for a single moment, wide enough for Teriarch to walk through with his wings open—then heard a curse.

The hole in the [Palace of Fates] was still too small for him. The Dragonlord reached down, and stone and dirt cascaded below. Then he fell into the [Palace of Fates], struck the ground hard enough to make the stone crack—looked up—

And sighed.

Everything slowed still further. Terrium Archelis Dorishe spoke, his voice echoing in these dreadful, familiar halls.

“The Palace of Iltanus. Sheta. What did you do?”

Then he limped forwards, and for one moment, he saw a proud Dragon, armored in ancient metal, striding through these marble hallways in the palace set on the highest mountain of Izril, Harpies flying past the windows.

The Dragon’s neck was arched, his mismatched eyes glowing as smoke smoldered from his mouth when he spoke. He walked like a [King], or a cat, speaking to the little child who hopped like a sparrow from spot to spot, trying to land only on tiles with green on them, a fluttering Harpy girl with a lopsided silver crown on her head.

Once upon a time. Then the image was gone, and he only saw a broken old Dragon in the mirror, scarred and wounded. Onwards, he went.

Searching for salvation.

 

——

 

Apostle Pawn stood at the greatest moment of his existence, the apotheosis of his beloved Goddess, Erin Solstice. A day he had longed to see for ten years.

His army of Painted Antinium grew with each passing minute, assembling in the courtyard he had summoned out of the [Palace of Fates]; the faithful, prepared to protect Erin Solstice, to usher in that better ending for her in each and every world.

And it was all going wrong.

He’d denied it at first. Tried to pretend that he couldn’t see the cracks, but they had been there from the start. The sheet of mosaic glass that was his faith, that image of the future he knew was correct and righteous…had no give to it. Every mark against it was a sin to be corrected, expunged by any means necessary, lest it ruin perfection.

That first crack had been placed there by Mrsha and Rags, though. The real ones. The Goblin had questioned whether Erin would have truly wanted to be a goddess. It was…

A question that Pawn had been vexed by, before. Because it was so ridiculous. Others had asked him that, and he had told them the truth in his heart: what she believed she was was not what she should be or was. Her nature was divine. If he could set her on the throne of Heaven itself, he would.

That was not what had shaken him. Everyone from his Lyonette to other members of his faith had asked the question, and his answer had always been enough. It was the other thing that Rags had said.

You are so incredibly cruel. She’d break from it all.

You will make her so miserable.

He couldn’t make that voice go away. Nor could he erase the vision that Mrsha had given him. That woman lying there on the raft.

Not the cheerful [Innkeeper] waving the white flag, performing small miracles, the center of his existence. Her death had kept her body preserved, had made her into an idea in his head. But he had seen a person in that door.

No divine being. Even now, that door called to Pawn. But he feared it; he looked anywhere but there as he preached his sermon.

For there was, for the first time in nearly a decade, a tiny shred of doubt in his faith. He did not know if his miracles could save her.

Those were the first two cracks. The third had been the omen given to him, a vision of his defeat. At the hands of a younger Lyonette, no less.

It could be avoided. It would be, but the knowledge he could lose, even now, provoked doubt in Pawn’s mind. Had he not said that this would be the final victory?

What if it…wasn’t? What if this was but one more step? What if he was wrong?

—The cracks were spreading. But his class was proof he was doing the right thing. Pawn clung to that. And he could not let down the Painted Antinium.

“Prepare to march!”

They stirred, and Pawn saw, out of the corner of his eyes, a figure duck back along one of the hallways. His vision had improved; his new class had granted him even stronger eyesight than before. Antinium had compound eyes, and they viewed the world differently than other species, he knew.

In his case, he could focus on any one point with such ease, he clearly made out the face of Peggy as she ducked back. So, the beings of this world were waiting for him.

Lyonette could destroy his army. It would be so easy to tell his people to just…do what had to be done. Not to harm the inn’s family or guests, but to just go. He didn’t know what would provoke that omen of defeat, though, so Pawn spoke as the Painted Antinium clasped fists to their armor and prayed.

“We will first sally forth to the inn above and secure it. Thence, we shall do battle against this…Titan of filth that threatens the Goblins of this time. Our third act shall be to travel this world to the side of Erin Solstice. Then we shall witness her, alive, and she shall name her enemies to us. The first foe she speaks shall vanish from this world, and all who stand with them shall be condemned to Hell.”

The prayers grew louder, and Pawn glanced again at the Goblin spying on him. There. It was so crystal-clear what he was doing. Who could argue with the logic of any of it?

Then came another crack in the form of Purple Smile. The [Paladin] was one of the faithful, but he had always been close to Yellow Splatters…he was above doubt, of course, but still, he often spoke with caution. As now, Purple Smile hand-signed.

“[Apostle. What if we are attacked? An army of Pallass was mentioned. There are many ignorant to the Antinium in this time, as in ours.]”

“Defend yourselves. If you are given battle—show restraint until the blood of the faithful flows. Then remove the threat.”

“[—By your will.]”

Purple Smile struck his breastplate, a note slower than the rest of Pawn’s bodyguard. Doubt was visible in his every hand-gesture.

Crack, crack. Pawn envisioned the cost of battle with Pallass, even the Pallass of ten years ago, and his voice grew waspish.

“They must see our strength. All shall be done swiftly; we shall march under my Skill to this ‘Titan’, then to Erin Solstice’s side. Our first battle against her foes shall set her strength in this world.”

“[And our own one, Apostle? The inn is…unsecured. Guests of the inn and world powers are observing us.]”

“A rearguard shall hold it.”

“[How long should they prepare for?]”

He didn’t know. Normally, these questions were not difficult, but they were cracks, getting in the way of this grand moment. Pawn snapped.

“Three days! Let them admit no one for three days and nights! That is more than enough time to do all that need be done. Have the crusade ready to march within fifteen minutes!”

He knew, even when giving the order, it wouldn’t be done that fast. Even disciplined soldiers like the Painted Antinium were mid-prayer, and they’d come through the door in a stream, not in their formations. So he had to wait while they milled about below him like, well, ants.

Almost. Almost—then came the scream and the sounds of chaos from that hallway Peggy had been down. Pawn reacted as the Antinium nearest the spot advanced.

“What is happening?”

He did not have the trick of this place, so he had to stride from the dais; there was a deep, booming voice. Shouting.

“Stop! Stop! Don’t let—what’s going on?”

 

——

 

When Pawn reached the hallway, he found half the Knights of Solstice were down, the other half running after—someone. That did not surprise him—the [Knights] on the ground, that was.

They were a pathetic, silly lot. Unbefitting of their title. However, Younger Lyonette was distraught. She was pointing at something—but when she whirled to him, she seemed more horrified still.

Highly hurtful.

“What was that sound?”

“It—it—it was him. Again? The—the—”

One of the [Crusaders] knelt and answered, cutting off Lyonette’s suboptimal methods of getting to the point, another habit he loved of her, even if it was sometimes a problem.

“A Dragon, Apostle. It exited the door.”

Pawn glanced at the doors, which were too small to let The One Saved in, let alone…

“No.”

Another [Crusader] chimed in, holding an amber-encased splinter of the inn to her mandibles.

“It did, Holiness. The door grew to allow it passage. Then it ran, apologizing. We would have given chase, except for your orders…”

An apologizing Dragon? Lyonette backed up a step from Pawn.

“You don’t know who it is. We’ll find and deal with him. Someone—”

She was rapidly separating herself from his affection for his Lyonette. The [Apostle] interrupted her.

“The Dragonlord of Flames. I have met him.”

“What? You have? When? You shouldn’t have if—”

“We encountered him on one of our crusades for a cure for Erin Solstice. He still lives, I believe.”

In the same cave, though that particular Teriarch was barely able to keep awake for more than an hour. A sleeping Dragon mourning the passing of Lady Magnolia Reinhart years earlier. Uncaring of anything in the world. Willing to part with the meagerest treasures of his hoard to avoid battle.

Even so, Pawn didn’t discount the threat of another Brass Dragon running around. How dangerous might he be? His Painted Antinium could surely defeat him if it came to battle; they had repulsed entire nations in battle, and survived their secret and often forbidden weapons of annihilation. A Dragon was one entity, however large. It could be hurt, and killed.

But it would be costly. Could they afford to let the Dragon roam around? This [Palace of Fates] was an asset beyond value, and if they did not secure it before going to Erin Solstice…

Another crack.

Crack and crack. Pawn realized he was mumbling the word to himself, and he straightened.

“We will find and negotiate with this interloper. Secure every door that has a root in it. Unless you object, Lyonette?”

He challenged her, and she opened her mouth to refuse when the door that had caused all this trouble bulged—and someone burst out of that world.

“Run! Run!”

Selys Shivertail, holding Ekirra, dashed out of the door, looking behind her, pale-faced. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she was breathless, dressed in a one-piece bathing suit—and then Mrsha followed her.

Another Mrsha. And another Lyonette. They ran outside, and the child was howling, trying to turn around as her mother carried her.

“What?”

The [Apostle] recoiled, and the two Lyonettes locked gazes. The younger Lyonette skidded to a halt; like Selys, she had on a bathing suit, but her face was bloodless.

“Wh—what’s—”

More people were pouring through the door suddenly. Drakes and Gnolls and Humans that Pawn recognized. They were fleeing, and the real Lyonette raised her hands.

“Stop! Stop! You can’t do this! Why are you—”

“Run! That thing is coming after us!”

Menolit roared and shoved a terrified Visma forwards. They were all covered in sand or damp with water—many were in swimsuits. Again, that stumped Pawn the most. He stood there as they flooded forwards, running from—

“What’s going on? Why is Teriarch here? You can’t come in here!”

Real Lyonette seized her counterpart. In answer, the [Princess] opened her mouth, then screamed.

“He killed Erin! Something’s in the inn, and he just killed Erin and Noass.”

The [Apostle]’s head turned, and all his thoughts ended. The real Lyonette swayed.

“What? Who—?”

“E—Emerrhain. He called himself—Niers is trying to kill him with everyone else, but nothing’s working. I—”

The door opened, and Pawn moved. He threw both Lyonettes behind him in a single motion as someone came through the door.

A Gnoll, thin and lanky, with a trio of other Gnolls carrying Chests of Holding. Just one Gnoll among the others, eyes flicking right and left—or so he appeared.

Pawn saw the Necromancer for what he truly was in a heartbeat. His eyes picked out the undead hiding behind his illusion, the monstrous death-magic—and the means by which he had become a true Lich. The undead halted as he focused on Pawn.

“Oh my. It’s terrible. Quick, someone evacuate the children—that thing won’t die. It’s not even alive, I think…”

He played dumb for a second. Then Pawn swung his club, and Az’kerash dodged backwards, nearly going through the door again. The [Apostle] saw both Lyonettes stumbling, realized no one saw what he did, and spoke.

“Undead monstrosity. Kill it.”

The [Crusaders] around him charged without a word, Antinium Workers holding spears. They blazed with faith and power—the [Necromancer] flicked his fingers, and a wall of blackness arose.

[Void Wall]. Tier 6 magic.

—The Antinium Workers’ spears pierced through, and the two [Crusaders] charged at the Necromancer, who was so surprised he hesitated. Then he stepped backwards—and stopped.

His reaction was impeccable; he would have avoided the Antinium’s stabbing charge, but his children didn’t know that. A sword had parried one of the Antinium’s spears; the Worker jerked back as Devail slashed across the throat of the Antinium, blade cutting deep into a gorget but failing to strike chitin.

The second Antinium’s spear was buried in Bea’s chest. The Plague Zombie had thrown herself forwards and fearlessly blocked the spear. Her illusion faded, and everyone recoiled from the rotted corpse of the woman.

For a moment, Az’kerash just seemed wary, glancing at the Antinium, frowning as if puzzled how they had undone his magic so effortlessly. Then he heard a gasp.

“It hurts. It…hurts? Master?”

Bea was staring at the blade glowing a bright blue in her chest. It shouldn’t have harmed her; she was dead. Strike her heart, even destroy her head, she’d recover. She was the Necromancer’s masterp—

The Worker tore the spear up, and the Plague Zombie crumpled as the glow flickered in her eyes. She reached up as the Necromancer saw her wounds fail to heal.

“Master—”

“Bea. Hold on. [Greater Reanim—]”

Pawn swung his finger down.

“[Condemned by Hellfire].”

The Plague Zombie screamed as red flames consumed her. Grey, grasping hands dragged her down into a pit as flames roared upwards, and Az’kerash’s magic flowed around her and then—a face turned to ash.

Master?

Gone. Devail slashed at the Worker, who took a stab through the eye socket of their armor and then backed up. Like the other undead, he stared at the place the zombie had been. Az’kerash lifted his eyes and met Pawn’s bright gaze.

He drew a wand without a word, and Pawn swung his censer up.

[Greater Miracle: Shield of the Faithful]!

A thousand splinters of diamond hit the miracle and froze in place. The [Necromancer] fired a stream of pale light into the miracle.

[Disintegration Ray]. Pawn’s voice rose.

“Antinium, to me! Undead!”

The Necromancer backed up a step; more Antinium were already charging.

“Ijvani, Devail, flee.”

His black eyes were locked on Pawn the entire time. He fired another spell—a flaming meteor crashed against the [Greater Miracle], and Pawn felt it failing. But he kept his censer raised, bluffing.

Six meteors and the miracle was about to break—but it was enough. The Necromancer lowered his hand and faded away. [Greater Invisibility]. Then he was running.

Pawn bellowed.

“Kill the undead. Do not let it escape the [Palace of Fates]!”

He wavered, then spun.

“[Paladins]. Enter that door and kill whatever is attacking that world’s inn.”

He pointed, and the two Worker-[Crusaders] flinched as they looked at him. Pawn spoke.

“You two will not repeat anything you have heard here. Go!”

Suddenly, it was chaos. The two Lyonettes shouted for their people to come with them—one of them was yelling at him, but Pawn did not care. He was about to enter the door himself, to slay whatever it was that had committed the ultimate sin, when someone else called his name.

“Apostle! Something is—”

Then he felt a familiar presence at his back and spun. He heard the sounds of an explosion and a voice. A woman, cackling in delight. Pain and amusement wending its way through that laughter of a [Witch] who cared nothing for the world.

Belavierr. Pawn whispered.

“Not her.”

 

——

 

She’d broken through the inn. He could see dead Antinium on both sides of the door; acid was running down the walls of the corridor.

“She attacked the Painted Antinium.”

“Hunt her. Slay her and that undead.”

This was simple. This was essential. But then Pawn heard the warning from the open door. It seemed…bigger, on his side of it. As if he could see more.

“Rhir is assailing our position! Apostle!”

Then the cracks became breaks in the glass, and Pawn saw it. He stood in the [Palace of Fates] and realized the doorway was breaking. The [Palace of Fates] was screaming now. He swore he could hear the very hallways groaning as they began to fill with bodies, and Pawn gave the only orders he could.

“Slaughter them all. Hold that door and bring all the Painted Antinium through—then sever the root!”

“Apostle—they are sending [Heroes]. There are two dozen already! Send our [Paladins] back!”

A voice begged him from the other side. Pawn halted, and Purple Smile signed.

“[I will hold the door. Apostle, the [Witch].]”

“I will slay her this time. Go, and She watches over you, Purple Smile! The rest of you, to me! Defend our salvation or all is lost!”

Pawn’s voice was desperate, and he swung around as he saw more doors buckling outwards. He realized something was terribly, terribly wrong. A Gnoll poked his head out of a door and waved a paw.

“Hey, it’s me again. The—uh—root thing is getting bigger. What’s—”

Knight Brunkr of the past locked eyes with the glowing-eyed Pawn of the future and an army of faithful Antinium. His mouth stopped working, and he stood there, petrified.

All the doors were beginning to open? Pawn heard screams, and he knew there were monsters trying to flee their worlds, into this one. He heard roars, two ungodly loud ones—and suddenly, he was calm.

He began chuckling. All the Painted Antinium stared at him, and then Pawn’s faith was restored. For you see—he understood, now.

“Ah. Ahaha. This. This is our final battle. If it were easy, it would make no sense. Painted Antinium! This is our final hour of this mundane, petty world! Fight! In Her name!”

Then he was running with holy wrath in his hands and his heart, and he was laughing as the Painted Antinium began to wage their final war against everything in their way. Desperate, faithful—the sky above him warped to that vision that had sustained him so long.

Faith without end. He had everything to gain.

And everything to lose.

A single crack.

 

——

 

The Dragonlord of Flames was limping past doors he recognized when he met himself. Each door was of a fate that had never happened, and oh…he knew them all.

They hurt. They tore his mortal soul out of his ancient body, and he wept yellow tears upon the marble, for he had forgotten so much. But each door reminded him.

“Why did you make this place, Sheta? Why—”

He knew why. The [Garden of Sanctuary] had always been her forlorn wish, for a single place where she could protect her friends from the harsh realities of the world. These places were her broken dreams.

And he could pluck someone from them, was that it? Revive someone?

The Dragon saw the flaw in Mrsha’s plan in a moment. You see—as with all things, he’d done this before. He saw the fallacy of bringing someone who looked like someone you had lost, but wasn’t, back into this world.

He had seen it with Golems, with imposters, Skills, tricks, twins, [Polymorph] spells, and sometimes…he touched his own chest…you were just revived from the dead, but not quite right.

“If I could—”

The smart thing to do would be to steal a—a Relic from the doors. Or would it be to summon someone worthy? Even if they were fake—imagine Saracandre herself, the first Dragonlord of Gems, who could help manage this world of chaos! Or—or a host of Dragons, if it were possible! Let them live and be different people, but live.

And Nirayicel, his daughter—

A golden tear splashed on the ground, the color of pyrite. The Dragonlord halted, drawing in shuddering breaths, for he understood.

He would do it too.

He rounded a corridor, his tail leaving dust and bits of ash from the Mortemdefieir’s body on the palace floor, and walked past a long hallway of mirrors. Then, he came nose-to-nose with a Brass Dragon, bigger than he was by almost fifteen percent, scales overgrown, overweight—though he held it well—but nevertheless, one of the largest Dragons that had ever lived.

A being of such magical power he radiated it, and whose head recoiled as his metallic mane shimmered. Cerulean and heliotrope eyes locking on the wounded Teriarch’s face.

The other Dragon was muttering to himself.

“—had to do it, you see. I simply had to—very lucky there was a spare key or whatnot. Now, where’s the damn—huh?”

He stopped, drew back when he saw the wounded Teriarch, and grinned, uncertain.

“Tamaroth’s beard. Another like-minded soul. What door did you escape from?”

The real Teriarch said nothing. He just stood there, thinking, as the chattier Teriarch of the beach garden, the one playing at being Demsleth, spoke. He eyed Teriarch’s broken leg, his wings, and his scales.

“What did that to you? No, don’t say it—the Creler Wars. Naturally. You must have realized it was all a simulation and escaped. Well done. Rather trim, wasn’t I, six thousand years ago? Nevermind Magnolia’s snide comments…it’s all about scale-shedding. I’ve kept mine because it’s armor, in the end, and I can always ditch them in times of need.”

Right, the secret technique of Brass Dragons. Teriarch hadn’t lied to Erin—well, he had. But most Dragons didn’t actually wholesale shed their scales, just one or two at a time. He’d learned the technique of turning his scales into a fake Dragon.

The other Dragon was still running his mouth. He held out a magnanimous wing, indicating a huge, enchanted Chest of Holding he was dragging behind himself.

“I managed to escape with some of my possessions. Do you know the way out? I intend to disguise myself, then, well, get a lay of the land, or this other world’s land, so to speak. Rather tragic, this place, isn’t it?”

He waited for a reply, finally noticing the other Dragon’s long silence. The real, wounded Teriarch cleared his throat after a moment.

“You escaped your door. Naturally. For clarity, may I ask where you came from?”

“Oh, I believe it would probably be close to modern reality—or so I gleaned. A better future, actually. Certainly very paradisiacal. I was lounging around on a beach as Demsleth, you know? Then I realized what was going on.”

“The beach. Of course. And you remember Magnolia? You left her behind.”

The Dragonlord’s voice was flat. The Beach Teriarch scratched at his chin, embarrassed.

“Well—I did. I could go back for her or send a simulacrum to…we must live, after all, musn’t we?”

He gave the other Teriarch an ashamed grin, then turned his head away.

“Good idea. I’ll just—wait. Then you are from a future like mine. What would possess you to get so gravely injured? Was it a Creler in the High Passes? The Wyvern Lord and, what, a few Earth Elemental Lords? Adventurers? What?”

He goggled at Teriarch’s wounds. The Dragonlord breathed in and out and raised his broken leg.

“Actually, a Draconic Warrior from the City of Graves escaped the Kingdom of Trolls. I didn’t manage to kill it.”

“Stone speaks. Well, there goes that as a cave. I’d better alert Magnolia in this world. Then again, who knows if it will happen in this one? Do you need any recovery magic? Though, we’re quite bad at it. Taletevirion! I could go back for him—”

The other Dragonlord was turning back and forth, and Teriarch smiled as he lifted his broken foreleg.

“It’s not that bad. Can you see the bone?”

“As a matter of fact? Yes. Though it’s properly set. What did—”

The Beach Teriarch stretched his neck out to eye the broken leg with a wince, and the real Dragonlord of Flames leapt. His teeth snapped over the other Dragonlord’s neck, and he bit.

Metal bent and tore, and scales gave way until he tasted metallic blood. The other Dragonlord roared.

“What are—”

Then he flung one wing up, trying to throw the Dragonlord off. It didn’t work; Teriarch was at his copy’s neck, trying to bite his head off.

It was one of the most direct ways to kill another Dragon. His teeth were grinding against the metal scales, digging deeper. The other Dragonlord was panicking, out of shape, off-guard—

But he was still a Dragonlord of ancient days. His tail slapped the ground—

—And every scale on his left flank detonated outwards.

The impact kicked Teriarch across the ground, and he felt searing agony as chunks of metal struck his innards. Most of it still glanced off his scales.

He blew up his own scales. True desperation. Teriarch heard a roar and saw the other Dragon clasping a claw to his neck. He melted the scales around the wound, sealing it off, roaring; he had chunks of his own scales embedded in his left side.

“Are you mad? What—”

He stopped as the wounded Dragonlord got to his feet. Beach Teriarch’s eyes focused.

“Oh. Oh. You’re the real one. I only want to live—”

He saw the true Dragonlord of Flames open his mouth, and from the depths of the glowing maw was only a word:

“Burn.”

Fire hot enough to scorch another flame Dragon roared outwards—and the second Dragonlord exhaled at the same time. Orange-red flames of pure heat met purple—the Beach Dragon recoiled, howling as he tried to keep it back from him.

He was out of practice; his breath was weak, and he was used to sleeping all day. However, the true Dragonlord was exhausted from his battle. He gasped; his Dragonbreath stopped, and the heat and smoke and fire washed over him.

It barely hurt. He lunged again, with his three good legs, and slammed into the other Dragon. Then they were clawing at each other, biting…

A bad match. One was wounded with only three intact limbs; the other was overweight, lopsided due to his destroyed scales, unprepared mentally or physically for the battle.

But they had done this enough; the Beach Dragon wedged a claw into the real one’s side and tore more scales loose, trying to gouge out his counterpart’s innards. He screamed as the true Teriarch bit his claw and nearly took a digit off—then tried to back away. That earned him another bite, and he locked eyes with a Brass Dragon oozing blood from his mouth, eyes wild with death.

The Dragon from the days of the beach and that more hopeful world retreated as the other Dragonlord advanced. Then he spoke.

“Parlay! Parlay! I only want to live—and if there can only be one, let it be!”

He ducked left, and the true Teriarch saw something hovering in the air behind the Dragonlord of Flames.

A halberd, glowing with magic. Straight out of the Dragonlord of Flames’ vault. The Halberd of Giant’s Force—

It hit him as he tried to dodge, and the blow knocked him senseless for a moment. He gaped up as it chopped down and spoke.

“[Barrier of—]”

The halberd’s second strike was deflected by a simple Tier 2 spell. But more weapons were emerging from the Dragonlord’s chest. He was using his weapons against—

The triumphant Beach Teriarch was grinning with his own savagery, confident he could best this wounded copy of himself with this arsenal! He had no [Dragonslayer]’s weapons, because only a fool carried the weapons of his own demise around. But an entire arsenal of Arrows of Annihilation would—

He saw them spill out of the Chest of Holding, and his mind flickered. Wait, he hadn’t levitated them. They pointed at him, and he screamed.

“[Prison of th—]”

 

——

 

The explosions deafened the real Teriarch and bought him time to knock the Halberd of Giant’s Force away. That fool had made the mistake of leaving his Chest of Holding open for anyone to use it. Well, another Teriarch, at any rate.

The other Dragon emerged from the smoke, denuded of scales on the left side of his face. But then he was ready to kill. They charged at each other, unwilling to let the other use the magical artifacts in close combat.

Madness. The two howling Dragons fought across the [Palace of Fates], destroying hallways, as mortals saw them and fled. Neither one backed down, then.

After all—if Ryoka was one thing, and Mrsha another—

The Dragonlord of Flames hated himself more than anyone else.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”, Kasignel>

 

It was all going wrong. And still, it wasn’t clear what was going on.

“Tolveilouka! Why is Rhir attacking? What’s going on? Are Mrsha and Pisces and the others safe?”

The ghost of Erin in the future was panicking. She did not know what was going on; the confusion about the multiple versions of Rags and Mrsha from the past was one thing, but this?

This was a disaster. The Putrid One, Zacheales, sat, frowning, as a panting half-Elf replied.

“I don’t know! Stop shouting at me, you worthless woman! Master—Master, that portal in the air is madness. It looks—real. As if the world I know, even you, were fake.”

“I know. We can see it, Tolveilouka.”

“Rhir is—you can?”

The half-Elf Revenant stopped, but the ghosts could all see it. It wasn’t as…visible, but they could sense the air distorting there. As if what was being opened were so all-encompassing, even the lands of the dead felt it.

“I want to go into it.”

That dreamy voice came from the ghost of Ksmvr, who sat in the deadlands. Not because Heaven had been denied for him, but because he didn’t want to be separated from his team. He was waiting for them.

Ksmvr was one of sixteen Antinium in the deadlands. All sixteen were Antinium that Erin had known. Sixteen Antinium out of all the souls who had ever died.

They shouldn’t have been there. They were supposed to go somewhere…else. But they’d come here when they died. The ghost of Erin had been so happy.

Because she’d wanted it with all her heart.

Now, Erin turned to Ksmvr as the Putrid One glanced at her.

“Don’t go just yet, Ksmvr. Tolveilouka, protect the inn.”

“So you want me to reveal myself to the Blighted Kingdom? Say the word, Master, but it will be war to the bitter end!”

Tolveilouka’s ardor was up after seeing the Witch of Webs vanish. Yet he was cautious; he didn’t like beings of faith as they seemed to be direct counters against the undead, and he was warning his master.

“Master, everyone is headed for that door. I count thirty-seven [Heroes] of Rhir. More than they have committed to any war since putting down A’ctelios Salash—and I would bet every single world power is making for this place as fast as they can teleport.”

It was a kind of—urge that even the ghosts felt. Go through. We have to go through. If only to know if this entire world is a…lie.

The Putrid One gazed at Erin, and she spoke.

“I have to make sure my friends are safe. Please, Zacheales.”

“I wish to know what lies in there. The Blighted Kingdom would surely use it—Tolveilouka, my champion. Summon every undead from my village. Protect Erin Solstice’s guests. Follow her orders.”

The Putrid One’s orders made the half-Elf they could see, standing and watching the battle from afar, look up. The widest smile Erin had ever seen stretched across Tolveilouka’s face. He bowed, a slim half-Elf hiding a horror of death and plague.

“By your will, my Master.”

He bounded forwards a step, then turned and began casting magic. Activating the undead in the Putrid One’s lair.

Chaos. Dead Erin was sick of it. She had made her own kind of peace with her death, for all her fire and passion. She was just…afraid for her friends. The young woman hugged her knees to her chest and whispered.

“Why today? Why…all for me, Pawn? He sounded a bit crazy, didn’t he, Zacheales?”

The Putrid One looked over absently. As ever, she couldn’t fully read him; he replied in a disinterested sort of way.

“He has the same passion to you as Tolveilouka does for me.”

Erin shook her head.

“…That’s a bad thing. A real bad thing. I think I’ve—I’ve been in denial. Why didn’t you warn me?”

For answer, the half-Elf smiled, and she saw that pitiless apathy she sometimes hated about him, for all she needed him.

“Why, because it was amusing to see what he would do. And if he revived you, Tolveilouka would do the same.”

Silently, the [Innkeeper] met his eyes as the ghosts around her shifted. Ksmvr made a ‘I could punch him’ gesture behind the half-Elf’s head, but Erin shook her head. She had known she was allying with a monster.

Instead, she stared down at her hands.

“I feel tingly. Like I can almost…touch something sometimes. I have to stop this. Tolveilouka is fighting. If only I could—make these idiots go away.”

Sometimes, she felt like she could see the real world. Just in her head, like she was imagining it. If she closed her eyes…

 

She could see thirty-seven [Heroes], half of them hanging in the air, throwing spells down at the Painted Antinium. A horrific slaughter—but not all one way.

The Antinium’s faith-based Miracles were killing [Soldiers] of Rhir, who kept appearing in those beams of light by the hundred. The Antinium were being destroyed on the hill, though, unable to maneuver; only the [Heroes]’ orders not to damage the inn were keeping them from leveling the entire place.

Wave after wave of [Soldiers] came racing up the hill, Rhir’s finest—and when they met the faithful, they died, faith cutting through their magic and armor. But the sky still blazed with more magic than faith.

Her people were losing. And there was a bad thing in Liscor. A rotting corpse, far fouler than Tolveilouka. 

 

Erin’s eyes snapped open. It was all in her head, but recently, she’d begun feeling…strange. She didn’t notice the Putrid One’s eyes opening slowly or the other ghosts sitting up.

“If only those idiots in the sky would just…vanish. But they’re so heavy. They’re flying or standing on invisible platforms. Way too high up to be hit. If only…”

Unconsciously, Erin waved her hand, like someone trying to wipe away a smear of grease. Her questing fingers reached out, and for a second, she felt them connect with something.

 

In her mind, the figures hovering in the air fell, flailing in confusion. A quarter hit the ground; the rest slow-fell or teleported away.

 

“Hm. What was that?”

Erin blinked at her fingers, and the Putrid One’s eyes glittered.

“Tolveilouka. Report.”

“M-Master? I just saw every [Hero] in the sky lose their spells. They fell—some died quite hilariously—did you do that?”

For answer, the Putrid One just began to chuckle and laugh, a pleasant chuckle from a nobleman at a dinner table. He threw his head back and gazed at Erin Solstice as the…ghost…raised her head.

Who was the weak one begging the kind monster for aid again? 

This time, the divine [Innkeeper] drew upon the faith more strongly. She reached out—and picked up a knot of [Soldiers] charging up the hill.

Erin gazed down at the wiggling, screaming figures in her ‘hand’, and saw the Painted Antinium gazing upwards. The horrified eyes of the few members of Rhir’s faithful found her too.

What did they see? A hand reaching down from the heavens? The eyes of…

Erin tossed the figures over the mountains. It tired her, greatly, and she sat down.

“Why can I…? No. This isn’t right. It shouldn’t be possible.”

She gazed at her hands once more, and Ksmvr seized her shoulder. The [Skirmisher] might have had weaker theology, but he knew what mattered.

“The Horns. Protect the Horns, Erin.”

“—Right.”

Of course, Ksmvr was correct. Erin rose to her feet, and now her hazel eyes were blazing. Even so, she held out her hands and murmured.

“I never thought he could do it. By belief alone. Perhaps that is what it is to be divine. Just have someone believe in you forever. But if so, then Elvis Presley’s a god among gods. Are the rules different here?”

A voice answered her, greatly displeased, cracked and bitter and vengeful, but self-satisfied as well.

“Such rules were made against my will. Made too easy by the overeager. You should not have that power, but a copy of an unfinished tool made you. So you have it, child. All the better, for I need it.”

Erin Solstice’s head came up sharply, and a figure strode out of Liscor. She was a tiny speck from where Erin and the others were, but she grew with each step. An old woman, impossibly ancient.

A Crone.

“Who are you? If you are dead, please report to Magus Grimalkin for any questions and—”

Ksmvr strode forwards to intercept what he thought was another ghost. Erin called out.

“Ksmvr, don’t! She’s—it’s a corpse!”

Ksmvr turned, confused. Of course the woman was dead. Then he saw the old woman reach for him. And he wondered why she appeared like an old Antinium woman. Antinium didn’t get so—

The ghost adventurer was recoiling when he vanished. Erin felt him go.

Eaten.

As if the jaws of that woman had opened and closed and swallowed him entirely. Erin focused suddenly. The Putrid One rose to his feet.

“Ah.”

“Ksmvr? Give him back.”

“Foe of mine. You vex me in every world. But this time, there is no escape. This is still my domain. Shall we war, little would-be goddess? You know not how it’s done. I am Kasigna, child. Your foe.”

The Crone walked forwards, and Erin saw her for what she really was. A dead corpse shuffling out of sheer spite and will. Someone so destroyed, so unmade and forgotten she had begun to run over ages…

But also, someone like Erin. Her appearance was merely an ‘old woman’. Not of any one species or age either. If you regarded her one way, you could describe an old Human woman, say, with a crooked nose, one drooping eye, withered skin—

But that would only be one aspect of her.

Her true nature was a layer deeper. She became the old woman to anyone who beheld her. But to Erin’s eyes…she saw death.

 

A regal, ancient woman wearing robes of high station, standing over the bed of a dying man, incense drifting from the burning coals she placed on the scales. A judge in death.

Plague, creeping up from the sewers into a city of the unwary, infesting their skin, the seeds of contagion flaring and stealing lives in seconds.

The falling blade of a guillotine, covered in blood.

 

Aspects. She was all these things and more. Thousands upon thousands of versions of the same thing. She was an idea. A concept with nuance and personality—

A Goddess of Death. This was her domain, and Erin saw Kasigna reach out a hand.

“Nowhere to run. Take my hand, Erin Solstice.”

“That was my friend. I will kill you, whoever you are. Give. Him. Back.”

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes were blazing hazel, and she began to burn with black flames, even in the lands of the dead. She strode forwards, and suddenly, her cheeks were flushed with heat. She wore a striped t-shirt, the same as the first day she had entered this world.

Color. Temperature. Kasigna’s hands reached greedily for the [Innkeeper], but the Putrid One spoke.

“Erin. Stay back. The rest of you, stop that old woman. You must learn your powers.”

He saw the danger and was on his feet, wary. But the [Innkeeper] only hesitated one moment. She saw Kasigna point down towards her friends.

The running Goblins of Rags’ tribe, Pisces fighting Rhirian soldiers as he tried to get to the inn with Mrsha.

“Choose, little woman.”

If she could steal lives with a touch—Erin Solstice gritted her teeth. She came forwards, as the Crone knew she would, ignoring the Putrid One’s voice. Erin raised her fist as she walked at the Goddess of Death.

They met—and Kasigna touched Erin’s arm.

Death. The very concept of it stole into Erin Solstice’s body.

Crossbow bolts. Blood. Poison. A final smile.

She paled. Her body flickered—and the Goddess of Death began to draw on the power in Erin Solstice. Then the [Innkeeper]’s fist rose, and she punched Kasigna.

The old woman’s head actually rotated around and carried her body with it. She stumbled back and felt at her face. That—had hurt her.

Erin felt it. But the satisfaction was gone a second later as she felt the strength leaving her. Kasigna—the Crone simply laughed.

“You cannot do more than hurt this shell. Come, again.”

She stepped forwards, and Erin tried to imagine punching that image of the noble lady standing by the bedside. That was easy—but how did you punch a plague? A guillotine?

Kasigna touched her arm, and the [Innkeeper] swung again—then jerked backwards. The Putrid One came forwards, hissing.

“You have to hurt her differently!”

The [Innkeeper] was retreating now, away from the laughing Kasigna, who simply walked at the rest of her beloved ghosts as they began to flee, but too slowly, unable to run in this place. That forced the [Innkeeper] to block the Goddess of Death’s path. They met once again, and Erin Solstice tried to hurt the other goddess.

Learn how the divine did battle—Kasigna’s laughter grew with each moment they connected. The [Innkeeper] tried to destroy her with a blow, with knives, with ideas and words and will—and death simply grasped her hand and pulled something out of her. Faith, ideas, the very concept that made Erin—Erin. And the laughter kept growing. Not louder.

Realer.

In the world, the world of mortals, the Painted Antinium slowed in their fighting and gazed upwards. They felt something flickering, something real pressing against their souls. A glorious, wondrous spark. But their joy and faith was also met by terror. For it was—

Flickering out.

 

——

 

<Temporary Dimension: Alternate World 2 — “Ten Years Later”, The Floodplains of Liscor>

 

As a matter of fact, it was only after twenty-one [Heroes] had died that they summoned him. Jospiere, the [Hero of Turns], made the journey from his mansion to the war room where the strategists were all panicking in a single turn.

He had fast movement speed. And he was able to get the gist of what was going on and see the portal to another world all at once, and that convinced him he wanted to go through it.

Home. That was his instinct. Or if not home, something worth risking his life for.

It took him only three turns to get down to the Floodplains. Each ‘turn’ was an interval of varying time. For instance, in battles, it was every six seconds. Outside of battle, it was more like six minutes.

To him, of course, and anyone in his area-of-effect, a ‘turn’ felt like however long it took until it ended. And to the [Hero of Turns], that meant he had the biggest advantage any gamer from his world had.

Time. Well, he’d hoped he could ‘save’ his position and rewind back to it, but it seemed like that was too much power for his level. This was more than enough.

He could talk, think, and use every action he wanted to within his turn—obviously, he had cooldowns and other limitations to his action and movement points, but it meant that any event that came up was predictable, most of the time.

There could be an [Assassin] who ambushed him and got a surprise turn, but if he detected them while they were in hiding, even if he hadn’t known they were there, he could come up with countermeasures.

So—by the time he teleported onto the Floodplains, he’d chosen his spot, his mode of attack, and run all the numbers. He loved the numbers.

One turn to move. Two turns for the teleportation spell and transit. Then—

His turn started.

 

——

 

Floodplains of Liscor. Grass everywhere, what wasn’t blown apart by all the fighting. Jospiere stepped out into a frozen world. Everyone had stopped. Soldiers, Antinium, the people running towards the inn, Goblins, everyone.

“What—what’s going on? I can’t move! Help! Fucking help!”

A [Hero] was on his knees, holding a double-bladed sword that glowed like a damn lightsaber. He was some third or fourth or maybe even fifth-waver. Blood was running down one arm, and he was freaking out.

Looks like someone nailed him with one of those damn holy miracles. Jospiere glanced over and saw a bunch of icons pop up. He tapped on one in the air. A bubble popped up, based on his knowledge and different appraisal Skills.

 

<Status Effect: Curse of the Faithless — Malus to morale, coordination, armor efficacity, strength.>

 

Jospiere shuddered.

“Fucking nasty. Okay, [Priests] first.”

He heard more voices around him, many sounding in confusion—relief from the [Soldiers] who knew him. The idiot [Hero] was still screaming.

“What’s going on? Why can’t I move?”

“Hey, shut the fuck up. I’m here. Talking’s a free action.”

Jospiere snapped back and resisted the urge to cast a [Mass Hush] spell; he had to use every action point carefully. The fact that everyone else got to mouth off really annoyed the shit out of him sometimes.

“Who’s that?”

“The [Hero of Turns]! Oh snap, they’re fucked now. Jospiere, they killed Marie!”

“Marie? That’s too bad. They got twenty-one of you idiots. When your turn comes, charge the enemy and don’t friendly fire me or I’ll gut you, got it? Put every buff on me.”

The [Hero of Turns] reckoned he didn’t need their help, but just in case, he gave them succinct orders, then checked out the Antinium. The inn was just within range of his Skill. He actually saw some idiots running back and forth and freezing as they entered his domain.

Jospiere cracked his fingers.

“Right. Here I go.”

The key to winning any battle with a lot of dangerous combatants was action economy. He kept explaining it to people from this world, but even people from Earth who didn’t play enough games didn’t get it.

Every turn you got movement points, action points. When you ran out, you had to ‘end turn’ and let the other buggers whale on you. And gamble you had high enough armor class, spell resistance.

Fuck that. Jospiere had asked for and gotten Skills that fit his understanding of how you could roll an enemy in one turn. Much like how a super-fast [Warrior] could dice opponents before they even got a chance to move.

The basis was a simple Skill: [Cleaving Attack]. It meant you killed one person and you got a free attack against another, so long as they were within reach. Of course, you needed long arms for that.

Or—a second Skill that let you move. Like, say…Jospiere drew an enchanted Longbow of Perfect Aim and an arrow from his pack. He eyed it.

A Deathslayer Arrow, minus the explosive components. Pierced almost anything. And…he surveyed the Painted Antinium, who were audibly praying and trying to figure out what was going on.

[Greater Appraisal] was another aspect of his important tools for this part. Jospiere flicked over Antinium, and their stats came up.

 

Name: Thenice Hopeshell

Species: Painted Antinium

Class: [Crusader of the Inn’s Faith], Level 33

Deity: Erin Solstice

Hitpoints: 88/116

Armor Class: 28

Strength: 21

Dexterity…

 

“Twenty-eight? Fuck that. These guys have way too much HP.”

Jospiere glanced around, taking his time, because, well, he had all of it. He was searching for someone within good range of the others, and he finally found a [Priest] who hadn’t buffed himself properly.

There. Cloth armor and no miracles. Jospiere drew the arrow to his cheek, spoke, and loosed.

“[Teleport Shot]. [Perfect Headshot]. And—bam.”

He fired and appeared as an arrow struck the Antinium in the head. The [Priest] collapsed, dead. He and Jospiere were the only thing that moved; the other Antinium around Jospiere spoke.

“What was that? I cannot see.”

“Priest Ager is dead. A [Hero] has appeared. Fight.”

“I cannot—”

Jospiere put his bow away and drew his sword. He had [Free Swap: Equipment] otherwise he’d lose action points on this. He grinned as he hefted his enchanted greatsword up.

“Shame about that. Ready or not, here I come.”

Then he walked forwards and began killing Antinium. Each time he struck, it was at their heads, and he killed them. But not every Antinium.

Jospiere worked his way around the base of the inn, killing any Antinium he could reach who had a blindspot or lower defenses. He ignored the [Paladins] who called furiously for him to attack them.

Good strategy meant you wiped out all the lower-level ones first. He ran into one hiccup: he swung at a low-level [Spear Crusader], and his sword bounced off the Antinium’s neck.

“Damn. Reroll!”

He had just enough action points to kill the Antinium on the second try. There was a luck-based element to this as well. One in twenty times, Jospiere might just fail to do any damage or double his attack or automatically succeed in…

If you played tabletop games, you got it. The key was minimizing the risks. He killed forty-nine Antinium before he couldn’t reach any more with his movement points, despite [Haste] and his other buffs.

“Okay, [Leaping Attack]!”

Jospiere jumped and bisected another Antinium ten feet away. He grinned as a frozen [Archer] stared at him in mute horror.

“Get it? It’s a -4 to attack, but I get to keep doing it. Where’s your goddess now? I was told you guys were tough.”

“Apostle Pawn will slay you. We are the faithful, and when you die, She will punish you.”

The Worker spoke quietly. Jospiere didn’t like that, so he killed the Worker—or tried to.

His sword bounced off the Worker, and Jospiere recoiled. He’d succeeded in his attack roll! But something had interfered.

A miracle? The Worker’s insect eyes blazed in triumph, and Jospiere faltered—then swore.

“Fuck it, [Extra Action Points]! Fuck you!”

He threw a dagger through the Antinium’s eye and killed the Worker. Shakily, Jospiere whirled.

That was his extra action for the battle. It didn’t matter. He had to—

He kept performing [Leaping Attacks] until he’d killed a hundred and twenty-two of the Painted Antinium. It was quiet by the time Jospiere failed an attack roll on one of their [Mages]. He stopped, panting, and wiped his brows.

First, they’d cursed him, shouted defiance, or tried to break his Skill. Then they’d tried to trick him or play mind games…they always went quiet in the end.

Waiting for his turn to end.

A hundred and twenty-two Antinium down in the course of six seconds. The outside world was also frozen, and Jospiere saw people moving in slow motion. They always did that, somehow keeping pace with his Skill. It was super neat, even if he wished the entire world were within his Skill.

Anyways. He lowered his greatsword as he stood in the middle of the Painted Antinium formation. After this, the turn would go to the next side, and they’d move. It went him, allies, enemies, outsiders, with rare exceptions.

He was surrounded by Antinium who’d get to full attack roll on him. A bad place to be in, even with all his armor and stats.

Jospiere ended his turn.

“Hey guys, just so you know, I’ll be back next turn, but try to roll a critical hit, huh? And keep praying. That’s definitely working.”

The [Hero of Turns] gave them a wink, a salute—then he vanished and reappeared with the Rhirian soldiers.

Someone had [Emergency Teleported] him back. Jospiere sighed as he relaxed. A [Mage] of Rhir began buffing him, and he lazily gave orders.

“Okay, listen up. Don’t move! You have limited action points and movement points, so I’ll give you orders. You—start casting [Flame Walls] where I point. Don’t walk over there—okay, you might be dead. Just…”

He gave up and just let them do their thing after a while. There were higher-level combatants on the other side of the inn, but he reckoned he could take all the Painted Antinium here out in six turns without reinforcements. And if there was trouble—well—that was what you had all the other [Heroes] and soldiers for.

Jospiere grinned and wondered how much experience he was getting. Hopefully, enough to level. Then his eyes stole to that portal in the air again.

Home?

 

——

 

A butcher. The [Hero] who appeared on the battlefield slaughtered the Painted Antinium so fast Pisces couldn’t keep up. He seemed to teleport from spot to spot, killing them with a single slash before they could react. Then they charged and swung and stopped for a microsecond, and he butchered them again.

Pisces didn’t understand—until Montressa grabbed him and stopped him from running in. She was pale-faced.

“Pisces! That’s the [Hero of Turns]! One of Rhir’s secret weapons! If you get close, you’re stuck within his Skill! Stay back!”

“He’s in front of the inn! We have to get in there. The Painted Antinium are getting slaughtered!”

Pisces snapped; Montressa whispered as she glanced at the inn.

“And they’re fighting Rhir’s army, so both sides are distracted. We have to get to the inn. Come on!”

They had an army at last. Everyone who could fight was heading up the hill, towards the inn. Kevin and Imani were supporting the advance, using the pink carriage as a mobile shield. But the real army was…

The Tribe of Dreams and Liscor’s Watch. They were streaming up the hill, and Lord Moore was ushering people out of Liscor. Pisces heard him shouting.

“To the inn! Get to the inn! Listen to me—I know there is fighting and danger! Stay in the city if you choose—but I am telling any of you who remember The Wandering Inn: go. There may be no hope for anyone who is left behind.”

“Madness.”

Civilians were running up the hill as lightning rained down and Rhir and the Painted Antinium fought. Pisces saw the Reinhart army riding towards them—he whirled as someone ran.

“Mrsha!”

“This is all my fault. I have to go!”

The young woman had her wand out. Pisces saw Lyonette trying to stop her.

“Pisces, talk some sense into her!”

The Captain of the Horns of Hammerad cast around, and he felt the desperation and horror of everyone. He met Mrsha’s guilty, desperate eyes and took a breath.

“They’ll destroy Erin’s inn if they keep this up. With her inside. Horns of Hammerad—we’re getting to that inn. The Blighted Kingdom is our enemy, and the Painted Antinium as well if they fight back. Charge.”

He meant his new team, but as he began to run up the hill, he saw Yvlon alongside him. And Ceria—Pisces saw her unleashing her frost elementals at the Blighted Kingdom and spells he had no idea she’d learned. For one moment, Pisces laughed and ran—

Then he stepped into the bubble of the [Hero of Turns]’s Skill. He saw [Soldiers] running into the inn fighting with desperate, frozen Painted Antinium, and heard a voice.

“Oh hey, high-levelers. Leave them to me.”

At the door of the inn, the [Hero of Turns] was already there. More and more of the Blighted King’s forces were charging into the world beyond, fighting with Painted Antinium—Pisces wanted to lift his rapier and challenge this stranger.

But he couldn’t.

Not his turn. And the [Hero of Turns] was gazing at the frozen group. He ignored Pisces.

“Armor class is way too high. Who’s…aha.”

He pointed at someone behind Pisces—a Liscorian civilian, wide-eyed, frozen mid-run. The [Hero of Turns] drew his bow.

“That’s a civilian.”

Pisces’ voice was too-calm in his ears. The [Hero of Turns] gave him a blank look.

“Right, but it lets me hit that group of Goblins if I leapfrog off her. I thought you adventurers were good at strategy.”

He fired his arrow, and the voice spoke.

 

<ERROR. UNABLE TO SUSTAIN COHESION. [THE PALACE OF FATES] IS MALFUNCTIONING. CRITICAL ERROR.>

 

Then—every door—

Cracked.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I requested a week off to work on this chapter. During that time, I rewrote a good chunk of the 100,000 words. Ten hour work days, which I know isn’t that impressive in the grand scheme of other people’s jobs, but almost ten hours straight for days in a row.

I just finished editing the first two parts, which I have posted for you. I had not the strength, nor time for Pt. 3. I’ll post it Saturday, as I think I need the time to write the last full chapter.

We’re at the final part of these arcs, where the mind and body are starting to break down a bit. But I can see it. I won’t write more, here. The next chapter awaits you.

 

 

Chapter Art: Dreams End, by Artsynada.

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Vale Gladefolk, by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

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