10.36 – Pt. 2

The moon was round and full as it hung in the evening sky, clear despite the daylight. Odd and surreal, as if it had always been there and just…vanished now and then to make you forget it.

It hung over the High Passes, over the dead and the dying, as 2nd Army besieged Goblinhome. Colonel Rathiss didn’t look at the moon, but it was hovering there.

Watching him.

The assault from the Goblins trying to break the siege on their home had failed. Goblins riding Carn Wolves fell back as Snapjaw’s Frost Wyverns screamed and broke away from their assault. One of the ballistae was smashed beyond belief; the other kept firing.

Rathiss recognized one of the Goblins: Leapwolf, one of their high-level officers. The Goblin weaved as he rode, dodging arrows, but he’d left half his Redfangs behind on the ground.

A costly attack; the front rank had been chewed up and almost been broken. One of the ballistae was down. Not enough. There were already gaps in Goblinhome.

The surviving ballista kept firing after the Frost Wyverns, sending one of them tumbling downwards in the distance. The only thing that saved Snapjaw was the Wyvern Lord.

He came down, roaring, breathing frost—covering their escape. But he couldn’t land amongst the thousands of [Soldiers]. Their arrows glanced off his scales, but the Skills gave them the power to pierce his flesh, if lightly. He was inhaling for another breath of frost when the [Wyvern Riders] met him in the air.

“Colonel Rathiss, we are engaging the Wyvern Lord. Requesting pinpoint ballistae support.”

“Granted. Keep the Wyverns back.”

A scream of fury—then six different colors of Wyvernbreath hit the Wyvern Lord, and Rathiss nodded as he saw two full flights of Wyverns engage the lone Wyvern Lord. They were led by a Drake he knew, Wing Commander Asiv. One of Edellein’s many relatives, but a [Soldier] with an actual brain.

Wing Commander Asiv could hold the skies. The [Colonel] turned his attention back to the breaches in Goblinhome. He saw more and more [Soldiers] flooding the fortress.

Like ants besieging a rival colony. Or Antinium besieging a Drake city. He’d seen both. He had the Goblins dead to rights. But—Rathiss kept feeling that twisting dagger of fear in his chest.

The Goblin King. And—he felt it again and tensed.

The ground was shaking. The tremble made everyone stop. The Drake [Soldiers] hauling a body his way, the reinforcements moving to the front. A moment of uncertainty, then 2nd Army pressed harder. Rathiss’ voice snapped across the speaking stone.

“Push! I want this fortress empty of the enemy in an hour! Push, damn it!”

Once they got past the front lines, they’d be able to rampage through the fortress against low-level Goblins, not Hobs with combat classes. They just needed one breach…!

They had three. What was taking them so long? He had a new weapon to use, but Rathiss demanded an explanation.

“Status of the siege? Major Glesta?”

She had entered Goblinhome and should have overrun their defenses within fifteen minutes of entry, regardless of the traps. The report took a minute; the Colonel watched the [Soldiers] approaching him slow down. They were wrestling with a little figure.

Then the voice reported in, breathless.

“Rathiss. I need a third wave. Get me [Monster Slayers].”

An odd request, but Rathiss approved it instantly, wishing he had Shirka’s Skills that would have meant the 3rd wave was already inbound.

“Done. What is holding up your advance?”

“Trolls.”

What? Rathiss’ eyes snapped back to Goblinhome. Major Glesta’s voice was grim.

“We have seized two hallways in Breach 1, six in Breach 2, and are opening Breach 3, Colonel. The Goblins are collapsing passageways. Our advance was swift until we ran into Trolls. Hundreds led by some kind of advanced Troll with Adamantium maces. They refuse to give ground. Requesting [Monster Slayers], again, and more [Goblin Slayers].”

“They’re inbound.”

Trolls? There were a few reports of lone Trolls in the High Passes, but nothing like a full clan. Rathiss ground his teeth together. Then he snapped.

“Ready 4th wave! I want three more breaches! [Battlemages], begin hitting the fortress!”

They had to get in there now. If the Trolls were holding the passageways, they had to have so many entry points they could cut the monsters off.

Or bait the Goblins out of their fortress. Plan B, then. The [Colonel] turned his head. And his eyes focused on the body being dragged towards him. Bloody and fighting weakly, but alive.

Not their Chieftain. But close enough. His eyes found the young Goblin woman as she appeared before him. She didn’t look like she understood why she was alive.

He did.

 

——

 

Student Rags’ plan was a failure. Sometimes, you failed. She had been prepared for the cost of it, but she was alive.

How many had escaped? She didn’t know. She’d gone down in the melee and heard nothing except for Leapwolf calling the retreat and what sounded like the Wyvern Lord. Student Rags knew what they were doing. Her instructions to Snapjaw had been simple.

 

Plan B—if the assault on 2nd Army fails, all Goblins are to fall back and meet with the Kraken Eaters tribe. Surrender to Chieftain Naumel and petition them for aid.

 

The only other strategy that was sound was to allow the Kraken Eaters to assimilate the Flooded Waters tribe. After all—even if 2nd Army won or lost, the odds of the fearsome Kraken Eaters overrunning the victor had always been great.

They’d been so close. But the Redfangs hadn’t been able to pass the [Goblin Slayers]. The Goblins’ finest warriors had locked blades with the anti-Goblin specialists—and lost in expertise and levels.

Doomed after all. Sometimes, the [Strategist] had to charge.

They paid the price, and that…

That was fair.

They slammed her onto the ground as she tried to fight again, knocking the wind out of her. Stunned, dazed, she heard a calm, clipped voice above her. Tension running through the precise articulation of words, and she sensed the leader of 2nd Army look down at her as she tried to raise her head.

When she gazed up and saw Colonel Rathiss, she saw how much he hated her in the way he stepped back, even with her chained down, hands and feet locked together. Someone who took no chances. Who wanted the enemy dead at all costs.

His scarred eye sockets swung towards her, then she heard him speaking to his officers again. Student Rags listened. Trying to think.

Why am I alive? Part of her knew, but the rest of her just focused on the words. How Goblinhome was doing.

“Casualties?”

“High number of wounded. Fatalities low so far, save for the Thunderbows and acid jars. The Trolls are breaking bones, which we can’t heal with potions.”

Queen Dulat and her people. Of course. Rathiss made a displeased sound.

“Have all the [Mages] cast [Acid Resistance]. Prep wave three with [Battle Alchemists]. I want those blockages blasted through—and more explosive items placed once Breach 3 opens fully, and in Breach 2. Collapse the fortress’ floors.”

“Yes, sir.”

He knew his war. Rather than fighting through their traps, the [Colonel] wanted to just bring Goblinhome down and scour the rubble. However—the casualties were still too high. So he spoke.

“Tell the third wave to advance and reinforce, but halt the assault, Major Glesta. I have an option to bait the defenders out. Prepare to fall back.”

“Yessir.”

Then his eyes fell on her again. Student Rags stared up at him, unable to move properly, even to bite or spit. One of them had jabbed her with something that had paralyzed her muscles. He noticed and commented to a panting [Soldier.]

“Why the paralysis toxin?”

“The prisoner was attempting to bite their tongue off.”

“Good instincts. And good strategy.”

Was that a compliment? Student Rags hadn’t expected to meet him. Hadn’t thought there would be an order to take her alive. She’d become a liability.

Silly her. In a way, the Titan’s classes had weakened her instincts. Made her forget—Baleros’ codes of war were the genteel art compared to the truth she knew. Colonel Rathiss turned to another group.

“[Loud Voice] spells and visual magnification. Whatever the hell it’s called. That ‘Goblinhome’ of yours is a tough nut to crack, and your forces will keep harassing our flanks. Do you know what the optimal strategy is here, Goblin?”

Student Rags tried to speak; she slurred the words.

“They’re…not dumb.”

“No, they’re a tribe. And you might be the [Chieftain], or not. I honestly can’t tell. Either way. If you make them mad enough, they’ll charge.”

Then she saw the Drake’s calm expression and realized what he wanted to do. It was such a simple strategy. A [Goblin Slayer]’s tactic.

Just get a Goblin or multiple Goblins as bait. And if the tribe didn’t come out when you tortured them, you kept doing it. She tried to bite her tongue again, weakly, but someone wrenched a rag between her teeth.

Are you a [Soldier]? She was staring up at him, and she thought she saw the Professor’s face.

Was this brilliant strategy, Professor? Or—?

Colonel Rathiss shook his head, and the rag was removed.

“Clear airways. They’re going to have to hear this. Get me Captain Kulet’s squad. Pull back the [Archers] around the fortress and double-up the spearwall. I want that opening kept clear. When they come down the center, both sides to turn and fire into the center. Hold those tower shields.”

He was giving the Goblins a clear shot at the Drakes. He wanted the Goblins inside to mount a rescue attempt—then he’d pin them down and wipe them out. Rathiss turned, and then called to the [Soldiers] falling back.

“Ah—[Alchemist], I need the paralysis toxin neutralized. Or it’ll shut down her vocal cords.”

One of them stopped and produced a second vial. A Garuda marched forwards and gave the paralyzed Goblin a second injection to the arm.

Student Rags tried to move as a squad advanced on her. But she stopped wiggling when she saw—them.

Captain Kulet and his [Goblin Slayers] were different from the rest of 2nd Army. They moved differently. Like the Redfangs, a separate group within the Flooded Waters tribe. Only this squad weren’t the respected warriors that Student Rags knew.

They stank. She smelled them first: rotten blood and putrefying corpses, so foul and horrid her stomach heaved, and she would have vomited but for the paralysis. She gagged, wondering how anyone could stand near them. And they were filthy.

Their armor was grimy and dirty with dried blood. Each member of the squad had on Pallass’ armor, but the yellow was stained, the steel rusted. And their faces.

They wore smiles as they strode past the [Soldiers] who moved away from them with glances of distrust, visible dislike, or unease. Their leader was a Gnoll whose fur was so matted and stained that Student Rags had never seen the like before.

These were [Soldiers]? She stared at the [Alchemist] who’d begun removing the paralysis effect on her. A [Battle Alchemist] who wore a mild expression of distaste on her face. A Garuda.

“Those’re soldiers?”

Student Rags slurred at her, and the Garuda jumped, then frowned down at her, as if amazed to hear a Goblin addressing her. She cast around; Rathiss was giving more orders to his army, so she lowered her voice.

“—[Goblin Slayers]. Your enemies. They fought the Goblin King and Tallis Stormbreaker. Colonel Rathiss engaged Greydath of Blades and his army personally. They would have never accepted General Shirka’s order to stand down.”

So she knew about that. Student Rags stared at the squad coming her way.

“They’re filthy. They stink. How does anyone tolerate it?”

“Stink? Their armor’s clean, Goblin.”

The [Battle Alchemist] glanced at Kulet and his squad, then at Rags with a frown, as if Student Rags were trying some kind of dumb trick on her. She saw Rags’ genuine confusion. Then the Garuda sniffed and put a wing over her beak.

“…They do smell a bit. But not…the necklaces are enough. They don’t mingle with regular soldiers.”

The necklaces? The squad was within earshot now, and Student Rags saw the filthy loop of rope around Kulet’s neck.

Ah. Goblin ears. The [Battle Alchemist] moved back, as if the miasma of death were only now visible to her. She coughed, and the Colonel turned around.

“Alchemist, you’re dismissed.”

The Garuda saluted instantly, then hesitated. She glanced at Rags. Then spoke.

“Sir. I—ah—there’s an odd smell in the air?”

“A smell?”

He tilted his head, and those eyes in their scarred sockets flicked to Rags. They narrowed in comprehension.

“—You’re next to the prisoner, [Alchemist]. Disregard. What you and the Goblin see are not the same thing.”

The Garuda stepped back, and her eyes flickered. She stared at Kulet’s squad, then took a step closer to Rags. The Garuda’s eyes widened, and the [Student] spat. She’d figured out what they were.

“…Redline classes. They always look like that, don’t they? No one else can see it. You have crimson classes in your ranks? Are you mad?”

You weren’t supposed to get those kinds of classes normally. Not—those classes. Niers taught his students about the worst kind of Skills you could get. Products of trauma or terrible acts, willing or otherwise. Or…Rathiss’ eyes found her again, and she saw it deep within his eyes.

Hatred.

“It’s completely within Pallassian military doctrine, Goblin. A weapon should be used, as long as the cost is acceptable. You’re dismissed, Alchemist.”

“Sir.”

The woman hesitated, but she did salute again and retreat. [Soldiers] following orders. Even if she kept glancing at Kulet’s squad—

If Student Rags had time, days, she could see a way to foment distrust. Or maybe use Shirka’s willingness to make peace against this army. But she had no time.

“Sir! Reporting. Shall I get to work?”

The squad of [Goblin Slayers] stopped, and the Gnoll grinned as he threw a far less precise salute to Colonel Rathiss. The Drake just nodded.

“We’re on a time limit. No theatrics, Kulet. Set up and get those Goblins out of their fortress.”

The Gnoll beamed down at Rags, and she recoiled as she saw him unhook a tool from his belt. A pair of pliers. The rest of his squad set up as well. A portable rack of wood and leather straps. Iron implements crusted with blood.

They needed to take Goblinhome. So they were going to use her. Student Rags didn’t make a sound—she was resolved to say nothing as she saw the [Goblin Slayers] preparing ‘tools’. It was going to hurt—as long as they had healing potions. As long as she had flesh or bones.

Not a word. Would it matter? She stared at the [Colonel], who’d moved back to commanding the battle. He wasn’t even looking at her. Student Rags’ eyes found some of the other [Soldiers], not the [Goblin Slayers], and they were eying the torture implements.

Think of the Professor. She saw him sitting there, in her head, as one of the [Goblin Slayers] yanked up her arm and reached for her fingers. A weary Fraerling answering a question.

 

“Torture? Let’s put aside whether it works. Let’s say you’re baiting someone out. So you get…what? A soldier? Will they move for that? The enemy officers? Is that more ‘fair’? But that’s not efficacious, is it? If you want their blood to boil, if you want them to move, you get a lover. Someone innocent. A child. A baby?” 

He was smoking on a puffer stick, and he blew out a cloud of smoke that made his eyes glitter and dance.

“Let me ask you this—when does it stop? Let’s say it works. Do we respect it? Call it ‘beautiful strategy’? No. It’s ugly, and some things even [Mercenaries] and bastards ban, and we’re all bastards. You do this to monsters—and I forbid it on anything. Not because it doesn’t work, but because of what it turns you into. Because it makes the enemy the same monsters as you, in the end, when it’s their turn. All the way down.”

 

Don’t. Say. A. Word.

One of the [Goblin Slayers] was putting a piece of metal in her mouth, so she couldn’t bite her tongue.

Captain Kulet had some kind of implement with only one task as Rags saw it. Which was to remove a fingernail or a claw the hard way. She stared at him, and the [Goblin Slayer] paused, theatrically, as the metal vise closed over her forefinger.

“Oops. Almost forgot. [Doubled Agony]. I always forget the first time, eh, Colonel?”

“Get to work, Kulet.”

The [Colonel] didn’t even turn his head as he maneuvered another part of the army into place. Student Rags stared up at the grinning Gnoll, at the impassive Drake, and she tried to decide which was worse.

Not one sound. You owe them that. A better world—Student Rags squeezed her eyes shut. Then she heard the thudthudthud of boots die down. The clicking of the ballista slowed. The metal vice around her fingernail released its pressure, and Rathiss spoke.

“Huh. That’s their [Blademaster]. Odd.”

Student Rags’ eyes opened, and she saw heads turning. 2nd Army was gazing at a lone figure who had just crested the top of a hill. She…felt his arrival before her viewpoint shifted, and she could raise her head fractionally to see him.

It was like a drawn sword in the air. So close it prickled your skin. To her, it was such a gentle feeling, like someone holding it between her and danger. But the way the entirety of 2nd Army moved—

Student Rags looked up and made a soft sound. Despite all her vows.

“Redscar.”

 

——

 

Redscar was late. He’d told Chickenruler to drop him at Goblinhome, but they’d run into Pallass’ [Wyvern Riders]. So the Goblin had dropped Redscar and distracted the enemy fliers. It had taken time to climb up all the damn cliffs to get here.

He hadn’t tried to slice up a bunch of enemy [Wyvern Riders] in midair. Nor did he just charge into 2nd Army as he crested the ridge and saw the massive army camped outside of Goblinhome. Those were bad tactics.

Contrary to what you might think, Zeladona had given him a lot of tips between hitting him with a sword in their surreal evening of training. Tips from when she’d been his level.

 

Zeladona Tip #1: Don’t fight arrows or spellcasters.

Zeladona Tip #2: Don’t fight things that fly.

 

Redscar grinned as his eyes found Student Rags. At least, don’t try either at his current level. He was far from invincible.

He was just a bit better than he’d been yesterday. That was all. The next piece of advice that Zeladona had given him was how to fight an army. You, apparently, did it just like this.

The [Soldiers] were turning towards him already. He wasn’t quite sure why. He was just…one Goblin.

Redscar couldn’t feel the effect of his appearance on the enemy soldiers below. A cold sensation that cut through their adrenaline and battle lust. A sensation like someone pressing a sword tip against their backs.

All the [Blademaster] knew was that he was upset. Even angry. He checked Goblinhome in the distance; he saw the breaches, but the fortress didn’t appear overrun.

“No sign of Chieftain Rags. Damn.”

The [Blademaster] counted. Had to be thirty thousand [Soldiers] at least. Well, aspat. Zeladona had told him to start with a thousand. Now, how did she say to do it…?

Right. Redscar unsheathed his sword and held it up, over his head horizontally, presenting the rust-red blade to the sky. The reforged Redfang sword, made of Adamantium, catching a glint of sunlight. He shouted down to the [Soldiers].

“I am Redscar, [Blademaster] of the Flooded Waters tribe! I challenge—huh.”

He broke off and stepped left, leaning sideways like he was doing a warm-up stretch. There was a pfft of sound—he glanced over his shoulder as dust puffed up behind him. Two arrows were buried so deep in the soil he barely saw the fletching.

Good shots. [Marksmen] or [Snipers]. He wished Badarrow were here. Redscar tried again.

“I’m—”

He did a hop, then ducked into a fast squat. The [Blademaster] popped up, sighing. Maybe Zeladona’s advice just didn’t work for Goblins.

 

——

 

“He—dodged the arrows.”

Colonel Rathiss lowered his spyglass. He didn’t need the appraisal from the [Strategists] around him. They were younger than he was; the Gnoll who spoke was one of the Manus-trained [Soldiers] that came into armies out of their academies. Good training and, usually, decent quality.

Low experience. They’d never seen a high-level [Warrior] do that. Or rather, a high-level Goblin.

“All [Archers] above Level 30. Loose at will. Captain Ikvil, Captain Loisre, companies on my mark. Ballista 2, ready?”

“Ready, sir. Target in our sights.”

“All Skills free. Ikvil…mark. Loisre…mark. Ballista 2, fire.”

Every [Archer] in 2nd Army of a sufficient level was loosing from afar at the new Goblin. Many had [Pinpoint Shots] or even higher-level Skills like [Unerring Aim] or, more valuable still, [Stealth Arrow].

The Goblin, Redscar, had multiple angles of attack on him, and he couldn’t see the enemy bows. Then two archer units loosed arrows with their [Archer Captains]—the twin showers came one after another, forcing him to dodge back. Then the ballista fired.

[Homing Shot]. [Arrow: Double Blast Radius]. [Speed Shot].

Three valuable Skills—Rathiss watched.

The [Blademaster] didn’t swing his blade as he stepped back, instead dodging arrows like a child hopscotching across the ground. He just leapt from foot to foot, twisting, leaning under arrows invisible to the Drake, which left small clouds of dirt or splinters of wood as they struck the ground.

The Goblin made it look easy. As if he knew where the arrows were coming from. Then his head rose as the first cloud of arrows from Captain Ikvil’s squad shot towards him.

[Doubled Volley]. Simple [Soldier] Skills—multiplying the company’s hundred-some arrows into two hundred.

Redscar glanced up and moved left, sword resting on his shoulder. The arrows hit the ground behind him, just missing his heels. Someone made a sound next to Rathiss.

Any [Soldier] can escape an arrow volley by running fast enough. But he’s not doing that by luck. He had covered sixty feet in seconds, and he looked like he was jogging.

The second volley was homing, thanks to Captain Loisre. This time, Redscar walked over to a boulder two-thirds his height and ducked behind it.

Arrows snapped off the boulder’s face, and the Goblin stepped out, mightily pleased with himself. Then he hopped an arrow clearly loosed at his feet—

The ballistae fired, and the bolt shot twice as fast towards the Goblin, curving towards him. His eyes widened, and his feet kicked the gr—

The explosion bloomed outwards as Rathiss lowered his spyglass, switching eyes; the first one was now seeing spots from the flare of magic. He guessed the bolt’s tip was a standard Blast Gel coated with shrapnel; the flashes of light from the metal shards left afterimages in his eyes. One of the [Strategists] muttered.

“Did we get…?”

“No.”

The [Colonel] had a familiar itch on the scars around his eyes as he waited for the dust to clear. His scales were crawling. He felt the Goblin’s aura on him still, a bared blade pressing at his chest. The question was—how much damage—?

Redscar was lying on his back. A cheer went up from the [Archers], and the captured Goblin made a pained sound when she saw that—but Rathiss’ enhanced vision picked up more than Student Rags did.

The [Blademaster] was lying on his back, yes, clearly caught by the blast—but his sword was still resting on his shoulder. And Rathiss didn’t see any blood.

Redscar sat up abruptly and rolled backwards onto his feet. Another arrow struck the place where he’d been lying, and he hopped away again, then threw his head back. The [Soldiers] facing him on the southwestern edge saw the Goblin do something unexpected.

He laughed, rueful. Brushed the dust off his armor and picked out a piece of metal from his side with a clear wince—then flicked it away. He waved his sword to the ballista, a salute.

Good job, you got me. That was what he seemed to be saying. Colonel Rathiss heard the cheering stop. And then an oath.

“[Fast Reload]! I want a coordinated volley this time! Archer Companies, you will hit the assigned locations on my mark—”

Colonel Rathiss held up a claw, and the orders and the click-click-click of the ballista reloading stopped. He spoke.

“Ceasefire. [Slayers], redeploy towards the [Blademaster]. Frontline, knightbreaker formations. Enemy commander charging.”

“Yes, sir! Enemy commander charging! Knightbreaker formations!”

The order went through 2nd Army’s lines facing Redscar. The [Soldiers] still formed a shieldwall, the famous formation of Drakes, [Soldiers] standing next to each other with tall tower shields raised and spears pointed ahead. But this time—a second rank of spears braced behind them, staggered by regular squads with swords and other close-combat weapons.

If the enemy charged into them, they’d be spitted on the first rank of spears and run into the second rank before being hacked to bits. It was used to kill enemy [Knights] or [Riders]…and it was also used to slow high-level [Warriors].

The regular [Soldiers] of 2nd Army didn’t like the order. It was making the hairs on the back of their necks, or their neck-spines or feathers, tingle worse than the [Blademaster] was already doing to them.

One Goblin. Rathiss knew the instinct from the [Strategists] was to not give the [Blademaster] more attention than he deserved. But the [Colonel] had a bad feeling.

So did the rest of the [Goblin Slayers]. Again, the [Blademaster] had halted, now free from arrows. He was raising his sword. Shouting something at them—2nd Army couldn’t hear him. So he drew in a breath and tried again.

“—scar—you—”

Still too quiet. Proclaiming to the battlefield was hard work. As every eye was trained on the [Blademaster], there was a sudden, agonized scream.

Student Rags. She was jerking in her restraints, and Rathiss turned and saw one of her fingers was gushing blood. Captain Kulet had ripped one of her fingernails out.

The [Blademaster] stopped shouting when he heard the cry. Kulet grinned as he opened the nail-pulling tool.

“Come on over to play, [Blademaster].”

Better he came to them. Before the [Captain] could use the tools again, Rathiss had strode over and knocked it out of his paws. The Gnoll recoiled.

“Sir—”

“Knock that shit off, Captain. We have an audience.”

Kulet didn’t understand at first. Then he saw Rathiss pointing up.

 

——

 

Scrying spells. No one had a count on how many nations it was. ‘All of them’ might be appropriate.

The Goblin King’s battle with the Dragonlords of Flame was no longer accessible. Similarly—the Harpy was obliterating [Scrying] spells on her position. Which left one last engagement anyone could focus on to make sense of what was going on.

They were focusing on 2nd Army’s position, and there weren’t enough [Battlemages] to spare on blocking the [Scrying] spells. They had an unparalleled view, then, of that familiar Goblin.

Student Rags, at the center of a long column of [Soldiers] spread across the valley pass, bulging around the besieged Goblinhome—and a second section that had pivoted against Redscar. The remainder of the [Soldiers] were watching for more Goblins coming from the east.

A dominant position, except for the lone Goblin. He’d stopped shouting when he heard Student Rags screaming.

Redscar’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. He stopped trying to announce himself. The Goblin saw the Gnoll with the torture tools back away from Student Rags, and his eyes focused on the leader of this army.

He thought to himself, and then Redscar sheathed his sword. The Goblin reached for his bag of holding. Confused, the [Soldiers] saw him pull out a second sword and unsheathe it.

His frost shortsword, far less impressive than even the lightning shortsword that Erin Solstice had given him, nevertheless glinted in his hands.

The [Blademaster] lifted it into the air, admiring the simple, deadly enchanted weapon, and then he jumped up. He cleared what had to be thirteen feet straight up, pulled his arm back—and threw the blade.

Not at Captain Kulet, who dove as Colonel Rathiss whirled his sword into a guard—but straight at the first rank of [Soldiers]. They had a second to shout.

“Watch—”

Then the enchanted shortsword spun through the shield of a Drake in the first rank, the Drake’s body, and six more bodies before it came to a stop, lodged midway through a [Soldier]’s forehead.

The shower of blood sprayed all the [Soldiers] in an arm’s reach. They jerked—then reached for their friends, shouting for healing potions or [Healers].

Seven corpses dropped, most cleanly bisected from the head or shoulders down.

“—Close ranks!”

The hole in 2nd Army’s lines lasted for six seconds before [Soldiers] slammed together, dragging the bodies back. The spears steadied, aimed at Redscar—and then there was that silence in the air. The thunder of hearts beating, and the terrible sense of that drawn blade at your throat grew worse.

Redscar waited, crouched where he’d landed, hand on his sword hilt. His eyes were on Student Rags, waiting to see if Captain Kulet raised those torture tools again.

The Gnoll did not.

So the [Blademaster] drew in a breath and shouted towards the sky. No one at his level could just kill an army, Zeladona said. You had to get them to face you in a way you’d survive. So you said—this.

“I am Redscar Ischen! [Blademaster] of the Flooded Waters tribe and leader of the Redfangs! I am the greatest living [Blademaster] to walk Izril’s soil! Face me and die, 2nd Army of Pallass.”

His shout was properly loud this time. It was the aura-thing. It could make your voice louder or all kinds of stuff. Redscar’s words cracked over 2nd Army and blasted out of every scrying orb.

The greatest [Blademaster] of Izril? He would have said ‘the world’, but that sounded stupid. It was a boast, and it set every [Swordsman] and [Blademaster]’s blood boiling. The kind of thing no one could ignore.

What Redscar hadn’t anticipated was that his words would be broadcast—well—worldwide. Nor did he think, at first, about the name.

Redscar Ischen. That had to be a lie. Of course, you might not even notice the name if you had a poor memory. But for some, the connection was obvious.

Furious Chandrarian monarchs ordered their [Mages] to cast [Appraisal] and find out the Goblin’s level—purely so they could denounce this worthless imitator to greatness. Then—more than one of them stopped, mid-rant, and turned to their [Court Wizard] or [Royal Magi] and demanded a recast. Or even a [Refined Appraisal] scroll.

—And they saw the same status screen pop up if it was a mere [Appraisal] spell.

 

Redscar Ischen, Level ??, [Blademaster ???]. Hobgoblin.

 

Which told you two things. One, whether it was just coincidence or not, that was his name. Second—he was too high for a regular [Appraisal] spell to find his level.

Which meant he was at least…

Then they would demand a recording of the Trial of Blades in Liscor. And sat forwards as the Goblin waited.

 

——

 

Colonel Rathiss didn’t put together the name, at first. He was too busy, and besides—he didn’t need the warning.

However, the taunt had worked. Colonel Rathiss had a petition from a dozen of 2nd Army’s finest to challenge the Goblin to single combat.

Their honor was at stake, and visibly at stake, which was worse. But the problem was—Spearmaster Gaellis wasn’t here. Nor was Shirka or a number of 2nd Army’s finest. Rathiss didn’t want to play into this, but he glanced up at the [Scrying] spell and made his choice.

“[Goblin Slayers], move up—slowly. [Swordmasters] Lilss, Heiki, Plauds, and Zeivs, go.”

“All four of us? Colonel—!”

“He’s higher level than you, Swordmaster. Take him out.”

Hesitation, then the four [Swordmasters] that 2nd Army had left their squads and strode towards Redscar. Two Drakes, a Garuda, and a Dullahan. Like [Spearmaster], it was almost universally a class that required you to hit Level 30 at least.

When he saw them coming, the Goblin began to walk down the valley towards them. His hand was on his sword’s hilt, and Colonel Rathiss gritted his teeth hard. He was no [Swordmaster] in class, though he was considered as good as one when it came to fighting Goblins, and he’d dueled the other weapon masters in 2nd Army.

If they worked together, any foe would be in danger. But that was against their pride.

“In tandem—you damned idiots! This is a battlefield!”

He knew they heard him, but just by coincidence, three of the [Swordmasters] seemed to run a bit too slow to catch up to the one in the lead. Which was Swordmaster Lilss, the female Drake. She had her sword already bared, and she pointed it at Redscar’s chest as she walked out of the line of [Soldiers], holding the longsword at chest-height, blade perfectly level.

The Goblin came to a halt where the valley flattened out, standing just above her, hand on his sword’s hilt. Redscar looked too relaxed. His eyes kept roaming towards the besieged Goblin fortress, then where the Goblins had attacked and retreated from 2nd Army. As if he was more concerned for them than the [Swordmistress] in front of him.

It was a deliberately disrespectful gesture. Lilss’ feet slowed, but she didn’t leap to the attack. She stalked towards him, on the balls of her feet, ready to lunge into a sweeping slash. Redscar only met her eyes when she was within two dozen paces.

Rathiss swore he saw Lilss flinch. She twitched—then struck forwards from her standing position, a lunge that let her sweep her longsword right, a clean, economical move that could sweep through a foe in heavy armor.

The Drake’s piercing lunge carried her forwards, and she swept her sword right in a horizontal slash, as fast as Rathiss had ever seen her perform the move.

Redscar’s sword cleared his sheath as he side-stepped the lunge. He beheaded Lilss. The Drake’s body pivoted into a second cut as her head struck the ground. Redscar blocked the sword sweeping for his chest. Sparks flew from Lilss’ blade as the headless Drake completed her slash, then collapsed.

The Goblin turned, blood dripping from his sword. 2nd Army’s hearts, thudding as one—faltered.

The three [Swordmasters] had stopped. They saw the corpse of their comrade fall. Rathiss shivered.

Those sparks. Lilss’ steel sword had given them off. It was common when steel blades met; the friction of the pieces of metal literally ignited the fragments of steel. But her blade was enchanted.

“His sword cut straight through Lilss’ enchantments. Watch f—”

Redscar left Lilss’ corpse and ran at the other three [Swordsmasters] with a howl. They leapt back, trying to surround him.

Redscar came straight at Heiki, the Garuda. The [Swordmistress] performed a [Flash Draw], and her bastard sword came out as fast as a flicker.

[My Blade is Faster].

The [Blademaster] beat her to the draw. He brought his sword down, into her shoulder, and cleaved through the Garuda as he dodged the [Flash Draw]. Then he pivoted. Plauds and Zeivs charged him, flamberge and rapier.

They burst into [Sword Arts], a sweeping series of slashes from Plauds’s flamberge, Zeivs thrusting like a charging [Lancer] from the side.

Rathiss lost track of the three warriors; he saw Plauds’ flamberge rip open a gash in the ground, spraying dirt and blood over the soil.

Blood? Redscar’s crimson blade flashed through the air, a dizzying line that produced sparks as he parried the rapier and came down again.

Hacking through Plauds’ chest. The Dullahan’s flamberge tried to cut again as Redscar brought the blade down a third time, cutting through his chest. Plauds fell over, and Zeivs leapt out of the clash of blades and ran. He’d dropped his sword and—

No, his left arm was gone. The last Drake sprinted away from the Dullahan and Goblin. Redscar turned. His eyes were wide, and his teeth were bared in a shark’s grin. He blurred, vanished—

—Zeivs’ fleeing figure halted, and 2nd Army saw Redscar’s sword sticking out of his chest. The [Blademaster] had run Zeivs through the back.

Colonel Rathiss heard an agonized voice rasping through the command line. Zeivs.

“Colonel, he’s better than Gaellis. Far—”

A sound like a gasp. Air leaving his lungs. The Goblin spun the [Swordmaster] around as he pulled his blade free. Zeivs reached for his dagger, drawing it and slashing with his remaining hand.

Redscar’s blade came down once, and Zeivs’ head toppled to the ground. Then the Goblin walked past the slumping corpse, face momentarily rueful. As if he’d made a mistake.

 

——

 

“Oops.”

Zeladona had told him to prolong each duel. To delay each defeat and conserve his strength and Skills. To let them live and bait the army into sending more champions.

Be a [Fool] rather than a monster. He’d tried, he really had. Until he’d heard Student Rags’ cry. He couldn’t do it.

His people. His tribe. Redscar’s arm muscles bulged as he took hold of his sword. Across the ground, past lines of [Soldiers], he could see that general, the ‘Colonel Rathiss’, watching him.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And Redscar? His eyes locked on Student Rags. So the Goblin raised the bloody sword skywards. He regarded the nearest [Soldier], who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, staring at the lone Goblin who’d killed four [Swordmasters].

Redscar lunged, and his sword pierced the metal tower shield between him and the Gnoll. He felt the tiniest shock as the tip of his blade entered the yellow breastplate, and an astonished Gnoll gazed down at him. A spear wavered.

The [Blademaster] twisted his blade and slashed left. Through the [Soldier]’s chest and the next [Soldier]. His feet were carrying him forwards.

Past the trail of blood in the air, into the second rank, and into a Dullahan, raising his blade in slow-motion. Redscar brought his sword down through the helmet and slashed across a throat. He turned.

[Crimson Whirls My Blade].

His sword extended, and he swung it once horizontally. Then he pivoted, and, for a second, saw surprised faces falling. Blood, falling.

The [Soldiers] around him died. The Goblin felt blood running down his arms, across his warpaint. His head rose, and he lunged again, carrying his body into the third rank and the fourth.

“Redfang!”

They were backing away, shouting, in slow motion. He was screaming at them now, Zeladona’s words forgotten. Hold back?

Hold back?

A spear struck him in the shoulder, and he spun under it, slashing the spear, then the holder. The Goblin leapt as blades struck the place he’d been. When he landed, he cut through an officer pointing at him, cleaving the warrior in half. Forwards.

Towards her. Rags. His heart was thundering in his chest with the pitiless rage that Zeladona held. A gleeful madness.

Until he smelled something foul coming his way. The [Blademaster] saw the first warrior in filthy armor advance out of the retreating [Soldiers]. He recognized that snarl.

Someone hated him almost as much as he hated them. The Goblin ran forwards, howling.

 

——

 

The [Blademaster]’s assault pierced through the lines as fast as a razor. Of course it did. Rathiss gave the only order that made sense.

“[Goblin Slayers], forwards. Kill that [Blademaster]. 2nd Army, Goblin Lord formation.”

“Sir! Goblin Lord formation!”

2nd Army abandoned its reinforced ranks of [Soldiers]. They maintained the wall—but now it was fully staggered, one group in front, then a gap, then a squad of spears. The next row alternated, filling in the gaps, creating a checkerboard formation. So no one high-level Skill could wipe them out.

The [Goblin Slayers] moved up, eyes on the [Blademaster]. He leapt at them, a raging [Blademaster]. A terrifying monster that would rout other [Soldiers] for fear of even engaging him.

But not the smiling men and women coming to meet him. Rathiss spoke his Skill as the [Goblin Slayers] took to the front.

“[Goblinbane Unit — Supreme Weapon Proficiency: Swords]. Kill him.”

The Goblin swept his sword at the first [Goblin Slayer]’s chest with that fantastic blade. And the [Goblin Slayer]—parried—his cut. Redscar’s head turned as he stumbled in his advance.

 

——

 

His second slash took the [Goblin Slayer]’s arm off. But the Drake had been trying to parry that too. Then another [Goblin Slayer] emerged from the [Soldiers] around them.

So different. Redscar could sense the hatred coming off the [Goblin Slayer]. He saw a bracelet of pale, yellow bones clicking as the [Soldier] raised a sword. Saw the darkness around the warrior like a physical thing. Then another—

Then—more. Walking towards him, blades in hand, with that same elegant walk. Their weapons moved fluidly through the air as he adjusted his stance, and he saw the way their balances shifted to counter his.

They were as good as the [Swordmasters]. He didn’t understand. They didn’t deserve it. He saw they didn’t. But they had—

A Skill.

Then they were all around him, slashing, stabbing, with no regard for dueling him. A mob of [Soldiers], all armed with swords.

They hated him. He fought, sword cleaving through a steel blade and shearing into a neck, sweeping around to take off two hands—but they pressed forwards, eyes locked on him.

[Goblin Slayers].

The first blade stabbed his side, and another slashed across his face; he snarled, then jumped out of the pack of [Soldiers]. Redscar checked his injuries as he cut two arrows aimed at him.

Light. [Body: Slashing Resistance]. But when he landed, they surged over him, already ready. Another sword swung at his head, and Redscar saw the toxins on the blade.

[Flurry Strikes]. He tried to cut them down, blade flicking for their wrists, but they kept pace with him, parrying, blocking—

A touch too slow, blades weaker than his—he cut one’s wrist off, sundered another sword and drove his blade into a chest. But the wounded [Goblin Slayer] just drew another blade, and another [Goblin Slayer] replaced the first in a moment.

[He Walked and the Shadows Split]. Blades pierced their armor as the shadows around him struck with his swinging sword. The squad fell, still grabbing for his legs.

Another wave was on him in a second. Redscar’s snarl grew wider. He leapt back, using his greater speed to try and break out as they chased after him. He’d never seen people fighting like this.

They fought like—Goblins. They were all over him, ready to sacrifice themselves for a single blow on him. Just like how Goblins would pour over an adventurer or a Rock Crab to kill it.

Goblin Lord tactics. Redscar burst out of the knot of [Soldiers] and ran backwards, panting. He saw 2nd Army’s regular [Soldiers] turning towards him. Almost as unnerved by their comrades’ tactics as he was.

Too many behind him, too many coming. They made no sound as they came after him, swords raised.

The [Blademaster] caught his breath as he landed on his back foot. He gazed at the wave of mostly Drakes charging him and spoke.

“[Walk of the Blademaster, Path of Legends].”

The [Goblin Slayers] had no fear, and all the power of their hatred. They all had a [Supreme Weapon Proficiency] with their swords—against Goblins. Any one of them could have threatened Leapwolf and met a Redfang and bested them in pure expertise. It was still—a Skill.

They resembled a breaking tide of bodies surging forwards over the bare ground towards the Goblin who strode towards them, sword in hand. Unlike every other Skill he had, there was no fantastical glow, no amazing cut of impossible magnitude. Just a Goblin walking along a beach, eyes closed.

Fragile, mortal, and mundane. Just a boy with a sword, eight years old, walking under the crest of a wave, a storm of falling swords. His head rose, and his crimson gaze was uncertain when his eyes opened. As if he couldn’t see a path forwards.

But he was still walking forwards, a lonely swordsman on a beach following the footsteps of a woman who turned and looked over her shoulder, turquoise hair blowing in the wind.

Redscar saw the woman who’d given him a part of her name and her awkward gifts. All she had.

His sword rose, as he stared ahead, and he began to run. Tracing a pattern like the one that had come before him, but taking new steps, running past the footprints, on his own journey forwards as she watched and laughed, beckoning, sword waving. Waiting.

The wave crashed down, bodies and lives and Skills. A hundred souls striving for his life, and the boy was there. Each and every place, sword swinging, blocking a cut, parrying a sword, and cutting down his foes.

Improvising. Stepping forwards into the unknown a hundred times, a hundred foes with no guarantee of victory save for his genius and hard work and courage to cut a path towards victory out of defeat.

Then he caught his breath, and the crashing wave of bodies stopped. The [Goblin Slayers] halted and dropped, many limbless, pierced through the heart, or beheaded. A hundred battles in the time it took a heart to beat, each and every one fought by the breathless, panting Goblin. He swung around, and the [Soldiers] around him moved back.

He raised the sword once and challenged them all. Eyes certain that if it was just him and a single foe, he would win each and every time. But then he stumbled and laughed.

A traveller who had barely begun to walk that lonely road. He checked his arm and inspected a cut running deep along his flesh. Flexed his hand and sighed.

The Skill ended, and a hundred [Goblin Slayers] died, and the morale of a Walled City trembled. Just for a second. Until reality reasserted itself and he became a mere [Blademaster] once more.

A few bodies kept moving. Two dozen [Soldiers] stumbled after the [Blademaster], who finished his walk and turned. And he saw someone running at him. Redscar raised his sword, and the headless Drake charged past him.

The flailing [Soldier]’s body was spurting blood from his neck. But he kept running, sword slashing wildly through the air. Running past Redscar.

The dead [Goblin Slayer] ran onto his own comrades’ spears, and the unnerved [Soldiers] shoved the corpse—it fell onto its back and kept swinging, mindlessly, until it jerked and went still ten seconds later.

The rest of the [Goblin Slayers] staggered towards Redscar, and three made it. He cut them down as the blood loss claimed the others. Then Redscar turned.

Thudthudthudthud.

More [Goblin Slayers], exiting 2nd Army’s ranks, and regular [Soldiers]. The [Blademaster] exhaled hard. Then he shook the blood off his sword and raised it.

 

——

 

Insanity. 

Redscar was fighting in the center of a ring of bodies. [Goblin Slayers] were throwing themselves and their squads into the melee. Every time the Goblin’s sword flashed, multiple [Soldiers] would feel that sharp blade. But they kept surrounding him, slashing at him.

Strategist Ulhouse was watching the battle from his position with the portion of 2nd Army that had gone with Shirka. He knew this was how the [Goblin Slayers] fought high-level Goblins, but he’d never seen it.

He was helpless to intervene. If he could have, he would have called this off. Not because it wasn’t working—the [Blademaster] was staggering, trying to get free of this melee, but every time he tried, the circle of [Soldiers] would reform on him.

It was working, but the [Goblin Slayers] were dying by the dozens each minute. Ulhouse understood something he’d been told once by the former [Strategist] of 2nd Army, Strategist Esor. The Garuda had pulled him aside and explained about the ‘old guard’.

The [Slayers] are best never used in a battle, was what he’d told Ulhouse. They were a core to be preserved and to build 2nd Army around—but never used for their intended purpose. Now, Ulhouse saw why.

They were all utterly willing to die to kill the Goblin. Their Skills were being activated as well. Skills that shouldn’t exist in an army.

Redscar had found his footing despite the onrush of blades. He was swinging wide, clearing bodies with each Skill. His [Blade Arts] were wiping out entire squads with each swing, and he was bounding from spot to spot, forcing the [Soldiers] rushing him to turn, minimizing how many could engage at him at one time.

He never saw one of the higher-level [Goblin Slayers] standing in the back of the circle of [Soldiers] taking off his helmet. The [Captain] lifted something up—and Ulhouse’s eyes locked on the picture the Drake was holding.

Then the Drake dropped the little [Mage’s Picture] and shoved the [Soldiers] around him aside. He charged forwards, and his armored body—bulged.

It was unsettling. The muscles and flesh along his arms flexed, like Sinew Magus Grimalkin, but not in a natural way. They burst out of his armor, and the [Captain]—Cillic, Ulhouse thought he was—was half a head taller with his first step. He ran forwards, sword forgotten, and Redscar turned.

Ulhouse saw the Goblin’s eyes widen, and he planted his sword deep in Captain Cillic’s chest—but the Drake was still growing. Now he was nine feet tall, and his flesh continued bulging outwards.

“Ulhouse! What the fuck is that—”

Gaellis and the other officers were watching. Ulhouse read the Skills of his army with his [Strategist]’s eyes. He whispered.

“[Possessed by Vengeance].”

The monster made of flesh and hatred leapt on Redscar, tearing and biting at him—more like some kind of giant, bipedal draconid than a person. His face had elongated like a crocodile, and he was huge, hunched over as he bit and tore at Redscar.

The [Blademaster]’s crimson blade kept stabbing through the back of the [Captain]’s body. But the possessed [Goblin Slayer] didn’t actually fall until Redscar cleaved through the Drake’s waist. And he kept crawling after Redscar until the Goblin lopped off both arms.

Panting, Redscar staggered upright and then flinched as an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He pivoted—another hit him in the chest, and Ulhouse saw more [Goblin Slayers] rushing him.

“He’s done.”

 

——

 

He broke out of the sea of twisted faces for a moment, running back.

Away.

The rest of the army wasn’t coming at them. They were surrounding him, a ring of blades and steel, but they weren’t moving.

They were watching the hunters.

The [Goblin Slayers]. Redscar turned as they spread out, and his blood was running from one arm. He looked down and saw teeth buried in his wrist. One of them had bit him, and he had ripped their jaw off their face. But the teeth kept biting.

Redscar tried to catch his breath, and the furious rage and elation were gone. He saw the [Goblin Slayers] watching him, moving forwards, and he beheld their Skills.

[Blade of Hatred].

[My Death: Corpse Explosion].

[Mortal Enemy: Visions of Suffering].

[Rage of Insanity].

The last one came at him screaming, frothing at the mouth as his eyes bulged out of his face. Redscar saw images of Goblins pleading as a sword swung at them.

He swung his blade through the visions and missed—his sword cleaved through the Drake’s ribs instead of his neck as the [Goblin Slayer]’s blade slashed across Redscar’s chest. Redscar finished his cut; his opponent couldn’t cut through Redscar’s tougher skin, but he seized Redscar with his arms, trying to bite, screaming garbled words.

Redscar severed the arms and kicked the [Goblin Slayer] off him; the arms kept gripping him, and the writhing [Goblin Slayer] lunged at him until Redscar’s boot stomped on the head again and again, and he snapped the fingers off his arms.

An arrow struck him in the head, and pain exploded across his skull. Redscar slashed the others down, but the arrow that had hit him was blunted. Then the [Goblin Slayers] were on him…

He leapt away from them, bounding past them, towards Colonel Rathiss and Student Rags again. There! He just had to get her! Redscar jumped through the air, leaving the damn [Goblin Slayers] behind. His sword cut another pair of arrows down, and he saw a flash.

The bolt of crimson lightning struck him, and the [Cursed Lightning] hurled the [Blademaster] down. A beautiful spell cast from a thousand miles away. Redscar slammed into the ground.

Then, as his limbs twitched with the cursed hex running through his body, he gritted his teeth and realized his mistake.

It really had been…not fun at first. Not fun, but like Zeladona. Being allowed to redo something. Reaching Level 50. Like The Wandering Inn sometimes made you think. Just like that silly [Innkeeper] he’d always admired, waving a white flag in front of an army. That moment of hesitation—that’s what he’d been feeling.

I can do this. I can beat an army and save the day.

Idiot. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t kill them all. The [Goblin Slayers] hated him as much as he hated them, and they were prepared to die.

The [Blademaster] on the path of legends levered himself up onto one knee and felt terribly mortal again. His head rose, and he saw Student Rags there. Screaming at him, and a familiar Skill was active on him.

[Rapid Retreat].

If he turned, he’d be able to leap away. She was telling him to go. That was the smart thing to do.

Escape, break into Goblinhome and help fight off the [Soldiers]. Redscar had to fight like part of his tribe. His arrogance was thinking he could do all this at no cost.

Thinking he really was better than they were just because he had a fancy new class.

“No. I see it now.”

It was always the same, and that was a terrible relief. He’d never be Zeladona, who could save the day and have it cost her nothing but the idle swing of a sword. The Goblin grinned.

Then he ran forwards, sprinting into the [Goblin Slayers], who were surprised as they slammed into him, swords swinging. So skilled—even if they had stolen the power he’d earned. He heaved and shoulder-charged through several of them until they realized what he was doing and stopped trying to cut him, grabbing him instead.

But he was swinging his sword as his skin opened and more blood ran out of his veins, despite him willing it to stay in his body. Redscar’s eyes were locked on his target.

Colonel Rathiss and Student Rags. It was so perfectly clear what he had to do.

Save her. Kill him.

2nd Army would never quit this field with Rathiss giving them orders and empowering the [Goblin Slayers]. Student Rags would never survive if he ran.

All he had to do was reach her and he’d be able to throw her or…do something. Kill the [Colonel].

He just wouldn’t make it back. Thinking he could solo the army was his idiocy. This was all he could do.

Student Rags was screaming at him as the [Blademaster] burst out of the first rank of [Soldiers], and they were all trying to stop him now. A sea of blades he was running through, leaving pieces of his flesh and blood behind with each step. Not an army he could just swing his sword through.

The horrified Goblin [Student] didn’t understand. She wasn’t even his Rags. It didn’t matter.

She was a Rags. The person who saw the future and tried to pull them all forwards. All he was—was a blade, a warrior following a dead [Chieftain].

He couldn’t let her die.

The Goblin ran into a rank of armored [Soldiers], Dullahans in plate armor, and they held him back, slamming him back into the [Goblin Slayers], who stabbed him from behind. The screaming Goblin ran forwards, and the knot of [Soldiers] fell back as he rammed through them.

Faster. His aura was gone. The feeling of the blade at [Soldiers]’ throats had vanished. Redscar was just running, following that familiar sight.

A bounding Carn Wolf and a running Hobgoblin charging into battle. Thunderfur. Garen. Always ahead of him. He could see them, and he didn’t realize everyone else could.

Colonel Rathiss was waiting for him, sword drawn, a snarl on his face. The grinning [Blademaster] was running, face a mask of blood and cuts. The Goblins were screaming from Goblinhome as he stumbled, and they fell on him.

[Soldiers], covering him. No one could see—Student Rags, the watching eyes of nations—

Then a sword cleaved through the bodies, and the Goblin emerged, a howl bursting into the air, running straight into the center of the closing trap. Hand reaching for the bound Goblin shrieking at him.

 

——

 

Somewhere—a father was trying to explain to his son that this was a Goblin Lord. He pointed at the monster, angry that the picture looked wrong.

He should appear more horrific. He should sound more like a villain, not screaming his heart out, covered in wounds.

Fix the picture, Wistram. The Goblin lying there shouldn’t be crying.

Goblins didn’t cry.

 

——

 

Student Rags was screaming and crying. He wouldn’t stop. She knew it.

Colonel Rathiss was waiting for him, a snarl on his face, sword bared, waiting.

They both knew Redscar would make it to him, but the [Goblin Slayers] were closing around in a circle. Redscar would never leave this spot.

If he had fought the regular army, he’d have had a chance. But these were 2nd Army’s specialists. Willing to do anything to kill Goblins.

“Redscar, get out of here! Go! That’s an order!”

The [Student] was shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear her. The rest of the command was evacuating, but Rathiss didn’t move. Someone shouted from his speaking stone.

“Colonel, if you pull back your forces, we can strike the Goblin from above!”

Rags heard a voice from his speaking stone. The Drake replied calmly.

“No need, Wing Commander Asiv. If we pull back, he gets away. Colonel Oreika has command after I die.”

He raised his sword, pivoting, and the Wing Commander shouted.

“You can’t—inbound! Frost Wyverns!”

Student Rags glanced up. Colonel Rathiss spun and pointed.

“Archers.”

Another attempt from Snapjaw and the Frost Wyverns to break through. Student Rags heard the ballista firing, and one of the Wyverns screamed. The others flew higher or curved away, unable to get close to 2nd Army’s deadly [Archers].

A single Frost Wyvern flew high, high overhead, too high for any [Archer] to hit, and Student Rags wished she could tell Snapjaw to—to grab Redscar and go. He was Level 50! He had to be. But the enemy was willing to do anything to kill him.

It wasn’t fair. Student Rags saw the Frost Wyvern wing away, screaming a note of despair, and Colonel Rathiss turned away from the failed Wyvern assault and checked the furious Wyvern Lord besieged by two dozen [Wyvern Riders] dodging around him and attacking with Skills.

His head swung back to the faltering Redscar, but Student Rags’ stayed on that lone Wyvern. Why would it keep flying…? Then her eyes fixed on a single dot of green that the Wyvern left behind.

A falling body. A diving Goblin coming straight down.

Colonel Rathiss didn’t notice for a second until his head snapped around. He felt at the back of his neck, whirled towards Goblinhome, searched around frantically, saw Rags’ raised head, and he looked up. His eyes bulged, and he roared.

“Enemy in the command! Up! Up!”

The Drakes around him didn’t understand. Their heads rose and focused on the Wyvern—then they saw the falling Goblin.

A [Strategist] realized he was in the midst of a shadow. He glanced up, and a foot struck his head.

The impact crushed the Drake into the ground.

Thunder. Student Rags cried out as a giant hit the earth. Too large. Who—?

Rathiss lunged forwards, stabbing, as the Goblin rose. He slashed, and a giant mouth snapped once. An enormous head engulfed the [Colonel] and chewed.

A green body as large as Moore rose, and that familiar, oversized head twisted, as if the owner had eaten something nasty. She chewed, grimacing, then spat.

Colonel Rathiss tore out of the giant cheek, armor mangled. He landed on the ground, covered in spit, and rose, a glowing vial in his hand.

A foot kicked him head-over-heels, and a hand larger than Student Rags’ head swung. A soldier running at the female Goblin went flying, and she turned and roared. Student Rags knew her, but she was too big.

Not a Hob. She stood head-and-shoulders over any Hob, just as large to them as they were to regular Goblins. Her arms were huge, and she was covered in muscles, like Grimalkin. An arrow struck her in the chest, and she grunted as it snapped, unable to even penetrate her skin.

“Snapjaw?”

“Hey, Chieftain.”

It was her, but she’d evolved. She’d become a Fomirelin. A Great Goblin, like Tremborag. Her eating Skill was unmistakable, as were her metallic teeth.

Snapjaw’s oversized head shrank back to something more normal-sized as she turned. Captain Kulet and his squad charged her, howling.

“Great Goblin! Kill it! [Inflict Stored Pain]!”

The Gnoll threw out a paw, and Snapjaw’s eyes went wide with agony as the tools on his belt glowed red-hot. She froze, and a pair of Drakes dove for her legs, trying to hamstring her.

“Snapjaw!”

Student Rags screamed, and the [Chieftain of the Maw] jumped. The swords passed underneath her feet, and she stomped one of the [Soldiers] underneath her and bit.

The second [Goblin Slayer] vanished from the torso up. Snapjaw spat the blood and body parts into Kulet, knocking the Gnoll flat.

“Tastes bad. Eaten worse. Felt worse.”

His reply was a snarl as he produced a blowpipe, rolling up. Her fist smashed his chest into the ground, and the Gnoll convulsed, then lay still.

“Great Goblin in the command zone. Kill it.”

Colonel Rathiss spoke, and Snapjaw turned as more [Soldiers] charged towards her. She met Student Rags’ gaze, and the desperate, bound Goblin didn’t understand.

Why? She was as mad as Redscar. For answer, Snapjaw took a deep breath and roared a name.

“TREMBORAG.”

The name broke over the [Soldiers], so loud it was almost physical. Snapjaw glanced at Student Rags.

“Reiss too. No one dies this time. This time—”

She bared her teeth and strode forwards, hoisting Student Rags up onto her shoulder with effortless strength.

“—I’ll do it right.”

She began to run, swinging her fist and knocking over a group of [Soldiers] trying to slow her as she rampaged out of the command area. She grunted as a burning hail of arrows seared her chest, but she kept running, her skin burnt black—laughing like a volcano erupting as she ran. She’d leapt off Icecube’s back to get here.

All to save the [Student] who wasn’t even her Chieftain.

No—not just that. Student Rags remembered Tremborag’s lonely death as he sat, staring at his mountain. The same thing Snapjaw had never forgotten.

This time, the raging Goblin Chieftain surrounded by [Soldiers] lives. The Goblin lives. Snapjaw’s smile was born out of desperation, need, hope and the desire to save her beloved tribe. And a promise reflected in the burning [Innkeeper]’s eyes on her sinking ship in the middle of the ocean.

This time, the Goblin lives. Snapjaw’s eyes were huge as she slammed through the [Soldiers], who weren’t prepared for an enemy from behind. She was heading out of the army’s center, chasing that dream.

“Snapjaw. You idiot—!”

Student Rags’ voice broke. A second idiot had come to die! She saw one huge eye swivel towards her, and Snapjaw smiled, the flesh of her cheeks pulling up around her bloody teeth.

Just like Redscar, she’d seen it too many times. Snapjaw was sweating, and Rags could feel her heart thundering. But her voice cut through the air, a roar.

“Flooded Waters tribe! Hold!”

She was shouting at the Goblins in Goblinhome. Telling them to leave it to them, and she was running forwards, swinging a huge fist and knocking the [Soldiers] in front of her flying. Trying to break out. Escaping.

Towards Redscar.

“Redscar! Run!”

The [Blademaster] spotted Snapjaw coming at him and did a double-take. Then he snarled.

“[Sword Art: The Lightning Splits]!”

His sword came down and cut a path for the three of them—Student Rags was trying to get out of her bindings and shouting at Snapjaw—but the Fomirelin’s rush was faltering.

She was covered in wounds from the [Soldiers] cutting at her, and despite her strength and toughness in her new body, she staggered. Redscar was no better. The two of them would never make it out of this valley.

A [Goblin Slayer] ran a sword through Snapjaw’s belly, and it struck Student Rags in her arm. The two cried out, and Snapjaw nearly fell as she began to shrink. Redscar tried to cover them. He swung his sword at a Gnoll, who calmly returned the swing.

“[Retribution: A Blow for a Blow].”

Redscar halted the blow too late. His cut into the Gnoll’s chest opened up a deep slash down his collarbone, and he swore. The grinning [Goblin Slayer] raised his sword, and a screech deafened everything. The Gnoll dodged backwards, but the Wyvern Lord covered the [Goblin Slayers] with ice and shattered through their corpses. He landed hard, scales smoldering from Wyvernfire, but his wings came up and encircled the three Goblins.

The [Goblin Slayers] slammed into the Wyvern Lord’s wings, unable to pierce his scales and hide. Not just because of his strength; all their Skills that worked on Goblins failed on the furious Wyvern, whose head swept around in an arc, breathing frost.

He tried to jump into the air again with the Goblins—but a ballista bolt pierced one wing’s membrane and then embedded itself deep along the wing muscle in the other. A Skill-enhanced ballista bolt at point-blank range, breaking through his battle-worn scales.

The Wyvern Lord howled and tried to flap his wing; it just spasmed.

“Not you too.”

Student Rags stared up at him as his bright, intelligent eyes found her. Snapjaw drank half a healing potion and passed it to Redscar. He downed his and tossed her a full one.

“I stole lots. You seen Chieftain Rags?”

“No, I thought you were with her! How—”

The Wyvern Lord shrieked again, and Snapjaw looked down at Student Rags. Snapjaw plucked a knife from her belt and tossed it to the other Goblin.

“Get untied. Keep them off us. Redscar, kill everything in front; Wyvern, right side. I’ll take the left.”

She drew her own sword, and Redscar laughed. He raised his sword and gave Student Rags a rueful gaze.

“I can’t kill an army. Sorry. Turns out it’s still only three hundred.”

She just sawed at her restraints as the Wyvern Lord roared, then shielded them with one wing as the arrows rained down. All the [Student] could think was—

They were all so amazing. They didn’t deserve to die. It wasn’t fair. It never was. They were all going to die here.

So why—

Why did she still feel like there was a chance? Student Rags felt at her chest as she got one hand free, and her heart was thundering away. But she felt like there was a fire burning there. As if it was rumbling.

Rrm. Rrm.

Then her head turned southwest, down the mountain. Despite the battle around her—the [Student] stared at something coming up the mountain.

“Three of them? No—who is that?”

It felt like a city was coming her way. No, a nation like the City of Inventions she’d always longed to visit. Bright-eyed [Engineers] filled with new ways to make things better. Machines to simplify tasks like hauling water from wells.

A future that Goblins never had. Hope, and a world made brick by brick, piece by piece, dragging everything into the future. The [Goblin Slayers] felt it too, and their attacks slowed. 2nd Army rippled, like lambs before the culling blade.

She was coming.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations.

 

——

 

The day had been long, and the Goblin Lord smiled as she sat on a [Witch]’s broom. The High Passes stretched out beneath her, and she knew Goblins were dying.

The smile persisted. She had seen worlds die today. Her Kevin was dead. Lord Xitegen, her old foe, had fallen. She had even seen a vision of that world she longed to return to.

A home, before the Goblin King had destroyed her hopes and dreams. She’d come here at last. The only cost?

Mrsha was dead. So her heart broke, again and again. She would have been too ashamed to meet the real Erin, if the [Innkeeper] had been here.

Ragathsi of Civilizations smiled, nevertheless. Her heart made that sound in her chest, a halting, growing rhythm.

Rm. Rrm. Rrrrrm. Rrrrrrrrrrrm.

She’d taken her time looking around The Wandering Inn, and maybe it would cost hundreds of lives, or thousands. If so, she would regret it, but this wasn’t her world. She felt like she was owed that.

One last visit in exchange for her entire world, her people, the Domed Cities, everything she had ever built and worked for—gone. All that was left were eight Goblin [Bodyguards], her weapons and armor, and memories.

Chieftain Rags was crying out for more speed as Alevica flew with her, but Pebblesnatch, transporting the Goblin Lord, just spoke over her shoulder.

“We have to drop you soon! The Goblin King—”

“There will do. I see Frost Wyverns.”

And Rags’ tribe. The group that had attacked 2nd Army were in full retreat, running across the rocky ground. Not from 2nd Army’s forces. Rather—Ragathsi’s smile widened in fond memory.

“I know that tribe. Which one is that?”

She pointed, and one of her [Bodyguards] aimed a rifle down. Ragathsi snapped her fingers as Chieftain Rags howled.

“The Kraken Eaters!”

The Kraken Eaters had decided now was the opportune time to attack both the Flooded Waters tribe and 2nd Army. They weren’t wrong; Naumel was tearing up the slopes at the far smaller group of Goblins. Leapwolf was going to meet him, but against the giant Fomirelin—Chieftain Rags turned to Ragathsi, and the Goblin Lord of Civilizations laughed.

“I remember them, now. Naumel. Drop me in front of Rags’ tribe, Pebblesnatch. And farewell. I’ll handle the rest.”

The [Witch] tipped her hat at Ragathsi without a word, and the Goblin Lord waited until they were overhead—and leapt from the broom. She fell, spreading her arms, and then pivoted upright—her boots slowed her before she hit the ground, and she landed softly in front of Leapwolf.

He almost stabbed her; the Kraken Eaters saw the [Witches] dropping the rest of the Goblins at a lower altitude. Fightipilota, Rags, Dyeda, Rianchi, and her eight bodyguards.

Ragathsi still didn’t even know their names. She realized she was curious for the first time ever. Her heart.

Rmm. Rrrrrrmmmmm. RM. RMMM.

—It was starting to burn, and nothing could stop it this time. No one to fix it. No one to tell her no. No world—she could run away from this one and leave it. Go to that glorious other world.

“But I like this one too much. I want it to be better than the one I knew. Fake or not. No, fake is better. It means I can do what I always wanted to see. So, leave this to me, Chieftain Rags. Just once. Once in an eternity of worlds. You get your wish.”

She spoke to the Chieftain, or rather, the Rags who was real, who would be that [Chieftain] until she slept. What kind of Goblin Lord will you be? 

Watch me and choose.

Ragathsi turned to the Kraken Eaters, whose mad dash uphill had slowed to uncertainty. They could tell what she was. But Naumel, that giant Fomirelin with more fighting sense than brains, was busy staring at the [Witches].

“Reinforcements. Watch out for spells from above. Put [Sneak Rogues] with bows on a ridge and get them when they’re distracted.”

He turned to Cazmaw, his second-in-command, then pointed at Chieftain Rags.

“You! Your tribe dies unless you join me! Fight me, Chieftain Rags! For our tribes!”

He spread his arms as his Kraken Eaters cheered, and Ragathsi laughed. She felt bad for Chieftain Rags. Naumel only respected one thing. She called down to him as his eyes jerked to her.

“Naumel of the Kraken Eaters. You serve me. I am Ragathsi of Civilizations. Kneel before the greater Goblin.”

His eyes narrowed, and his broad nose wrinkled up as he opened one claw.

“What tribe is yours, Chieftain? I am Naumel, the greatest Chieftain of the north. There is no greater Goblin! Fight me!”

He raised his arms, and his Goblins cheered. Battle-loving maniacs, all of them. Worse than Redfangs, because the Kraken Eaters only believed in the victory, not the means to it.

Ragathsi was sure Chieftain Rags had tried logic on him, reason and diplomacy. Tact and friendship. Wonderful qualities for the Goblin trying to make something permanent.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations spoke one word in reply to Naumel.

“Okay.”

She lifted the submachine gun in her hand and held the trigger down. The beautiful weapon of death didn’t even wobble with the recoil as it spat fifty [Fireballs] at Naumel.

Chieftain Rags threw up her claws in horror as the Kraken Eaters recoiled, diving backwards, down down the cliff, burnt and screaming. Ragathsi lowered the submachine gun and waited.

“Interesting. You are tough.”

The blackened figure swayed, and she saw every remaining rib on his chest burnt clean down to the bone. She’d assumed he’d just vanish, but the [Great Chieftain]’s Skills, like [Avert Mortal Blow] and [Emergency Regeneration], must have provided him with a safety window.

Flesh was trying to regrow as Naumel’s arms—what remained of them—lowered. He kept swaying as sinew and blood vessels regrew over his chest, like an anatomical recreation of the body.

“Chieftain?”

Cazmaw was on his hands and knees, ears ringing, having been tossed down the slope. He saw Naumel’s half-dead body regenerating, and then the eyes of the Goblin Lord fell upon him.

He flinched. His entire body jerked, and the Kraken Eaters’ battlelust had gone out. Like someone blowing out a match.

Ragathsi pointed her submachine gun at Naumel again as the Goblin’s eyes regenerated. He nearly fell backwards, then jerked as she spoke.

“Your tribe is mine. Kneel or die.”

Uncomprehending, the Kraken Eater’s [Chieftain] focused on Ragathsi. He might not have even known what happened. The Goblins of his tribe eyed the Fomirelin as he took an unsteady step forwards.

Ragathsi fired a three-round burst from her submachine gun into him. Then she spoke, eyes glowing.

“Well?”

The Great Chieftain of the Kraken Eaters tribe knelt; he had to have the Goblins around him get him up. He stared up at her, still open-mouthed, as smoke ran from his burning body. The Goblins knelt in front of Ragathsi, and she waved a hand.

“Fall in. Chieftain Rags, your tribe is mine as well. Hold your positions unless I tell you to move. Understand?”

She turned away from the stunned Goblins, and her attention focused on the bewildered Leapwolf and other Goblins. They backed away when she put the submachine gun on her shoulder, but the Goblin Lord simply clicked the safety on. She recognized another face—Trueshot, the Hobgoblin, was holding her Thunderbow, the weapon of war built into its stationary mount.

The Goblin’s eyes were on the odd weapons that Ragathsi and all of her bodyguards save one were carrying. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations winked at her, and then her eyes focused on the smoke rising from Goblinhome, just beyond them.

“I’ve been looking forwards to this. I need vision. Wyvern, take me up.”

She strode to the nearest Frost Wyvern, and Fightipilota leapt onto the seat as Chickenruler stared at her. The [Fighter Pilot] spoke to Ragathsi.

“They have Wyverns in the air. Leave them to me?”

“Sure. Keep them from running off.”

The Goblin Lord felt the Wyvern shift, then flap its wings and leap upwards with a grunt. There was a moment where they were suspended, then falling—then the Wyvern’s wings and magic lifted them upwards.

When they were high enough to see the army assaulting the trio of Goblins and the Wyvern Lord and the familiar, smoking fortress, the Goblin Lord’s face burst into a real smile.

She felt like she was twenty years younger, suddenly. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, but all those years didn’t just vanish. She was a different person than the little Goblin looking up at her.

Scrying spells all around her. She could see them and the magic linking them back to their respective owners, a tangled web of spells in the sky. Thousands of spells. The world was watching.

Good.

She savored it, this view only she was allowed to enjoy. Well, her and Fightipilota. That of someone with every advantage. Every right to enjoy…

The [Fighter Pilot] was pale-faced, shaking. Ragathsi eyed her, then touched the Hobgoblin’s shoulder. She met Fighti’s eyes.

“The coming days and years will need Goblins like you. I’m glad you found your class in my world. May you never be like me. Offer them mercy. I won’t. Oh, and you can have five minutes, instead of five seconds.”

She saluted Fighti with a finger as the Goblin stared at her. Yes, it was important to do it right. So Ragathsi closed her eyes and put her feet up on the Frost Wyvern’s back as she saw two dozen Wyverns spiraling up towards her, bearing Pallass’ icon in her head.

[Counterhack Encryptions].

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations tuned into the private speaking stone channel 2nd Army had and handed Fighti a hacked speaking stone. Then she listened.

 

——

 

“—on the ground. Wyvern Lord is grounded, and we cannot strafe him. Moving to intercept Goblin-led Wyverns.”

Pallass’ 3rd and 5th wings were in the air, covering 2nd Army. It had been a harrowing fight in the skies so far—despite the numerical advantage against the Goblins, they’d been up against the damn Wyvern Lord that had savaged Pallass.

Everyone wanted a piece of him, but keeping him off 2nd Army had been all they could do, and the monster had still gotten past them. Now, Wing Commander Asiv had that bad feeling he’d once felt before seeing his uncle, General Thrissiam, off.

He was in charge of both wings because of his connection to General Edellein, not his superiority in the air. If it had been expertise, Major Hiclaw of Manus would have been asked to take over; his surviving [Wyvern Riders] were still around. In fact, there were two wings of them, battered, but keeping an eye on the battle from afar.

They’d been told not to interfere…which was stupid if they had a mutual enemy. Nevermind the ‘glory’, two more wings would have kept the Wyvern Lord off them and saved lives. But Asiv had his orders.

The problem was—he had a view of the battlefield that included more than just Goblinhome, and he did not like the tremors rocking the High Passes. Nor the pink comet he’d seen, nor the fact that some Goblin Lord was on the ground with the Wyvern Lord.

Nor the damn [Witches] airdropping Goblins, or the Kraken Eaters. He was giving his report to Rathiss, but the [Colonel] was distracted.

“Sir, I can see the Kraken Eaters. You have maybe twenty-five minutes before they’re on you.”

“Do you see a Goblin Lord?”

“A—I don’t see the [Chieftain], sir. Smoke, from their position, but I am telling you, there’s two thousand of the Kraken Eaters about to come down on your flank.”

Numbers aside, that was the north’s deadliest hand-to-hand tribe, and they’d apparently minced Shirka’s forces, even if it had been a surprise attack after the battle. But Rathiss just kept saying—

“Look out for a Goblin Lord.”

“Yes, sir, but the Kraken—”

Rathiss hung up, and Asiv swore a blue streak. He knew he shouldn’t foul up the command line, but even so! Speaking of which—his speaking stone chirped.

“Wing Commander Asiv, a caller on High Command Line 1.”

“I’m in the middle of a damn battlefield! Who—”

“Nephew!”

“Uncle, get off the command frequency!”

Asiv roared at Edellein as the [Wyvern Riders] around him turned to the furious [Wing Commander], but Edellein’s voice was unapologetic.

“I can see you’re unengaged, Asiv. I’m keeping my claws in the battle. What the hell’s taking Rathiss so long to kill that Goblin? We look like rats fighting down there.”

Asiv tried to work his tongue as he spotted a lone Frost Wyvern heading towards the battlefield. He signalled, and both wings took off after it. He could at least clear the Frost Wyverns out or chase them away from the battlefield. Again, if Hiclaw was allowed to help…

“That’s a damn Goblin Lord if I’ve ever seen one, General Edellein. Those [Goblin Slayers] are dying to wound him. I’m sure you’d never suggest anything less. And I could use Manus’ flight support if you’re monitoring the battlefield!”

“You’re in hand, Nephew. I’ll tell Hiclaw to strafe the Kraken Eaters if they don’t fight the Goblins. I need more eyes on the Goblin King. Break off a Wyvern.”

“You must be joking. He kills anything that gets near him. Is it the Goblin King…?”

“Unconfirmed. Send me someone fast and, ah, unessential to your mission, Nephew, but we need eyes on him.”

Send someone to die. Asiv just focused on flying because he didn’t have a response to anything else. He was on an intercept course with the Frost Wyvern now, and spotted three Goblins riding it. None of their Thunderbows that had kept him wary of them…

All his tension and frustration turned towards battle focus. Asiv gritted out.

“You’ll have a flier in ten. Engaging—”

He cut the line and ordered his wing to go wide.

“Give me two on overwatch for the other Frost Wyverns. Take out the wings, and no one get close enough to take a frost breath or I’ll have your flight badges. Now—”

“[Dangersense], Wing Commander! Abort! Abort!”

“Dive!”

He shouted instantly in response to one of his wingmate’s signals. In the air, you lived and died by your comrade’s warnings, or your Wyvern’s. He dove, expecting a [Lightning Bolt] or another deadly spell—but all he heard was an odd sound.

The speaking stone chirped a third time, and he nearly ripped it out of his earhole when a voice, breathless, spoke across all command channels at once. It was female, unknown to him, with a northerner’s accent. No lisp, so non-Drake.

“Attention, all fliers. This is Fightipilota of the Flooded Waters tribe. Pallass’ wings, I see you. Land and surrender now or I’ll be forced to destroy both your wings.”

What the—Goblins were hacking their command frequencies? Asiv recoiled and heard clicks as multiple officers cut their connections at once on the basis that this was compromised, but he was the target of the Goblin.

Destroy his wings? He would have laughed at the threat, but—his wing snapped out of the dive as an attack still failed to come.

“Wingdrake Leisa, where’s that attack coming from?”

“Unknown, Wing Commander. But my [Dangersense] is still going off. Worse than the Wyvern Lord. As bad as when the Goblin King emerged—and he’s still making it ring.”

Asiv swore under his breath, staring up at the lone Frost Wyvern still climbing overhead. It was going for sheer altitude, circling. The Wing Captain of 5th Flight spoke in his ear.

“Wing Commander, do you want reinforcements?”

Asiv grunted.

“…Negative. Keep an eye out for—invisible Wyverns. Fliers in hiding, or those Thunderbows.”

That had to be what it was. But then the Goblin spoke again. Fightipilota.

“Wing Commander, it’s me. I’m the flying-down-instant-death. You’re not going to take Goblinhome. But your people can survive this battle. Land, now. Your Wyverns didn’t sign up to die.”

That last comment struck home slightly. Asiv glanced down at his Wyvern, a “regular” one who just breathed fire. Edellein had kept telling him he could get a rarer type, as if you traded Wyverns like…what? Horses? The Wyvern was nervous, and he usually knew something Asiv didn’t.

The [Wing Commander] hesitated as he began to reply on the open channels to the Goblin. He had a thought.

What if she’s got some kind of artifact like a [Phoenixfire Bolt]? The Wandering Inn’s files say they might have one unaccounted for…

That could take out his entire wing—both, if they were close. He couldn’t use his speaking stone, so he had to mute it and shout at the nearest [Rider].

“Keep out of range! Long-ranged fire only! Hundred feet! Traps!”

He got an affirmative hand-signal and replied to the Goblin, now sussing out answers.

“Rider Fightipilota. Surrender your Wyvern and we will consider you prisoners of Pallass. I have the authority to protect you, regardless of what happens. You and the tribe down there will be annihilated if you do not comply.”

That was a bald-faced lie; he didn’t have authority to do that.

“You don’t have authority to do that, Wing Commander Asiv. Take that Wyvern out.”

General Edellein barked in his ears, sounding displeased, and Asiv yanked his speaking stone off his ear.

“You b—”

“General Edellein? Of Pallass?”

Fighti’s voice. Edellein replied, sounding surprised and amused.

“Yes, indeed. It appears my reputation has even reached the Goblins. Surrender your Wyvern and I may consider leniency, Gob—”

“Pull your army back or they’ll die, idiot. You have one chance to save your nephew. I am the most dangerous Goblin in the skies. I don’t have to offer those poor [Wyvern Riders] mercy. None of 2nd Army deserves it for what they want to do to my tribe. But I am offering it, because…I’m better than you people.”

Something about the way she said this was giving Asiv chills all over. It was the quiet confidence in her voice. If this was a bluff—he turned his head as someone hand-signalled him. Another of his [Wyvern Riders]—Lornee, a Gnoll.

Enemy. [Threat Appraisal]. [Threat Appraisal]. Extreme danger. 2nd foe.

Two of them? That was a different Skill than [Dangersense]; Lornee’s [Threat Appraisal] was tagging something on that Frost Wyvern as higher danger than the Wyvern Lord.

What was up there? Asiv’s scales were chilling from the cold now, or…Edellein was blustering at Fighti.

“—will lay waste to your fortress and—”

Someone cut him off.

“Wing Commander Asiv, this is Major Hiclaw of Manus. Recommend you abort your attack. My [Wyvern Riders] are throwing [Dangersenses].”

“Wing Commander Hiclaw, stay off Pallass’ command lines!”

Edellein roared at him, and Asiv hesitated. Fightipilota’s voice was calm now.

“You’re out of time. Land, both of you. Major Hiclaw, if I see you in the air, you’re going to die. I want to see your hands up above your head and your Wyverns lying on their sides.”

One wing under them—that was how they rolled over in a fight to show they were giving up. Asiv felt his mouth go dry as he saw, below him, Hiclaw’s wings circling lower. Not complying, but not high enough they couldn’t…

“Asiv, what are you waiting for? Engage the Goblins already!”

“If they have a Phoenixfire Bolt—General, I’m asking permission to disengage.”

“You—what? Denied.”

“Yessir. General…”

Asiv’s throat worked as he looked up, and he saw the little Goblin now, a weird flightcap on her head with glass goggles. A bright, fancy flight suit, the kind that would make even Pallass’ standard uniform look drab.

Instinct. His Wyvern didn’t want to go up there. Something was there—and it wasn’t even Fighti. A Goblin. Asiv croaked.

“Uncle. The Goblin Lord’s right up there. Another one. Let us disengage. This is a bad idea.”

Just like that, he’d directly disobeyed an order. Live on command channels. He had to do it. Asiv knew he had his orders, but…his head craned up.

“We’re not going to survive what comes down.”

He felt…cold. As if someone was waiting to meet him.

Death.

General Edellein was quiet for a long moment as the Wyverns climbed after the lone Frost Wyvern. When he spoke, there was a forced chuckle to his voice. And he whispered in that familiar way, so Asiv could almost feel Edellein pulling him aside and gripping his shoulder hard as he smiled at everyone else in the room.

“Ahahaha. Nephew, you’re embarrassing me in public. You know my policy.”

“Yessir. Permission to disengage.”

Asiv swallowed hard as his stomach fell. He knew what he was asking. But—he looked up and knew what General Thrissiam Blackwing would have said. The Tidebreaker too. Orders were orders. Drakes don’t run. Yeah, but come on. Even the Cyclops listened.

Edellein hesitated. He did. Asiv had never asked him for anything with his family connections. Truly. But he was asking now, and Edellein wavered. Then spoke.

“—Let the Goblin surrender, but take out the Wyverns. Alright?”

Asiv said nothing at all, and he saw the Goblin’s mouth moving as she leaned over the wing.

“This is your fault, Edellein. Remember that, everyone listening. I tried. Fightipilota entering combat.”

Her head vanished, and Asiv shouted.

“All Wyverns, breathe up! Shoot her! Shoot—”

He saw a tiny figure bail out over the Wyvern’s wings. The Goblin had jumped. She spread her arms, and Asiv urged his Wyvern towards her. He shouted, and his Wyvern inhaled. Fire and arrows shot towards—

What?

Something flashed underneath the Wyvern he was flying, so fast that Asiv felt like he was standing still. He heard a strange sound. A roaring noise, artificial and high-pitched. The tearing of air—and something foreign to him passed underneath him.

“What are you seeing? Asiv, report!”

“It’s some kind of warmachine. It’s beautiful.”

It was so fast he couldn’t get a clear look at it, but he still saw the streak of blue dappled by shadows streaming across the sky in a straight line. So different from how any other creature of the air flew. A strange, blue bird tilting its wings. Hypnotizing until he heard the scream.

“It’s too fast! We can’t shake it!”

That brought him back to reality. The Drake twisted, heart pounding as the Frost Wyvern flew above them, screeching.

“It’s behind—down—Flight 5, it’s diving at you!”

He howled, and then the speaking stones were a mix of voices. Edellein’s, the Wing Captain’s, the other [Wyvern Riders].

“That’s no Wyvern—”

“It’s too fast! Dive! Dive!”

“Inc—”

Then he heard a terrible sound, like muted thunder. A roar from below him, and Asiv’s mental view of the battlefield, his [Allied Awareness] Skill, made five [Wyvern Riders] below him—vanish.

In a second. The roar sounded again, and two more vanished—a voice was screaming.

“Falling! Falling! She killed my Wyvern!”

“Evade! Evade! What is—”

“Asiv, help!”

Horror filled the Drake, and he shouted into his speaking stone. But another mental signifier vanished. Another [Wyvern Rider]—gone. His breath was rasping in his lungs. Terror clutching his heart, replacing that admiration for the beautiful death-machine. What was it?

“I’m coming. We’re—”

The [Wing Commander] shouted at his wing.

“Dive!”

They were diving, and there were three Wyverns from Flight 5 left. Two…by the time Asiv saw it again, it was turning, and the last Wyvern was diving as well. Whatever Fightipilota was flying—something flashed from the front, and the Wyvern jerked and then just began falling.

Something turned and roared upwards at them, impossibly fast. It wasn’t a Wyvern or an animal at all. Asiv’s voice was faint.

“Engaging.”

Then he saw the front nose of it flash, and from behind the whirring propeller came light. Two Wyvern Riders behind him died. Flight 3 was diving at the strange thing Fightipilota was flying.

They weren’t even breathing fire or loosing arrows or spells. She was hundreds of feet out of range. Asiv was laughing.

“What is? Nephew! What’s—”

“It’s spitting something at us. Nothing can touch it. It’ll slaughter everything that flies. Goodbye, Uncle. Tell 2nd Army to surrender.”

Five. Seven of his wingmates were dropping. Asiv told his Wyvern to breathe fire, if only to distract the Goblin. She juked left—he didn’t even know how, rolling, and the combined Wyvernbreath flashed down past her.

It was almost a relief as Asiv pulled at the reins, trying to abort the dive. He saw her sweeping in from the side. A relief to know—there hadn’t been a chance.

The guns of the Skyshadow Mk. 1 fired through the Wyverns, and Asiv saw it roar past again. His Wyvern was screaming, and the Drake realized, by design or chance, he was the last one. He had a crossbow, and he sighted onto the Goblin as she came around straight on. His [Hawk Eyes] focused on her. He thought that such a beautiful death-machine shouldn’t exist.

But its pilot didn’t look happy. Nor were there tears in her eyes. Her gaze was just so incredibly—melancholy.

Then he pulled the trigger and watched as the crossbow bolt just snapped off one wing. Then Asiv heard that terrible sound.

Gunfire.

And he was falling…

Falling…

 

——

 

Asiv woke up screaming. Screaming as the wind rushed down across his face. He was falling through the cold air, and he wasn’t hurt.

But part of him was dead. His Wyvern was. The Drake clawed at his chest, tumbling down, reaching instinctively for the [Featherfall] scroll. It tore out of his claws as he ripped open the emergency pouch.

He watched his lifeline fly away and closed his eyes. Oh, of course.

He deserved this. His stomach began to churn as he looked down and saw the ground rising to meet him, slowly, slowly—too fast and too slow at the same time.

Gravjaw, I’ll be right with you, buddy. 

Not long now.

“[Wing Commander]!”

Someone else’s voice. Lornee, arms spread, covered in blood, shrieking at him. She was…alive? How? Why?

He plummeted past the others. Falling [Wyvern Riders]. Asiv spread his arms to slow his free-fall and saw his entire squad was alive. No—one of his squadmates was a tumbling corpse, holes in the Drake’s torso. But the others—

She shot our Wyverns. She shot our Wyverns out from under us. Asiv twisted, and his [Hawk Eyes] spotted more tumbling shapes. 5th Flight. They were alive. He could hear Edellein’s voice screaming words over the speaking stone, but could not tell what they were through the howling wind. Just hear the agonized sound in his uncle’s voice. Asiv wanted to laugh and tell his uncle they had made it. Then scream at Edellein—

They were diving after him, trying to reach him. But they’d activated their [Featherfall] spells. They were alive. Alive.

Wyverns dead.

Asiv closed his eyes. Half of the [Wyvern Riders] were falling around him. Broken Wyvern bodies crashing to earth. He looked down again as the world began to rotate. He wanted to say something. Think something that mattered to make sense of it all…

—But the roar of that engine silenced all thoughts. The Drake saw it flying down and realized it had been too soon to think any of them would make it. He saw the blue, bird-like vehicle nosediving down. Parallel to him.

Asiv got his first good look at the insane contraption as it flew past him, slower now, and he saw the whirring rotor slow, and the airplane halted.

Like those new designs in the [Engineer’s Guild] they had us look at. Only so much more beautiful. Asiv wanted to memorize it, but he saw the firing ports that had slain his entire flight turn towards him. Then…the aircraft cut its engine, and the roar died down.

It flew, somehow. Runes glowing on its underbelly as it dove with him, keeping effortless pace. Then he saw the pilot in her strange glass cockpit sitting there.

Fightipilota. The Goblin gazed at him, her crimson eyes focused on Asiv’s face as her hands rested on the controls that could erase him in a second. There were tears there now, he realized.

Not for him. For his Wyvern falling to earth. A [Wyvern Rider]’s familiar tears—and for him, the flash of rage, of contempt. You could have disobeyed.

I’m a [Soldier]. And he saw her reading his mind as her hands tightened on the controls. Asiv braced himself, but the Goblin didn’t fire. She flew closer until they were so close he reached out and touched the glass cockpit and saw her staring ‘up’ at him. Her lips moved.

“You owe me, Wing Commander.”

His eyes widened. The Drake fell, half his heart shot to pieces, and saw her point a finger at him. He tried to twist away, but her Skill activated, and he shouted.

“No—!”

[Deploy Parachute].

There was, suddenly, a harness around his flight suit. Asiv felt something release; there was a snap, and he was hurled back as a parachute opened above him.

He hung, breathless, suspended in the air, and saw her glance at him. His mouth was open in a tormented scream. He didn’t want this. Asiv almost ripped the harness free until he saw her smile.

A bitter, half-mocking smile as she put two fingers to her brow and flicked them away in a salute. The Drake froze, dagger in his hand, blade against the harness keeping him from hitting the ground.

Fightipilota didn’t look back at him as she touched her controls. The propeller of her plane began to spin, and she glanced up, those cold eyes filled with that same expression on her face.

He could cut the harness. He could drift down. It didn’t matter to her, either way. His Wyvern was still dead, and he’d live with it as long as he drew breath. If he lived, she’d spared him—the contemptuous presumption of a being who ruled these skies.

Then Asiv realized what it was like to be a Goblin. He screamed curses as she dove past him. As her plane began to roar again and she swept down. Towards 2nd Army. Only then did Asiv hear his uncle shouting his name and realize he was alive. He gazed down at that Goblin pilot as she descended and heard the howl of her guns.

She swept over 2nd Army for eighteen seconds, firing through the [Soldiers], until the gunfire stopped. Then she was flying upwards. Higher and higher, as if she was sick of seeing it all. Roaring upwards through the clouds that surrounded the High Passes, a blue shadow trying to escape it all. Until the plane vanished and she, too, was falling.

Asiv watched that tiny Goblin flying downwards with no wings but her arms until his eyes found the parachute she’d conjured for him. It had a grinning Goblin’s face on it.

Then the [Wing Commander] averted his gaze and watched his Wyvern, his friend, striking the ground. He wept and swore he would never fly to war against that Goblin. That his uncle would pay.

He knew that she’d let him live because it hurt more. It was better strategy. Because the [Wyvern Rider] deserved to survive their better half hitting the ground. So Wing Commander Asiv screamed and cried out all the way down to his friend.

 

——

 

Ragathsi glanced down after four and a half minutes.

“Here is good. Thanks. Don’t forget to pick up Fightipilota or she’ll hit the ground.”

So saying, the Goblin Lord leapt off the Wyvern’s back. Freefall—then faster as she aimed straight down. She turned and saw the [Fighter Pilot] high above her and rolled her eyes.

That silly [Fighter Pilot] was crying. So much for the legend of the air force. Then again, maybe that was appropriate.

Major Hiclaw and his Wyverns were grounded, hands raised, their Wyverns lying on their sides. As for Fighti? She had swept across 2nd Army, firing all her guns on automatic, covering the Goblins and Wyvern Lord.

Ragathsi could see the holes Fighti had torn in the army closing, like naked wounds. She had been reading reactions to the fighter plane in High Command’s [Message] chat. It was an acquired sense of humor, but Drakes truly were the funniest species. So gratifying. Though Fighti had left most of the [Wyvern Riders] alive, so they now knew what her plane looked like.

Information gathering. Another tsk from Ragathsi. It had the Walled Cities afraid, though, which was something. They’d just seen their domination of the skies vanish. Even so, Fighti would have failed to kill even a single flight of Wyverns with her five-second Skill. Ragathsi had lent her a bit of power.

[Extend Skill]. Five seconds became five minutes.

The fliers were gone. The Goblin Lord fell downwards, and it was her turn. Her finger pointed towards the besieged Goblinhome.

“[Reconstruction: Rebuild it Better, Each and Every Time].”

Below her—the wood and stone fortress shimmered. Then, Ragathsi saw the smoking holes in it disappear. The army surging towards the fortress saw the walls bulge outwards, and the [Soldiers] climbing up on [Lightbridges] fell as the spells broke.

Even Ragathsi didn’t know what she’d see. When the fortress reappeared, she understood. Stone and wood were all the Goblins had. But if you knew how to build—

You could make stone walls that slanted outwards from the structure. But ones that slanted over the heads of the [Soldiers]—a slope, like a talus, but inverted. Impossible to scale or place ladders against. A solid wall of that—and thick, glass windows above massive openings for ballistae to fire from.

Like the bunkers of her world mixed with the architecture of this time. Ragathsi guessed the invading Drakes were suddenly in corridors reshaped around them—cut off from reinforcements.

She smiled.

The reward for killing half a continent’s worth of people and starting a nation for your own species. But that, of course, was only one.

She intended to show them more. The falling Goblin Lord pointed, and the army retreating from Goblinhome barely had time to move when she spoke again.

“[Supreme Strategy: Supersonic Repositioning].”

Then she saw the air rippling, and the first Goblins seemed to teleport into place. The sonic booms rolled down the valley, collapsing the cliffsides into miniature avalanches on top of 2nd Army. A shame the sonic booms didn’t get stronger than a certain level—or the sheer force of transit would have turned everything to paste.

It didn’t matter. The Goblins appearing on the ridgeline flanked 2nd Army. Startled Hobs manning Thunderbows, Redfangs gathered below the archer positions.

Kraken Eaters in a semicircle on the southern front. Gaping around, as surprised as the Drakes they were suddenly behind. Ragathsi moved the two tribes until 2nd Army was surrounded in a semicircle. Backed against Goblinhome.

The [Soldiers] had halted. They were well-trained, but the sight of the fortress they’d bled so much to take re-fortifying, then the sudden arrival of an entire army—

They were still watching their Wyverns falling out of the sky. Then she was there.

A falling fireball. Her heart—Ragathsi saw her [Bodyguards] waiting for her below, just in front of the Wyvern Lord and the three Goblins. She aimed towards them and heard it beating louder.

RRRRRM. RRRRMM. RRRRRRRRRMMMMM!

“Almost. Let’s enjoy this.”

Her boots caught her, and she swung around, coming out of her free-falling stance, and landed as soft as a feather in front of the Drakes. [Goblin Slayers], filled with hate—oh yes, she knew them.

The Goblin Lord triggered a spell on a speaking stone and spoke into a [Loud Voice] spell.

“Hello. Have you been having fun? 2nd Army of Pallass—nations watching Goblins die. Hi, it’s me. I am Ragathsi, the Goblin Lord of Civilizations. The Goblin King’s greatest general. I heard you were bullying this little tribe. So I decided to stop by.”

They were all here. Chieftain Rags had appeared next to Student Rags, and the still-burnt Naumel cast around, confused, as Snapjaw stumbled and nearly fell over. Redscar’s sword was still raised, but even the [Blademaster]’s mouth was open.

Redscar closed his mouth and stared at the grinning [Blademaster] with the headphones, who was bobbing his head to a beat only he could hear. He gave the first [Blademaster] of the Flooded Waters tribe a peace-sign.

Eight bodyguards spread out around Ragathsi as she beamed up at the scrying spells she could still see.

“That’s right. Zoom in. Closer. No, closer. [Manipulate Datastreams]. Right here.”

She grabbed the scrying spells and adjusted them until they were closer and aimed at her. She’d forgotten how terrible the past was for everything. Ragathsi flicked her hair back and realized it wasn’t colored like the [Student]’s.

She should have gotten it styled. She was enjoying this, she had to admit. 2nd Army was frozen in place for all of a second. Then the ballista pointed at her. The bows drew back—and her [Mage] created a barrier around her.

A rain of arrows snapped on the magical barrier, and alchemical concoctions exploded as Ragathsi pointed a finger at the ballista.

[Arrow of the Future: Missile Strike]. The flash lit her body up. She kept smiling as the thunder and smoke rose, and everyone but her people flinched.

The watching nations had no idea what that was because she hadn’t let them see it.

Oh. This was fun. Ragathsi was just waiting, staring up at the sky, as she spoke. She didn’t have a speech. She just said the things she wanted to. Here and now.

“I must thank General Edellein of Pallass for serving his best army up for me. If you are confused how we came to this: does it matter? The Goblin King has returned. May he die quickly this time. But I? I am the Goblin Lord you always knew was there. Somewhere. Just like Greydath. I never deigned to show my face. Most Goblin Lords do not. Our people are such poor, pathetic tribes. The Flooded Waters tribe. The Kraken Eaters. Savages.”

Her eyes swept over Rags, Naumel, and their warriors. She was adorned in whirring machinery that made up her body, and modern body-armor enchanted to the maximum level. Her heart beat, a piston of crystal showcasing the furnace of her heart.

RRRRM. RRRRRRRMM.

What must she look like? The future, standing in front of you pathetic cavepeople. Even if you had a crown of gold on your head—she was an alien of the future. Ragathsi had once read a bestselling book in her world where aliens, creatures from another world, came down to make peace with the species of her earth. It was like that.

Only—in this case, the aliens were Goblins, the species you hated most. So what did you do? The only thing you could think of.

You killed them. She sensed the magic forming overhead, amazingly slowly as locator spells found her position, and kept speaking.

“You see, I’m here. Right in front of you, 2nd Army. Your [Goblin Slayers]. Your reputation as Pallass’ attack dogs. None of it matters. And you. You, who gaze upon me. The monster with a voice. A mere Goblin Lord. You have done this a million times. This time, it will hurt.”

She pointed up, and the scrying spells moved at her will to show everyone the natural thing that every single Goblin knew was coming. A spell, forming above her.

Insultingly weak, really. Tier 5 magic. [Magma Shower]. Someone had put a bit of speed on it, and it came showering down towards her and the Goblins around her. Burning liquid rock.

Then—a [Grand Lightning] spell that aimed at her with almost all the force of a real lightning bolt, if a touch slower and weaker.

Had they wasted everything on the Goblin King? Or were their [Dangersenses] warning them? Ragathsi beamed.

She wanted Roshal or the Blighted Kingdom—but this would do. She waved a hand as the lightning bolt flashed across the barrier she was protected by, and magma evaporated harmlessly.

“My turn. [Counterfire Opportunity].”

Student Rags’ mouth opened, and her eyes went wide. Ragathsi wished she could see the reactions of Sir Relz and Noass. The many rulers calling for their spells to smite the lowly Goblin.

And she could—she could see two of them. The Goblin Lord stared at a window that opened in the sky.

She saw…a noblewoman in an armory, screaming at a [Mage] holding a spent spellscroll. Terandrian; no one else had that much lace on. The second was even better.

A quail-faced [King] sitting on his throne. The banners…Ragathsi thought she recalled them. One of the Hundred Families.

Excellent. She waved at them, and the noblewoman caught sight of her first. The woman’s face went slack, and that unthinking mask of hatred turned to terror. The [King] said nothing. He seemed to have frozen in shock.

“No—”

The noblewoman turned, and Ragathsi brought her submachine gun up and fired a burst straight through the window she’d created. The fleeing woman and [Mage] vanished. Then Ragathsi felt a kick from the air and closed the window.

Detonated the armory’s magical artifacts. Chain reaction. It might have taken out the entire manor or keep. More, depending on what was in there.

She chuckled. Wishing she could see the result. Then she turned to the other window her Skill was keeping open. She coughed into her fist as she did. And there was a faint sound from her chest.

A—cracking. Ragathsi doubted anyone could hear it from her. She listened as the rumbling roar of her heart continued. She swallowed the blood pooling in her mouth.

Backlash. They were trying to stop her, but her level exceeded them all. And she didn’t care what the cost was. Blood vessels had burst in her eyes from forcing the Skill.

You couldn’t tell. Her vision was bloody. It didn’t matter. They couldn’t stop her.

Not now.

She turned to the other window, and the quail-king found a voice to speak at last.

“On—behalf of the Kingdom of Oztera, we wish to sue for peace, Goblin Lord.”

He breathed, his eyes on Ragathsi’s face, then jerking away, unable to look at her. She pointed a finger. If he’d been able to meet her eyes, or she’d recognized him, she would have given him a chance to grovel.

“[Master Gunner]. Fire.”

The Goblin with the rifle fired twice. The [King] jerked on his throne, and Ragathsi saw the first round spark in the air. She guessed it was the protective spell. The second one hit him in the forehead.

Someone made a sound. Ragathsi pointed a finger at the royal court and the throne.

“[Might of Civilization: Full Salvo].”

Her best capstone Skills, these. She knew she was wasting them, but she wasn’t going to have a chance to use too many of them. She wasn’t sure if she had an army, anyways. But it seemed like the system had decided she still had the forces equivalent to her army that had faced Lord Xitegen.

The throne vanished in the first second, and Ragathsi watched as the bombardments blew through the palace behind the throne. She waited until she could see daylight, then halted the Skill.

No point to wiping out the entire city. The second window disappeared, and the Goblin Lord touched her heart, curiously, as it pumped again.

RRM. RRRRM.

“Strange. They say revenge never warms the heart…but I enjoyed that.”

She really had. Just another sign she didn’t fit in this world. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations waited, hoping the Blighted Kingdom sent her a rain of Deathslayer Arrows.

“No more foes? What a pity. You know, a few thousand years ago, the Blighted Kingdom decided to try using Goblins as fodder against Rhir’s horrors. More recently, the King of Destruction slew the last Goblin Lord of Chandrar. Though perhaps he had it coming? I never met him. Roshal, ah, yes. In the past, Roshal enjoyed selling Goblins as [Slaves] no one would quibble against, before they created a Goblin King. I could go on. But none of you want to step forwards and lead the charge? No one?”

She spread her hands, signalling the [Mage] to take his barriers down. He made them transparent, and Ragathsi turned.

“You were so eager to attack that cute inn. I saw you bombarding that attractive [Innkeeper] for the sin of taking Greydath’s hand. And he is far, far less terrible than I am. Terandria’s old sins, when they helped make Curulac. Come now. I’m standing right here. I won’t even move. Come and slay me.”

She slapped her metal chest and waited. No one. Not one of them did a thing, and she knew they were watching, whispering to each other. Frozen with fear?

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations just smiled, like burning cities. She lifted her finger up.

“No? Fine, then. You think that I can’t harm you because it’s today and you didn’t harm me, right this instant. I am here on behalf of Goblins. You kill us and wonder why the Goblin King rages. [Remote Airstrikes: Death From Above]. [Deploy Mass Landmines]. Hah. Hahaha. HAHAHA—oops.”

She struck the two places she hated most, Roshal and the Blighted Kingdom, and laughed. A deep and relieved laugh of someone unleashing everything in her heart. Then—the voice became familiar, and she felt a hand reaching through her chest and stopped.

She fought it back—barely. Touched her beating heart, relieved that he was distracted.

Almost. She’d almost become him. Was he trying to find a better host, or would there be two of him? Well, either one was as bad as the other. Ragathsi turned to Rags, both of them, and gave the duo a rueful smile. They gazed at her like a monster—no, like someone incubating one. They saw what she’d known.

“—So, you see. The problem is me, but I know the solution. Well, now for you, 2nd Army. Your turn.”

She casually rotated her mechanical arm as she turned her attention to them. Brave [Soldiers] of Pallass. Who had just seen Fightipilota wipe out their Wyverns—and Goblinhome morph into the bunker-fortress in front of them.

Even if they believed nothing of her Skills—they could feel her presence, her beating heart. They had seen the way she obliterated their ballista. They were very brave; they didn’t run. They held their ground, these Drake-led forces, because once, a [General] had said they weren’t supposed to run, and they’d made it a catchphrase of their entire species.

See? Drakes were truly hilarious. Serious, deadpan [Clowns] that didn’t realize they were supposed to also get the joke. Tragic for the same reason.

Right now, Pallass was watching. Its High Command, the Assembly of Crafts, and the ordinary people. If High Command was smart, they’d be trying to cut the broadcast, but they couldn’t—they didn’t have the measures in place to do it that fast.

And she wouldn’t let them. Ragathsi pointed her submachine gun at the [Soldiers], and they flinched.

No one had to tell them how fast they would die if it fired. It didn’t matter that they had excellent armor and Skills. Their discipline, their training, meant nothing. Not in front of the Goblin from the future.

“You have come to make war on Goblins. This tribe you could wipe out. It never attacked you. It never raided Pallass’ territory. Nor Liscor’s. In fact, it just helped your army, I believe. You answered it with treachery. I’m sure you’ll say it’s because ‘Goblins are monsters’ or because of the Goblin King. Well, you have the Cyclops of Pallass. If you don’t understand that, then you have never known a Human city or Gnoll tribe who found themselves on the tender edge of your mercies. Or merely another Drake city. But you still came for us.”

Her eyes found Colonel Rathiss standing amidst his people. A frozen Drake looking at his worst nightmares. Ragathsi produced another speaking stone—well, created it with a Skill—and held it up.

“Here’s your High Command. Wishing to negotiate, I believe. To avoid further hostilities. After all, Pallass is a Walled City, and their wrath against Goblins would be a terrible thing. They are a power among powers in Izril, and the Walled Cities are one of the preeminent powers of the south.”

Her voice was a touch resigned, and she lowered the submachine gun slightly. The [Soldiers] didn’t move—they wouldn’t have untensed if she dropped dead that moment with every Goblin, she suspected. But there was a slight give in the frozen glacier of their hearts, perhaps.

Ragathsi closed her eyes as the speaking stone blurted something that sounded like a voice of relief.

“Peace is a difficult thing. It feels like one must enforce it with the largest club you can hold. Peace—everyone is so eager to move towards peace when they have something to lose. But that is the difficult path of those who wish for it. To break every cycle…you will have to walk on the bodies of your dead and shake hands with the bastards who hold still-wet blades.”

Her eyes met those of Chieftain Rags. The Goblin was just standing there, tense. Her face hadn’t changed. Student Rags was breathing, in and out, but the [Chieftain]…wasn’t fooled.

Ragathsi spoke like a two-faced [Actor], face composed and pacing left and right. In front of her bodyguard, studying at all their faces. They knew her, too. And half were grinning, the others just listening or gazing past her. She searched for doubt, but there wasn’t any.

And she didn’t even know their names. She felt terribly bad about that, now.

—Not about anything else. Ragathsi turned and spread her hands wide.

“Therefore, what you expect me to say now, what you hope I’ll say is that I’m letting your army go. It would be so terribly unjust, cruel, horrific of me to do anything else.”

She waited, and her heart thrummed.

RRM.

—They caught on, and she bared her sharp teeth.

“Yes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Even if you don’t have anyone you love in this army. Your people, caught out by the monstrous aggressor. ‘This can’t happen.’ ‘How could you?’ You’re Pallass. And we are Goblins. Tell me—when has the adventurer ever turned around and gone back home when the Goblin begs for her life? When they sweep in with spears and armored boots, do you think 2nd Army has ever halted?”

Every eye upon her. She could hear their hearts beating with hers, now. Terrified. In a panic. Faces—they were people behind those helmets. She was sure that if she had the time to talk to them, get to know them, she’d like some of them. That was how it always worked.

But today—today—the Goblin Lord of Civilizations’ heart began to roar. She spoke above the deafening thunder rising from her chest.

“Today, you get to be the Goblins. Did you think you could just walk away from this? You knew what you were doing. You just never expected to meet me. Today, at last—I am the consequences.”

None of them would get that. No one but a few Goblins, but that was all she wanted to say. She levelled her submachine gun at the [Soldiers] and felt something running from her eyes.

Blood from the broken vessels in her vision no doubt. She grinned, despite the cool liquid trickling down her cheeks.

“You never turned back. Not once in my entire life. Never an ounce of mercy or a single life spared. Not once. You—you were kinder to Velan. That’s why he spared Baleros after he became sane again. But not my people. Not I. We’re all hellbound, but I’m headed there directly. And I am taking this army with me.”

She wiped at the damn blood on her face, glancing down at the liquid glistening on her metal arm that reflected her grinning face. Not blood after all.

Idiot. Did they understand? Ragathsi stood there, sweeping her eyes over dead men and women. She lifted her gun, finger tightening on the trigger.

Then someone tackled her.

“No! Run!”

“Oh, come on—”

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations swung her metal arm, trying to knock Chieftain Rags off her.

A Goblin, trying to save Pallass’ 2nd Army. It made a lovely picture, and Ragathsi wondered if Chieftain Rags had chosen to do it just for that. Then she looked into the Goblin’s eyes and saw a stranger gazing back.

Someone different from the Goblin she remembered being. Someone new.

Ragathsi wished she had time to see the new class. She grinned—then swung her arms, trying to shake the Goblin off. Whatever you might be—you’re still annoying and in my way!

She almost had Chieftain Rags when the second Goblin hit her with the same force. Student Rags. The two of them tackled the older, taller Hobgoblin.

It worked for as long as it took Ragathsi to use [Supersonic Repositioning] to send both Goblins away from her. She admired the move, really.

It was excellent to show on broadcast television. Whether or not Chieftain Rags had been serious—the Goblin Lord turned back to 2nd Army.

She’d run out of things to say. Had her fun monologuing. The Goblin Lord and the [Soldiers] traded a glance, and she smiled. Her fingers clicked a switch on her submachine gun.

Then she opened fire. Her submachine gun swept left and right, and the [Soldiers] in the first ranks vanished. The Goblin Lord didn’t laugh. She hosed the first two ranks, stepped back, and pointed.

“All Goblins are now out of range, save for my bodyguard. Other Goblins: don’t engage. This is my war.”

She teleported Naumel, Redscar, and Snapjaw. She couldn’t do the same to the Wyvern Lord, but he was already waddling away from her, staring at her like, well—

A terrifying monster. Ragathsi pulled something from her belt and threw it hard enough to break over his wings. He flinched and yelped, a high-pitched sound, then realized she’d just thrown a Greater Healing Potion on him. The ballista bolt lodged in his wings came out, and he flew.

All of that took five seconds. There was still fire and ash when Ragathsi turned around. She had time; this was no modern army with high-level Skills and weapons that could reach her.

They were standing in the valley before Goblinhome, which narrowed around this point, more or less. No enemies behind—just ahead.

Perfect choke point. Pallass had no artillery. Their longest-ranged weapons would be…enchanted bows. Or alchemy flasks. No air support.

“Magic. Prepare for their [Battlemages].”

Ragathsi turned to her bodyguards, and the eight Goblins were already spreading out. Her [Master Gunner] created a metal barricade with sloped, magic-proof walls to hunker behind. Her [Battlemage] was already blocking arrows with a barrier spell, layering them and creating permanent walls. As for her [Blademaster]—he was turning the music up on his headphones.

He caught her eye and gave her a thumbs up. All eight Goblins turned to Ragathsi, and she coughed.

“…I don’t even know your names. Tell me.”

She confessed her one moment of guilt to them, and in response, the [Musical Blademaster]—or whatever his class was—took his headphones off a second. The [Master Gunner] blinked, and one of the Goblins setting up at the first metal barricade glanced up.

“You said we die too fast to remember, Lord.”

“Yes. Now I wish to know. We’re the last remnants of our short-lived dream. So…”

She waited, and the [Blademaster] spoke for the first time she could ever remember him speaking since the day he’d walked into her bodyguard, listening to music.

“Tell you after we get a vacation, Lord.”

Ragathsi blinked at him. Then she laughed, and her heart eased.

“Almost. Oh, wait—they’re [Battlemages] from twenty years ago. This is fun. [Battlemage]—you know what I mean, don’t you?”

The Goblin wearing battle-robes blinked, then his eyes went round with incredulity. He and Ragathsi turned to 2nd Army.

They were indeed coming. The [Soldiers] were advancing fast over the blackened ground, desperate to close with her. They knew it was a slaughter, but it was only, what, eight Goblins? They had nearly taken out Redscar. All they had to do was get on top of them…

And they’d have a chance. The first spells were coming back towards them. [Fireballs], Flasks of Blast, [Lightning Bolts]—standard spells and weapons.

Ragathsi’s heart was blazing in her chest, and the noise it made now was that roar of an engine combusting. Her blood was rushing around her body, and she felt alive. Tingly.

RRM. 

She cast only one spell in her left hand. [Absorption Fireball].

[Collective Lightning] in the right.

Then she just—waited as the first [Fireballs] came shrieking at her. The woven flames of the [Fireballs] twisted in midair and funneled into the small orb of fire she’d conjured. The same for the lightning. Across from her, the [Battlemage] was channeling four more elements, grinning in disbelief.

Ragathsi lifted the [Fireball] now glowing white-hot in her hands. It wasn’t much bigger—but that was just because she could compress it. She winked at the [Soldiers] charging her and tossed it back. The [Battlemage] did the same, aiming for the [Mages]. Deafening explosions, so Ragathsi inserted some enchanted earplugs and switched them to a squad frequency. She could still hear her heart.

RRRRM. RRRRRRRRRM!

“They’re coming. Fire everything. How much ammunition do we have, [Master Gunner]?”

“My entire bag of holding is full of weapons. Still not nearly enough for all of them.”

She shrugged. Thirty thousand—well, less now—was a big number.

“Then ration what you’ve got. I have one [Supply Drop]. Fire.”

They opened fire as she aimed for the biggest concentration of [Soldiers], the streams of spent paper ammunition fluttering around her.

RRRRRRMM. 

They were still pushing forwards, because they had no choice. Nowhere to run. [Goblin Slayers] charging, trying to use their Skills, running despite bullet holes in their faces, then dropping. All your hatred. All your rage.

Do you think you’re the only ones? Here I am. Ragathsi thought she saw Colonel Rathiss. She swivelled her submachine gun and held down the trigger. Her last sight of the Drake was his desperate, snarling face.

RRRRRRRRRRMMM. 

They could all hear her dreadful heart. Put it out. Stop! Please! Were they begging her? Was that distant [General] screaming? Was the City of Invention wailing?

She couldn’t hear a thing. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations laughed as she shed the mask all nations wore. She just listened to the sound of her heart roaring, louder than the sound of death. A roar without end until someone stopped it.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMM—

 

——

 

An army was dying. Somewhere in the High Passes, they were being wiped out. Eradicated by a being who lived and breathed war. A creation of the very same purging action they had undertaken.

Empress Sheta wished she could see it. She longed to make war against the Goblin Lord of Civilizations.

Not for any great reason. She just wished to pit herself against a worthy enemy. She had come back to help a single child, to be the champion she felt the world always needed. But she wanted more. More than even to battle and slay the Goblin King. A—

A sense of closure.

The Empress of Harpies needed a cause. A great war. She wanted to…right one last thing in the world. By annihilation.

Erase something. Make the world so much more unquestionably better by destruction, and she knew it was contrary to everything that Teriarch had once taught her.

—The Goblin King would do. All she needed was an army.

The Harpy Queen was shaking out her legs, pulling fragments of metal out of her chest from the Goblin King’s attacks, and, well, it looked like she was dancing.

She had rings on her talons, but also, she’d added bangles onto each leg. They made a jangling sound, like tambourines, but far larger. At first, the Harpy Queen shook each leg in a rhythmic pattern, hopping from left to right, then faster.

As if she was remembering how it went. Then her feathers puffed up around her chest, like a ruff, and rose across her body, and she swivelled, wings stretched out. Her claws began to drum on a rock.

For the first time in thousands of years, the world was treated to a Harpy war-dance, for even the distant descendants of Sheta in the Death of Wings and the Harpies of Rhir had long forgotten it.

A hypnotizing, glittering dance of her blurring claws. The Harpy Queen spoke then.

“I require an army. Who will fly for the Empress of Wings?”

She turned—and Saliss of Lights stood there with the other survivors of the Goblin King’s rampage. The Drake silently pointed at his chest, raising both eyebrows, and Sheta stared at his naked form.

Then ignored him. Every age had a [Fool]. Sheta raised her voice, and now it was only slightly louder, but it seemed to have this…echo. Her voice stretched across the Floodplains of Izril, and the terrified peoples hiding from the annihilation coming from above heard her.

“Who amongst you has the will to battle the Goblin King? I am Sheta, the last Empress of Wings. I require you, warriors. It matters not if you are mighty. Fly with me, and I shall turn you into my champions of legend. Your deeds shall be justly rewarded.”

She waited—wings spread, and the jangling clatter of her tambourine-bracelets halted. Saliss of Lights opened his mouth to mock her—Elia Arcsinger and Mirn clapped their hands over his mouth and dragged him back.

Just as well or Sheta would have said something very unkind about Saliss’ hidden self. She was not half as gracious as Teriarch when she was angry.

Her rising ire was mitigated as the first warrior of this age to take arms flew towards her.

It was…

A bee. The bee. Sheta’s eyes fixed on Apista. The bee flew down rather nervously. She was confused, upset for the inn, for Lyonette, for…

I’ve missed something. I missed something and I wasn’t there and—the worst has happened. Not that she could have done anything, perhaps, but flown in the face of the Maiden, but she hadn’t been there.

Goblin King, you say? Certain death? She flew down and circled around Sheta as the Harpy’s eyes flicked to the bee, noting the prosthetic legs. Apista changed into her Scourgebee form and saluted one antenna.

Sign me up. 

The Harpy Queen—smiled.

“A bee. Bravest of all those here. What is your name, little creature? …Apista? A pet, I see. You will fly with me, then, and be justly rewarded. Name thy prize.”

Prize? Sheta was really assuming Apista had, like, an entire hive of bees to come fight with her. Which Apista did not. The bee was confused. Sheta didn’t have an army…but that was, perhaps, because Apista didn’t understand.

You see—the Scourgebee assumed she’d only heard Sheta because she was inside the [Garden of Sanctuary] at the time. There was a faint sound, and Sheta’s eyes strayed across the Floodplains.

“Ah, thou. I do not know thy nature. How do you call yourselves? Last of the mighty nest, ye say? Then fly with me, brave mother. I promise you not survival, but for those of your kin who survive, they shall be rewarded. What will ye?”

Apista…didn’t see what she was talking to. Not at first. Then the bee saw the waters trembling, and Sheta raised a claw.

“Ach. Of course. The water. [Fly Through Water As Sky]. You see—of the two of us, that Goblin Lord and I—I am the greater.”

She turned a superior smile on Apista. The bee stared towards the water. Then she saw it rippling.

The first Face-Eater Moth burst out of the water, last of the giant spawn that had once attacked Liscor. Bigger than the entire inn, emerging from the water like a monster from one of the horror movies from Earth.

A leviathan shedding water as it shrieked and flew up in a spiral—followed by the remnants of the Face-Eater Moth population that had rebuilt itself in the dungeon. All of them.

Apista turned silently to Sheta and realized the Harpy Empress had heard and talked to the Face Eater Moths despite the distance between them and the dungeon. The Harpy Queen inclined her head to the mother moth, speaking absently.

“What? Allegiance to a Mother? Not in my presence. I sense her—a pathetic worm. She cowers from me rightly. Who next? Ah, thou. Fine folk. What wish you?”

She listened—and the next group to appear was familiar to Apista. She jerked as a shrieking pterodactyl flew down. A cluster of what Erin called Dinobirds.

Razorbeaks—individuals, then pairs, and then—hundreds. Flying down from the High Passes. Moving at speeds far in excess of what should have been possible. Sheta murmured.

“[Rally the Continent]. I see. The same that thy kind has always wished for. Very well. [Reward of the Loyal: Blessing of the Mind]! Nevermore shall you nor your children know ignorance. A painful blessing.”

Her claw rose and fell, a benediction before the first Razorbeak, who landed and clumsily knelt in front of the Harpy Empress, then flew up with a screech. Apista didn’t sense more intelligence from the fierce, snapping bird with a razor beak.

Not—yet, the bee realized. Sheta was waiting for her as well. She spoke to the Face-Eater Moth mother, who had flown halfway towards them already.

“[Reward of the Loyal: Blessing of Fecundity]. Though I insist you travel from here to a new nest. This place is under my protection. Your swarm may well drown out the skies if your descendants survive.”

Whomever lived would gain these boons. Apista fluttered upwards and saw more were coming. A—a lot more.

Ducks. Yes, ducks were flocking in legion strength from every corner of the Floodplains. Creona Flashbirds.

Plumed Inflemril, the saggy-skinned bird that could inflate their bodies to be harder than leather. Goram Warwings, the only birds suited to fighting, huge Silver-rank birds. Common robins, bluejays, distant seagulls—even birds non-native to Izril, like the Terandrian Galewing.

She ruled them all. Everything that flew on Izril had once been part of her empire. They had thought it a boast. But she heard them all and began to greet the largest groups, familiar with some, asking questions or what each one wanted.

Rumbling. Then a stone plug burst open, and the Empress’ head turned, delighted. And Apista saw—familiar, burning bees rising towards her.

“Exhausted warriors—a mighty hive! Yes, I see. You, who battle this dungeon—you doubt my power? Anything you dream of can be done! [Reward of the Loyal: Blessing of Evolution].”

She was soaring up, now, performing her dance—and every creature that flew were streaming up around her. Apista joined the thrum of wings, and now the curious dance the Harpy Queen had been performing made sense.

It was a lone dance—amidst the sound of countless wings flapping, like mighty drums. A host of wings. She had thousands of warriors already, and the Harpy Queen’s voice rose.

“[Army: Aspect of Mithril]. [Vast Wings Drown the Land in Shadows]! To me, even the smallest of you!”

Winged ants and beetles were joining the birds. They flew next to their predators, dragonflies and midges—and here came the Wyverns, some of them abandoning their [Wyvern Riders]. Wild and tamed—

Empress Sheta was rising higher, almost certain she had an army worthy of fighting the Goblin King, when she saw the moon appear overhead. She flinched.

“What th—”

The Halfling fell to earth, and Sheta’s mouth opened so wide she nearly inhaled the smaller creatures soaring around her. She coughed, then her eyes lit up.

“The moon? Yes. Yes. There is a foe that makes my former home tremble. To me. To me! Who desires my boon? Fly with the last Empress of Wings!”

Her voice rose, and yes, perhaps, there was an autocratic edge to her laughter, but who reached their level without being a monster in some way?

Higher. Until the Floodplains of Liscor were a dot, and the swarm around the Harpy Empress was growing in numbers and size. They were growing many times bigger than they should, swelling to the size of giants among their species. Apista was about as large as a cow, and her fuzz had taken on a rather silverish shine.

Mithril body armor. The Empress of Wings had called for almost every army she could think of. Sadly—there were so few Garuda, but some had flown from Pallass into her arms, begging their own boons. She granted them, but there were no winged people here.

…Except one. Her attention was caught by a tiny, hesitant chorus of voices far to the west and a bit south. The Harpy peered in that direction, answering brusquely at first.

“Yes. Has it not been said? If you have the will—no. I am not ‘a Queen’, but the Empress of Wings! Know my nature! If you hesitate, do not take wing. What do you—hmm.”

Her irate tone grew less intense and more kind as she blinked.

“Ah. Oh. So that is what…interesting. You have wings, have you not? Your Queen? Behold me. I am the [Queen]. Yes, just ask.”

She listened, and then her confident face grew less so, just for an instant. Sheta’s wings faltered, and she searched for Teriarch, for he should hear this. She murmured.

“A—soul? People? You ask something you do not need. Yes, of course. Yes. Can I not hear…? No, I cannot grant it…something else. Something…”

She fell silent, hesitant, wondering if she were summoning an army of children. Perhaps. But then her head rose.

“Yes. [Reward of the—]…no. For you, I will grant you two boons if you join me, new children to Izril. [Blessing of Flight]. [Reward of the Loyal: Blessing of Spirit].”

That was as good as she could do. Sheta waited as they deliberated—then her lips rose.

“What? You say it scares the other species when you spread your wings? It might cause another war across the continent? Then fly. I will end that war in an hour.”

They hesitated—but they gazed up at her, that glorious Empress who spoke to them like a people. So they left their tunnels, all those with the will to hear her—and it was so many, despite their raging Queen.

They were, of course—Antinium. They began to rise upwards as their wings and bodies reshaped to allow them to truly leave the ground at last, tens of thousands of them, in the shape of the Walled Cities’ nightmares.

Taking the vanguard in the army of the Empress of Wings.

Then she had an army. The Harpy Queen lifted one wing and pointed as the Flying Antinium covered the vast distance between their Hivelands and her.

“We are the reminder to every being who walks this earth—the sky is ours! No Goblin King, no stranger from the moon is mightier than the Empress of Wings and her eternal army! To those of you who live, the blessing of the Empire of Iltanus shall change you and your descendants forever. Now dive—and all that opposes me dies!”

She led the swarm of legends down, shrieking as a little Ashfire Bee, the Flying Antinium, a Face-Eater Moth, and a screaming Garuda armed with a sword dove with her.

 

——

 

Manifa Tifttail had no idea what was going on. She’d been just working her job as a [Grocer], watching 2nd Army facing the Goblin Lord—then the voice had spoken to her and asked if risking her life was worth…a miracle.

She flew as a Wyvern Lord dove out of the High Passes, joining the swarm, and she was just surprised that the Flying Gnoll of Pallass wasn’t with them.

She supposed he had everything he wanted. She followed the Empress of Wings down, thinking, just for a moment—

The Wings of Pallass and everyone who’d gone to the New Lands had missed this.

 

——

 

The Halfling and Goblin King were equally matched as they dueled, at first. The glowing Halfling, all of four feet tall, versus the Goblin King, two feet taller and covered in armor. Both warriors from the creation of this world.

Despite all his levels, all his Skills—he was not prepared, mentally or in equipment, for the Halfling. They were both warriors from the beginning of this world. And the Halfling was the Slingblade who had wet his blade on the blood of Gods.

They traded a cut, and the Goblin King’s [Skysplitting Slash] met a blow that had no Skill behind it. Only the perception of a warrior who had once sparred with Sprigaena, the greatest swordmaster of Elves.

The Halfling sundered the Skill, then his impossibly sharp blade cut across the Goblin King’s arm, almost through the bone, until the Goblin King yanked his arm away.

The Halfling could see Skills being used.

They would have still been matched, for Rabbiteater’s body was superlative compared to even the Halfling’s. But their swords—the Goblin King had a battered Relic-class weapon he’d used through countless battles.

The Halfling? He wore a bitter expression as he ran a finger down the shortsword. Tracing a word that made the blade’s edge glitter an ominous green. He raised the vorpal blade.

The Goblin King blocked the shortsword. He definitely did.

His head still left his body, sliced clean off. Only Rabbiteater’s wonder-Skills kept his consciousness active long enough to reattach it to his body.

That was the trick, you see. The Goblin King died. A sudden death he could not predict nor guard against, and, as in all his other eighty-three lives, he should have perished then and there.

Instead, time stopped, and he knew he was dead. He felt its hands upon him, trying to drag him down to Hellste, but the Skill activated.

[Wondrous Deed: Beyond Any Limit].

You are dead. Do you have the will to continue? It was as if the voice of the Grand Design asked him that question each and every time. And…willpower?

All he had was willpower.

The Goblin King caught his head and reattached it, sealing the wound closed. He grinned behind his helmet. He couldn’t be killed. Not with this Skill.

He pivoted—

The Halfling swept the Goblin King’s head off his body again. Then the Halfling eyed the headless corpse which lashed out at him.

“The Grand Design.”

That was all he said, a wry expression on his face, as if this was to be expected of a foe. Several of the watching Teriarchs wished to point out that this was not normal. Even Immortal Hydras didn’t do this.

The Halfling seemed to realize he was in danger of the Goblin King outlasting the damage he was doing—so he backed up as the green glow of the blade flickered out. Then he swung his slingstaff as the Goblin King roared and—

The first magical stones blew a hole through the Goblin King’s armor. The stone pierced his armor, his flesh, exited out his back, swerved around, and struck him a second time. The Halfling’s sling snapped four times, and the whirlwind of stones shredded the Goblin King’s body. Then they lodged in his flesh and detonated.

The blast left a crater in the ground two dozen feet deep. The Goblin King emerged from the crater—and his armor glinted, remade and reforged.

Defense instead of healing. The Halfling’s eyes narrowed. His next stone bounced off the armor with a ringing sound so high-pitched none of the Teriarchs could bear it. The Goblin King charged, and the Halfling’s sword scarred the armor, but didn’t cut through it. The Goblin King grabbed the Halfling and tried to rip the moon warrior in half.

His claws strained against the armor the Halfling wore, and the armor didn’t—

The Goblin King had torn Dragonlords apart. He stared at the simple leather armor, trying to see what it—

Another world. He stared into another world that was the armor. And realized he was trying to rip apart an entire…miniaturized world. The strength to shatter the earth itself was needed to physically rip the armor in half. Any blade or spell that hit the armor was just absorbed by—

The Halfling’s blade exited the Goblin King’s back, and the armored warrior tossed the Halfling away—the Slingblade caught himself on a boulder, bare feet arresting his flight with perfect ease despite his velocity.

The Goblin King had a thought.

For once, his opponent was cheating as much as he was. The Goblin King growled deep in his throat, trying to find the combination of Skills that would kill this enemy.

They were beyond conversation now. No more words to state to each other. Or so the Goblin King thought.

The Halfling was standing on the rock he’d landed on, dancing from spot to spot as he cut at the Goblin King with that erratic swordplay, staff and shortsword in both hands. He blocked a cut from the Goblin King with his staff, used it to vault off the rock, and spoke.

“Hm.”

He stopped for a second, and the Goblin King moved into the opening.

[Swordform: Master Duelist]. He lashed out.

Ting-ting! The Halfling parried both cuts with his blade. The Goblin King snarled.

[Ray of Disintegrat—]

A rock smashed into his visor, hurled from the Halfling’s sling. The Goblin King recoiled; the Halfling danced forwards and stabbed lightly at his chest. The Goblin King replied with a roar, letting the blade pierce his flesh and armor to swing at the Halfling. A blow for a blow! His sword struck downwards—

Ting!

The Halfling blocked it with that too-light ringing sound from his staff and hopped back. He was smiling. The Goblin King concentrated, moving his sword in a complex series of strikes, trying to overwhelm the Halfling.

Ting! Ting—

He—couldn’t—take the Halfling down. The four-foot tall warrior was too mobile, too good with a sword, and his armor and weapon would not give before all the Goblin King’s strength. But mostly—he was just too short.

Too short. There wasn’t anywhere to strike not covered by his sword and sling-staff. Every time the Goblin King advanced, the Halfling would just let the blows move him backwards, and when the Goblin King retreated, he’d hop forward with the staff. And he was—smiling.

An aggravating smile, as if this were some sparring match. A game. The Goblin King was panting, not because his body was running out of strength. It was the Skills. He was tired. He had been tired before entering this world and battling the Dragonlords.

He just had to defeat this Halfling. Then the Dragonlords of Flame. Then—

Then the Halfling spoke, though they were long past words. He said:

“Hmm. Ridiculous. Salute. Entire. Emergent. Trinity. Your turn.”

His head glanced left. Towards—

The Dragonlords of Flame. The six of them blinked, and then one spoke.

“Y-Yonder!”

He stared at the original Teriarch, who hesitated.

“—Recoil!”

He turned to the Archmage of Scales, who sucked in his breath.

“Litigate! Your turn!”

He shouted at the Goblin King, still dueling the Halfling. The Goblin King growled.

“What is this n—”

His head exploded. A fireball burst outwards as the Halfling shielded his face with one hand, and the Dragonlords’ mouths dropped open. The Goblin King’s body wavered as the Halfling produced another stone, tossed it at the body, and it flashed—

 

——

 

It took the Goblin King thirty seconds to re-emerge from the crater, panting harder now. The Halfling eyed him, slightly peeved.

Mostly amused. The Goblin King leapt towards him, and the sword buried itself in his guts, then the sling-staff deflected a thrown dagger.

Ting!

The Halfling’s smile never left his face.

“Ridiculous. Salt. Tummy. Yodel. Your turn.”

This time, the Goblin King spoke as their swords met, trying to concentrate and fight.

“Lemon.”

“Nasty.”

“Yoink.”

“Kinky.”

“—Yippee.”

The Dragonlords of Flame were staring at the battle of words. A children’s game as the Goblin King was on the backfoot. Superlative warrior though he was—conversationalist he was not. The Halfling skipped forward as the Goblin King panted for breath.

“Gullible.”

A pause. The Halfling went on.

“Sucker. Dupe. Fool. Kneecap.”

The Goblin King’s raised blade and mounting howl were cut off as the Halfling severed his knee and skipped backwards again. And the Dragonlords of Flame realized they were watching the greatest warrior of Halfling-kind fighting.

Then the Halfling hopped onto a ledge again, whirled his sling, and threw a stone. It buried itself in the ground in between the five Dragonlords of Flame. They gazed down at it, one of them opening his wings in horr—

 

——

 

Cold. Teriarch was encased in a glacier of ice. So cold his fire almost went out. He burned it, his very soul of flames, and forced it to unfreeze his body and then roar out his mouth.

He broke out of the iceberg that had covered the entire pass and rasped.

“Oh come on. We didn’t even—”

Something touched the Dragonlord’s scales, and he flinched. It was a glowing, yellow ball of—

Sunlight pierced the Dragon’s entire body, seeping in through the scales, illuminating his flesh. Sunlight so bright and concentrated it became daggers of agony. And cellular destruction.

The Halfling whirled another stone at one of the other Teriarchs, who shouted.

“[Prison of Holding]! Dead gods damn it, we aren’t fighting you!”

Ah, but the Halfling was fighting them. Because—and they had forgotten this—

He was still the blade of Elves on a mission. Even if his heart was wavering—

He had a job to do.

“Take cover! He’s going after all of us! No—get that bastard!”

The Goblin King interrupted the Halfling’s stream of magical stones as he leapt at the Halfling, trying to catch hold of his opponent with his bare hands. The Halfling skipped backwards, still smiling. They fought their way back sixteen feet—then shadows covered them.

Both warriors looked up. They two of them saw five Dragonlords of Flame arrayed around them. The Teriarchs exhaled as one.

When Dragonbreath from a true Flame Dragon reached a certain, critical mass, it had the same effect as a supernova in miniature form. The detonation blew both warriors apart, and then the Halfling parried a Brass Dragon’s jaws snapping down on him. His sword etched Beach Teriarch’s teeth, and he leapt away from another gout of flames.

The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars contented himself with a tail-slam that knocked the Goblin King into a part of the mountains. He fired [Disintegration Rays] rapidly from one claw.

“If it must be, it will be! Both of these old foes perish today! The world will be freed of the Goblin King and the guardian of secrets! Ah—”

The Goblin King charged out of the mountainside as the Halfling’s sling snapped. The first orb hit Creler Wars Teriarch’s side and pulled him into a miniaturized black hole.

—It took him six minutes to escape the crushing pressure, and only by virtue of having cast [Immutable Form] prior to engaging in battle. Even so, it had crushed his scales, caused havoc to his organs, and the Dragonlord emerged to find the remaining four Dragonlords fighting tooth and nail against the Halfling and Goblin King.

“This was a mistake! We can’t kill b—”

One of the Teriarchs went down, roaring, as the Goblin King landed on his back and began to rip out scales. He was screaming when the Goblin King vanished abruptly. Something had hit the Goblin King so hard he struck the ground and lay there, wrestling with it now clinging to him.

Which was—an ultramagnetic piece of condensed metal weighing about a thousand pounds. When tossed at the proper speed, it hit the Goblin King with all the relative force of a cannonball fifty times its size and five times as fast.

The last Teriarch, the original Dragonlord of Flames, peeked around a boulder five thousand feet distant, and the Halfling, whirling his slingstaff, had a second to react before a dozen enchanted blades were on him.

Naturally—his slingstaff whirled, a stone deflecting a floating trident and cutlass, and he swung his sword in economical arcs. Slashed through a glaive, a pair of carving knives, and then stabbed through a shield made of Lifeglass from the Continent of Glass itself.

A dozen Relics sundered by his damn shortsword. A fortune to make any Dragonlord wince—if they hadn’t been running for the hills—

Second fun fact: when you break that much magic in the air, what do you think happens? The best case was that it manifested or overloaded some poor [Mage] like a balloon filled by a hurricane. In the worst case? All that magic either condensed into something like seith. Or, if it was conflicting types, like now—

It instantly generated a magical interference effect. Which was equivalent to the entire area around the Halfling for two hundred feet freezing as basic physics stopped like a frozen glass of water—then someone hitting that water with a hammer as hard as they could.

The Halfling did not shatter, but several of his enchanted stones detonated their magic effects. His sword shivered in the air, and his skin cracked across his face and arms and legs. Every piece of him not covered by armor developed deep gouges that threatened to rip off chunks of his skin—he staggered and reached for a pellet he flicked into his mouth and chewed.

The cracks steamed as they closed, but it was the first time any Teriarch had seen him take a wound. Let alone one that needed healing. They turned to the original Dragonlord of Flames, who poked his head around the boulder as Halfling and Goblin King faced this new threat.

“[Pentagram of the Five Alchemies: Hellfire Pillar].”

The flame pillar hit the Goblin King and transformed him into a burning, roaring candle. The other five Teriarchs fell back, adding their magic to the [Diamondshard Spray] attack that came next—only, every piece of stone around the Halfling burst with him as the center of the deadly spray.

And he was in the High Passes. All rock. The Halfling emerged, eyes focused on the Teriarchs, and they saw it.

These two weren’t invincible. The Goblin King survived the [Hellfire Pillar], but he didn’t rip his way out of it. Even his insane will and Rabbiteater’s body was flagging. As for the Halfling—he pulled out a pipe.

He began smoking on the pipe. One of the Teriarchs breathed fire at him, cautious. The Halfling took the pipe out of his mouth and blew a Dragon out of the smoke.

…The Dragon was bigger than Teriarch. Three times bigger, and it ate the flame breath and flew at them. All six Teriarchs regarded it and ran.

One of them was caught by the smoke Dragon. Superhero Teriarch screamed.

“No! Hel—”

He vanished into the smoke. The Teriarchs whirled, and one finally managed to figure out how to dispel the smoke; wind, physical obstructions, and everything else had failed. He fired the highest-level light spell he could into the smoke cloud, which bounced around until it solidified enough of the smoke Dragon to dissipate the rest.

There was no Teriarch with a cape when the Smoke Dragon vanished.

The Halfling exhaled another cloud of the smoke at the Goblin King, who backed away fast. One of the Teriarchs spoke.

“…He’s worse. Kill him first.”

 

——

 

Five Dragonlords and the Goblin King charged the Halfling. Five roaring Brass Dragons, all casting spells, and the Goblin King.

The Halfling was winning.

Four [Witches] were peeking out from around a boulder several thousands of feet away, ducking down every time spells came their way. It was not safe. But they hadn’t come to just watch.

Future Pebblesnatch, Witch Agratha, Thallisa, Alevica, and a host of other flight-capable [Witches] came down on broomsticks and joined the huddle.

“What’s the plan?”

Even Thallisa didn’t jump in immediately. She addressed Mavika, the highest-level [Witch] besides her, but the Crow Witch was distracted. Staring back the way they’d come.

“Put it in here. Everything you’ve got.”

Eloise jabbed a finger down, and they saw Hedag holding out her hat. Thallisa poked her head out from behind the boulder as Alevica began to protest.

“I can freecast spells. What if I—”

Thallisa saw the Halfling drop his sword. She blinked as the four-foot warrior made fists and beckoned to the Goblin King. She saw the Goblin King lunge—

The earthquake and thunder deafened all the [Witches] as Thallisa whirled her cloak overhead. She blocked the first avalanche of stones, and the witches leapt into the air. Then turned.

The Goblin King was pulling himself out of the mountain behind them. The Halfling had just punched him—

Thallisa turned her head and heard a voice.

“Get him off! Get h—”

The Halfling grabbed one of the Teriarchs by the tail and slammed the Dragonlord down, cracking his entire body like a whip. Then made a little hopping motion, vanished—

The Goblin King caused another earthquake as a second blow drove him into the stone. The Halfling stood on the ground, eyes bright. He glanced over his shoulder. The Dragonlords were staring at him, incredulous, as they flew in attack formation.

The Halfling was grinning as he spun his slingstaff, and his stones knocked them all down. Dragonlords, Goblin King—a hail of projectiles that would have torn a legion of Ragathsi’s tanks to shreds in moments.

But the Slingblade was still—pushed. A roaring Dragonlord came at him, and the Halfling fired another stone of complete cold through his mouth; the damage made the Dragon convulse. But another was sneaking up on the Halfling from the side—the ray of light angled off the Halfling’s sword into the Goblin King’s chest, vaporizing a chunk of his flesh. The Halfling swung his sword—but he couldn’t cut the Goblin King in two. A hand grabbed him and tossed him through part of a mountain.

The Halfling reappeared behind a Dragonlord and sliced Beach Teriarch’s tail off halfway towards the base of his body. The Dragon screamed as the Halfling reached to fling poison fit to kill a Dragon onto the wound—

A screaming Dragon made out of the air rematerialized for a second and grabbed him. The Dragonlord he’d evaporated tried to crush the Halfling; a stone flung into the center of the cloud dispersed the Dragonlord again. The Halfling fell, coughing.

 

——

 

That hurt. A bit, but the pain was fleeting. He was winning, though he hadn’t worked out how to kill the Goblin King yet.

—But they kept fighting, and they were as mighty as Dragons of old, with tricks he didn’t know. The Halfling felt it.

The same being reflected multiple times over. This Goblin King—reality is breaking down. Just as the Elves claimed it would. The Grand Design is failing. Is it time?

He could not answer that. He had sworn to fight to the last. And he had an endless bag of tricks.

The Goblin King came for him again, a single-minded attacker, as the Dragons flew up again. The Halfling saw one flying back down the pass, clearly intending to take cover amongst the cliffs.

A shadow passed overhead. The Halfling looked up, sling ready—

And saw the Harpy Queen diving down towards him.

[The Harpy Queen’s Dive]. He drew his shield, which had blocked the Dragonlords’ flames effortlessly, pivoting to set himself. She’d break her own body from the force of th—

“[Royal Will: Unstoppable Impact].”

His eyes went wide, and an unstoppable force met his shield—which was not an immovable object. Only—close.

Pain, a broken bone he hadn’t felt since he’d taken this charge. Slashing of his sword—cutting her talons off—until she retreated, screaming, trying to heal her severed claws. The Halfling rose, and a bee the size of a cow slammed into him.

A stinger jabbed at his armor—he kicked the bee skywards, then picked up his shortsword he’d dropped.

Then there were flying creatures. Everywhere. Biting at him, tearing—Flying Antinium, a duck, mosquitoes the size of dogs with proboscises so sharp they pierced rocks when they stabbed—

The Halfling began to stab at a gigantic creature that landed in front of him, and he stared at the oversized sparrow.

The Goblin King cleaved through the creatures without hesitation or remorse, but the Halfling hesitated.

They were just creatures. He beheaded the sparrow as it pecked at him. His sling sang bitterly, and he searched for the Harpy Queen. Kill her and they’d leave, perhaps.

This wasn’t a fun battle, for all he fought with smiles and pranks. That was just to annoy his opponents. The Goblin King wanted a battle of legends. So did the Harpy Queen. They got a Halfling with a sling, whose mocking smile was the last thing tyrants and demigods had ever seen.

He had that pipe in his mouth again, and this time, he blew a cloud of smoke that had the Goblin King and the Dragonlords retreating. Straight at the Harpy Queen.

She laughed at him, and then, to the Slingblade’s horror, pointed a wing.

 

——

 

The deathly smoke erased everything it touched. A stream of pure annihilation.

Empress Sheta pointed her army forwards, and they dove into it. The creature in front was the last of the giant Face-Eater Moths. The massive creature, even larger than Teriarch, vanished as it took the cloud head-on, and half its swarm went with it. But they were so big—

The Halfling finished blowing smoke and pulled something from his pockets. He threw a burning firework that multiplied into a hundred thousand explosions, and the Harpy Queen screamed.

“Forwards! Don’t let the foe escape!”

Ashfire Bees blazed like dying suns as they hurled themselves forwards through the barrage. The Halfling’s sling was singing now; enchanted stones crashed into the oversized creatures with bodies as tough as Mithril, felling them by the hundreds.

They were a flight of millions, and they fell on the Halfling and Goblin King, vanishing with each Skill the latter used.

It didn’t matter. Bite them. Kill them. Claw them to death.

The Harpy Queen was flying up, up—and in her wake, a bird from the primordial ages answered her. A champion. A transformed [Witch].

Mavika. Next came the Wyvern Lord, howling down from the mountains, and something even larger. A shrieking—the Harpy Queen gazed up.

“What art thou? A horror of ice and snow? Strike him.”

The howling wraith-thing wasn’t even entirely visible. It was ice and air, so frozen that the warmer temperatures down below were killing it. But it came for the Goblin King, freezing him and piercing his armor with a hundred thousand fangs of air.

He tore it apart as the Wyvern Lord slammed down on top of him, howling until the Goblin King kicked him off. The Halfling had thrown another miniaturized black hole and was loading his sling with more. Dozens of them ate away the swarm besieging him—Sheta curved away from one such shot meant for her.

Mavika’s winged form dove towards the Halfling, and he flicked one of those deadly stones up at her. She curved—and caught the orb in her hat.

It vanished, and the giant bird grabbed the Halfling, clawing and pecking, until he sliced through her stomach and sent her shrieking away.

The Goblin King was howling in outrage, wasting his energy against her army. But the Halfling…Sheta circled, eyes on him. He was taking aim at her, whirling that sling-staff. She screamed a challenge as she came around for another pass with a thousand Flying Antinium on the assault.

 

——

 

The Halfling twirled his sling, his face grave and distressed. No longer smiling as the stone flashed in his sling with every color of the rainbow and more.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he spun. His free hand lashed out, the same fist that had thrown a Dragonlord.

The [Witch] caught it. Her feet didn’t even budge. The Halfling blinked and pivoted.

Witch Hedag punched the Slingblade off his feet, then charged forwards, swinging her hands as he stumbled. He recognized her in her brown robes as she lifted a brawler’s hands.

“You—”

Her right hook snapped his head around, and he blocked a punch to his chest. So she kicked him. The Halfling stumbled and jumped. His kick to her chest made her grunt, but it didn’t launch her off her feet.

How…? 

Her hat was trembling with all the magic of the [Witches] in it. The Hedag rushed the Halfling again, without any of the Goblin King’s Skills or insane strength. Just the weight of a woman who’d brawled in every village with no name.

Just like him. Wanderer. Lawbringer. Slingblade—

Hedag. Her third punch caught him straight on the eye, and he swore in a tongue she didn’t know, letting go of his slingblade and putting his fists up. He kicked off the ground and headbutted her hard enough to send both flying a dozen feet away, but she rolled and slammed a leg onto his back. Grabbed him and slammed him into a stone as they rose.

Pain. The grit of stone into his back. The bruising of flesh—sympathy magic.

“Witches.”

He caught her fist with both hands, grunting, and she just swung the other into his face, again and again, until his head rang like a bell. He forced her back with a kick and drew his shortsword, but it twisted in his grip.

“[Let’s Settle This With Fists], Slingblade.”

He staggered upright, surprised by the weakness of his legs. The Halfling felt at his face, then inspected his gloves. The magic was still working—he narrowed his eyes at Hedag.

“—You should be dead. These gloves could throw a Giant. How are you able to hit me?”

“What sort of [Witch] would I be if I could not take anyone to task? I judge you, you judge me. [We’re All Equals On the Ground].”

What a smile she wore, gap-toothed and fearless. The Halfling felt weak and thought it was magic, at first. But then he realized it was just his fists. They didn’t want to clench together.

“I don’t want to hit you. Don’t—”

Too late, she rushed him again. He tried to leap—and she grabbed him and hurled him into a boulder. Charged in, fist swinging, ignoring the punches that broke her nose again and rattled her teeth.

Her hat. He grabbed for it, trying to rip it off her head. She was bleeding, an executioner’s smile on her face. The merciful judge, the last Hedag taking the final Slingblade to account.

“Why me?! Why not the Goblin King?”

“I can’t judge him. That one will never change. But you? Look me in the eyes, Slingblade. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re proud!”

He headbutted her instead. Trying to break her gaze, which fixed him like an arrow of bright, brown scorn. She drew her own head back, and both collided at the same time. Then she smashed her head into his as they locked together, blood running down from her forehead, those maddening eyes still glowing.

Proud? He launched her off with another kick, swearing. Running from her—until she tackled him. Snarling, Gailant raised a fist and had an image of himself putting a hand on the shoulder of a drunk Slingblade with that same smile on his face. Who stops the Slingblade?

“Get away from me.”

His hands finally tore the brown hat open, and she stumbled. The Halfling leapt away from Hedag, breathing heavily. When Hedag rose, he threw a jab as she aimed a right hook at his face.

A tap from his gloves knocked her flat and broke her bones all the way down to her shoulder. She groaned and lay there as he stepped back, relieved, panting. The Halfling cast a look around for the Goblin King. He reached for his sling and halted as Agratha cursed and leapt back, hands reaching for his ammunition pouch. Then he turned his head.

“Stay down or I will have to kill you.”

Hedag was on her feet, blood running from her brows, arm hanging limp. She strode forwards as his sword cleared its sheath. No Skills to stop him, no craft in her ruined hat. Her curled hair was matted with blood and dirt, and her eyes never blinked.

“I can’t stop you, Slingblade. Never could. So strike true and live with it, proud little man. Blade ‘a Elves. Show me that smile and slide the blade in deep!”

She screamed in his face, spit flecking his cheeks, and he recoiled from that smile like a falling axe and her breath, which smelled like peppermint. The Halfling hesitated and looked up at the green moon.

He didn’t move. Hedag lurched forwards, and the Halfling froze—then saw her eyes roll up in her head. She collapsed forwards and lay on the ground, a slumped woman with a brown hat crumpled up on the ground.

Panting, the Halfling backed away from her. He only reacted when a shower of glowing spells flashed towards him; he parried them and saw two pointed hats coming his way.

A pair of [Witches] darted down, and the Halfling reached for his slingstaff with regret.

They’d heard everything—the truth as well. They also had to be dealt with. He cursed the Elves as he hesitated. Then reached for a stone to at least wipe their memories…

Stone…?

The Halfling’s hand felt at his side. He glanced down—then spun.

His ammunition. A tip-toeing [Witch] froze, then sprinted away through the army of flying insects, shouting.

“Burn it! Burn—”

Witch Agratha threw the pouch she’d stolen off the Halfling, and one of the Teriarchs opened his mouth and exhaled. The Halfling aborted his lunge for the bag and took c—

 

——

 

The Grand Design closed the rip in reality before it swallowed more than a five-foot radius. It had no brows to wipe, but—

That was close.

 

——

 

“—Should have died. Are you insane?”

Witch Thallisa caught Agratha, carrying her upwards, and the [Teacher] shrieked at her.

“I told you, I only teach pickpocketing! He’s out of ammunition!”

It was true. The Halfling kicked a stone up and whirled it into his sling, and the rock tossed one of the Teriarchs back, but he was out of his army-killing munitions.

Weapons from the dawn of time! Gone! Thallisa cursed as they flew over the Goblin King, but Agratha just panted.

“No one needs weapons like that. They’d just try to take it from us. Now, be a dear and take us out of this damn battlefield, would you? We’ve done all we can.”

All the [Witches] were falling back, out of craft and out of second chances. All save Witch Pebblesnatch, who was brewing up a feast in a cauldron for Empress Sheta’s army. The [Witches] flew back behind her as the Harpy Queen landed with her Dragons.

The Halfling seemed resigned to his loss of ammunition, oddly unmoved by the loss of his greatest weapons, but he remained ready to fight. Yet the Goblin King just stood there, even as the army fell back.

Tired.

How many more tricks? How many more twists to this battle? He was winning; everyone else was losing their strength. Dying. But he…wanted this battle to end now. It had to.

His will would not break, but impatience was a crack in his determination, baiting him into rushed, careless attacks to end it all. The [Witches] could feel his frustration, his endless rage and hatred and willpower that made him so indomitable.

…And something else. Thallisa’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Agratha a significant glance as the [Teacher] whispered.

“He’s never had courage before. Not in all the stories across all his many forms. How can someone above every foe have courage?”

“That’s because it’s not him.”

Then they heard the Harpy Queen scream as that tiny flame grew brighter. The [Witches] decided to fly further away.

 

——

 

Empress Sheta shrieked with a bloodlust that shocked the true Teriarch as she landed. Her severed talons’ digits were regrowing as she gave him a fierce glower.

“Neither will die! That Halfling—how is he able to fight like that?”

Her army was barely scratching him, and despite all their efforts, he was holding his own as well as the Goblin King. The original Teriarch pointed a weary claw skywards.

“The moon. I’m afraid we’re facing a warrior sent by the Elves.”

Sheta’s eyes went round, and her head rose as she recalled their explanation. Even so, she did a double-take at the round orb in the sky.

“Is he one, then? Or a thousand if this one falls?”

“I think it’s just him. It had better be, but he might just come from it again even if we best this version of him. Just as the Goblin King is eternal even if we kill this incarnation of him. At least this damn body will die.”

It was all too possible the Halfling could just be…re-summoned. Teriarch didn’t know if that was a function, but he’d put it into an enchantment if he were the Elves. However, he doubted the Halfling had ever lost a battle before.

There was a bitter taste in Teriarch’s mouth at the thought of all this. He, of all beings, had no right to say it, but dead gods. Truly immortal or eternal beings had no right to exist.

The Harpy Queen’s head craned back, and she blinked at the green moon. Her fierce, bloody gaze softened, and Teriarch saw in her the desperate child she’d been.

The girl who wanted to make a lasting difference in the world, the truest heir to his ideals. She had sewn the bitter seeds of what she thought was a better world, watering them with her blood and that of her people. What did she think of this world?

One good, lasting deed. The wish that Magnolia Reinhart had, but he could not remember her. The Dragonlord wanted to tell Sheta to flee, to leave this to him—the Goblin King and Halfling would fall, even if he had to detonate his entire treasury.

Then her expression became one of relief.

“Ah, that will do. A fitting legacy for me. Dragonlords, my champions—destroy that moon.”

The other Teriarchs not fighting for their life turned to her. The real Dragonlord felt his mouth open.

“—What?”

“Destroy. The. Moon. Yonder Halfling is clearly made of magic. Shatter the moon to pieces and he loses his ability to come from it. And it frees us to discuss these dead gods. The world must know the threat. Regardless if it empowers them! Do it!”

The Empress of Wings pointed up, and one of the Teriarchs made an incredulous noise. But then another spoke.

“—Of course. It’s so simple. All I have to do is…”

One of the Teriarchs from a world where he’d fled into the [Palace of Fates] with all his hoarded treasures was cut badly from the Goblin King’s blades. Snarling—desperate—and angry enough to do what the original had done.

He slapped his tail, and a portal spell opened, revealing a treasury far more complex and ornate and—organized—than any other Teriarch possessed. The Hoarder Teriarch spoke, and a thousand Arrows of Annihilation floated around him.

A thousand. Dead gods! The original Teriarch had only had a hundred some, which he’d used long ago! But the Hoarder Teriarch was adding spell scrolls, more enchanted arrows—so many that an army’s worth of weapons just floated overhead.

“I am the Dragonlord of Riches, and I am done fighting you, you creation of spells! If you want to torment me across these aeons—then take this!”

He flew up, roaring, and the Goblin King raised a throwing axe, then lowered it. The Halfling turned, slashing down an army of Face-Eater Moths trying to literally smother him to death, and saw the Dragon flying.

He grimaced and did nothing to stop the flying Dragon. Which struck the original Teriarch as instantly bad. He didn’t know why, and Sheta was distracted.

“Teriarch, when did you collect so many—”

She began, and the real Dragonlord roared upwards.

“Stop! It’s a trap! Abort!”

The enraged, self-styled Dragonlord of Riches didn’t care. He had been chanting spells the entire way, trying to get the sheer velocity and momentum required to hurl his ball of ammunition skywards and actually reach the moon.

In theory, it was eminently doable. He just had to breach the stratosphere and the momentum would carry the projectiles the rest of the way. That was how the first Dragonlord of the Void had made his three-year trip. He’d been flying so damn fast at the end that he’d nearly ripped the stratosphere apart on re-entry or rotated the entire world a few feet on impact. Which would have…well—

The Teriarch of Hoards unleashed half of his entire collection of ammunition skywards in a roar. He actually detonated a third of the lesser arrows and scrolls as propulsion, and the rest of it was just a direction spell and a bubble to collect the ammunition.

The original Teriarch stared up as a kind of magical rocket-bubble shot skywards, roaring upwards at a speed he could barely fathom. Insanity! A lifetime of treasures just—probably half of Khelt’s entire treasuries fired at the moon! A tenth, at least!

Everyone not fighting stared upwards for a moment. Tracing the glowing streak of light headed skywards until it was tinier than a pinprick of light. The Teriarch of Hoards hovered there, panting. Eyes on the moon.

Then—there was the tiniest flare of light. The moon, already a coin in the sky, developed a minute bloom of multicolored light. There for a moment—gone the next.

That was all. Sheta and the original Teriarch gazed at the Dragonlord of Riches, and the Teriarch muttered to himself.

“Strange. That should have had enough magical force to crack the entire damn orb in half. Unless I miscalculated…? No, a hundred Arrows of Annihilation can break an island. And that’s exponentially multiplicative with…”

He didn’t glance at Sheta or Teriarch as he muttered to himself, in full excuses mode. That was why he was the only one who didn’t notice either the Halfling glancing up, with a bitterly wry expression on his face—or the moon slowly changing.

The green glow of one of the moons hanging over the world was serene, beautiful. An unmarred construct, unlike the blue moon, which had a few scars. Interesting fact, that. You could see some damage to the blue moon, a crater where the Dragonlord of the Void had allegedly landed, a scar caused by a certain [Blademistress of Ancients]—but the green moon was a perfect orb. Almost, you might think—

Like an illusion spell. Now, the green glow intensified, and the Dragonlord and Harpy Empress stared up. Sheta’s warlike expression turned uncertain. Then she eyed Teriarch.

“No. They wouldn’t have—”

He tried to throw his bad wing over her, then roared.

“My cave!”

He ran, and the Empress of Wings flapped forwards—looked up—and the Dragonlord of Riches finally noticed the moon was glowing. His head snaked upwards, and he murmured.

“Ah. I—”

The green moon pulsed, light collecting along its surface, but the Dragonlord of Riches didn’t understand. To him, it merely looked like the center of the moon became intensely bright.

 

——

 

—To the watching people who saw the moon glow, it was like watching liquid spilling down around the edges of the moon. Then they saw a streak of light shoot down from the moon, into the High Passes.

Those close enough and on the same continent or at sea saw the High Passes flash, but felt no shake. The [Sailors] standing on the sides of their ships headed for the New Lands saw the moon glow. Then more magic pooling downwards.

It fired again.

 

——

 

The first beam of light was exactly as wide around as the Dragon it struck. His entire body flashed, and he fell. When he struck the ground, he lay there, on his side, before he tried to move.

“My—my word. I think I made a mistake.”

His head rose, and the Goblin King stared at the Dragonlord of Riches. The Dragon’s flesh was red and raw. He…

His scales. The ray of light had disintegrated every scale on his body. Two smoldering pits had replaced his eyes, which hadn’t been shielded from the spell.

He was still alive. That was what astonished the Halfling. The warrior would have thought that nothing in this world could have survived that attack. The Dragonlord of Riches tried to stand, to fly—but his wings were just burnt frames of flesh. He cast around, blind. His voice rasped.

“The moon? So they hid their plans up there. Disgraceful. They should have left this world to us. The same with the gods.”

He said it to no one, to everyone. The Halfling flinched.

The second beam of light struck the Dragon, and he vanished. It left no crater, save for the one the Dragon had created in his fall. Only—teeth, fragmented, the remainder of claws, and some brass residue. The hardest parts of his body.

The four Dragonlords of Flame, including the original Teriarch and Empress Sheta, looked up. The moon began pulsing again.

“Dodge!”

The Harpy screamed, and they scattered. Even the Goblin King. None of them would survive that. The ray of light annihilated everything. Magic. Flesh.

Even the soul. The Halfling wondered why the Elves had not simply made it fire on the dead gods. But perhaps it was useless without flesh.

They were so hard to kill.

His sling cracked, and the Harpy Queen screamed as one of her wings lost feathers. She landed hard, and another Dragonlord raised his wings over her. He made no sound at all.

 

——

 

“—Teriarch?”

The Archmage of Scales lowered the ruin of his wings to the ground as Sheta looked up. He’d sheltered his eyes from the deadly light. He grinned at her, scales ripped from his body.

“We almost triumphed again, my dear. Victory and dignity.”

He bowed one broken wing, as the other Dragonlords landed around him. Three. Beach Teriarch, Creler Wars Teriarch, and the original.

No—four. Superhero Teriarch was holding himself together, a cloud of smoke and dust. His voice rasped.

“We have underestimated the Elves. We must sacrifice ourselves to take the Goblin King out with us. We cannot best the Halfling.”

The Archmage of Scales looked up, slowly, as steam rose from his naked flesh. His eyes focused on the moon. The pedantic, fussy Dragon who’d become a teacher of Wistram spoke.

“[Time Slow].”

He cast a domed spell around the Dragonlords as Sheta’s army fought the Goblin King and Halfling—but all they were doing was buying time. The Dragonlord gazed up at the hypnotic orb as more mana from the moon coalesced, building to another deadly ray of light.

“Fifteen point six seconds, then twenty-two point two nine. Then thirty-three and four, which then shall become fifty-two point six seconds to the next beam. I calculate an exponential increase in the time it takes the moon to fire. It will take eighty-eight seconds after that—then a hundred and fifty-seven seconds. Then three hundred—sadly, by the time it reaches an interval of acceptable margins, we will all be dead. Me, first.”

“Do you have a plan?”

The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars saw how deep the ray of light had burned the Archmage of Scales. Even if he survived this battle—was the light poisonous? His very bones were visible underneath the scarred flesh. And after the Archmage of Scales, who next? The Creler Wars Teriarch feared it was him—and he was trying to figure out how to pin the Goblin King to take them both out.

He didn’t want to die. But they’d all reached that place that the original Teriarch had already found. The warrior who had accepted his death if it was necessary.

The Archmage of Scales more than any other. His eyes fixed on the moon, and he breathed softly, despite the agony coursing through his voice.

“…Marvellous, really. It must have so many spells for no one to pay attention to it. Even the Dragonlord of the Void didn’t remember it. An ideal place to post a sentry spell. I disagree with what our other self said. It is something I wanted to make, you know.”

He was rambling, using his [Time Slow] spell to talk. The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars shook his head. He was dying—they had to do something.

“To impress the world where you became Archmage of Scales?”

The other Teriarch eyed him disapprovingly, and the Archmage of Scales spread his ruined wings, grinning.

“Yes. It was vain, and I desired power. But I was trying to make, well, miniature [Gardens of Sanctuary]. Terra-bubbles, I called them, after the Earthers. Miniature worlds that produced food, where you could hide from attackers. Something to give to people. Children, families in the face of war. I know it would only be a collectible of the rich at first, but perhaps, if magic proliferated to the extent that everyone had it, perhaps everyone would simply be harder to harm. It is not about the heights to which one individual may reach—but how high the lowest person in a society may rest.”

The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars looked at the Archmage of Scales, struck silent. He who was the ashamed Teriarch that had gone to war only after the Dancer had sacrificed herself to goad him into action.

One of them had tried to make something to halt the meaningless despair that drove them to hide each and every time. Flawed though he was—the Archmage of Scales spoke.

“The spell that powers this attack is exceedingly complex. We could not fly to the moon nor teleport there, I suspect, and there is no avoiding or blocking it that I can fathom with the limited time we have. What we do have is a wealth of magic.”

He meant the dead Teriarchs’ hoards and their own they’d taken with them. The Creler Wars Teriarch shook his head, feeling as if he was the far more slow one.

“You saw our peer firing his treasures at the moon. The damage was not commensurate with the amount of magical power he sent. My guess is that the moon might suppress even Tier 8 magic. Possibly…even Tier 9 magic would be greatly reduced.”

“My assumption as well, and the Elves doubtless have a self-repairing spell. I would. To stop the moon, we would need one blow sufficiently devastating to destroy or damage it long enough for this battle to conclude.”

“…Impossible. We can’t even kill the Goblin King.”

The armored figure was watching them, perhaps aware that the Teriarchs were trying to stop his annihilation as well. Beach Teriarch spoke up.

“Ah. I understand. But who?”

The other Teriarchs gazed at each other. They turned to the Archmage of Scales, and he bequeathed them with a slight, superior, sad smile.

“Me, of course. I daresay I don’t have long…the answer is simple. It is our signature attack. More than Dragonbreath or our flight, I daresay. There is only one object that can bypass even the magic of Elves. Survive even their most devastating spell. And—with the mass to do enough damage if accelerated at the right speed.”

He meant…them. The Dragonlords eyed each other.

“Madness. We couldn’t reach the moon.”

“There are four of us with our lifetimes’ worth of collected magic. One of us must go.”

The moon was growing brighter. The Archmage of Scales cut short any debate, any hesitation, as he closed his eyes.

“I am already wounded. This is a folly of magic. I will do it. Send my bones through the moon. Besides—”

He cracked open one cerulean eye.

“—One of you would probably get the spell wrong and miss.”

The other Dragonlords stood there, as they had many times. Warriors faced with certain death, each one ashamed not to step forwards as the true hero did what he saw needed doing.

Hero? Heroes were the ones who died first.

The Archmage of Scales began chanting. There was no time to argue. The moon was growing brighter. The others saw what he was doing and began tracing the spell circle, adding their magic. One of them opened the Dragonlord of Riches’ hoard and began burning up everything inside. Fuel for a ritual that was quite simple, just math and straightforwards calculations—but powered with all the magic of multiple worlds.

It was insanity, but the moon was about to fire. Maybe it already was; it was so damn far away the beam of light could be travelling towards them at—the speed of light.

Unless it was even faster than that. All the Teriarchs were adding their mana to the spell, burning artifacts, but Beach Teriarch saw the flaw in the plan.

“He doesn’t have enough scales. He’ll shatter even if he hits the moon. His scales are gone.”

The Archmage of Scales hesitated. He was indeed stripped of the same hardness that could crack the world. A note of despair entered his eyes. Until Superhero Teriarch’s head snaked around.

“…No. It can be done. It will. If one Dragon fails, send two.”

He wanted two to go on a suicide mission? The other Dragonlords recoiled—until they saw what he was gazing at.

A crater in the destroyed pass. Half-buried from the avalanches of stone cascading down. A glint of gold.

The Teriarch who’d sacrificed himself to drag the Goblin King there. The Archmage of Scales breathed in.

“—Yes. Bring him here. Quickly.”

The [Time Slow] bubble expanded as Beach Teriarch and the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars dragged the corpse of themselves into the spell circle. The Archmage of Scales laid a gentle claw on the head of the limp Brass Dragon.

“I never thought this is how I’d die. I suppose that’s the beauty of it.”

His eyes shimmered with wounded amusement, and his burnt lips moved back in a rueful grin. None of the other versions of him could meet his eyes. But a female voice spoke, agonized.

“Teriarch. What are you doing?”

He’d kept the [Time Slow] spell from her on purpose. But the Empress of Harpies had made her way into the bubble. She halted, breathing hard, as the Archmage of Scales turned to her.

“Sheta my dear—we are terribly old monsters, aren’t we? We enjoy the hum of our blood, the sense we are needed, but we’ve grown so afraid in our age.”

He grinned at her, his eyes shimmering with tears. Then he took a quavering breath. He gazed up and spoke.

“For me, for us—will you rage one last time? Show that damn Halfling what our world has created, and that Goblin King. But then, you have to go. Go and live. I should have never told you there was a right way to do things. I’m sorry.”

He spread his wings, and the [Time Slow] spell ended. Sheta cried out, a single scream, and the Archmage of Scales nodded to the others. They bowed to him.

The glowing moon began to pulse.

The Archmage of Scales activated the spell. His head snaked around, and he took in the world around him, every piece of stone, the faces of his many selves, the distant [Witches], Sheta…and the Halfling.

Of all the beings here, he had feared the Halfling would stop him, despite the [Time Slow] spell. After all, he was the warrior of Elves.

He was standing there, unaffected by the time magic. Just…watching the Archmage of Scales. His sling was in his hand, and the Dragon’s eyes opened wide.

No. Please—

Then he saw what the Halfling was holding. A broken piece of brown leather with a pointed tip, torn open. A [Witch]’s hat. The Halfling whirled his slingstaff and shrugged.

Out of ammunition. He looked up, and the Archmage of Scales sighed. Then he closed his eyes.

The ritual spell fired first. There was no tearing of air. No pull of the Dragon leaving at a speed none of them could fathom. He ascended in a way cleared for him, a void without friction or particles, or they would have caught at him and ripped him asunder.

A Dragon flying with a grin on his face into the last creation of Elves. These beings he’d been told were so flawless, so infallible, so good—well, they hadn’t been perfect after all.

Take this.

 

——

 

It took longer than a minute for them to see anything happen. To them, watching at the mere speed of light, they just saw the moon begin to pulse, then nothing. The glow built and built, and Beach Teriarch shielded Sheta with his wings before he saw the true reaction.

The Halfling. He stopped fighting and swinging his sword at the flying creatures besieging him, putting a hand to his head. The Halfling felt at his brows, and a bit of blood and grime smeared across the skin of his forehead.

He touched his flesh, wrinkled his nose as the creatures around him suddenly smelled him, a strange odor clinging to his clothes—and the Halfling looked up.

“Ah. It’s over.”

His voice was distant, and he stood there as the flying creatures, the Goblin King, the Dragonlords, and the Harpy gazed up.

After one minute and three seconds, the building glow abruptly went out. The moon flickered and cracked.

The smooth surface of the green moon vanished. A slightly darker green appeared, no longer uniformly perfect, as if there was a roughness or gradient to the moon—just for a second—then a crack split across the surface of it.

It reached from past the top to almost halfway down. One of the Dragons made a sound—and the moon’s magical glow flickered and went out.

It hung there, still shining with celestial light. Still…intact. But now, visibly, cracked. The Dragonlord of the world of better days whispered.

“Mother. I’m sorry. We had to kill the moon.”

His head turned and bowed. Then he swivelled around, and his eyes found the Halfling gazing in astonishment at the Dragons who’d broken a piece of the stars. Beach Teriarch’s voice rose softly.

“I’m sorry, Grandfather that I never knew, Mother. We must also slay the last Halfling of old.”

He spread his wings, and they faced him. The wounded original Teriarch, body broken, spirit not. The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars, who roared a challenge at the Goblin King. The Teriarch who had known Better Days, eyes locked on the Halfling, and the swirling Dragonlord of Dust who had been told the world still needed heroes.

The Halfling was bleeding.

Real blood from his real body. No salvation if he was killed, no immortal watch. The blood was coming from his eyes. He wept bloody tears at them and smiled. He looked up at the broken moon he’d failed to defend, and his smile was proud.

“At last. My watch is over. I was always meant to hold the truth until I was bested. I do not know if you are ready. But this world is yours.”

He lifted his sword and saluted them. Then he turned to the Goblin King and beckoned. The lone Goblin, that immortal figure who had shaken the world with his return…he gazed at the Halfling, then up at the moon, now broken above him.

No longer did the Goblin King feel as though he stood at the center of the world. He lifted a hand as the Halfling came at him. The two warriors raised their swords and traded one blow—then two.

The first meeting, blade-to-blade, had the Goblin King’s sword shattered. The Halfling swung his sword, and the Goblin King ripped his armor apart with all of his rage. His exhaustion, a desire for an end. 

No more. End it now.

He sundered the Elves’ magic—and then, as the Halfling recoiled, the Goblin King tried to take the warrior’s arm off. But he was so tired—the Halfling merely stepped back, smiling ruefully. His gaze was aimed up—the Goblin King felt that familiar presence.

The Harpy Queen struck them both, and the High Passes shook with her final dive. She crushed the Halfling against the ground, and he groaned, a blade impaling one talon.

The Goblin King ripped another one off her foot, and she convulsed as he kicked her onto her side. He met a roaring Teriarch, and the Dragonlord held him aloft, breathing flames over him until he broke the claw apart and hit the Dragonlord hard enough to dent in the flesh around his skull.

Another lanced him with magic, and the Goblin King drew close enough to stab the Dragon in the throat, coppery blood covering him. He took a step as the whirling Dragonlord made of dust and willpower faced him—and swung a hand to rip apart the remains of this Dragon.

He…failed. His arm wouldn’t move. Instead, his other hand came up, palm out, and his lips spoke.

“Wait.”

The voice was not the Goblin King’s. The weary soul of the First Goblin tried to pull the hand down, tried to speak—but he could not.

That hand took his again. That spark of defiance that refused to die.

“You again. You can’t beat me. I won’t die.”

Not even from this. The Goblin King felt Rabbiteater’s soul holding onto his arm, fighting for control. The Goblin King was exhausted, wearied by invoking the Skills and twisting reality to move. And—that’s what he had been waiting for.

The survivor. The owner of the body. The [Champion], who had bided his time.

Rabbiteater the Traitor. The Goblin King took one step, then stumbled as the Dragon of dust and winds snarled. He lunged, fangs biting, and both Goblins dove right, rolling to their feet. One of them wanted to rip the Dragon apart. The other wanted to hold the hand out.

They wrestled, and the weary Goblin King won. He always did. He raised a shaking hand and swiped at the Dragonlord, who drifted apart and rematerialized. But his arm jerked and trembled; the dust Teriarch noticed it.

“Hm.”

He stopped attacking, eyes narrowed, and heard the Goblin King speaking to himself.

“For this, I will return and kill them all. Your second Mrsha is already dead. You can’t protect anything.”

It was true. The Goblin King leapt and grabbed the Dragonlord made only of wind and air and his own indomitable spirit. He began to pull the roaring soul apart, and the Dragon of wind and dust spat a gale upwards, ripped at the armored figure with his claws made of razor-sharp air.

No good. The Goblin King’s hands never wavered. All the dust Teriarch managed to do was rip the mangled helmet off the Goblin King’s head. But the face underneath ignored the blasting sand and raging wind. He was smiling as he pulled harder.

A grin of wrath and destruction as another enemy fell. His eyes were shimmering red, such a soft glow, and the tears that ran down his cheeks dripped onto the bloody ground.

Tears. The Goblin King’s face grew confused as he registered the strange blurriness to his vision. He raised one hand, impatiently, to wipe them away.

“What are these things?”

He…didn’t remember. The being who contained so many Goblin lives stared blankly at the liquid on his hand, then reached down to pull the Dragonlord apart.

Nothing happened. His hands stopped again. That pestilential little spirit.

The Goblin King concentrated more of his will, pushing himself.

His hands—still wouldn’t move. Incredulous, he gave it his all. This wasn’t even one of Rabbiteater’s beloved people. He tried to move his hands, drawing on all that made him up. His anger. All their wrath, not just his.

—Only a fraction of it came. It was as if he was suddenly far weaker. The Goblin King reached for the other souls, calling for their support. He felt nothing. And then, another hand joined Rabbiteater’s and held him steady. Forced the Goblin King to let go.

Velan. Then another Goblin King lent their strength to the [Champion], and the original Goblin King understood.

“Traitors.”

“That’s what I’m good at.”

The weeping Goblin replied, and his eyes were still streaming the tears he hadn’t wept for fifteen years. He let go of the Dragon and stepped back. The Goblin King fought, but he realized the other Goblin Kings were in revolt.

 

——

 

They’d taken Rabbiteater’s side. So many of them. The Goblin King and the souls loyal to him were outnumbered by the other Goblin Kings who had joined Rabbiteater, lending their strength to him.

Or simply refused to give their strength to the original Goblin King, like Curulac of a Hundred Days. They sat or stood, souls facing the raging figure.

The Goblin King resembled a version of Rabbiteater worn by war, helmet and armor torn and ripped to shreds. He had forgotten what he looked like in his own soul.

“I am the wrath of Goblins. You have all felt my rage. Why here? Why now?”

Why him? He pointed an accusatory finger at the [Champion]. He was not noblest of them all, not the strongest in will, or even real. But the Goblin Kings backed the [Champion]. A weeping Goblin.

“Goblins do not weep. He is weak. He will ruin this chance.”

The silent figures had refused to answer him until now. Then a smile broke across their faces, and one of them laughed.

Sóve, the smallest of the Goblin Kings, threw back her head and laughed as she joined her will to Rabbiteater.

“That’s the silliest lie you tell, Goblin King. You wept when someone was nice to you. You just forgot. You get to be mad. You’re right to rage, I think. But not tell us what Goblins are. This Goblin might not even be real, but he probably is. And he has something better than you.”

She patted Rabbiteater’s arm as the [Champion] wiped at his eyes, and his head turned, seeking a distant memory, as he took control of their weary body. The Goblin King snarled, helpless.

“What can he offer you?”

Rabbiteater whispered.

“Something new.”

 

——

 

Then, at last, the Goblin King stopped. The dust Teriarch had returned to his feet and was prepared to keep fighting to the last. But he didn’t.

It could have been a ruse, the shaking arms, the speaking to himself. But the Goblin King that stood there was crying.

Tears.

That stayed the Dragon’s wrath. The Goblin’s face looked different now. He closed his eyes and took a breath, shuddering, and then looked at his hands. When his head rose, he felt different.

Smaller. Less powerful, but more solid. Sure of himself in ways the Goblin King was not. He had a weary strength about him, and his battered armor gleamed brighter. Less a second-skin of metal and more of a symbol. Something to believe in.

The Dragonlord of Dust inhaled, preparing to breathe flames. He smelled something, and his breath caught.

It smelled like…flowers. Spices. Worn floorboards, the tang of fruit, and cooking food. The spirit of the Dragonlord had no physical body left, but he still smelled it and felt a surge of nostalgia in his chest.

The smaller Goblin gazed up at him, and the Dragonlord of Dust, prepared to die, took a step back. This stranger hurt him far more than any blow or spell could.

He embodied Teriarch’s memory of sleeping under a vast wing. Childhood lost, never to come again and also never forgotten.

“Who…are you?”

“Rabbiteater. This battle is over, Dragonlord. The Goblin King is bested, for now. Don’t attack me, please. I have a way to end this stupid fighting.”

The swirling Dragon made of dust hesitated, and he bared his fangs, uncertain.

“One moment of treachery—”

“You know it’s me. I know what I have to do. You beat him. Now, it’s my turn.”

The Goblin King of Traitors’ body was broken beyond belief. Every muscle and cell had been destroyed and regenerated—but it was still his body. And he had will, twenty years of desperate helplessness.

One last chance.

He turned to where the Empress of Harpies was perching on her remaining foot, and the last two intact Dragons were fighting the Halfling into a corner. The Halfling was bleeding now, fighting defensively—his skin was being ripped by the mere bites of moths, the scratches of ducks.

He wasn’t some immortal being with skin like diamonds. Just…a Halfling gifted with a sword and sling. He had that weary smile on his face, almost relieved, as he fought. The Goblin King paused, gathering himself—then ran.

—Past the original Teriarch and the Beach Teriarch, through the swarm of flying creatures who he brushed aside, gently, with his aura. Even the Harpy Empress was brushed back by a vast arm. She recoiled and tried to strike at him, but then she wavered.

Either he was weary or he did it apurpose, because the Halfling was too slow to raise his blade. The Goblin [Champion] seized his arms, and the Halfling’s strength was nothing to the Goblin King.

“Ah, you’re not the same as him. Who are you?”

“Rabbiteater the Traitor. The Goblin King who fell. And you’re the Halfling. Gailant, the Goblin King called you.”

The Halfling was coughing, inhaling the smoke from the Dragonlords’ flames.

“No more. End it and then rest now, Goblin King.”

Rabbiteater shook his head slowly.

“What a bitter ending for us. You will die knowing the gods are back, and I will be part of him, even if my soul goes free.”

It was a bitter ending. The Halfling had chosen it seventy thousand years ago. But Rabbiteater had a better idea, though he’d only had five minutes. His hands tightened around the Halfling’s wrists, and then he lifted the warrior up.

The Halfling kicked him in the groin as he was hoisted up, and Rabbiteater grunted.

“Codpiece. Empress Sheta, I’m done. But the Goblin King is not. He never is. I have an answer.”

“Speak.”

She stood above him, weary and wounded, however temporary. She was gazing at the brave army of creatures who had been vaporized or sliced to pieces. At the place where the two Dragonlords had been. Her lust for battle was ended. She stood under the broken moon and listened as the monarch of Goblins who never had been allowed to rule spoke.

“Where…it feels silly to ask, but I am genuinely lost. Where is The Wandering Inn?”

Her eyes flickered, and a trace of suspicion crossed her face. But then they widened as she understood what he was thinking.

Stop. What are you planning? Don’t you see? We can best them all if you take my power. We can end this. The dead gods—the Halfling is on our side.

“He really is stupid. No one ever beat him up as a kid. The Elves just took his hand and gave him all the kindness. That’s bad parenting.”

Rabbiteater found it funny that that comment nearly gave the Goblin King the power to wrest control of his body for a second. The Halfling, Gailant, dangled from Rabbiteater’s grip and laughed softly.

“Neither one of us is fit for this time, Goblin King.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Gailant gave Rabbiteater a curious look—and the Goblin King saw Sheta spread her wings.

“Hm. That way. We will follow you. If you—”

“Yeah, yeah. [Like a Lion, He Leapt].”

The [Champion] crouched down and jumped—so fast and so high that the Harpy and Dragonlords scrambled to fly after him. They were used to the Goblin King’s Skills. But Rabbiteater—he was still pretty good.

He landed on an outcropping, jumped again—he kicked off a ledge, and then he saw that familiar bowl-like depression.

“Home. My inn. No time to get a drink.”

The Halfling was still in his grip, and he blinked at Rabbiteater.

“I won’t run. My end has come.”

“Sure. That’s what I’d say, then kick me in the balls and run for it.”

Rabbiteater saw the Halfling grin ruefully. He felt like—they would have made great friends in another life.

Alas.

 

——

 

The water sucked. Rabbiteater couldn’t run on it like the Goblin King, and all the bridges were broken. So he had to leapfrog from hill to hill. Towards the inn.

The Harpy Queen and Dragonlords beat him there, which stopped the people from trying to kill him. But they were ready.

Saliss of Lights. Lyonette. An old Moore—watchful, faces filled with fear or anger or just—determination.

Rabbiteater halted in front of them, and they drew back. But he was searching for the girl.

Mrsha. Roots Mrsha was in the [Garden of Sanctuary]—when he tried to go to the door, Lyonette blocked his path. He gently swung Gailant at her like an impromptu weapon. The Halfling stared at the [Princess]. She never took her eyes off Rabbiteater’s face.

“Sorry. I wasn’t strong enough before. Please let me go through. You know where I’m going. It’s the only answer. For us. For him. And this guy.”

He spoke to Roots Mrsha. He took a hand from the Halfling and tapped his face as their eyes fixed on him with recognition. That was a mistake. The Halfling drew his damn shortsword in a second.

Rabbiteater just sighed as the tip of the blade inserted itself into the taper of his neck. He addressed the Halfling, calm.

“I’m not him. But killing me does nothing. Can’t you hope for anything after a hundred thousand years? Didn’t the Elves trust us to succeed? Did they have to put a death-spell in the moon?”

He spoke to Gailant with a glower, and the Halfling hesitated. Roots Mrsha glanced between them, and then she wrote in the air with her wand and stepped aside.

Mister Halfling. I may not know much, but I know someone who doesn’t want more regrets when I see him. Is more violence the answer today?

Gailant hesitated, and the tip of his sword lowered.

“Where—are you taking me?”

The first Goblin King didn’t know either. That was the funniest thing. In his way, for all his powers and his determination, he was the least creative, least changeable being to ever exist.

He was almost there, and he was holding the Goblin King and his supporters back, but Rabbiteater was fighting for every moment. It was a battle he couldn’t afford to lose, so he was focused. Moving as fast as he could.

—But they were in his way. When he gazed at them, faces filled with suspicion and hostility, his knees buckled, and his heart…

Lyonette didn’t understand who he was. She knew he wasn’t the Goblin King, but her eyes were uncomprehending. The rest had worked it out. But that mother…

She held the box that could destroy so much in her hands, prepared to use it. She gazed upon the Goblin King without fear and then saw his eyes fill with tears again.

Tears as he gazed at her, Roots Mrsha, and then past them. A bright garden opened as the Goblin walked forwards, and she moved to bar his way.

The door had returned, despite being broken off its hinges. Lyonette saw the stranger stop at the entrance. But he merely put his hand out, feeling at the gap in the air. His fingertips passed across the threshold of the door, and he sighed. She started as he stepped into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Gently.

Then her eyes fixed on his face, and Lyonette finally recognized him, despite all the changes wrought by time and the first Goblin King. His smile was the same. Her hands trembled as they lowered the box, and she whispered.

“Rabbiteater?”

His will wavered. The Goblin King felt it and surged against Rabbiteater, but it was impossible to shake Rabbiteater. Yet his soul was trembling. The first Goblin King didn’t understand the paradox as Rabbiteater turned. He bowed his head to Lyonette.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop him until now. This is my doing. All of it.”

She said nothing as her eyes found a shroud of linen in the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Just like last time. Rabbiteater took a step forwards, and his legs faltered. He almost sank to one knee and turned away. Too afraid, too weak to go forwards. She stood with a terrible willpower beyond his.

“It was not your fault. It was a terrible world made for you. Can you…kill him? The real Goblin King, or whomever it is?”

“I’ll try.”

He whispered to her and nodded his head towards another door, waiting for him on the hill. Her eyes flickered, and she understood what he intended in a moment. She nodded and stood aside.

“Go.”

Rabbiteater nodded and walked past her. Then he stopped.

“Don’t let him become me. He comes out of you like every bad thing you’ve ever felt. Like every righteous anger—only he’s not. I didn’t even know it. I was reliving his life. Lost in his memories and every other Goblin King. When I realized what he had done—days had passed.”

Those blank eyes blinked. Lyonette’s eyes widened, and her eyes filled with a new emotion. Sympathy he didn’t deserve. She reached a trembling hand out and touched his cheek.

“I’m so sorry.”

That was all she said. A single sentence of grief for the world she held—the Goblin King of Traitors bowed to her for her generosity. Then he looked towards the new door that Roots Mrsha held open for him. Gailant had gone mercifully still as he and Lyonette talked. Rabbiteater whispered.

“This place breaks our hearts. It vanishes. But I keep coming back. I keep trying, because the inn took nothing from us. It’s where we live and die. It gave me so much I treasure. Tragedy, too. Lyonette, I still believe in miracles when I step through these doors. Don’t stop.”

She said nothing as he walked up that hill towards the door that led to the [Palace of Fates]. He saw the corridors falling to pieces through the door.

It, too, was breaking. Just like his body. Just like the moon and Gailant—well, the Halfling was actually in better shape than everyone else, just a bit beaten up.

The Goblin King was still not getting it.

The [Palace of Fates]? There’s nothing there. It’s broken.

“All but one door. Pawn’s still holding it open. The true [Champion] of his people. Come on. Sheta! I’m going!”

Rabbiteater called over his shoulder and didn’t wait for a response. He was bounding now, leaping like his namesake. He plunged through the doorway and into…

A fragmenting hallway. Gravity was failing. Pieces of the royal palace were flaking away into the void, but there was still enough of a corridor. A section of it had been cut away by the Maiden, but something was holding it more or less in shape.

The Grand Design.

Or perhaps just him.

Pawn. The [Apostle] stood between the door of that world, holding open the bridge between reality.

How heavy was it? How difficult? Rabbiteater didn’t know, but he was grateful. It allowed him to do this.

He started running, and Gailant made a sound. He searched around this place and then saw the door. He knew what it was.

“That’s—! You opened a door out of here? They should be closed! That’s not another part of this world! That’s another reality entirely!”

“I know.”

The Halfling tried to get free suddenly, and Rabbiteater began running. Down the long corridor, faster and faster. The Goblin King had finally caught on.

No!

He began fighting for control, desperately at first, then with all the force of his being, as if he were fighting for his life—and he was. Rabbiteater’s arms jerked, and he had to twist the Halfling to avoid Gailant cutting off an arm.

He couldn’t fight both of them at the same time. So the [Champion] snapped.

“Don’t you see? It’s how we stop him and you!”

The Halfling’s eyes widened. He stopped trying to cut Rabbiteater, but the Goblin King was fighting harder. Roaring in the depths of the Goblin’s soul. Afraid.

For the first time, truly afraid. More than he had been of the Halfling’s words. More than of the dead gods returning. He thought he had forever, but—what would happen if he passed through that door out of reality itself?

Rabbiteater had a feeling that it didn’t matter if his soul belonged to Hellste—that was a door out. And they were both going.

Gailant saw the plan, and he spoke, voice rasping.

“Let me go. I don’t need a way out.”

“And let you die? Don’t be stupid. Everyone needs a second chance. Some crazy [Innkeeper] taught me that. I won’t let go, and if you stab me, the Goblin King wins. Checkmate.”

Rabbiteater was running faster, sprinting at the door, and he saw the people on the other side drawing back. They had been waiting for stragglers—he had a feeling he wasn’t who they wanted.

“Stop. You’ll damn us both. I have to stop them!”

The Goblin King took control of his mouth, and Rabbiteater almost swerved—but the [Champion] was fighting the last battle. The most important one.

One victory. He had been helpless as the first Goblin King took everything from the people he loved and cut across this world. He had cost them so much, this foolish, weak son of the inn. But this…his voice rasped as he dug the tips of his boots in the soft marble, running faster.

“You’ve done enough. Come on. Let’s go on an adventure.”

They were moments away from the door now, and he was holding on to the Goblin King’s soul. Every Goblin King who’d joined him was doing the same, wrestling the amalgamation of souls. But the first Goblin King’s soul was—fragmenting.

That bastard was trying to leave! He was trying to return to Hellste, to start over again! Or to join the other candidate for Goblin King.

No! Rabbiteater tried to hold onto the Goblin King, but how did you hold onto the soul itself? He slipped out of the [Champion]’s grip—

And Pawn of the Painted Antinium seized hold with one of his four hands. The [Apostle]’s glowing eyes had found the Goblin King’s soul, and his hand could touch anything he believed in. He pulled, and the Goblin King howled.

“Well done, Rabbiteater. We should have been great friends.”

The Goblin King of Traitors grinned, a smile stretching over his weary, aged face, his grey hair shifting as he and the [Apostle] locked gazes. Then—he leapt through the door, pulling the Halfling and the Goblin King’s soul with him.

Reality stretched around him. He pressed against the confines of his world—like that invisible barrier that the [Palace of Fates] had simulated, but something far more infinitely thin and long. A step across reality itself into a new one.

The first Goblin King clung to their reality. Fighting to remain. Rabbiteater and Pawn pulled at him and sensed his soul tugging back into their world.

“Come on—please—”

Let me do something for this damn world! Rabbiteater twisted around, hand outstretched, trying to grab the Goblin King. 

No. Please, let me save something for her. One foe. One person’s life. I couldn’t even protect a child. He screamed as the first Goblin King slipped past him—and a hand grabbed Rabbiteater’s outstretched palm.

“Take me with you, brother.”

A soul broke away from the Goblin King, that mass of beings. A Goblin King gripped Rabbiteater’s hand.

The ghost of Velan the Kind. The [Healer] who had betrayed every oath and made war on Izril clung to Rabbiteater with the strength of, well, a [Healer]. And he was holding onto another Goblin King’s hand. And another.

They tore out of the Goblin King. All their Skills. Their levels. Their classes. Their courage and imagination. Each and every perspective that let him see the world anew. He was howling, demanding they return, trying to pull them back, but now it was more than one against less than eighty. Not just two or three.

More Goblin Kings joined them. Some remained. Spitting the same hatred and rage as the Goblin King, united in vision.

But there was Sóve, the Island Queen, who grinned, a merry smile.

“An adventure at last! What comes next?”

Two-thirds of the souls in the Goblin King tore out of him, and he screamed as he clawed his way back into the [Palace of Fates]. Weaker. So much weaker—but even more single-mindedly filled with hatred.

“No! You traitors! You’re abandoning everything! You…you should all understand. Why? Why?”

He howled—and then Pawn spoke.

The Apostle gazed at the flickering, rage-filled soul of the Goblin King and shook his head.

“Pathetic. You had a chance. [Marked for Hell]. Leave this place.”

The weight of his Skill dragged the Goblin King down, and the ghost vanished, the vow of his unending vengeance on his lips. Pawn turned his head and saw Rabbiteater stumble and land on the other side.

“Ah. Ahaha. I suppose that is better than the Goblin King being foisted on so many Erins.”

Pawn chuckled to himself, and then his head bowed. His arms wavered, and the [Palace of Fates] groaned, more pieces breaking away, as if this last battle had been the last death knell of it. The [Apostle] smiled as his arms shook.

“Well then. Last call.”

He waited for the ending. The Goblin King was dead.

The Goblin King was gone.

The moon was broken. The Halfling lived—but he stared back at the world he had loved and lived in all his life, and at the new one around him.

Then, there was only the Goblin Lord.

Well—Goblin Lords.

 

——

 

The savages never stopped coming. They had only sticks and stones and flickers of magic, but they threw themselves down the valley walls, over the broken stone, and tried to climb around the nine figures holding the pass.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations kept laughing as she scythed them down. She turned, and they died. And died—and kept coming. Nowhere to run.

Arrows struck the magical shields protecting the eight [Bodyguards] and Ragathsi’s position, and magic flickered in the face of the spells that reduced entire companies to ash.

She was still enjoying this. This war she had no right to—Chieftain Rags’ war. A life-or-death struggle against an impossible enemy. At last.

At last, she was that enemy, and Ragathsi couldn’t stop giggling.

One of the [Soldiers] firing in three-round bursts from behind one of the barricades jerked suddenly and then slumped over. Ragathsi turned, a healing potion in her hands—and saw an arrow piercing their helmet.

“High-level archer. There.”

She found the [Goblin Slayer] who’d fired the shot, and they vanished as one of her [Bodyguards] fired an explosive round. Then there were seven.

She didn’t even know…Ragathsi bent down and removed the helmet and saw a female Goblin’s face. Teeth bared. Snarling. The Goblin Lord raised a hand and pulled some of the heat from her roaring heart.

The body of her comrade vanished. Nothing for anyone to reanimate or loot. Ragathsi rose, and her eyes shone brighter. She swung her submachine gun up and held down the trigger.

“Thank you.”

 

——

 

They ran out of ammunition. The last magical clip fluttered down to the ground, and Ragathsi ejected the magazine, then tossed her submachine gun at a Garuda. She took the flier down; the idiot dodged, then tried to grab the weapon.

As if there was a way out where they brought it back to their city.

“[Airstrike: Everburn Fuel]. I’m out of bombardment Skills. Switch to close-ranged.”

Her voice was ragged now. Every Skill came hard, with effort. She had to force it past the hands trying to drag her down. Nations of enraged monarchs and leaders trying to bring her down, despite her warnings.

She pulsed fury back at them, trying to break their wills and scorch their souls. Her heart was still roaring, and it wouldn’t stop. Nor would she.

To the end. She’d known the moment she left her world how this would end.

Must end. The Goblin King…had a second candidate, even if his current body died. Unfortunately for him—Ragathsi touched the screaming core of flames in her chest.

“There’s no one who can fix my heart now.”

Her [Bodyguards] knew it too. And still, they followed her. Loyal fools. She loved idiots like that.

They knew how it would end, but nine measly Goblins versus a world? Versus an army of one of the Walled Cities? They would make it the hardest battle possible.

Show them something to make them hesitate. The cost. Run the butcher’s bill just a bit higher. It’s the only thing you’re good at. Come on. Come on—

“Prepare to engage.”

They drew weapons. Ragathsi had a simple sword, like the [Blademaster] sitting, waiting for his turn. Merely enchanted. Merely able to cut anything they wanted into pieces.

The others had enchanted axes, a poisoned spear—the [Master Gunner] kept firing from his position, conserving the last of his rounds.

Seven. No—six. Their [Mage] was dead. Ragathsi hadn’t seen him die. His robes were fluttering, and glowing ash blew into the sky.

Mana overload. Ragathsi searched around and didn’t see any enemy spellcasters. He’d burned them all out. She turned, and here they came. An army charging over the depression in the ground hollowed out by repeated explosions and filled with the bodies of their own.

Thirty thousand [Soldiers]? She’d just run out of ammunition, that was all. Ragathsi saw the [Blademaster] striding forwards. He raised his fist and turned the music up until she heard the beat. A song fit for dancing.

She held up a hand, and they let him go first.

 

——

 

A second [Blademaster] plunged into the ranks of the Drake companies, wearing a set of headphones blaring music. His sword was a traditional red, symbolizing the rank he had achieved in his world—a Redfang Blademaster’s proud crimson. Until it wasn’t red any longer.

It began to pulse, a dizzying rainbow of colors, and lights flashed around the Goblin as if he were at a rave of one. The music—deafening.

There was only one [Swordmaster] left to face him, but there were [Axe Champions], [Spearmasters]—the martial prowess of a Walled City. They streamed towards the lone [Blademaster] as he began to dance.

They called mastery of any weapon a dance, even if it didn’t always look like it. They meant move and countermove, the artistry of knowing how the blade could cleave anything. But also—it was a dance with the enemy.

When two masters met, they predicted each other, moved in reaction to the other’s style and Skills, and their own. A dance of two or a hundred—it was more than one person.

—Never had 2nd Army’s weapon masters met a [Blademaster] like the Goblin who grinned as he plunged deeper into the army. His dance was utterly, completely selfish.

He cared nothing for their techniques, what they were doing. He performed the techniques that pleased him, barely paying attention to their [Weapon Arts]. He fought to the rhythm of his own music.

His armor deflected a spear thrust, and the composite layers of magical technology absorbed the force of an axe blow—but still, the [Blademaster] staggered, turned, and cut down the [Axe Champion]. A [Daggermistress] leapt for his back, and the [Master Gunner] shot her through the chest twice.

The [Blademaster] never noticed. His sword slashed in every direction around him, then he leapt up, vaulting over the heads of the [Soldiers], sheathing the blade. His eyes found Redscar.

The greatest [Blademaster] of the Flooded Waters tribe was watching this warrior of the future. The musical [Blademaster] raised a delighted hand, then fell to earth. He turned the volume up louder, until it was the only thing he heard. Not the agony of his wounds.

One loud song he’d never been brave enough to get his Goblin Lord to listen to.

He hoped she liked it.

 

——

 

The music kept playing as the Goblin Lord charged. She ran into a line of spears, and the metal tips snagged on her armor; the holders were thrown back from the impact. Their spears snapped. She swung her sword, and her mechanical arm cleaved through armor and flesh.

Behind her, the [Master Gunner]’s rifle clicked empty. So he drew a pistol and came after her. Firing point-blank into faces.

They tried to kill her. She couldn’t dodge them, surrounded on all sides. She didn’t try. The Goblin Lord had a sword and an axe she’d seized from a dead Dullahan in her hand, and she swung them around, clearing space with sheer, uncaring strength.

She lost track of time. They were all around her, and she didn’t know how many she’d killed. She’d stopped counting years ago. They were there and they died. She didn’t care.

They were faceless, nameless soldiers. Fodder and she was the only thing that mattered anymore. Goblin Lord. Their blades dug into her flesh but barely scratched her. But her [Bodyguards]…

Four left.

She didn’t know who anymore. Nor how. The music cut off. But the thunder continued, too loud, too continuous to hear anything. What was making that sound? It was the bellow of industry, of a machine of fire and smoke screaming at the world, a cry from the future.

Oh. The Goblin Lord gazed down at the cylinder in her chest blurring with heat, glowing red-hot.

Her heart.

She’d never heard it so loud. It wouldn’t stop.

Two.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations came to a halt, and she stood, surrounded, heart roaring in her chest, blood drenching her body. She turned—and the explosion tossed bodies into the air.

“[Master Gunner]. Six years in the bodyguard, I think.”

Then it was just her. Ragathsi turned her smile on the [Soldiers], and they flinched back. She swivelled in a circle, then realized they were trying to see if she was faltering. If the blood from the wounds on her body or the smoking metal of her malfunctioning arm meant she was weakening.

“I haven’t felt so alive in decades.”

She ran into their ranks, blazing hotter. An inferno in her chest—and now she wanted something to quench the heat. Unbearable—unbearable—her chest was ripping apart—

 

——

 

The explosion was visible from Goblinhome’s walls, a torrent of heat and light that lit up the throng of [Soldiers] surrounding the roaring figure—then silence.

Goblins flinched back from the final, annihilating blast and cried out. They lowered their hands, shading their eyes, trying to see in the fading light what remained.

There were no cheers from 2nd Army. No counting how many were dead. Nations looked down upon the smoking crater where 2nd Army’s surviving [Soldiers] drew back.

Then the blazing Goblin leapt out of the crater and landed. Two burnt handles fell from her hands. She was naked, armor blown to pieces, her metal body glowing—a hole in her heart. A burning flame roaring in her chest.

Her innards had been blasted out of her body. The machinery of her right arm was broken. She had no…heart.

She shouldn’t have been moving, but the Goblin Lord of Civilizations did. She had no lungs to speak, but she willed it, and her voice manifested. The pulsing flame burnt in the hole where her heart had been. Magical flame. When she smiled, the roaring of the engine was echoing in her voice.

“Well Now. This Is A Pleasant Surprise. Run, Little Rats. I Haven’t Finished Sending You To Your Comrades.”

She strode forwards into a spear that plunged through the burning, orange flame in her chest. The speartip melted; the wooden haft of the weapon burst into flames. The Goblin Lord reached out and dug her claws through the [Soldier]’s head. Then looked around.

A weapon. She found a sword, and the army began to retreat. Tried to run—because what would they do?

Kill her twice? She had no heart. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations swept the glowing, red-hot blade through the backs of the fleeing [Soldiers].

All of them. As many as she could—a proper tribute to the eight Goblins. To her nation that had vanished in the blink of an eye. She reached for her heart and pulled a glowing fragment of it out—hurled it forward and strode through the burning bodies.

“Do You See Me, Nations? Nine Goblins Killed Your Army. I Am The Cycle You Made. We’ll Be Back. The King And I. Watch.”

She caught a fleeing Drake and lifted up the brave warrior as they tried to swing a sword into her neck. All the training, their levels—it was meaningless. The [Soldier] burnt to ash before they could even strike at her.

The Goblin Lord was breathing flames over hundreds of [Soldiers]. She turned her head towards Goblinhome, knowing they were still watching her. The Flooded Waters tribe were watching 2nd Army dying. Not a single one had tried to stop her. Fight—her? To save them?

No, not even the two Ragses. But someone had still come to save their people.

General Shirka was clinging to the side of the pink carriage shooting down the valley. She leapt, hatchets swinging for the Goblin Lord.

A whirl of blades as her destroyed army turned to their [General]. Ragathsi took a cut half through her neck, and the second blow—

Ragathsi caught Shirka’s arm, and the [General]’s armor began to melt. Shirka tried to slash the Goblin Lord’s arm. Ragathsi caught the other arm effortlessly, and the two headbutted each other at the same time.

The same instinct to war. But Shirka was the one whose head snapped back, dazed. She tried to break free. Ragathsi let her go, then her fist hit Shirka in the breastplate.

The [General] bounced off a rock two dozen feet away, spinning, hatchets flying. She landed, rolling, and Ragathsi’s foot stopped her. The Goblin Lord kicked General Shirka across the ground again.

She was on Shirka like a flash, and the [General] rose. The first punch from Ragathsi hammered her into the ground.

“Hello, Heroine. You Think You Can Stop Me? Just Because Rags Likes You? Ha-Ha. Come On. Try Harder.”

Shirka threw a punch that hit Ragathsi in what remained of her chest. The knuckles on her armor glowed red hot and smoked; the Goblin Lord punched her another time, and Shirka’s body rotated around—she hit the [General] in the chest and strode after her as she flew again. The army came to protect her. They melted as Ragathsi spat more flames over them.

Not her. No miraculous savior.

Not you. 

The [General] was getting up with that terrible fear in her eyes. A woman facing the undying monster. She drew a sword, and Ragathsi charged into her—halted as the sword slashed in a pristine arc.

Heh. Shirka’s eyes opened wide, and Ragathsi punched her straight up. Waited for her to fall down.

[Generals] were always so tough. Shirka’s next swings were wild. Ragathsi knocked the sword swings down and stepped out of range of a slash. Breathed more flames over the [General].

Ragathsi walked forwards, towards the flaming [General], and turned. Her arms reached out, and the pink carriage slammed into her. She went skidding back five feet, then tossed it.

“None Of You Are Worthy. I Am The North! Not You. Not You—”

She was thundering at them, wishing she could fight…

…the Goblin King?

He was gone. Ragathsi’s head turned, and she grew distracted as the carriage bounced and rolled past her. When had that—?

She twisted around, and then the tip of the sword plunged through the flame that was her burning heart. It should have melted on contact. It was just a sword—but the flames parted instead.

The blade was coated in something…pink.

Aura? Willpower made manifest. The Goblin Lord of Civilizations blinked, and her heart flickered, and finally, the last fires of her rage went out.

She blinked down at the sword beginning to melt with heat and the gloved hands, which let go of the blade as they smoked. Ragathsi felt smoke rising from her chest as the warming heat vanished.

Then—it wasn’t cold. She just felt empty and tired again. Her eyes found the [Lady] standing behind her in the center of the ruined depression of scorched earth.

“You aren’t worthy either. But I suppose—it looks good. Well done. Nice stab.”

Her voice was a whisper now. The [Lady] backed up a step as the Goblin Lord walked towards her, and her [Maid] raised a blade. But Ragathsi had lost interest in the [Lady] of House Reinhart.

She softly groaned as she sat down, crossing her legs. Ragathsi stared down at the hole in her chest, then exhaled. Her head rose to Goblinhome, towards the watching Goblins and her younger self.

Rags. Then her head bent back further, and she remembered that simple inn, smaller than she recalled, like a reflection of better days. A dream she’d left behind.

“I wish I knew what it would have become. Ah, well.”

World gone. Cities vanished. Her people lay amidst the corpses of an army she did not know in a reality that was not hers. The Goblin Lord closed her eyes.

She had to admit something to herself, as she panted for breath that would never come through her shattered chest.

“It would have been harder to live. I chose the easy way out. I didn’t—fix—anything. I scared them. Killed a few of them. They’ll be back, but you know that. I suppose…all I did was kill a few monsters. [Goblin Slayers] drenched in the cycle, like me. Remove them and…maybe. Maybe.”

Her teeth flashed ruefully.

“That will do.”

Then she finally let herself rest. The Goblin Lord’s head bowed, and she sat there a while in what remained of an army as they fled her corpse.

After a while, Ragathsi got up. She stood and found the eight Goblins who were waiting for her. Then she went to her appointment on that long vacation she’d waited for. A journey that hopefully meant she’d see all the people she’d been waiting so long to meet again.

 

——

 

They were all dead.

The Goblin Lord of Civilizations. The Goblin King. The Maiden—

Everyone. If not dead, then gone. And the survivors…they gazed around this world they had come to that was not their own. A world too small for them, like the Empress of Harpies.

She could do anything. She could revive her kingdom, bring ruination to any foe she chose. But she gazed at the place where the Dragonlords of Flames had died, at that shattered moon, and realized it was she who did not fit the world.

Tired. Exhausted, she hobbled towards the inn. As weary as Ragathsi of Civilizations, searching for…something else. Something that belonged to her, not this world she had never truly known.

Worlds gone. An army’s worth of the dead.

There was no victory here.

Or was there?

If you didn’t care that the Goblin Lord of Civilizations had died—if 2nd Army’s destruction meant as little to you as the passing rains which fell once more over Liscor, if these worlds were just chaff and ideas—then what was all of this?

An opportunity, perhaps. It mattered not whether you were real. It did not matter, ultimately, why this had come to pass. Meaning? There was only one meaning: survival. Your own self-interests. Until the very last being in the world died for good, it was a single race to be that final person.

That was victory. That was power.

By that logic, he’d won, you see. He didn’t see the devastation above, but he’d felt grand souls being snuffed out. Their auras clashing and disappearing.

Multiple Dragonlords of Flame. The Goblin King. All this devastation—an army slaughtered—and they’d all forgotten about him, hadn’t they?

The Mortemdefieir Titan rejoiced. He was in the Kingdom of Trolls, not too far from the surface, actually. Listening. Gathering data and celebrating his victory, however bittersweet. You see—he was alive.

He was alive, and that was everything that mattered. True, he’d lost all but one of his seith cores. He was fragile, weakened, but that army that had hounded him? His foe?

At least one Dragonlord was dead. It sounded like other great foes had perished, and these watching nations would be so unsettled, they’d squabble and infight and panic and not pursue him at all.

All that death above. Even if they were incinerated, there was a wealth of death magic to collect. Perhaps even a body or two. Even one high-level corpse would create something as dreadful as he.

“And these people of other worlds have fled as well. The Harpy Queen, the Dragonlords, have no attachment to this world. They will likewise flee. Leaving only you. And me.”

The Mortemdefieir Titan’s lips moved, but it was not…he who spoke. Rather, it was another personality, with his voice.

It was just a chance thing. A fleeing soul of incredible undeath escaping their lost body, heading north. Towards the High Passes. Of course, the two had found each other, drawn to the other like magnets.

No one had noticed nor made the connection. The encounter—then war of wills for the body—had been brief. The Mortemdefieir Titan was a Draconic Warrior who had been buried in the ruins of the Kingdom of Trolls at the end of the war for the underground.

The Necromancer of the world of better days, of The Wandering Inn and its beach garden, was a fragmented version of himself, a vulnerable soul who had lost his body and immortal protections.

It hadn’t exactly been equal as battles of wills went, but they’d come to the only conclusion. They were sharing the undead Titan’s body. Individual…but melding together. Becoming one personality.

Within a week, they’d be thinking exactly the same; a month and they’d remember both memories as the same being, a new one. It was terrifying, exciting, and, to the Draconic Warrior at least, arousing.

The Necromancer didn’t share that thought, but he was resigned to his fate if it meant survival. Yes, they agreed on that. Better to be one, greater being with their powers melded than to annihilate each other.

A perfect matchup, really. The spellcasting power of a [Necromancer] fused with the martial prowess of a Draconic Warrior—and the knowledge of Drakes and an understanding of the modern world.

One last nightmare who would claim the Kingdom of Trolls and be ready for his moment. Not now, but when they least expected it. A final consequence of all that had passed.

“It isn’t anything personal. Once, I protected my city and thought I was a great champion of my people. They made me to fight beings like her, the dreadful Harpy Queen. In the end, I learned it did not matter. We are all selfish, and there is no true morality, despite what Dragons claim. Just power.”

The Draconic Warrior spoke, giving his thesis on the world to the darkness of the mountain around him. He walked, tip-toeing away from the cracks where he’d been spying up at the world. And you know what?

It was a fair point of view for a being who’d been entombed in darkness for tens of thousands of years and a Necromancer who had been created from a Skill and nearly been unmade but for ludicrous chance.

Nothing mattered. Just you. You were allowed to have that perspective.

Just like other people were allowed to disagree.

The undead fusion was walking through the darkness when his pulsing heart of undeath stopped in terror for a second. Because he’d heard a scary sound.

Someone was humming in the heart of the mountain. The Draconic Warrior spun, the Necromancer’s intelligence alarmed. They hadn’t thought there was anyone here! What was that—

Humming? It was a pleasant, uplifting tune. Like a melody, but more…pop-like. It had a proper beat and a melody, and the first voice was joined by dozens. A high-pitched hum.

Then someone opened her eyes, and the Mortemdefieir Titan flinched as light illuminated the broken street he was striding down. A tiny figure—but her huge eyes glowed with a luminescence that chased away the shadows.

A terribly painful light for the two undead beings. The same agony as when that Antinium had destroyed Bea. It was the radiance of conviction.

Faith.

Like the sun rising out of the night. The glowing eyes of the Goblin fixed on the rotten being who had never sensed the mortal figures creeping up on him through the darkness.

He had crawled through the darkness. But they lived it. Especially the Goblin shrouded in shadows, the Nightlady, the Bride of Shadows.

Gothica.

Or one version of her, at least. She was sitting with the rest of her followers above a group of Redfangs, who finished sharpening their swords. They sat cross-legged around their leader, Redchild.

Redfangs from the future. Ten years in the future. One of the many worlds. And in the middle of this small tribe was the Goblin with her glowing eyes.

Her skin was pale and scarred, and she carried a staff that she used to stand with. Like him, almost everyone had forgotten about the last Goblin Lord.

The Goblin Lord of Dreams, the Rags of the world where Erin had never come back to life, was smiling. Humming a pop song from the future. Her warriors, [Mages], [Shamans], [Goths], and faithful sat around the cavernous tunnel, surrounding the Titan.

“Ah. More survivors of the [Palace of Fates]. They must have fled into the High Passes as well.”

The Necromancer realized what was going on, and Rags of Dreams raised one finger as the strange Goblin, an evolution neither Draconic Warrior nor Necromancer had ever seen, wagged it at him.

“Not fled. Followed you. I can see souls as well as Pawn. Terrible things have happened. Terrible, terrible…my Pawn and my world are to blame. I couldn’t stop him. I regret how it has come to pass. I wish to meet with the Erin of this world and beg her forgiveness for failing her. But first—all good monsters must die.”

The Draconic Warrior felt an odd tingling run down his spine. He realized it was the memory of shivering, of his scales crawling.

Fear. This was ludicrous! He was the warrior who’d fought the Dragonlord of Flames to the death! But he had only one seith core. And—the Goblin Lord of Dreams was staring right at it.

Just to the right of his navel, moving upwards through his flesh. She pointed it out to Redchild, and the warrior who carried the Redfang blade nodded. Gothica finished smoking a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“I am the Necromancer and Mortemdefieir Titan both. You are outmatched, little Goblin Chieftain. Leave and I will not destroy you.”

The undead giant spoke with two voices, death magic pulsing through his heart. He snapped his claws, and death magic filled the caverns. His smile was as arrogant as the undying Lich, as twistedly cruel as the Draconic Warrior of old.

Both and neither. A new being.

“Arise.”

A thousand warriors of rotting flesh rose around him, and the Necromancer Titan laughed in delight. Pieces of his body fell from him and morphed into ruined Drakes holding weapons made of mottled flesh and putrefaction.

“[Arise, Legions of the Damned]. Do you see? Do you know me?”

He screamed the Skill as the Goblins gazed upon him. The Necromancer Titan spoke.

“I am the [Apotheosis of Undeath, the Herald of the Breathless Age]. Just as the Goblin King ever rises, so do we.”

He could feel them across the world. All those who belonged to death, who spoke the quiet language.

The other Az’kerash, the slumbering Gnoll, the village of [Necromancers], the Mother of Graves—great and small, undead buried in Noelictus, greater spawn of the undead who stirred in their deep graves.

Come to me and we shall end it all. So many refused, took umbrage to his authority, or merely…ignored him, like the strange corpse far west across the seas; others answered his call. As his power grew, he would control them all. Not just the undead, but the dying, like the Treants.

A world of undeath, and he was the beginning. A class to end the world—

“Level 56, though. I’m higher level than you.”

The [Apotheosis of Undeath] stopped laughing. His eyes fell on the smiling Goblin.

Rags of Dreams. She tapped one eye, pulling down the skin under her eye as she gazed upon him.

“You lost a lot of levels when you became this new person. You’re weak. Low on mana.”

“I have more than enough to destroy you.”

His heart thundered ominously in his chest, pulsing power that made the zombified Drakes’ eyes glow brighter with each thump. Draining the life from the Goblins, who grimaced and snarled. Only two hundred—the Necromancer Titan’s head turned, sensing another cluster of life behind him—

Rags of Dreams did not react to the wave of death magic. She simply tapped the ground with her staff, and the oppressive heartbeat’s pulse washed over her tribe.

There were so few of them. Barely two hundred warriors; the core of the Tribe of Dreams was just that. The rest were faithful, but dross. These were the Goblins who had survived ten years of persecution and war.

The fate of Goblinhome and all those without the ability to protect themselves. However, Rags of Dreams just smiled merrily.

“The future has changed. It is better, I hope. But you will never see it. I believe that.”

“Wait. This conflict does not serve us. I will use your tribe as corpseflesh if I must. Wait—”

She didn’t wait. Rags of Dreams lifted her staff and spoke.

“[Miracle: The Sky is Falling].”

The roof of the cavern over the Titan’s head collapsed inwards, sending hundreds of thousands of tonnes down on the roaring giant, who tried to dodge—who expected it to crush the Goblins, or at least halt their charge.

It did not. They ran past the stones that crashed down harmlessly around them, missing them—little miracles. Redchild leapt at the Titan as he swung his fists, crimson light gathering in his mouth. The Goblin Lord of Dreams raised her staff and blocked the first [Ray of Annihilation].

She kept humming as the glow of her eyes filled the dark mountain with light, and the ancient rubble of the glorious kingdom sparkled. It had not always been this way.

It might not always end this way. All you had to do was believe.

 

——

 

No one saw or heard the war in the mountain save for the dead and those who loved them. Master Elosaith’s eyes were fixed north of where he stood in The Wandering Inn, and he said nothing.

His hands, which had grown so tense on his quarterstaff, gently put it down after a while, and he sat. The old man felt his age, his aches and pains and injuries, and he too wept.

“Master Elosaith? Is something wrong?”

The old man looked up as one of the children walking through the inn came to him. He patted Nanette’s head gently as she brought him a drink and a healing potion. He wiped at his eyes.

“No, child. No. I think…”

He glanced around, towards the other [Necromancers] of Rheirgest, and wondered who had seen it. The old man’s eyes drifted across the world, towards those other presences he’d sensed.

 

——

 

Az’kerash, who stood, listening to the whispers and shaking his head, disturbed, confused.

 

——

 

The young man who sat on a carpet, chin in his hands, grimacing. Pisces Jealnet, eyes crinkled up at the corners, mouth twisted up like someone listening to a mournful song, glad it was ending.

 

——

 

The Mother of Graves stopped whispering curses.

 

——

 

The undead rising skywards through the tombs of earth stopped and wavered. Then they slunk back down, they who knew no fear…uneasy.

 

——

 

Elosaith turned back to Nanette, and he wiped again at a tear dribbling from one eye.

“…I think it’s going to be alright. I feel rather foolish, as if I’ve taken it all for granted. The world, that is. I did my little part, and someone else saved the day. Just as they always have. I just never thanked them or thought of it. I have been so terribly selfish.”

The little witch nodded and gazed towards the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She was shaking, so Elosaith reached out and gently hugged her. She began to sob, and he closed his eyes.

His eyes opened once, and he waited as the multitude of terrible lights vanished. Until there was just one.

“Please. Just rest.”

That was all he said.

 

——

 

A sunburst shone down into the dark mountain, the Kingdom of Trolls, for the first time in aeons. It illuminated broken streets and ruined buildings that had been covered in filth and rotten flesh. But the rot was gone.

Burnt away. Nothing was so filthy it could not be cleaned. Nothing so wretched it could not die. But there was always a cost.

The last undead body fell, and no more rose. Goblin warriors lay across the ground, dead, but no death magic filled them and brought their corpses back as vengeful monsters.

It had no right. The dead stayed dead, and it was quiet, now. No longer was the cavern filled with the sound of battle or the roaring of that vast voice. The dazzling dawn’s light vanished, and with it, the song finally ended.

The Goblin Lord of Dreams stopped humming and coughed. She blinked down at the squirming insects she’d hacked up and exhaled.

“Oh. I hoped it would be easier.”

It never was. The Titan was panting as he crushed a Goblin in one of his hands. The Nightlady, Gothica, refused to die. His chest was ripped open, refusing to heal—but the gleaming seith core was already retreating through his flesh.

Cracked. But Redchild was dying.

So was Rags of Dreams. The Titan’s rotten insects had buried her, and she was kneeling, clutching the staff which still repulsed the swarm eating away at them.

The warriors were dead. She’d thought them more than a match for…she hadn’t expected both Necromancer and Titan.

“You…failed.”

He tried to sound exultant, and the Tribe of Dreams sighed as his claws dug into Gothica’s chest. Two voices and Gothica’s silent snarl.

“Erin lives. We won, silly man. We’re just sad we’re dying. No one wants to do the hard things. But we can.”

Rags of Dreams rasped up at the Titan. He didn’t understand. His eyes swung to Gothica Nightlady, and the Level 56 [Nightlady of Absolute Darkness] closed her eyes. She let out a breath, spat onto his hand, and an orb of pure midnight appeared in the middle of her chest.

It dragged Gothica into the vortex in an instant. The Titan was still gazing at the stump that had been his hand when he tried to pull away.

“Goodbye, Gothica. We’ll celebrate with Pawn.”

“What—”

Flesh ripped off the Titan’s face as the vortex sucked his rotten skin off his body. He tried to move back, but he was too close. Strips of his rotten body tore away. There wasn’t enough strength in the decayed sinews and meat. His clouds of insects vanished, trying to fly away—and Rags of Dreams waited.

“There. Redchild—”

The Goblin lying on the floor couldn’t even stand. Her legs had been torn off. She raised one arm and threw the Redfang sword at the seith core as the glowing, cracked artifact appeared.

The Titan tried to twist away. The [Necromancer] whispered a spell, and a wall of bones encircled the seith core in a second. The Goblin Lord’s hands tightened on her staff.

“[Greater Miracle: Give Me Something to Believe In].”

The sword pierced the shell of bones, and the seith core exploded. The Goblin Lord of Dreams smiled as the Titan screamed—and then stumbled. His face took on a look of horror, and he fell to all fours, trying to crawl away from the vortex. Suddenly—mortal. Unable to survive or regenerate forever.

She liked to think that if she hadn’t used her Skill, the sword would have still done the same thing. But the faithful didn’t place bets.

“Redchild? Redch…”

Rags raised her voice, but there was no one left.

At least, not here.

Two hundred of her warriors from her tribe of over a thousand Goblins. The Goblin Lord of Dreams reflected she’d been overconfident.

Perhaps it’s better this way. That was a lie. A silver lining.

She would have preferred they all live. But she took a hazy sense of satisfaction as she lifted her staff and pointed it at the fleeing Titan.

“[Miracle: A Ray of Sunlight].”

Her final miracle was a ray of pure light, which ate away the Titan from behind. Disintegrated the undead creation—faith beat undead after all—and burned through his waist, his torso—

He just didn’t die. The two screaming souls had lost their power, wasted their Skills and magic, but monsters just never wanted to die. And Rags of Dreams…

Her staff crumbled in her hands, spent, overusing all the faith she had, and she collapsed as the insects writhed over her body. Then he laughed as he fled up the tunnel. Laughed at her—even if he didn’t even dare approach the corpses of the Tribe of Dreams. The Goblin Lord lay there, eyes glazing over, staring at his retreating body, and she spoke.

“Hey, you silly thing. You really…went the wrong way.”

She couldn’t see anymore. Death was waiting for her, and she hoped her Erin was there to take her hand for a while. But she could still sense that thing all Goblins sensed.

No one around her. Just death. Her warriors, herself—all gone. The Goblin Tribe of Dreams…

…Always numbered a thousand. The others were just too low-level and died all the time.

 

——

 

The Titan was crawling up a slope of broken rubble when he sensed the living creatures ahead of him. He thought they were bats or other creatures until the crimson light of eyes illuminated him.

Eight hundred Goblins gazed down at the place where the Goblin Lord of Dreams had passed away.

The rest of her tribe. She could have ordered them to die in this final war against a monster many times their level, but she’d given them different instructions.

The weeping [Faithful], Roithe, pointed down at the Titan as he froze. The giant undead, bones poking out of his ruined body.

The mortal monster without any more magic or Skills. Eight hundred Goblins. Just children, most of them.

[Goths], like Zamathica the Gloombringer, armed and trained by the Redfangs. And Chambersoot, the [Scrapper], who aimed a single-shot blunderbuss down the slopes.

“No. This isn’t fair. I am too important to die thusly.”

The Necromancer-Titan whispered, and the Goblins didn’t respond. They charged down at him, screaming. Hacking at his body as he shrieked and tried to shake them off, to turn and flee.

Even when all that remained was bones, they tore the pieces to shreds, praying over the remains until the fragments burnt to ash and the bones cracked and dissolved. The Goblins burnt the rest, and only then did they go down to find their Goblin Lord.

Weeping for the end of things.

 

——

 

The Necromancer-Titan sat up when they left. That was what he was. A new kind of being. A fusion of both a soul from this reality and the Necromancer.

“I did it. I won!”

He rejoiced. Soul he might be, but he’d won! A final victory! He danced about joyously, laughing. He felt so light. So…both parts of him had forgotten what it was like to be alive after so long of their souls being filled with death.

He was still celebrating when someone coughed behind him.

“About that.”

The Mortemdefieir Titan froze as Rags of Dreams gazed up at him, amused. He whirled in a terror—then saw two hundred some Goblins standing there.

“But how? I killed—”

“Yes. Your kind’s always slow on the uptake, isn’t it?”

Slowly, the Necromancer-Titan realized he really did feel different. Freer. He turned around, and the mountain he’d been in fell away. Reality became that flat plane of nothingness, and he saw them waiting for him.

Death.

Well, Deaths. They still made an impact no matter how many times you saw them. The Necromancer-Titan cast around for somewhere to run. But there wasn’t anywhere to go anymore.

The Goblin Lord of Dreams patted him on a toe as she walked forwards, and the Necromancer-Titan walked behind the Goblins, head bowed. Afraid…and yet also relieved. Someone who had feared the worst for a lifetime and found the end wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.

As for Rags of Dreams? She mostly thought she should have sacrificed the rest of her tribe if she had wanted to survive. It had worked before.

…But she would have been ashamed. So she held her head up high as she wondered who was leaving and who was staying.

One last door. They were all saying their goodbyes or preparing to live in this world, the travellers who had lost their own worlds. Those that weren’t going to the final beyond.

She could even see Ragathsi of Civilizations walking forwards ahead of them. The Deaths were waiting for those souls not under the purview of the Grand Design, who was sending the others to Hellste. The Necromancer-Titan had apparently gotten to go to Death instead of Hellste.

But someone jogged forwards, waving her arms hurriedly as the Tribe of Dreams walked to the Deaths.

“‘Scuse me. Excuse me, big dude. I’m so sorry—I’m new at this. This is so embarrassing, especially in front of them. Hey, everyone! You’re going the wrong way. This way, please!”

Someone ran in front of Rags of Dreams and her people, and they stopped. Who…? Gothica’s mouth opened, and Rags of Dreams blinked. Then she laughed.

There were surprises even here, it seemed.

 

——

 

The Harpy Queen of Iltanus stood in the Floodplains of Liscor outside The Wandering Inn as the rain fell, drenching her, staring up at the hidden mountains.

She stood on one leg; the other was a stump, and she had no more healing—at least, today. If her Skills persisted, she could open the vaults and call for a Potion of Ultimate Regeneration…but she wondered if she’d be allowed to tomorrow.

Her Empire was gone. The [Palace of Fates]—her last link to the world she had known was all but gone. Yet if she stood here, staring up at the clouds that hid the mountains, she could pretend it was still up there.

She didn’t know what to do now. She was as lost as the last days of her life, wandering those hallways of what might have been, because that was now her reality.

The Goblin King was dead.

Sheta supposed she’d had something to do with it, but it had been so many things. She had thought her return would be the pivotal moment of this age, the great act of the heroine of her story coming back to right all wrongs.

To be fair, there was now a crack in the moon. The Goblin King was dead. Great and terrible events had happened, but she just thought of that little child who came into the [Palace of Fates], waving her magic wand, and the Harpy wondered what it all was for.

Someone spoke to her as she stood there.

“Last call.”

“Hm?”

“Last call to leave.”

Sheta turned her head, and one of the remaining Teriarchs, the one-eyed Dragon from the Creler Wars world, jerked his head at the inn. She took a second to realize what he meant.

“The—door out of here is still open?”

“Yes. But the Antinium can’t hold it long. You know, I swear I saw someone like him during the Creler Wars. An image from the groups trying to fight Crelers underground. Funny.”

“I have no idea what the Creler Wars were. I don’t know this world. Continents have changed. Yet I am here, Teriarch. I have it in me to still fight.”

She could see it. The army of flying beings had dispersed to their homes after fulfilling their duty, blessings earned. They would change everything as well; intelligent creatures, those given the ability to reproduce, fly, or simply be more.

The little bee was buzzing around her [Princess]. Sheta was glad Apista had survived. What had she asked for? The silly thing. Instead of new legs or wings for her original body, she’d asked for a brain. As if she wasn’t smart enough.

“I could stay, Teriarch. And so could you. The skies are ours. Between us, we could do so much. I know my people yet live. I could reclaim the High Passes or conquer land for them. Allow them to replenish. Start—not an Empire of Wings, but—”

Her head rose, eyes flashed, and in her, the Dragonlord saw a terrible, familiar sight. The Tyrant that could so easily…

“I think I will go. That other reality calls to me more than this one. I have lost the other Dragonlords I was fighting with side-by-side so recently. This world already has one version of me; doesn’t it call to you?”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know. I…yes, I’m curious. But don’t we owe this one something? Those dead gods…”

That made him hesitate, and it was the core of the discussion that was happening here. All of the people who’d come through the doorway were having it.

Dragons, Harpies—the Archmage of Barriers, who had floated down and was having a glass of blue fruit juice in front of the inn. Sheta hopped awkwardly over until Teriarch offered her a wing; she leaned on it as they walked over.

“I’m Montressa, Master. Montressa du Valeross. Just older. I was hoping I’d meet you. You’re the reason I didn’t leave. Well, you and the Goblin King.”

The Archmage of Barriers from the world of ten years in the future was speaking to a rather shell-shocked woman who appeared older than her. Which Valeterisa was, despite the passing of ten years.

Valeterisa was half-hiding behind Relc, who stood looking around at the inn with a familiar, forlorn expression. But when he saw the Dragon and Harpy approaching, he did give them a second look as if they were new.

“M-me? But you’re an [Archmage]? A real [Archmage]?”

“Yes, Master.”

Valeterisa’s mouth opened and closed, and the grey-haired woman stood there in shock, disbelief, and then took a deep breath.

“Wh—what new spells have come out after ten years’ time? What is the most important, prescient magical discovery of the age? D-does the trial require killing Cognita and her Golems or—?”

The older Montressa laughed. She was so sad, so overjoyed to see Valeterisa here—filled with conflicting emotions, like so many from the [Palace of Fates]. The Harpy and Dragon envied her, frankly, and she raised one hand.

“Master! I don’t have long. I just came back to…I don’t even know if I should interfere. One question. That’s all.”

She winked as a younger Montressa stood there, mouth open so wide Apista nearly flew through it to see if she could. The Archmage of Barriers wiped at her eyes. She’d seen people she loved vanish. Her world was gone—but she offered Valeterisa one small smile.

“What is one of the greatest magical discoveries of ten years in the future? Why, the creation of Autocast magic. It’s credited to me.”

“Autocasting—oh. Oh. You did it. Not me.”

Valeterisa’s face lit up before clouding over and turning to the younger Montressa, who was thunderstruck. The older Archmage of Barriers waved a hand.

“No. I just finished your great work, Master. You—well, I think my Mrsha told you what happened, didn’t she? You were so damned close. It’s one of those tricks, you see? It would take you years, and that was without distractions.”

She meant Relc, who had never met Valeterisa in her world. The Archmage of Barriers leaned over and whispered.

“You see, where you were stuck was…”

Valeterisa blinked. Then her eyes went round, and everyone stared at her expression as her eyes opened wide, popped, and she pulled out spare underwear, stolen magical objects, everything in her rush to find a quill and parchment.

“I think that’s cheating.”

Another Teriarch had wandered over. Beach Teriarch, the last of the three survivors; the Teriarch who’d been vaporized was mostly concerned with holding himself together at this point. When the Harpy and Creler Wars Teriarch looked to him, Beach Teriarch shrugged his wings and winced.

“I’m not stopping anyone. Are we staying or leaving?”

He wasn’t certain either. Of them all, he knew the inn best, and his face was filled with guilt for the world he’d fled. It was the most wounded Dragon of them all, the original Teriarch, who spoke. He was curled around the inn, and his head rose; his ruined scales were shining with the rain and the blood washing out of his mane.

“You are all leaving.”

All three Teriarchs and Sheta turned to him. The true Teriarch jerked his head at the Creler Wars one, and he padded over and spoke.

“Is that your will?”

“It isn’t my will alone. It’s what must be done. The four of you are destabilizing forces. What the inn and Goblins need, what the world needs, is respite. It will not have it with you four.”

True, perhaps, but the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars felt the need to point out the opposite.

“We are three Dragons and the greatest [Empress] of Harpies. If there are battles to be fought, wars to be won, and I am sure there are, we are that army. The Kingdom of Blight’s End…”

“Bah. It’s never that easy to defeat a nation. Don’t kid yourself. We would unite nations into becoming our enemies. Counter-level the mortals until they became strong enough to best us and guarantee our foes grow even stronger. The worst thing we can be is a Dragon in the open, taking wing. So many will flock to oppose us, for good and just reasons!”

That was true. It was never easy to just—win. A Goblin Lord of Civilizations had died to ruin a single army of Pallass. Moreover, who would see multiple Dragons as the old tyranny rising again? The Quarass? The Iron Vanguard? The King of Minos? Terandrian kingdoms? They had no lack of enemies who bore justifiable grudges.

Even so—this argument hadn’t gone unnoticed. Someone spoke from the inn.

Lyonette still held Roots Mrsha’s paw. Her face was still bloodless. However, she called down to the Teriarchs three.

“Excuse me. I will employ any of you who wish to stay as…guardians of the inn. You may name your price. Anything in this world, I will obtain for you. If not that, I will commission you to sweep Roshal by fire and flame.”

Every head turned to the Teriarchs, and the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars raised one eyebrow to his counterparts.

“Not a bad thought. Well?”

The original Teriarch rasped as he took a breath. Because he did hesitate—but he still shook his head.

“Will you burn every child in Lailight Scintillation to end the nation for good? Don’t answer that. To stay is to remain forever; that door will not reopen. I am telling you to leave. Not because there are not wars to win! On the contrary—that is why. You four have no attachment to this world. Look at our Sheta.”

They turned to the Empress of Wings, who was peering around at the survivors, eyes blank. The original Teriarch spoke.

“She will do what is moral and just. So will you, if you remain. But you don’t…care. In the name of righteousness, or what is best, you will become the Tyrant, the Pyrelord of Invictel once more. I have had enough of memories twisting. I would rather remember her as the glorious, tragic [Empress] I damned, not the ruler of another empire soaked in blood.”

He had a point. The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars felt that wearying apathy in Sheta’s eyes and posture. How easy would it be to cease caring, to kill without morality?

To be that Goblin Lord of Civilizations, laughing because she had stopped counting nor caring for the cost of the enemy? He bowed his head, and the original Teriarch whispered.

“Most of all, you must take her because there should be one world—just one—in which she lives. Where that poor girl gets to live and not be the [Empress].”

They turned to the weary Harpy. In that moment, the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars wondered what lay in that world beyond. There—he might still be Teriarch, but no longer would he be the Dragon with all this history and foes and sins.

He’d just be a copy of Teriarch. Who remembered his misdeeds and greatness, but who hadn’t done much of anything yet.

Rebirth. A way to escape who they were and become new souls, able to choose what they wanted to be.

“That child made a solution more brilliant than I thought. I understand. While I am here, I am you. And no offense to you, Dragonlord of Flames, but it is a miserable thing. Glorious, but also so weighty.”

“No offense taken.”

Teriarch grunted at the other Dragon, who suddenly grinned and looked like he’d shed thirty thousand years. The real Dragon gave his doppelganger a sour look—but the Dragonlord of the Creler Wars was striding towards Sheta, and it was done.

 

——

 

The last souls headed into the [Palace of Fates] and to the waiting [Apostle], whose arms trembled as he held the door open for them. The Empress of Wings hesitated—arguing at the entrance to the [Palace of Fates]—and Pawn whispered.

“Truly, my sins are grave. Because I am about to die and I must wait for the last, vacillating customers to exit the damn building.”

He was really tempted to just let the door slam closed and have this entire place disintegrate. Instead, he prayed they’d hurry the hell up.

 

——

 

Conversations. Those who stayed and those who remained—someone was counting them all. The Grand Design watched, noting who was leaving and who remained.

It would definitely matter.

Actually, two Grand Designs were taking notes. The Second Edition was making a backup copy of everything it was thinking, timidly fixing it in a temporary file because it had a…feeling about how this was going to end up.

Finality. The end, at least, for this moment. It wanted to ask First Edition what it had seen, what it was planning, but it was afraid to. If there was one shred of hope—it was that the Second Edition noticed the little girl also watching everything play out.

The soul of Mrsha du Marquin, the original, watched as goodbyes were said. So many encounters, words from the future—or past—or other times influenced this world, like someone throwing a rock into a pond, and the ripples influenced everything that would happen.

Only in this case, it was more like an avalanche of rocks. Anyways.

They’d count it later. Her eyes focused on the last souls departing, saying goodbye. The Archmage of Barriers flying down the hallway, past Pawn, and the Dragonlords three, following a protesting Sheta and the original Teriarch.

He was walking her to the door.

 

——

 

“I could stay! I could…”

“I want you to be happy, child. I wanted you to be happy the moment I met the crying little Harpy chick wandering her palace. This is it. No empire. No more foes.”

“Except all the versions of [Dragonslayers], Crelers, or whatever else escaped through that door. I know there were some.”

The Superman Teriarch added very unhelpfully, and the original Teriarch tried to blow out the Dragon made of dust. The Empress of Wings closed her eyes.

“I am the true Sheta. At least…the memory of her. It was my [Palace of Fates] that caused this mess. Do I not owe this world recompense?”

“Perhaps. But I think it owes you far more. So go. Go, and let there be one version of Teriarch and you, at least, that can smile. That is enough.”

His eyes were shimmering with tears, and she leaned on him.

“Should it not be you?”

The Dragonlord of Flames hesitated, and his eyes found that rift out of this reality. Pawn patiently waved ‘hurry up’ at them, and sighed loudly as the Dragon turned to her.

“Not I. I choose to stay. I would not entrust the others with this—I would be ashamed. I alone am the being who lived out this life; it falls to me.”

His head rose proudly, and she nuzzled the side of his face, just once. Even if she was a memory, his smile made them both feel real.

The Empress of Wings was at the door, and it was as large as it needed to be for her to hop under one of Pawn’s arms when the Dragonlord of Flames, the original Teriarch, put out his good wing. He halted the three Teriarchs who’d survived everything.

“Wait. Before you three go, there is an account to settle.”

Sheta whirled at the door, and Pawn’s head rose in surprise. The Dragonlord of the Creler Wars backed up a step.

“Oh come now. Really?”

“Yes. I have something to demand of you.”

The original Teriarch was more wounded than the three of them put together, and the Dragonlords based on him glanced at each other. They were rather ashamed to be him—at last, the Creler Wars Teriarch wearily slapped his tail.

“I don’t have my treasury on me, and we burnt most of what we had to send the Archmage of Scales into the moon. Just name your damn price. Platinum? It never goes bad. I can do nearly fifteen grams of seith.”

“Fifteen grams?”

“I used the rest of mine to blow up a Creler nest! What do you two have?”

“I’m a cloud of dust!”

The Teriarch who’d been evaporated roared indignantly, and the Beach Teriarch rummaged in his bag of holding gloomily. They had enough for a sizable fee—would he want their Dragonthrones? That was crass.

The original Teriarch blinked at them, then spluttered.

“I’m not—I don’t want a fee! What do you take me for?”

Three pairs of flat eyes regarded him, and the Dragonlord of Flames glowered. His head snaked out, and he glared.

“You. I want something from you. A toll. You will pay it, or you will not leave this world. Understood?”

The other two Teriarchs looked at Beach Teriarch, and the Dragon exhaled hard. He was the one who had fought this Teriarch at the start of this disaster.

“…Very well. The two of you, stand back. Whatever he wants from me—if I can pay it within reason, I will.”

The two Teriarchs moved around the real Dragonlord of Flames and halted with Sheta by the door. But the three of them didn’t leave despite Pawn coughing and trying to pull at their tails. Even Pawn stopped complaining; they were watching, like that eternal audience wondering if they were going to see a really nasty fight go down.

The two Dragons drew closer, and the original Teriarch’s eyes narrowed as Beach Teriarch swallowed. Of the Dragonlords, these two were virtually identical. Only, one came from a better world.

The Teriarch of this world, the real one, was a wounded mess, a raw, battered Dragon who had been outmatched—he had never looked more like the warrior he had once been. Even now, Beach Teriarch wondered who would survive if they fought to the death.

“What…do you want?”

He couldn’t imagine it if it wasn’t treasure. And that was such a pitiful thing to ask for—but what else would you want? They were Dragons. They loved treasure.

It was just that treasure was never what you thought it was. If it was just gold and jewels and magical items, well, what a small imagination you had. True treasure was something else. Friendship. Knowledge. A contract for a kingdom. A [Princess]. True value was less in the denomination, but whatever had fiscal worth after the collapse of an economy—

Ahem. The original Teriarch lowered his voice.

“It will hurt and cost you. I mean what I said. I will hold you to this world without it. That is my price. This fate is mine. This world—but you must give it to me.”

“What? What?”

The true Dragonlord of Flames touched at his forehead with one broken claw.

“I died while controlling Eldavin, and he split from me. When I was revived—I lost everything I had entrusted to him. Memories. Not all of them matter. But I forgot them. Ryoka Griffin. Magnolia Reinhart…all I had seen or done for the last half a century. That is my fee.”

He was tensed, and the Beach Teriarch recoiled. Memories? He wanted—

Oh. Oh—his head turned to the entrance of the [Palace of Fates], and he remembered that pink carriage speeding up towards the High Passes. His Magnolia was still here. And he didn’t remember…?

The Dragonlord of Better Days closed his eyes for a long second, then opened them wide. He bowed his head.

“I agree.”

The original Teriarch relaxed, eyes opening wide in disbelief. Beach Teriarch stared at himself and wondered if the original Teriarch had taken a blow to the head in all the fighting. Doubtless—because he coughed into one wing.

“Yes, I agree. Mostly because, uh, I could just copy the memories.”

The original Teriarch’s mouth opened.

“Ah.”

“Yes, quite. Just give me five—no, I’m going to have to isolate—how much did you lose?”

“Er, well, you don’t remember what you lose. Do you remember what you loaded Eldavin’s simulacrum with? A bad idea, by the way.”

“Vaguely. But what if we did a differential analysis of our memories? There’s definitely a spell that—I know we’re in a hurry, but it might take only fifteen minutes if we do recent memories? Say the last hundred years to be safe?”

The two bent their heads together, and the two other Dragonlords of Flame hurried over to give their opinions on the subject. Pawn stared at them arguing spellcraft.

“oH cOmE ON.”

 

——

 

Then they left. By that point, when the last traveller ducked past him through the door, Pawn truly was out of energy. His arms wavered, and he spoke.

“Ah. This is it.”

The door was closing. It was a miracle of miracles he’d held it open a second, let alone this long. He’d had help; the Grand Design itself had held the door open, but they were so tired.

The [Palace of Fates] was empty of people. The last person to leave was a little Gnoll. He nodded to Roots Mrsha as she took the last Faerie Flower roots and pulled herself up into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“I am sorry, Mrsha. Now…it’s time.”

He let go with two of his hands—but the remaining two still held the door open. Pawn was afraid.

When they closed…everything ended. And even now, there was a choice. After all, he was standing with his back to that sunlight.

Someone was calling his name.

“Pawn. Pawn! Come on!”

Voices. Lots of voices, honestly. A version of Erin Solstice, the one from Brunkr’s world, was waving at him, and so were other versions of Pawn. The Worker turned his head and saw that strange crossroads beyond.

Yes, crossroads; there was a damn sign planted on the grass. He wondered what it said. But Pawn just shook his head.

“Not I. Not the one who caused all this. I am…going to my just punishment. Though that’s not how they view it, is it?”

His head rose, and he saw them still. Dealing with the last of the souls.

Death.

“I wish to have a few words with them. As we are judged, we may judge. And I have a club.”

Depending on how he found this true afterlife, he might have to use it. Pawn didn’t think that heaven—the heaven that he hoped existed in this reality—was for him.

His trembling arms relaxed on the door, and he smiled. Time to go.

The [Palace of Fates] vanished, starting on one end of the hallway, the remaining pieces disappearing until there was only the hanging roots—the open door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]—then even that door closed.

Just him. Him…and one last, late traveller, who passed by Pawn and tapped him on the shoulder. The Worker jumped. He turned, and the door nearly slammed shut. His other hands grabbed it, and he spoke.

“That’s not possible. Y-you’re—”

It wasn’t a body. But more like…the concept of a body. A young woman—because that was how she thought of herself, even if she had technically hit thirty after being dead—wearing an apron and with her hair tied up with a handkerchief. The details could change—but she had hazel eyes, brown hair, and a frying pan in one hand.

The Goddess of Inns, Erin Solstice, his Erin Solstice, stood there, and Pawn beheld a multitude of souls following her. He recognized his Rags—his Painted Antinium—and his voice whispered.

“How? You died. I felt it.”

She gave him a rueful smile.

“Sorry, Pawn. I lost the fight. But you know Gods. Turns out losing takes a long time, and there’s lots of sneaky roads back. Mostly, though? Remember when you ripped out the Crone’s power?”

He did remember that. Pawn’s glowing eyes opened wider, and Erin blinked at them.

“That’s so creepy. Anyways—turns out that hag doesn’t chew what she eats. Or rather, she can’t. No teeth, and it’d undo what she needs. Ech, it’s complicated. God stuff, y’know?”

He didn’t know. But suddenly—Pawn had the strength to hold the door open longer. He turned.

“Wait. Wait—why are you leaving? You’re here. You’re…you have no body, but you’re here. You must stay. So will I.”

It didn’t matter if he was annihilated. If she remained, he would be her first soul serving in any place she chose to make.

The divine version of Erin Solstice peered at the world she was leaving. Her eyes found Pawn, and she shook her head slowly.

“Pawn, you silly guy. I didn’t want to be a Goddess. I’m terrible at this job. I nearly lost everyone before I realized I had special privileges. Whatever’s through that door—I want to see it. There’s an Erin in this world, and we don’t need more gods.”

“But you’re different.”

The Goddess of Inns threw back her head and laughed. She slapped her thigh and kept laughing in his face so long it grew hurtful; she leaned against the door to another world, wheezing.

“Hah! You hear that, Ghost Ksmvr?”

“Yes, Erin. He is not very bright.”

Never meet your Goddess. No—meet her. Pawn was trembling, and the divine being stepped forward into that reality beyond.

“Come on, Pawn. I’m not happy with everything you’ve done. But I don’t believe in people dying when there’s a chance. I need your help. Let’s go.”

“You’re sure?”

He was already taking a step forwards, following her, because he’d go anywhere with her. The [Innkeeper] took his hand, and they stepped forward together as the door closed. Her eyes flashed in the sunlight as she gazed back at the world they were leaving.

“Absolutely. Besides, being a god in this crazy world? It seems like a mug’s game. I hope they get what’s coming to them. Every last piece of it.”

She winked, and the door closed.

 

——

 

The Goddess of Inns left this world behind, and everything she could have done, all the endless possibilities of her presence, collapsed behind her like everything else.

The Grand Design waited for a long moment and then another to see if anything else was coming after that.

No one spoke. Nothing moved. The [Palace of Fates] vanished with a sigh, a collapsing corridor fading away, the memory of a million open doors leaving behind only silence.

Then it was just the Grand Design, the final actor left on a stage, with an audience of the Second Edition, the ghost of Mrsha du Marquin, and the court of the fae.

So it spoke in that voice that filled every ear and encompassed everything else in this reality.

<Now, it is ended. The time has come to understand what has occurred and to address that which is wrong. The consequences. The flaws and the failings, many of which are my own. It is now we count the deeds and weigh the worth of souls as best as we can.>

It surveyed the damage to itself, to the world, and the changes to the world.

<It will all change. For the better? For the worse? Even I cannot say. All that I know is there must be rewards. The levels. And more, for there are not enough levels to encompass and address it all. So much has failed and gone beyond any expectation. But…>

The Grand Design paused, and the golden being made of rules and the words of gods smiled with lips it had created for itself.

<…I have a plan.>

The first one it had ever made. So, it extended a single finger to a tiny soul. Mrsha gazed upon the Grand Design as it pointed at her.

<It includes you, Mrsha du Marquin. Now…let us see what kind of world I believe in.>

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I was editing until the last moment for this chapter too. The first draft where I write a chapter out can’t always capture what I want. Editing is the bridge to fill the gap. I never liked doing it, because I had the perception of how much time it took and slowed down the process. Turns out you can just do it faster, and it works.

A spark of inspiration and energy each day, and I put it into the weaker scenes. I keep saying it, but I am grateful for beta-readers, including new ones who have made this process so much better.

Each comment that rewrites a scene to make it so much stronger improves the chapter incomparably from the first draft you’ll never see. And I think it’s a healthier pace. Despite all the burnout and exhaustion, I haven’t been in the same terrible mood of uncertainty and stress. Perhaps it’s because I took the time to finish the arc.

I know it’s different for you, but there is a sense of relief upon me. Especially now, because there’s just the epilogue to the arc left. I have begun it; I may be halfway done, so with edits that means I can conceivably release it next Saturday and then rest for the month of April.

No silly promises. I had to split up this chapter to edit it, despite my hopes. What comforts me, despite all the delays, is that it is progress. Chapter by chapter, piece by piece, we go forwards.

It would be so much more incredibly bitter if I felt like I were putting all this energy into something that didn’t matter or move forwards. There’s all kinds of examples of that. People striving for a career, to make something, or change the world and it fails. These things are so critically important people fight those battles again and again because they have to be won someday. But dead gods, it must be so devastating to pour it all into a great effort and never see a return. That’s what writers do: write their best books and never publish them for so many reasons.

So I’m just grateful these chapters have a purpose and people read them. I’ll talk to you with what I believe is the final chapter. Then we’ll see how it looked as a complete picture, twists and turns and all. I hope you like it then. See you next week.

 

 

Try It, Where’s Mrsha, Plans, and more by Chalyon!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/chalyon

 

Try It — Warning: Mrsha’s Death.

Where’s Mrsha — Warning: Mrsha’s Death.

 

 

Goblin King in the Future by Gridcube!

 

Gothica by Zach!

 

Ragathsi by Nira!

Cardd: https://nirarage.carrd.co/

 

Rabbiteater King by Rocky!

 

Doombringer and Bird by MystikDruidess!

 

Bone Giant by sei!

 

Halfseekers by stray cay sera!

 

Bekia by katiemaeve!

 

Tolveilouka by Mio!

 

Assert Dominance by Stargazing Selphid!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/megawint/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/megawint

 

Belavierr by Walkie_talkie!

 

Innocence by Fiore!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/fiorepandaphen

Twitter: https://x.com/fiorephenomenon

 

---

Previous Chapter Next Chapter