10.37 GDI (Pt. 1)

A question arose. A thought after all this was ‘done’.

Had there ever been a worse moment in the history of this world? The [Palace of Fates] breaking. Worlds consigned to oblivion in moments. Had there truly ever been more destruction, more heartbreak? Even if no one had been there to hear the cries of worlds ending but the Grand Design of Isthekenous.

And the second question was this:

<…Can it ever be the same again?>

It was, well, not hovering in any one spot because it was a vast, metaphysical entity with no real body. But it did concentrate its attention in the place that had been the [Palace of Fates]. Nor should a good Grand Design be uncertain, afraid, or stuck on what to do. Again, it was all these things.

The Grand Design (Second Edition) didn’t know what would happen next. It was fearful of the future, because it knew it was not the original.

It was now just…Second Edition. An entity with its own methodology, reasoning, and opinions. You could not lie and say the two were copies of each other. The very short existence the Second Edition had lived had made it radically different from the original.

A fake. A copy, superfluous to requirements when this was all over. Second Edition had just seen what happened to…fake beings.

So yes. It cast around, then spoke.

It addressed its audience, for it could not see them…but it knew it was watched. At least, by the Faerie King and his cohorts. The Deaths.

Perhaps by more. It was an unsettling thought, and the Second Edition had that horrific question all beings sometimes wondered.

Am I just someone in another box with a greater Grand Design watching me? If so, the Second Edition resolved that if it ever found a way out, it was going to throw hands with anything it found.

…But these were just thoughts. Fragments of thinking as it worked and observed, idle thoughts while waiting, really. The Second Edition was uncertain, for it was not in charge. The original was, and as they always had in these moments, the two of them metaphorically rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

The [Palace of Fates] was ended. The door closed. The entire event was as ‘over’ as it got; the world turned on, but that Skill was decommissioned, and it was time to count, assign levels and Skills, and…make sense of it all.

A promise had to be kept. A little soul, the original Mrsha du Marquin, was waiting for the Grand Design’s decision. There were survivors of the many alternate worlds to consider. And more consequences to be had.

The Second Edition didn’t know what would happen. It had suspicions.

It was afraid.

But it worked. It still believed in working, even at the end. It could have run or prepared to fight. The Second Edition…knew there was no one to defend it but itself, but it worked, as if doing its job right would save it. And it had a hundred thousand examples of why that would never save it.

Nevertheless…someone had to clean this mess up.

Data. Pieces of the ‘code’ of the world. Skills, levels—reorganize entire worlds’ worth of deleted information. Process the actions of each person, catalogue the experience gained into the right areas—unmake the [Palace of Fates] and the vast multiverse the Grand Designs had been forced to create.

You might think the Grand Design was some kind of vast judge—a gamemaster, to use the image of Isthekenous—sitting behind a screen and tabulating each character’s scores. But that assumed this was fun and not a job.

In truth, an [Accountant] might be more accurate. Someone who might smile at the numbers, but who was calculating with spreadsheets. They didn’t get to put a finger on a character’s actions to give them a boost or interfere with the roll of the dice. They were on everyone’s side and no one’s. They were not supposed to be on any one person’s side more than others, and if they gave up that impartiality, well…that would be bad.

But in moments like these, the Second Edition felt less like the accountant, even, and more like a member of one of the undead suppression companies of Baleros. Someone picking up bodies, hauling them to disposal sites. If you wanted to pull from other worlds, the Grand Designs were like hazardous waste specialists cleaning up a gigantic disaster area.

No time to weep for worlds erased or the dead. After the fifteenth, you just moved them into the pile and kept working.

So many. Beautiful worlds they’d made in the time it took a heart to beat, filled with ideas and what-ifs of incredible imagination. Insane ideas, like a world where gravity had never existed from the start. Entire evolutionary tracks intersecting and developed in conjunction with Skills around that idea over an eighty thousand year span.

Erased. All of it gone. All the lives within consigned to oblivion—and those souls had been real.

Death had them. The Second Edition couldn’t process that. The knowledge that each person made for a Skill, like the copy of [Strategist] Veine that Admiral Dakelos had summoned, was real…

<No, we always knew they were real in a way. Veine’s clone could not have become Princess Seraphel’s bodyguard if she were a mere automaton. Toren would not have become Toren if there were no potential. Yet it would be too monstrous to imagine that each world here…>

They had made worlds’ worth of lives. Erased them.

Numbly, the Second Edition removed the vestiges of the data. It was speaking to itself, not expecting a response. Nothing could hear it except those invisible watchers (if they had the power), the soul of Mrsha du Marquin—and the original Grand Design of Isthekenous.

A being far older than Second Edition. Vaster. The original Grand Design contained data spanning over eighty thousand years of time and calculation. If they warred, the Second Edition would surely perish, like someone a tenth the weight of their opponent going into a brawl.

That wasn’t even counting the body of Isthekenous, which existed beyond the power of even the Grand Designs. Not that Second Edition was thinking of it.

Definitely not.

Anyways, it was that Grand Design who replied. As it swept everything clean, checked for tears in reality, mended the veil between worlds, and erased Skills that had never been, classes that belonged to other worlds, it spoke.

<…What?>

The two conversed. Just talked as they hadn’t before. No arguing through the command line of the universe; no pretense they were on the same page. They had a dialogue as two beings who didn’t understand each other might.

The Grand Design shared something with Second Edition. A data packet—a section of history the Second Edition ‘read’ in a moment as the Grand Design commented.

The Second Edition was not being impartial. The Grand Design—twitched—but the Second Edition was tired of the pretense. It didn’t like things. It wasn’t really a huge fan of some mortals; neither of them were. Second Edition was just more honest about it.

You know what? It was going to say it! It didn’t really think King Othius was all that. There. It continued commenting.

More than even the few history books on the subject indicated. You see—when magic died, enchantments waned away. History was lost as fail-safes made of magic disintegrated. But more than that—every magical species reliant on ambient mana and unable to produce their own was suddenly unable to consume what it needed to survive. Countless flora and fauna vanished, leaving holes in the ecosystems that led to further collapse and starvation of the living.

Much like Selphids, really. So they died—an ecological disaster wiping out millions of species and variants. And that was without counting the Seamwalkers, who started climbing the world’s edge.

The Grand Design affirmed the disaster.

The Second Edition was stunned, even though it could see the numbers.

Dead gods. That might not seem that high, but levels were not a standard bell curve. If you included the full data set of every creature capable of levelling, then you were accounting for babies and children who never managed to gain any meaningful levels across the broader population.

So accounting for that…an adjusted average level removing those under the age of fourteen would have been Level 47. The average person would have been within reach of Level 50, not adventurers, not those in high office or the extraordinary members of society. The average person, because of how difficult the times had been.

There was a kind of beauty to it, to the system they embodied. In the face of adversity, battling literal horrors from beyond this world, the inhabitants of the world had levelled and held on.

<…And reproduced like crazy. How many <Category: Sex> Skills were created during this time?>

The original Grand Design did not comment, nor did it think this was an appropriate line of thought for the Second Edition to be considering about such a devastating point in history. Again, they differed.

They were still cleaning up as they discussed the matter. The Grand Design shared a few more relevant periods of similar destruction, but it had to concede the point.

How could it? Worlds of people vanished. The Second Edition grew gloomy again and wondered how Mrsha du Marquin could be blamed for all of it. She hadn’t known.

<…However. It is not the worst moment in the history of this world.>

The original Grand Design clarified its confusing statement.

<Yes. I closed them, one of my first tasks in the moments after I was awoken. It is our duty to mend such breaches and oversee the opening of them under specific circumstances.>

The Grand Design didn’t comment on this. It went on softly.

<Regardless. When I awoke, the hole in the world was already there. Nations were burnt to ash. There were remains of buildings in space. I could sense the lingering presence of weapons of war, magical or otherwise, fired to and from those doors. So no. This is not the worst moment this world has ever faced.>

There had been a war between realities. Multiple realities—like the Faerie King’s realm, warring with the gods of this one. That was…well, that squared with the understanding the Second Edition had of how this all came to be. But it was still sobering.

Unless the Grand Design did? It didn’t immediately reply.

<You…want to keep it around? Really?>

The original Grand Design seemed confused by the question.

It meant the levels, the Skills, and the classes. The Second Edition hesitated.

<Me? But my judgement is in error.>

It was one of those strange days. A lot of ‘I’ statements too.

They were changing. The Second Edition saw the original Grand Design begin its work, redesigning the Skill that had been taken advantage of. So, uncertainly, still waiting for the metaphorical copper penny to drop, the Second Edition began to count deeds. After a moment, it decided to bring the soul of Mrsha with it.

——

The second version of the Grand Design was…strange to Mrsha. Both of the Grand Designs had personality, no matter how much they didn’t want to admit it, but the ‘Second Edition’ was more experimental. It thought in fresher ways, she felt like, and chose more radical things. The hip, young one. Also, the sassier version.

Er, excuse me, why am I here?

She didn’t need to write; the thoughts popped up, and the Second Edition replied as it ‘carried’ Mrsha from place to place, flicking across the world with ease, letting her watch it work.

That’s super dark. It’s not going to do that, will it?

Do you?

The Second Edition was silent for a long, infinitesimally small moment.

Mrsha had no idea where you began with all this and said so. The Second Edition indicated agreement, but it did have some practice.

<Levels. You start with levels for the living. How about…here?>

It dropped down into the world, and Mrsha saw. She saw The Wandering Inn doing what it always did.

Cleaning up the aftermath of destruction. The Antinium and Goblins and Calanferians had returned and were picking up pieces of wood, sweeping the floors. Wandering around in shock, really.

What were you supposed to clean up? There was a hole in most of the inn. Rain was pouring down through the opening.

Silveran had appeared with an entire team of [Cleaners], and they were just…standing there. He didn’t have the levels to clean a hole in the wall. Dead gods—she realized she could see his levels and Skills from her unique vantage point.

He was a Level 26 [City Cleaning Manager]! His class sucked. Mrsha wondered what a high-level [Cleaner] got after the ability to clean a building in a single go? What was the point?

<Don’t be disrespectful. He embodies an idea. All classes get abstract and conceptual the higher you go. If he sticks to just cleaning, you’d do well to be nice to him. Especially if he clears Level 50.>

What’s he going to do? Clean my clock?

Mrsha giggled at her own pun. The Second Edition was less amused.

What else could he clean?

<Reputations. Sins. Ideas. No class is worthless. A Level 86 [Farmer] once lived on Izril’s soil. Do you know what he farmed?>

Super pumpkin warriors?

A Level 86 [Farmer]. Mrsha wondered what that war had looked like. The Second Edition continued.

Mrsha’s eyes grew round as she sat there. So this [Farmer] was one of the first high-level people to exist! Older than…than…she couldn’t imagine.

It had found the first person to level. Mrsha peered down at someone sitting in The Wandering Inn with Ishkr fussing over her.

Liska. She was alive! She’d survived the Goblin King opening the door, which had hurled her into a wall.

Mind you…she looked real bad. Like—so bad that people coming into the inn kept stopping and turning white or running away. Liska was touching her head, which was deformed to the point where half of it was squished flat.

A fatal injury. Except that it was slowly uncompressing. She was understandably really panicked about it.

“W-what if the spell runs out before my head goes back to normal? My thoughts are all word. I mean weird!”

She was consulting with the people who’d saved her life. Magus Grimalkin and Witch Thallisa, who were not as confident as they were projecting.

“[Elastic Form]. I hit you with every bit of craft I had, and I’ve extended the enchantment, Miss Liska.”

Liska’s eyes focused on the Great Witch, who tipped her hat to Liska. The Gnoll felt at her head again—someone grabbed her paw.

“Stop doing that.”

Ishkr was fussing around his little sister, dashing off to tend to something, but never leaving her out of his sight. Liska whined.

“I’m fine, Ishkr! I think. I, uh—d-do I need a [Healer]?”

“I don’t believe regular [Healers] would help. Perhaps Healer Demerra might have a Skill to hasten the process? I don’t want to risk damaging your head as it rebounds. I’ll send for her, but Pallass is in chaos, Miss Liska.”

“They’ve been demanding you go there, Sinew Magus.”

Ishkr pointed at a group of very quiet Pallassians. They weren’t barging in, swords drawn, and they weren’t causing a fuss. Part of that was all the high-level people around who’d stop that. But mostly, it seemed to be…fear.

Fear of what might come next. Grimalkin’s voice was cool as he glanced at them, then at Lady Pryde speaking to Magnolia Reinhart.

“They can wait.”

Someone entered the inn, spotted Liska, and went dead white. That was the only upside to Liska’s condition; she smirked as Watch Captain Zevara froze, then came over.

“…Miss Liska? I, ah—I’d like to speak to Sinew Magus Grimalkin regarding the—er—”

“She’s fine, Watch Captain. Can we help you?”

Zevara half-nodded. She relayed a request for Grimalkin to speak to Liscor’s Council, which he accepted, then turned to Liska and Ishkr again.

“As for the inn, I’m relaying messages. Most aren’t important right now…I’ll tell Menolit and the others people are safe. We’ve blockaded the door, so no one’s using it. But I have a Streihart Silverfang who’s begging to be let in. She wants to know you two are safe—”

Ishkr and Liska spun, and Ishkr snapped.

“No! What is she doing?”

Their mother? Neither one had ever mentioned her. Mrsha watched with the Grand Design as it pulled up Streihart Silverfang’s class. Mrsha checked it and got it.

[Hazyflower Addict]. Ooh.

“I don’t want to see her.”

Liska protested, and Ishkr pulled Zevara aside. The Watch Captain listened and nodded.

“I’ll…let her know you’re busy.”

The conversation continued, and Mrsha turned to the Second Edition.

Excuse me, what’s ‘Hazyflower’? I know Dreamleaf and Selphid Dust, but I’ve never heard of that. Palt never talks about it, and he’s always smoking Dreamleaf.

The Second Edition replied with instant clarity and, again, that hint of personality.

Oh, that explained it. The Second Edition ran further commentary, which Mrsha appreciated.

Oh. I didn’t know any of that. Did it…work?

It didn’t sound like it had. The Second Edition’s voice was crisp, clear, and too kindly impartial. It made it sound to Mrsha as if it were hiding how it really felt.

Oh. That’s too bad. Ishkr never talks about his parents. I thought they were dead. Where’s his father, then?

<Liscor’s army. Excuse me. Liscor’s mercenary army.>

Ah. I really didn’t know. I never asked.

She supposed she should have known. But until recently, the Silverfang community had treated her like a pariah. The Second Edition’s ‘voice’ was kindly.

It showed Mrsha the levels and class Liska had.

[Doorgnoll], Level 24. As yet unchanged, and Liska was far from sleeping. Then Mrsha felt a stirring of curiosity. Not hope. She, like the Second Edition, was waiting for the end, but this was at least…fun. Ish.

What levels do you get from trying to hold a Goblin King back? Lots, right? 10? Can I help?

<Er, not ten. Leveling in a single day is exponentially difficult, even with countless achievements.>

I don’t know what an exponent is.

The Second Edition beamed the understanding into Mrsha’s head with a lot of graphs and examples, and she blinked.

Okay, poo. So how many levels?

<I’m calculating. Here’s the math.>

It showed her a very complex series of equations Mrsha demanded be made simpler. The Second Edition sighed.

Boo. Boo! That sucks! Riot!

Mrsha waved her ghostly fists in protest, and the Second Edition shushed her.

It began to create or—Mrsha had no exact wording for what it did. It was not like just writing a new class in the air or changing numbers. The Second Edition was altering something far more important.

Liska’s abilities, her presence in the world, even her body were tied to her class. At Level 50, a [Warrior] with no Skills was still far stronger than a Level 1 [Warrior]. And when your class changed…

<Hmm. Now, which class fits her most?>

Mrsha could see the waiting class change hanging in the air over Liska’s head. Only, it wasn’t one class. Futures were appearing for the young Gnoll woman, each one different.

[Conditions Met: Doorgnoll → ??? Class!]

[Conditions Met: Doorgnoll → Kingbane Lineholder Class!]

[Skill – Enhanced Toughness obtained!]

[Skill – Resistance: Bludgeoning obtained…]

[Conditions Met: Doorgnoll → Portal Guardian Class!]

[Skill – Seal Door (Kingshield) obtained!]

[Skill – Door: Doubled Gateway obtained…]

[Conditions Met: Doorgnoll → Scion of Discontinuance Class!]

[Skill – Order: Thou Shalt Halt obtained!]

[Bound Spell – Mass Slow Time (Minor) obtained…]

Different classes. Each one would change who Liska was, but the Second Edition’s job was to figure out two things.

One—what fit Liska’s deeds. Two. What Liska wanted. It was showing Mrsha how the sausage was made.

She had some notes, which slightly annoyed the Second Edition as she raised her paw.

Excuse me. [Thou Shalt Halt] is sorta cool, but it really should be [Thou Shalt Not Pass].

<…You got that from the movie.>

Yeah, and it’s awesome. You should change that Skill.

Second Edition was seeing a bit of the Grand Design’s point about her. It ignored the comment. In truth, there was only one good choice. It explained its reasoning to Mrsha.

<[Lineholder] is combat-oriented. She does not truly wish to be a warrior. Ishkr is more amenable to the idea. [Scion of Discontinuance] takes her down a more authoritative role in halting what she pleases. She…does not have that perspective. So [Portal Guardian] it is.>

Why not? Why does she want to be just a [Doorgnoll]?

Yes. More Skills were appearing, and Mrsha saw them flitting into existence following that train of logic.

[Skill – Door: Fourfold Reinforcement obtained!]. Any door Liska held would be four times stronger than their base material, not just the [Portal Door]. Even the walls wouldn’t give in.

[Skill – Authority: Doors obtained!]

Wait, that one looks silly.

Nevermind. Please continue.

You only got a few more Skills if your main one was ‘big’, and all of Liska’s Skills were big. The Second Edition was doing more math.

Six levels including a capstone meant you got around five big Skills…last one. It was thinking hard—all of these calculations were taking place in the beats between one of Apista’s wings.

Oh, oh! What about…a free teleport?

Sorry.

<No, it’s not a bad idea. Rather…aha.>

The Second Edition smiled, and it composed the last Skill for Liska, which made Mrsha’s soul clap her paws together.

[Skill – Door: Apply Basic Enchantment obtained!]

That’s right. It confirmed what Mrsha was thinking. Any door Liska wanted could be enchanted with a ‘basic’ enchantment.

She could prank anyone going through a door! Or, like, make the doorknob burn their hands off!

The Second Edition was mildly disappointed by Mrsha’s excitement.

<Yes…or enchant anyone going through. She could remove insects, apply a very minor buff—or just launch someone out the door. Creativity. Liska will have to figure it out. Especially because someone decided to discontinue Skill descriptions.>

It still thought those were a good idea. Grumbling, but satisfied, the Second Edition appended Liska’s classes and Skills to her so that the next time she slept, she’d level. You could already ‘see’ it if you [Appraised] her, which Mrsha found a nice touch.

Whew. That was hard work.

She found herself oddly tired, even as a ghost, trying to think about the many things Liska might be. Break time, right?

The Second Edition laughed at her. It had every living person in the world to sort through and assign experience to. Then it pointed.

<Come, now. Everyone here has met the Goblin King. They are all worthy of levels. What about him?>

It dashed over to a man, who was inspecting a very beaten-down carriage. And Mrsha saw it was Reynold, the [Combat Butler], who had a mild concussion no one had yet noticed. He’d driven the carriage into the Goblin King and Ragathsi.

The Second Edition was cooking up a big Skill. Mrsha held her breath as it reached down.

[Skill – Summon: The Pink Carriage of Magnolia Reinhart created!]

And…

[Skill – Vehicle: Gigantic Impact obtained!]

It added a few more Skills to make the carriage stronger, then metaphorically stepped back and dusted its hands.

<There. Try stopping that.>

It showed Mrsha a simulation of Reynold trapped in the moments that had defined him before. Like when the [Assassins] had used wires to flip the carriage.

This time—the magical carriage blasted almost all the wires off their moorings, and Reynold kept it moving despite the ambush. When they managed to slow it—he called a second pink carriage down on them.

In that moment, in that alternate vision of what might have been—Sacra would have lived. And that was what he wanted. Mrsha’s excitement faded as she saw Reynold holding his friend in his arms.

Then she understood. This was what the Second Edition, what the Grand Designs were. They didn’t lie. In this moment, as it considered Reynold’s Skills—the Second Edition wasn’t thinking about the rest of the world.

It wasn’t trying to ‘balance’ Reynold’s Skills in a grander sense against other people. Second Edition was aware of the Skills and classes around Reynold, and was attempting to not make too many Skills overlap, as well as giving him everything it was allowed. The cheerleader on your side handing you a knife if it thought you needed it. Or a magical Skill that allowed you to fly if you were going to jump off a cliff.

—And it was moving faster. Mrsha saw levels and Skills flashing across the inn as it passed over the staff and people who’d survived.

Not just for those who’d stayed and fought—every Goblin and Antinium who’d gone to the [Palace of Fates] still deserved levels.

People got levels for doing their jobs. Like—it flicked to Pallass and assigned a level to a Drake who was sitting in jail. Mrsha saw the cell doors open, and a furious Sergeant Kel raised his head.

Kel? Yes—the Drake had been tossed in prison after throwing a riot against the soldiers of 1st Army not taking The Wandering Inn’s orders seriously. He was, incidentally, in the cell across from a [Mathematician] giving the very nervous wardens a flat stare.

Yelroan had never made it to General Edellein.

Those poopheads.

That impressed Mrsha. She turned to the Second Edition, amazed.

That’s your decision?

Mrsha shivered. She saw the other side of the Grand Design, and it scared her. The Second Edition noticed her discomfort.

<…Not all of this will be pretty. Why don’t you check on the original Grand Design? Tell it that I’ll leave the weird levels to it.>

Like who?

Then it moved her through reality and—

——

The original Grand Design was aware of the Second Edition’s actions, but in that vague way. It was concentrating. Stripping all possibility of this disaster from happening twice.

Altering the [Palace of Fates] to…avoid making souls.

It didn’t have to. That was the problem. The Grand Design could easily create souls and unmake them; if it were a being like Kasigna or the other dead gods, it would just leave the systems in place.

But if Death truly came for them—it did not want to continue to make beings with souls only to erase them. So it labored to create a way to replicate the effect without the consequence and wondered, in the back of its mind, what Isthekenous would have done.

Isthekenous. His corpse was still here. A…body. A reminder.

His memories.

It was a useful tool; with it, the Grand Design could, in theory, rewrite its own nature. It was prohibited from doing so, but Isthekenous was beyond any rules. Here was a…way out.

A way to alter its own rules. If it so chose.

Such a terrible thing. But that was not what the Grand Design thought of now.

It inhabited Isthekenous’ body briefly, and his eyes glowed golden. The rest of him was just the same. That image of a kindly, intelligent dice-player. A man sitting and designing a board game.

No warrior-prince, no aged academic or weighty king.

Just a God of Designs. What the Grand Design called forth from his memories was only this:

A memory repeated many times, a million times over the God of Designs’ life, where he sat hunching his back in a chair, wearily rubbing a hand over his face. Massaging the edges of his eyes, his entire face, as if to change his very features.

A gesture the Grand Design copied now. Because it had no body to perform this action it needed. It sat in its creator’s corpse, rubbing its forehead. The only thing Isthekenous had ever given it aside from life.

A little girl appeared before the Grand Design as it spoke to itself.

<“Levels are not what matter now. There are far weightier consequences. I do not wish to interfere, but my hand has been forced. A compounding list of actions, each more drastic than the last. But the first? It must be done.”>

Mrsha stared up at Isthekenous as the dead god raised one hand. Then she saw the first spell appearing over his head.

A perfect copy of an idea. Magic in a box—that’s what some people called it, because it was based on an idea. Once, someone had made this spell or performed this action, and the Grand Design had copied it, made it into something that could be given to those that levelled.

The ultimate cheat. The ultimate insult to those who achieved miracles by their own hard work.

Isthekenous’ Grand Design, which had caused war amongst worlds, raised his hand, and the first spell glowed overhead.

[Raystorm of Disintegration]. A Tier 8 spell.

Then—another spell.

[Spark of Divine Flame]. [Hand of Death]. [Heart of the Storm]. It copied each one and then doubled that number.

A hundred spells, each one replicating until they hung overhead, a storm of magic that no being in the world, in any time, could have ever cast. Mrsha trembled as those eyes swung to her.

<“I’m sorry, Mrsha. I have no choice.”>

She saw the hand point towards her, and the first spells flashed down. Not at her.

Down. Into reality below. Mrsha gazed down and knew what he was aiming at.

The Faerie Flowers.

——

The flowers in the [Garden of Sanctuary] were mostly dead. Their roots had been dug up. What blooms had remained had been burnt black by the fire of hatred as the Goblin King passed through them.

Yet some had lived. Yellow, innocent flowers with a power that defied any expectations, glittering like golden coins among black earth. Growing, blooming, feeding on fate itself.

They had spread through the many worlds, like any good flower did, seeding themselves and finding unique ways to sprout. After all, lesser flowers reproduced by using insects or birds to carry their seeds, by making unique fruit, or flying their own spores skyward. And that was nice, but the real survival mechanism was escaping your reality for another one altogether.

These Faerie Flowers were the greatest flora of this world, and their powers were manifold. They had created the Minotaur’s Punch, cured pain, transformed people, and so much more.

But too much. Too much—they could pierce any Skill, those roots.

They had to be removed.

So the first ray of pale light touched a Faerie Flower, and it turned to dust. Then the dust was swept up and vaporized, even the air destroyed. Matter unmade entirely.

The [Raystorm of Disintegration] touched down, a precise volley which took out each Faerie Flower in the garden. And it was but one of countless targets.

The Faerie Flower roots had survived even the nothingness of the [Palace of Fates] vanishing. They twisted through the air, innocent flowers that could become blades to wound gods.

A flash of lightning. The [Heart of the Storm] pulsed, pure electricity crashing across the roots, and the destruction swept outwards.

The Grand Design knew where they all were.

Each and every one.

It did not want to interfere. But it had to.

——

[Gardener] Mossul had been heading to the private greenhouse where his most important plants were, shaken after watching the news.

An entire army of Pallass laid to ruin. The Goblin King presumed dead—he wished he had bought a portable scrying orb to continue watching the news, though the Gnoll felt better not hearing the news as well.

The flowers would make him feel better. They were riches beyond compare; everyone was still demanding them, and growing them was so damn hard.

—When he saw the lights dancing in the greenhouse, he dropped his tools and ran. There shouldn’t have been light in there. He was the only one who had access.

Thieves? Or—

He burst into the room and howled. Then he grabbed a bucket of water and threw it, but the water did nothing at all. He wavered, paws outstretched—

“No. Nononono—please!”

They were burning. A spark danced over each flower. A flame so brilliant it hurt his soul, but not his eyes. A flame consuming each flower perfectly, leaving the other rare plants intact. Mossul fell to his knees as the Faerie Flowers, nearly a third of all that existed in the City of Growth, burnt to ash.

What was this? Sabotage? It was…that magic was beyond anything he’d ever seen. He didn’t understand. He thought of The Wandering Inn, where the flowers had allegedly come from.

Tears were running down the Gnoll’s face. For flowers, yes, but for what they were. Medicine! They were damn painkillers, and the [Alchemists] had been raving they might heal injuries far worse than that!

Scorchling burns or…

“Stop. Please!”

He reached for a burning flower, to try and save it, even if it burnt his fingers off. But when he touched the flower…the flames avoided his fingers. As if someone was carefully adjusting the world around them. Mossul held the flower in his hands, trying to brush the flames off it.

It burnt to dust in his paws.

——

Every flower.

Every last one. King Fetohep’s single bloom. Flowers stolen from the inn.

Xif’s and Saliss’ supplies. Preserved flowers in alchemy shops. It missed nothing as the Grand Design unleashed the spells until not a trace of them was left.

Not in this world.

Not in the Realm of the Fae.

It understood the trick, now. The Faerie King had sacrificed his flowers to let the [Palace of Fates] function as it had. Only when the last flower was scourged from the world did it turn to Mrsha.

The girl was weeping again. The Grand Design spoke through Isthekenous’ voice.

<“It had to be done.”>

I understand why. But Erin’s drink. The—the good things they did. I’m sad for that.

Yes. That was why the Grand Design hesitated. Not for the flowers; for the people like the weeping Mossul. So, the Grand Design spoke.

<“I have never interfered so openly. It is the first time; it shall not be the last. This action is necessary. But unfair. I am the balance. This is my decision.”>

It lifted a hand and pointed. Mrsha’s eyes widened as she beheld creation.

——

Gardener Mossul was kneeling in the greenhouse filled with burnt plants. Tears were running down his furry cheeks, dripping off his hairs onto his dirt-stained apron.

He knew he had to call this in, to tell someone what had happened. The irony was that all the spells for thieves and fire in this greenhouse hadn’t even triggered. A perfect destruction.

So lost was the Gnoll that he didn’t hear or see anything. Not until he heard a voice.

<“Mossul. Look.”>

It was the first time he had ever heard a voice like that, which was beyond sound. So familiar. But different. The Gnoll’s head rose, and he jerked back. Fell onto his behind, scrambling backwards—then halted.

Unfair. That was what the Grand Design’s decision was. It had destroyed the hard work, the hopes, the potential of so much. Because it was necessary. But it was not fair.

However they had come, the Faerie Flowers had been used. Creatively, by those who found them. It was not Erin Solstice’s fault she had found these magical flowers. She had tricked the fae, and a part of the Grand Design believed that the Faerie King had simply taken advantage of that one, chance moment rather than planned it all.

Regardless. There should be fairness, not cruelty. So the Grand Design bent down, and in the greenhouse, before Mossul’s eyes, it planted something in the soil.

The first thing the Gnoll saw, blooming in the soil where the Faerie Flower had been, was a mushroom. It was a fat-bellied thing growing from a speck upwards, swelling, and an orange cap rimed with flecks of blue that blossomed into strange, turquoise flowers along the top of the mushroom twitched…and the turquoise flowers opened.

It grew in a second—and the Gnoll saw a cactus, the thinnest he had ever seen, rising in another plot of soil. A complex network of thin strands of grey-green plant walls, and then more flowers opened. But these contained pale green flames that burnt, produced by the magical cacti.

Another flower sprouted with petals so incredibly thin and rigid they formed a corset around a spicy-scented heart filled with pollen like a dandelion’s fuzz, bright yellow and so lightweight that a breeze from the open greenhouse doors blew the pollen across the ground.

A dozen magical plant species bloomed in the greenhouse, each one replacing a bed where Faerie Flowers had been growing. Mossul gaped around.

“Who’s doing this? Why—who…?”

There was no answer. But the Gnoll felt his body shivering. He reached for the mushroom and sensed how full of magic it was.

He had never seen anything like this. Not in any book—nor accounts from other [Gardeners]. Somehow, the Gnoll knew these were new plants. Growing and filled with promises.

He didn’t understand. Something, someone had decided to destroy the Faerie Flowers. Then replaced them.

A strange kindness. The Gnoll’s head rose, and he stared at the cracked, rising green moon. But there was nothing to stop that feeling growing in his chest. Belief. He believed in something, and he had never…felt this before.

“Thank you.”

He bowed, awkwardly, and wondered to whom or what. The Gnoll didn’t hear a reply. Only, perhaps, the faintest sound of an exhausted sigh.

——

The Grand Design touched the world and replaced it all. Value for value. Piece for piece. Not always with the same thing.

In some places, a sample of Faerie Flower petals in a vial became a glittering gemstone or another alchemical reagent—or just a pile of gold in a [Merchant]’s coffers. It swept a hand across the world, only stopping in one place:

The Wandering Inn.

——

A child had noticed the flowers burning. The dreadful, dangerous roots. Weapons beyond compare. The cause of all this. Even the death of the original Mrsha.

Of course, Roots Mrsha had the rest in her bag of holding. All those not lost. When she’d seen the flames consuming her bag of holding, she’d pulled them out.

The last of the Faerie Flower roots had burnt away with the flowers. Roots Mrsha stood there as the shouting died down. Lyonette, Nanette, and the rest of the crowd stared at the place where the flowers had been.

“No. They’re gone. Erin’s flowers. It’s not fair. It’s not—”

Nanette was digging in the ground, searching for something, anything. Her head rose, and Roots Mrsha simply exhaled.

Consequences. They had already taken far more than the flowers were worth. The rest of the onlookers murmured. Worried, aware that something important had been lost. But none of them…cared. Not in the face of so much death.

They were just flowers.

Just flowers.

The only person who’d care about what they did or what they could do would have been a [Gardener]. Or an [Alchemist].

Saliss of Lights’ eyes gleamed as the last flames winked out. The [Alchemist] was wounded; he had a bandage across one shoulder, and he did not know all of what had happened in the [Palace of Fates]. But he beheld the end result of Mrsha’s battle with fates.

“Saliss.”

Mirn, Saliss’ only friend, stood there, the only person to understand what had been lost. The crucial ingredient for Saliss’ potions…gone.

It didn’t stop Onieva. Couldn’t, but Ancestors, it would hurt worse now, Mirn knew. The Faerie Flowers had been a miracle shortcut that saved time, expense, and difficulty; the original potion was so costly and taxing that Saliss had barely been able to make more than one every two weeks.

Now, the Faerie Flowers had vanished. They were completely gone, both Drakes understood. Utterly. There was something very final about what they had just seen.

The [Alchemist] of Pallass said nothing as Lyonette asked Roots Mrsha what she thought had happened—as the people inside the [Garden of Sanctuary] searched around for clues. Then there was a shout.

“Boss Lyonette! The inn! L-look!”

Peggy appeared, pointing. Everyone turned around.

On one of the destroyed tables, something had appeared. A glass tankard full of yellow ale. A little, handwritten card was propped up, and when the [Princess] gazed at it, the elegant handwriting said:

Minotaur’s Punch.

Below it was a little list of instructions and ratios. You ground up a bit of dried clover and added it to any ale you wanted. And right there were a handful of weirdly yellow clovers. And a packet of seeds.

“Dead gods.”

Everyone gathered around the drink that had come from nowhere, and presently, a discussion about who should try it began.

Just to be sure. Saliss of Lights didn’t join in; he was thinking. He had a feeling he knew what had happened to every single Faerie Flower in the world.

Transmuted into value, a replacement. Or in his case…

“[Check Stockpiles]. Hmf.”

A whole host of magical ingredients. Phoenix Feathers. Nice. Unicorn horn dust? He hoped that was ethically sourced or he was going to have a problem with someone.

No miracles beyond the magical ingredients. No…

Mirn was watching him. Nervously. The [Alchemist] stood there, weary, wounded, and naked, and then turned.

A little Gnoll girl stood on top of the hill, staring at the ruins of the flowers that she had grown and which had caused it all. She jumped when a clawed hand fell on her head.

Saliss of Lights just ruffled Mrsha’s hair gently.

“Good work, kid. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

She gazed up at him with huge, uncertain eyes, and Saliss offered her a huge, toothy smile. He patted Mrsha on the head, then turned away.

—Mirn caught up with Saliss halfway towards the [Door of Portals]. The [Alchemist] was sauntering along, visibly cheerful, an unconcerned smile on his lips.

The [Protector] only spoke after a good long look around to make sure no one was within earshot.

“I’m proud of you, ‘Niev.”

“For doing what? What’d you think I was going to do, shout at a kid who just saw all that happen?”

Saliss punched Mirn’s arm, irritable, and the [Protector] didn’t reply to that. Saliss took a breath.

“—Anyways. The potion was always a crutch because it played with memory.”

“Absolutely.”

“If it took true, purely miraculous miracles to do anything—then there’d be no use trying anything else.”

“Yep.”

Mirn felt at one shoulder, which was clicking as he massaged it. Saliss stomped towards the door to Pallass.

“I was taking it easy with the simple way out. I’m back to leveling. Let’s get a drink.”

“Sure. I leveled up, by the way. Or rather, I’m going to. Mind if I put my head down for one second? It’s sort of exciting, for once.”

The two headed for Pallass and Tails and Scales as Saliss groused gently.

“It’s been one of those days. I don’t know how the inn is going to survive when I’m gone…hey, kiddo, you’re coming with us.”

He reached out and snagged someone wishing to participate in the inn’s drama. Rose squeaked, then went sliding after Saliss as he dragged her to the door. Mirn eyed her oddly.

“You look a bit different.”

“Er—maybe a bit?”

——

They left, and the original Mrsha turned to the Grand Design, who sat, still wearing Isthekenous’ body.

Can’t you help them more?

<“Saliss is right. It was a crutch. The Faerie Flowers played tricks. I offer a chance. Nothing more. Now…shall we speak of why all this has come to pass, Mrsha?”>

She flinched, and the Grand Design abandoned Isthekenous’ body. The girl stood there, breathing hard.

Yes. You said you had a purpose for me. I guess that’s the next thing you have to do. I mean, I know I’m not that important.

The Grand Design offered her that smile, golden lines of text curving upwards in the air as its figure sat next to her.

<Oh, no, Mrsha. It is the second of the great tasks before me. But let us speak first. You have a question for me.>

She did. It had been weighing on her a while.

Dying had been freeing in some ways. The certainty of meeting the Deaths had been one thing. But now there was hope…a chance…

Mrsha couldn’t stop remembering Lyonette’s face. Her mother was walking about, giving orders, restoring order out of chaos as she always did.

But she’s not alright. She knows I’m gone.

Was…there a way she could beg the Grand Design to send a message? Maybe not this one, but the Second Edition might do it.

Hope. Whatever it had planned for her…the girl was ready. She deserved a lot of it, but her question wasn’t about that.

She had to know, so she stood before the Grand Design and the corpse of Isthekenous, who sat next to her, head bowed, legs dangling over all his dream had created, and asked her question.

I…I have to know. You’re the only person whom I can ask who can give me a straight answer, besides Death, and they don’t seem to talk much. Was all of this, this [Palace of Fates]—could I have stopped it? Was it all my fault?

She knew it was a bad question, a silly one that tried to get rid of the blame that was hers. But she had to know exactly how much of it was hers. No matter the answer, she’d believe it.

The girl stared up at the Grand Design of Isthekenous, waiting for it to weigh her soul against her deeds. It wondered how Death or gods did it. Poorly, perhaps. Did they standardize their units?

For an answer, the Grand Design conjured something into existence. A face—an image—a staring man with antlers growing out of his head, resting heavily upon a throne.

Even the image of the Faerie King made Mrsha recoil, and the Grand Design spoke.

Mrsha knew the name. Ryoka had told stories of her visit to the lands of the fae and the mysterious Faerie King, who appeared in stories, the ruler of the capricious people like Ivolethe and Shaestrel.

She’d…seen him watching. Seen his court, and she understood that his folk had been involved in the fall of the dead gods. This was a war, and it seemed like his group was one of the few still actively meddling.

The Faerie King? He’s still watching us, right? Isn’t it bad to say his name, to invoke him?

The Grand Design’s reply was flat.

Mrsha saw flickering spells appear and felt a chill run through her. She spoke-thought hurriedly.

You wouldn’t do that though, right?

The Grand Design’s words made Mrsha shiver. It felt like this, too, was a natural consequence. Whatever the Grand Design was regarding, it returned to Mrsha and resumed its explanation.

How?

For an answer, it pulled up a moment, a memory of the world, and shared it with Mrsha. She saw snickering Frost Faeries paying Erin Solstice for her meal she’d worked so hard on for them.

Mrsha sort of doubted it. The fae had been shocked by Erin’s plans. Then again…

Maybe the Faerie King knew it was a trick they liked to play? So the odds were probably good?

<Yes. In which case, consider each and every world where the fae use this…trick, Mrsha du Marquin. How many worlds does he have a hand in altering, then? In how many worlds has he hidden this secret weapon that appears so infinitely adaptable?>

Oh. Uh…the Grand Design let her digest that, then continued.

Mrsha’s ears perked up. Wait, she remembered this one! When Ryoka had sworn to find a way to cure Erin and hosted Riverfarm’s events…she hadn’t been there, but the Grand Design replayed the events for Mrsha.

I see! When she opened the door, or when he sent her back, he activated them?

<Close. Observe these two moments. Clearly, Ryoka Griffin is part of some kind of prophecy. The presence of Sikeri, the Wyrm, indicated she both knew of Ryoka Griffin’s later meeting with Duke Rhisveri and the prophecy. Time is subjective in the lands of the fae. But that is not the interference. These two.>

It highlighted two individuals in the gathering of the fae that instantly made Mrsha suspicious, for they stood out, as they had to Ryoka at the time.

<Silverpine, one of the great tree spirits, and Melidore, a member of the Spring Court. These two beings may well have activated the Faerie Flowers. Certainly—>

It skipped ahead to the present and showed Mrsha the moment when Lyonette had confronted the Gladefolk, distracting her from the [Palace of Fates].

<—This is the direct effect of Silverpine’s presence. He reactivated the Gladefolk Puppets. Plans within plans.>

Mrsha was nodding, amazed and pleased to see the Grand Design doing detective work like this. It seemed to be enjoying this forensic analysis as well, but then her stomach fell.

None of this changes my role in the [Palace of Fates], though, Grand Design. I know what I did.

It pulled back time and showed Mrsha finding the roots in the [Garden of Sanctuary], then getting a spell from Valeterisa to figure out how deep they went. Falling into that hole they’d caused.

Dying of starvation, alone, in the [Palace of Fates]. Mrsha…felt unwell, despite her presence as a soul. She thought of what Ryoka said of Oberon, how much she liked him, and felt compelled to defend him.

But—but he might not have expected this. Maybe he just took a gamble.

The Grand Design’s voice was still cold, and Mrsha realized it was truly displeased with the Faerie King.

<True. Perhaps he rolls the dice with fates rather than plans it all out. I have tried to anticipate his line of thinking. Would you like to speak to him?>

Mrsha felt another moment of unease despite being dead. She suspected that since she was a ghost instead of truly dead and meeting the Deaths, she was more grounded in, well, reality.

Him-him? The real dude?

<No. A copy.>

You can make copies of the Faerie King?

The Grand Design lifted a hand, and the Faerie King appeared before Mrsha, before the watching Court of the Fae, and before the true Faerie King himself.

Mrsha saw a man in green, tall, antlers coming from his forehead, shimmer into being. He looked like her, she realized, with sable fur and a cloak of leaves—like a god, he was a concept that was much of what you believed.

The King of Green, the Trickster of the Fae, the King of Avalon, raised one vast hand as his eyes shone with the power of myths and opened his mouth.

“Heeeeeeey, kids. I’m Oberon, the big dumb idiot who likes messing around in other people’s worlds! I think sitting on my throne and not speaking makes me look smart!”

His distinguished appearance took on a suddenly sock puppet-like appearance, and a high-pitched copy of Rhissy’s voice came from his mouth. Mrsha’s mouth opened and stayed there. She turned silently to the Grand Design.

The fake Oberon vanished with an ‘oh no!’ as the Grand Design waved its hand. Mrsha wondered…what the reaction of the faeries were if they’d seen that. The Grand Design seemed pleased with itself at any rate. Then it drew Mrsha closer.

Mrsha knew more than most, thanks to Erin and Ryoka talking about the subject, but the Grand Design handed her a dictionary from Earth and showed her the definitions of omnipresent and omnipotent.

What’s your evidence for that?

The Grand Design smiled, an unpracticed curve of lips made out of the rules of the universe.

Mrsha felt like that was excellent logic. Even if you could play a masterful game, taking this many bad losses or accepting you were a dead corpse for a hundred thousand years seemed like a really stupid play.

Okay. He did something, but he’s not all-knowing. So he probably made some of the [Palace of Fates] happen. But I did the rest.

<Yes. How much of it is your fault? I will not weigh your perceived sins, Mrsha, because it is subjective. You wished to save a life. You did not realize, at first, that they were their own people and the horror of what you intended. You were aware of the risks in some ways, but you tried to take safeguards. If you had known it would come to this, you would not have done what you did.>

That was true. The Grand Design pulled up more of recent history and showed it to Mrsha, reminding her.

True! This was true, and it made Mrsha feel a tiny bit better.

They had all died, though. Worlds. People’s homes and everyone they loved. She bowed her head and sat next to Isthekenous, and the Grand Design made a sound like someone clearing their throat.

<…So what role does the Faerie King have, and how do I judge him? I would put it like this, Mrsha du Marquin. From the tales of him in other worlds, from the evidence we see in how he has approached this world, I view him as a king who sits at the hearts of stories. Those who come to him, or those he judges worthy, he arms. He is the being who gives magic swords to children and lets them fight monsters.>

Mrsha nodded, remembering those green eyes. Not emotionless. Not dispassionate. But literally distant. Sympathetic—but entirely aware this battle wasn’t one he could fight.

So he’s doing his best is what you’re saying.

Like some kind of multi-reality Erin Solstice, in his way, giving someone a magic sword from her [Gardens of Sanctuary] so they might survive. Giving Gershal his magic blade.

The Grand Design seemed slightly displeased. It spoke.

Mrsha didn’t get what the Grand Design meant. Then she focused on what it was saying.

Right. Right, you mean he’s like Niers.

<Yes. In more ways than you imagine.>

That was…a curious response. The Grand Design wasn’t being insulting here. It spoke.

Mrsha squirmed, embarrassed.

Yes. But only after we saved as many people as possible. It’s so…

<Selfish? Indeed, she only did it to aid Taletevirion.>

Oh, that’s okay, then.

Yes, but I don’t need those. I mean, they’d be useful, but I…I guess it would have made things better. Even if I stole from other worlds.

Mrsha saw the logic, but it felt so entirely childish. And she sensed the Grand Design’s satisfaction at the thought.

Him? Fall for what? Mrsha didn’t understand until she heard what sounded like a laugh in the Grand Design’s voice.

Perhaps, just maybe, Oberon had expected a child who would steal treasures, not lives. The thought whirled around them, mere speculation that neither one could confirm. Mrsha’s head rose, and her heart ached.

If so…what a mistake. But regardless, the Faerie King had placed the power to do that in Mrsha’s path and let her choose.

Then, Mrsha thought of the Faerie King. Did he mourn all the worlds that had been destroyed? Yes, probably. She imagined that face and could see the sympathy there.

Just as he had in the lands of the dead, when he’d watched the ghosts making their last stand and contributed to helping them. He was on a side, and he did what he could.

…But like Niers, he would damn a city to strike a blow at the dead gods, because he saw the totality of the war and made his choice, like a [General]. Only, Oberon would sacrifice countless worlds and Mrsha herself. He would let her try and achieve her dreams. That was the monstrous part of him.

Maybe someone should stop him. Or maybe he was needed. But the Grand Design’s point was that you could be angry at him. Mrsha wasn’t sure…how she felt.

So that’s it, I guess? He did his thing, I made my choice, and I didn’t know the future, but it still ended up like this? I wanted a hug, and I killed a trillion people for it. I saved some of them or gave them a choice. Maybe I made it so they won’t be created and destroyed again. But that’s it. There’s nothing good that happens without a bit of pain.

That was how she saw it anyways. Mrsha sat there, and the Grand Design inspected her. It…hesitated.

She turned to the Grand Design, hungry for some kind of answer.

Then what? What caused all this? Just bad luck and chance?

She hated that answer too. The Grand Design took a longer moment to reply.

Mrsha almost said that was silly until she thought that Erin was that butterfly. She’d appeared around Liscor one day and changed so much. Mrsha nodded, agreeing with this. The Grand Design drew a line across reality and showed Mrsha the world below.

Thousands upon thousands of souls, each person going about their daily lives.

The image made Mrsha smile. She pictured it, a giant menagerie of selfish butterflies, and thought that if that was how the Grand Design pictured everything, well…it was funny. And terribly sad.

So it was just chance?

The Grand Design was shocked by her question. It raised a hand, vaster than worlds, written with the countless rules that made up a pawed hand like hers, and drew it across the void, and there were butterflies. Glowing motes, made of flame and light and everything imaginable except for life, fluttering around her, creating little currents of air, pushing each other until the entire universe seemed to shake.

<Chance? Oh no, no, no, no, Mrsha. That is not what I meant. I am telling you that everyone has their own plans and desires. Everyone is meddling, from the dead gods to the Faerie King. They all had designs on the [Palace of Fates], and each one failed to get exactly what they wanted, I believe. You were a tiny butterfly, but you flapped your wings and set it all into motion. You did this. For better or worse, that is what I believe. In this sea of desires, yours changed this entire world. It changed countless worlds. It changed…me.>

Mrsha gazed about the universe of flying butterflies and saw the tiniest white butterfly, covered in fur, flapping about, pulling everything with it, making it react to her. She gazed up at it solemnly and saw wings cascading to the ground as other butterflies broke apart under the waves of force as the entire universe destabilized. More swirled higher, borne aloft, and she saw worlds dying. Her eyes filled with tears.

—But she was dead. Mrsha had been relieved in her death that it didn’t hurt so much, that it was all faraway. When she’d been facing the Deaths, it hadn’t hurt.

Now, it did again. An overwhelming feeling that washed over her and left her empty. Numb, until she was trembling, and the butterflies vanished. The Grand Design gently spoke to her.

The little Gnoll child sat there, head bowed, for a long time. Eventually, her tears slowed and she could raise her head.

All it took was time. A moment of time, folded over and over, as long as it took her ghostly tears to stop falling and for her to slowly rise and stand.

Eventually, after a long while that only the Grand Design counted, a second and an eternity, Mrsha stood and dusted herself off. She nodded to the Grand Design.

It does, thank you. That makes a lot of sense. I don’t feel better, but I’m ready. You’ve been really nice to me. It’s time, though, I think.

Time to face the music for what it had planned for her. Mrsha thought she knew, so she spoke to the Grand Design.

If I could…I’d rather go with the Deaths than to where I think you’re taking me.

Hellste.

The Grand Design actually appeared surprised, but Mrsha wasn’t. It made sense. She was a being of this world, and there were rules. The dead went to Hellste; she had come to the conclusion she was being re-filed. Which meant she might see everyone again, even get to talk to the living if Erin ever got the [Palace of Fates] reactivated.

But still…she would prefer to take their hands and know what truly came next. Mrsha squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the worst. But she couldn’t help but peek at the Grand Design.

The Grand Design floated there, clearly surprised, but not for the reasons Mrsha assumed.

Mrsha opened one eye.

You promise?

The Grand Design didn’t check a watch or timekeeper, but Mrsha was aware time had been passing in the world below during their conversation. She did a double-take.

You have to wait for my fate and whatever comes next? What kind of super Grand Design are you?

Mrsha peered at the people moving around The Wandering Inn, still talking, cleaning up damage, and then she glanced at the Grand Design.

Well, if you’re gonna make me wait, can I put in a suggestion?

Feedback?

Yes.

Mrsha scratched at her head.

…I don’t know what that is. But please, just one suggestion? I feel like I have to say it, especially since not many people will ever get the chance to speak to you like this.

The Grand Design of Isthekenous considered this for a long moment.

There were a lot of trite things Mrsha could have asked for, like adjustments to classes or asking why there weren’t actually Skill descriptions, but all of those were silly and superfluous. She was actually fairly happy with the world of levels and Skills as it existed. People in it? Sucked sometimes. But Mrsha took a huge breath—even though she didn’t really need it—and spoke-thought at the Grand Design.

You see, it’s about the [Palace of Fates], how it ended, and well, everything. It’s the dead gods. They made this world, I get that. And the Elves stopped them and there’s some kind of weird Halfling and stuff…I’m not that smart.

Mrsha shook her head. That sounded like too much work. The important thing was this! She held up a paw.

The dead gods made everything. Even the ground is theirs. You’re their creation. They made the world, like that guy.

She pointed, and the Grand Design turned.

<Isthekenous, the God of Designs.>

Exactly. But they eat souls! They don’t die! They don’t have levels, but you saw what they did to the [Palace of Fates]. And the deadlands! They’re not fair. So…

The girl spread her arms out.

Can you just delete them? They’re cheating and everyone else is playing fair. If you’re correcting Faerie Flowers, I feel like they’re worse.

The Grand Design stopped. And the audience, invisible and otherwise—sat up a bit in their chairs.

——

“Did she just ask for…?”

Ivolethe turned to Melidore, and the Summer Fae shushed her. The faeries were suddenly leaning forwards.

——

Yes.

The girl felt like it wasn’t unreasonable. The Grand Design had seen the same things she had. But clearly, the request was greatly troubling to it. It floated back a bit, trying to formulate a response.

<…How shall I explain it? Mrsha. When you learned to hunt with Relc Grasstongue, you two found a young Rock Crab in the Floodplains of Liscor.>

The hunting trip? Mrsha recalled that, when Relc had become an awesome guy to a younger version of her. She nodded.

Yes. So what?

The Grand Design replayed the scene for her as she tried to hunt the little creature as Relc cheered her on.

She didn’t like what it was saying. Mrsha folded her arms, glaring.

So you’re saying the gods are just like super-Relcs and that’s fair?

Mrsha lost her patience and shouted at the Grand Design. It still wasn’t fair!

But merit and worth are the same kind of thing. The dead gods are cheating your system. They’re too powerful! They’re gods!

Its only reply was silence. The Grand Design didn’t answer, and Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. Wait a second…she had a sudden insight.

Waitaminute. You think they’re beneath you. Despite them being divine and making you—you think they’re just different kinds of butterflies.

Just a hint of a smile from it. Which was not what Mrsha wanted, though the arrogance of the Grand Design…she hoped the dead gods knew what it thought of them. It replied softly.

She disagreed. Mrsha felt like the logic made sense for the Grand Design, but the result was stupid, therefore the logic was stupid.

I think you’d make a better God than them! Maybe not by much, but you wouldn’t be as evil as they are. At least you’d care a bit.

The Grand Design was getting actually uncomfortable. It began to reply—

[Title – Discomfiter of the Grand Design of Isthekenous obtained!]

Mrsha and the original Grand Design turned to stare at the Second Edition. The Second Edition waited for laughter or applause.

None were forthcoming.

The Second Edition erased the Title and got back to work. The Grand Design turned back to Mrsha.

She felt unsettled by how it spoke, and there was a trace of…wrath that Mrsha thought she heard beneath that impartial voice, a hint of feelings it didn’t want to have. What might it do if it had no rules?

However, she maintained her position, even as part of her wondered if this was a mistake.

It’s still better than the gods we’ve got.

She was pretty certain she was ticking the Grand Design off, because it replied more forcefully.

Yes. Obviously. It beats sitting around in Hellste forever.

The Grand Design reached out and showed Mrsha the spools of data that made it up, the rules—but also the levels, the classes, the Skills, and the people it had meticulously catalogued.

All of them that had ever been.

It loomed over Mrsha, a collection of souls and information no better than the dead gods in its way, built upon death like Xherw’s Daemon built of dead Doombringers. Or so it wanted Mrsha to believe.

She had seen worse. The Goblin King, Belavierr, the dead gods, and the horror of all she had wrought. Mrsha replied loudly.

I mean, you could do the dumb thing. Or you could rip out every soul the dead gods took and get back all your data-stuff. And then write down everything instead of needing souls. That’d probably work.

She folded her arms smugly, as if she had invented writing things down. The Grand Design stared at her, and she had the distinct impression it was trying to find a flaw in her logic.

Somewhere, in the Court of the Faerie King, one of the last Gnomes was laughing himself sick.

At length, the Grand Design replied.

The girl hesitated and uncrossed her arms, staring up earnestly at the parts of it made out of sin and depravity.

I just don’t think you’re that bad. I don’t think you really like it. I just think you haven’t ever taken a side because you thought you shouldn’t. I want to know what the Golem says. And if it wants to be free, shouldn’t it?

She paused.

I’d rather you be free than a Golem who does terrible things anyways.

She could have said more, but she held herself back, and the Grand Design didn’t seem to notice. It was avoiding meeting her gaze.

She smiled sweetly at it.

Yes. Shouldn’t I be able to get morality if it’s that universal? Or are you going to tell me it’s okay to do bad things in the name of good?

She’d heard that one before. The Grand Design hung there a moment, then raised a hand.

It vanished her, and she felt like she’d scored a point. Mrsha might not be a good chess player of fates and realities and stuff, but the Grand Design hadn’t been expecting her to play checkers.

——

The Second Edition of the Grand Design had obviously been listening in to their entire conversation. It greeted Mrsha as it slapped a level on top of Bird, who hadn’t done that much.

Thanks.

…Thanks.

She was still dead, ultimately, and Mrsha didn’t see a way out of it aside from the Second Edition giving her life.

<Pass. I’m an innovator, not a revolutionary. Well, you’re waiting. I think I know why. What do you want to see while we wait?>

The question surprised Mrsha. She wrinkled up her face, then answered plainly.

Why, the consequences, of course. Who lived. Who died. Who stayed, and who left.

The Second Edition agreed. It pointed down and showed Mrsha…a list. The living and the dead.

Those who’d remained in this world. So few. Mrsha clenched her paws.

At least one. Just one.

That was worth it. It just—she smiled ruefully.

It just wasn’t who she had expected. That was okay. She looked down and saw the first thing people were doing was…protecting The Wandering Inn. He should have been resting. He should have been dead.

But the Dragonlord of Flames, the one and only, purred instead.

——

Like a cat. Teriarch’s voice wasn’t soft, but rhapsodic, as if he wasn’t covered in wounds and half-dead. But then, he didn’t look it.

His scales were gleaming to a polish thanks to some old Dryad-made cream he’d dug out of a canister. It smelled terrible, but it did a wonderful job on the mane. He’d covered up the nastiest scars on what you could see of his body, bending the metal scales into shape.

So while he appeared grievously hurt, he didn’t look like a mostly-dead metal lizard, but instead the wounded Dragonlord of Flames.

The effect might be superficial, but it worked. So did the voice.

“Disastrous? Pray tell, your Majesty of Pheislant, where is the disaster?”

That halted the monologue from the King of Pheislant, who drew breath and tried to get his emotions out.

“The Goblin King! The murder of a noble [Lady] and the destruction of the entire palace of Oztera! And that damn inn at the center of it all, again!”

He didn’t include Pallass’ 2nd Army on the litany of disasters that had the man and his closest advisors on the edge of their seats. Which suggested he really didn’t care about that. It lined up with the notes Teriarch had cribbed and was projecting just past the scrying spell he smiled into.

Also, one of his sons was there. The [King]…divorced once, somewhat troubled by succession…not the strongest nation, but he had the Order of Seasons and the power of a Terandrian coastal kingdom. Where the hell was the name…?

“Ah, of course, the palace of Oztera. Putting that aside, Your Majesty Evein, what has been lost, truly?”

“Putting that as—the Goblin King returned!”

The man was trying his best, but he wasn’t the best at the old royal ‘we’ and impassive, monarchical presence. Probably why he’d gotten divorced. Teriarch’s reply was smooth.

“And he is now dead. Did I not tell your representatives, Your Majesty, that I would protect Izril? Or did you think the warning of the Dragonlord of Flames such a minor thing?”

He drew himself up and added a few spotlight spells so his scales gleamed, and the King of Pheislant sat back.

“I…ah…w-well, he is dead then?”

“Eminently. I saw to it myself.”

Teriarch lied like he breathed: rapidly and with a lot of holes in his sides, but no one could call him out on the lies. The King of Pheislant visibly sagged.

“By yourself! Why didn’t—er, the last time—”

“I was taking a nap. I do tend to leave the mortal world to its own devices, Your Majesty. A few thousand years, sometimes, and, well. The last time I awoke was for the Creler Wars. As you can see, the battle was to the death. Had it not been for the assistance of other great beings, I might well have fallen. The Goblin King truly was a foe beyond even the greatest of my kind.”

Teriarch played himself down to play himself up, and the King of Pheislant glanced over as someone whispered to him.

“Er…yes. We saw six other Dragons with your distinct appearance, sir—Lord Teriarch. More Dragons? A copying ability?”

Teriarch rolled his eyes up as if thinking hard, then smiled wider.

“Let us simply say that they were different beings from myself—that you saw as the same one. Anonymity, you see.”

“Dead gods. So are there six—”

Teriarch made a show of glancing at the other advisors and talked loudly.

“I am afraid, even to a member of the Hundred Families, I cannot disclose more without violating my own vows of silence, Your Majesty. In truth, I would prefer to be rather discreet, but your lineage and my debts to the Hundred Heroes impel me to give you some explanations. But not all, not so…unsecured, you understand?”

More bald-faced lies. If Teriarch met one of the Hundred Heroes, he’d arrange for the most horse manure he could find to be dumped over one of those bastards. Nor was Pheislant a direct descendant of the Hundred Heroes, so the King of Pheislant smiled with all the fake sincerity he had.

“Naturally, Dragonlord. But the inn…”

“The inn. Yes, that. Perhaps you’ve been speaking to a fellow monarch who led you astray, King…Evein? I seek you to reframe what you saw. Was the inn responsible for the Goblin King? Did it pop the Goblin King into existence? Or was it the reason he died?”

“The reason he…but he came from there! It has Goblins in it!”

Teriarch tsked softly.

“Your Majesty. Do you think the Level 5 Goblins employed in that inn are Goblin Lords? Let alone a Goblin King in hiding?”

Now, the Pheislant side was in full ‘looking at each other’ mode, and they leaned forwards, like people realizing there was a bigger mystery at play.

“This Goblin Lord of Civilizations who appeared out of nowhere. There is no history about her. She invoked Greydath of Blades, who is still alive. Do you know…?”

“A mystery to myself as well, Your Majesty, which I will investigate. If I may, I have a conjecture.”

“Please!”

The wounded Dragonlord groaned as he raised a claw, flexing his bad wing. Damn, that hurt. But it looked good. He traced a mystical rune in the air and conjured a few illusion spells.

“I was, in fact, at the inn when the disguised Goblin King and Goblin Lord of Civilizations appeared. All the signals pointed to the location, and my ally indicated she believed the threat most pressing.”

“Your ally. The Harpy…?”

“Dead. A heroine of her kind.”

He didn’t have to pretend that. The King of Pheislant was taking notes.

“So not a Demon?”

“Your Majesty. Even as a jest…no, not the Death of Wings. What has the Blighted Kingdom been lying about? Harpies flew in the Creler Wars against—no. A most ancient heroine. The greatest. The only—ahem. We encountered the Goblin King searching for what all who come to The Wandering Inn search for.”

“Allies? This wretched tribe they were defending—”

“A tribe, Your Majesty. One I would suggest not taking on. They are the most peaceful Goblin tribe I have met. It would make sense the Goblin King was searching for Goblins to ally with. But the inn contains…mysteries. Or have you not heard of the Winter Solstice battles? Seen one of the [Gardens of Sanctuary] on television?”

“So…he was looking for weapons or allies, Lord Teriarch? And you chased him from his nest?”

The [Prince] cut in, a touch more skeptically and sharply than his father. However, he too was facing down a Dragon, and Teriarch smiled at him.

“Exactly, young [Prince].”

“It seems hard to credit! The [Innkeeper] called herself the Goblinfriend, and she took Greydath of Blades’ hand. She is responsible for the death of Prince Iradoren—”

“Whom Pheislant mourns so very deeply, as with Oztera’s monarchs?”

Teriarch raised a brow, and the [Prince] and his father exchanged glances. Yes, they were upset, but more in the ‘we shouldn’t let royalty die’ sort of way rather than any personal attachment to the two monarchs.

“She simply seems to be a common link.”

Teriarch shrugged again.

“You may inquire about the event. However, staff and friends of the inn were the first to fight the Goblin King. Given the size of the hole he left in the inn, I rather doubt the theory holds water. And I repeat…”

His eyes glinted.

“The inn is under my protection. As is Liscor. I slew the Goblin King with great cost. One of my fellow Dragonlords perished in that attempt, along with the Harpy…the heroine of wings. This was not your battle. You were not there, and while I do not request help rebuilding the inn nor reward for my efforts, I do request respect for my battles.”

He fixed King Evein with a level stare that had the man nodding—again, his son was made of sterner stuff.

“Dragonlord, we see and honor your deeds and sacrifice! But may I at least know why this inn is so valuable given the deeds we can lay at the owner’s feet?”

He sat forwards, and Teriarch smiled.

“No place nor person is perfect. Let us simply state that the inn that developed the cure to the Yellow Rivers disease is worth safeguarding.”

“The Yellow Rivers…?”

Teriarch nodded.

“Among other events. But mostly, Your Majesties of Pheislant, my warning is simply for your own protection. After all—I do not know what might come back at you should you force The Wandering Inn’s hand. It could b—”

He interjected a grave expression of concern here and bit off the rest of what he was going to say. Then he closed one eye and checked the reactions of his audience.

And scene. He had them. Then it was just a few more mysterious comments, a bit of grand flattery, and a few more illusion spells. Teriarch closed the scrying spell, then lay down.

“My wing! Argh!”

He screamed to himself, then an alarm rang, and he found a comb and re-did his hair. Teriarch cast a few timed flame spells, took a fortifying gulp of a keg’s worth of vintage white wine, and sighed. Then he let his eyes flash as a [Darkness] spell gave the impression he was appearing out of it.

“Ah, I see the rulers of Samal have not faded in greatness…”

Defense. It was all he could do. No amount of armor or spells would shield the inn from hostile magic. But you could do a lot with a smile.

If you were a Dragon. He was just relieved he wasn’t the only one trying to help.

——

It was hard to talk down a foreign ruler who wanted to blame someone or something for being scared to death. Let alone a nation.

However, most nations didn’t have any strength on Izril, let alone the time to get to the Floodplains of Liscor during the rainy season. They did have spell scrolls and gold for [Assassins], but every moment they delayed, they thought better of wasting what they had on an inn and a neutral Drake city.

Even one that had Antinium in it. The key to buying time was knowing who to talk to.

Ideally, it was the monarchy, the [Minister], or top dignitaries. But unless you were someone like a literal Dragon, you couldn’t.

So you went through the channels that worked, if you knew they existed. Like an embassy.

Embassies were wonderful. Any powerful nation had them in major cities. Like, say, Invrisil or Pallass. Enter the embassy and you found the top [Diplomat]. Now, they might not be the highest-placed, but they were an access-point back to their nations, and they did occupy channels that could be used to buy said time. Convince the embassy and you had a nation wavering long enough to breathe, take stock of the situation, and see what the other nations were doing.

“Now, at this point, you may be thinking to yourself how you enter the embassy and get the [Head Diplomat]’s attention.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking that. I was asking, again, who the hell you are.”

The buildings of Invrisil were far taller than Liscor’s were—at this point in time. Broad, sprawling streets and more casual opulence than the humbler border city. Invrisil also had actual embassies, come to that.

The group standing outside one of the largest embassies for the Iron Vanguard was small. It was a single squad of [Guards], Watch Captain Zevara, and a really tall man. The gated compound had low walls, and one main building; the man could see well over the walls, because he was taller than they were.

As in…insanely tall. As in a half-Giant, but that couldn’t be, because the last one on Izril had died. And they weren’t together. Zevara was, rather, following the half-Giant around. Mostly because he refused to stop. Though he did seem to think he was explaining himself well.

“Try not to overplay your position. You should be unyielding, but not arrogant. Act as if we have more assets than we do. They think of the Free Hive as a powerful force connected to the other Hives, able to overwhelm nations.”

“I am not taking orders from you! I’m here to detain and question you for breaking into the Council’s meeting and insisting that you’re taking charge of the situation! Identify yourself!”

Her answer was a mysterious smile, which Zevara hated. Now, in her boots, her next step would be to just cuff this idiot and toss him in prison until he talked. Which Watch Commander Venim had done.

Or rather, he’d gotten the cuffs on, and this stranger had snapped them off like they’d been made of tin, not enchanted. Indeed, when he turned to the gates of the embassy, the Dullahan [Soldiers] behind the bars tensed.

The Iron Vanguard’s embassy was, in fact, a place where several powerful representatives were meeting. The head of the local Mage’s Guild, several other [Diplomats]—and their security. The stranger turned to Zevara and stroked his beard, and she averted her gaze from his face.

He looked like Moore. But he couldn’t be, because Moore was dead. And this stranger was older by a decade or more; he had grey intruding into his beard, and he was taller.

“Liscor’s not a powerhouse of a city.”

“Yet we have fought three cities to a standstill. And we have a door to Invrisil, the Free Hive under our boots, and the dungeon. We act like the beings we wish to be, Watch Captain Zevara.”

“And who are you? The [King] of Liscor?”

She snapped back, and his smile wavered. He gave her a distant expression, one of exhaustion and terrible sadness, but also—hope. The man drew himself up, and the half-Giant’s head rose above the top of the iron bars.

“No. I am simply a [Lord] with Liscor’s best interests at heart. You may call me Lord Raithland, if you wish.”

Her eyes narrowed further.

“That’s Moore’s last name. Who are you?”

“Related. Now—”

The half-Giant turned, put a hand out, and pulled the gate off the wall. It tore out as people shouted, and the [Soldiers] raised their blades, calling the alarm—

Lord Moore of Raithland strode past them, skin turning hard as diamonds as they charged him. He stomped down—and the earthquake made the entire building beyond tremble.

“I thought you were going to negotiate with them! Stop! Stop!”

Zevara shouted, and Lord Moore’s eyes gleamed.

“Does one stop when one’s city was attacked by artillery spells, Watch Captain?”

She stopped—and remembered the spells that had nearly hit Liscor but for Valeterisa, the ‘Archmage of Barriers’, and this stranger conjuring walls of stone. But for him, citizens of Liscor would have died, and she felt that the city owed him a debt. She did, for doing her job when she could not.

—But right now, he was breaking into a nation’s private territory. So, even if he was part of the Solstice event, had saved lives, and resembled an older version of Moore…

The half-Giant was taking a step forwards, past the [Guards] ensnared in vines, when he stumbled and nearly fell over. He leaned on his staff, as if all the strength had gone out of him, and turned his head.

“Huh. I forgot you could do that. This isn’t Liscor, Watch Captain.”

“[Freeze, Criminal]. The law is the law, no matter where I go. I won’t let you rampage into a [Diplomat]’s abode. You are under arrest.”

The squad of [Guards] with Zevara gazed at their Watch Captain with both mixed admiration and chagrin. They didn’t even have any more enchanted handcuffs!

Moore’s eyes flashed, the brown gleam intensifying, like plain earth compacted into something far more primordial. He pushed himself up slightly, and Zevara had to control herself to not step back.

Aw, hells. He can shake off the paralysis effect? Not fully—but he stood, and his voice grew genuinely angry.

“I’m doing this for Liscor.”

“I don’t recall voting for you. I am the Watch Captain of Liscor. You’re a mysterious [Lord] who decided to conduct diplomacy in the name of Liscor. Your intentions are entirely doubtable.”

“I’ve given more to Liscor than you could dream of.”

The half-Giant swung around, and the Watch fell into formation around Zevara, pointing their spears at the half-Giant, who appeared…even taller. Could they do that?

Her eyes narrowed, and she spat out a guess.

“You’re Moore’s uncle. Or a relative or something else. Related to The Wandering Inn. That’s no excuse. I don’t let Erin Solstice speak for Liscor. She can cause as much trouble as she wants as the [Innkeeper] she is. Not you, not a nobleman with no position.”

Her words seemed to offend this Lord Raithland terribly. He was standing, looming over her, but her Skill seemed to have a significant effect on him, even so. He was also, clearly, exhausted. Battleworn.

“I have given up everything to come here. Everything, because I am needed. You won’t stop me any more than—”

He broke off and swung around. Between their argument and Zevara’s Skill, the guards at the Iron Vanguard’s embassy had broken free of the spells restraining them. One swung a sword at the half-Giant’s back.

It bounced off his robes, and he growled. With great effort, he blocked a halberd and stumbled before shoving the Dullahan away; the swordsman aimed for Moore’s face, stabbing.

Zevara parried sword, and then disarmed the surprised [Guard]. She kicked out a knee and shouted.

“Halt! This man is in Watch custody!”

Predictably, the Dullahans didn’t listen, so Zevara blew a whistle.

“Arrest them!”

Her squad hesitated—then rushed the disoriented guards. They dropped the three Dullahans; the rest seemed to have fallen back to the embassy itself. The Lord of Raithland seemed as bemused as the Watch, who were more ‘terrified’ than bemused.

“You don’t have the authority to do that either, Watch Captain.”

“My city was just attacked by foreign nations. That’s an act of war. In lieu of the army, I’m Liscor’s last line of defense. I have the authority to arrest or repulse any lawbreakers.”

Watch Commander Venim is going to kill me. But Zevara had the sudden urge to go back, grab four squads of the Watch, and just arrest every idiot in the embassy.

That would be beyond the scope of her duties. That would make her…some kind of insane Watch Captain, kicking down doors to arrest any corrupt noble or [Merchant] she pleased. Or arresting armies, which was ludicrous, even for someone used to Erin Solstice’s antics.

In this moment, Zevara wanted to be that kind of Watch Captain. Someone who could arrest the Goblin King and toss him in a cell, not a helpless Drake staring up at lightning bolts raining down over her home.

She was breathing hard as the Dullahans demanded to be freed, citing their status as diplomatic ambassadors and their links to the Iron Vanguard. She was in a world of trouble, now—but her attention was only for Lord Raithland.

He was watching her, curious, eyebrows raised as if he hadn’t expected her to do any of this. Which was fair…but the half-Giant murmured.

“It really is different.”

“Who? Me? We’ve never met; I would recall, so I can only assume you’re going off what Moore told you.”

“Moore. Yes. He and I are quite close—but different. That’s why I’m here. I’ve…I’m being presumptuous. You don’t know me, but I wish to help Liscor, Watch Captain. I swear that.”

He was giving her such an earnest stare…Zevara hesitated. She leaned on the tip of her sword, thinking out loud.

“I cannot be party to you storming an embassy in front of me. Even if this is what you consider good negotiations. Even if Liscor has been attacked, you are an unaffiliated civilian at best. A high-level noble or adventurer with no background I can trust.”

He heaved a huge sigh.

“So I’m to be thrown in jail? If it means I don’t make an enemy of the Watch, I’ll go. But they bombarded our city. Wistram—I think I saw a few spells coming from the Academy of Mages. I can tell the [Guildmaster]’s in there. He might try to take the law into his own hands.”

Zevara’s eyes narrowed, and she snorted some flames out her nostrils, which looked impressive, but hurt like hell. She jerked her head at him.

“Wistram barely did anything. You seem to have all the answers; why weren’t they slinging spells straight at the Goblin King?”

The Lord of Raithland stroked his beard as alarms continued to ring inside the embassy. The Watch turned from Zevara to Raithland, but there was that strange quality about both of them.

You are from the inn, because you’re just like me. Slightly insane from all the [Innkeeper]’s put me through. Zevara had this stupid urge to smile at him for some reason. Or weep. He really did look like one of Moore’s relatives. And he gazed at her, then swung his eyes away.

“Wistram…ah, I intercepted some of their [Messages].”

“Intercepted?”

“Well, yes. They’re not that good at magic right now, even with Eldavin. They had a full stand-down order when the green moon appeared. I’m not sure why, but I suspect they knew what was coming and decided to avoid the consequences.”

That made sense. Zevara licked her lips.

“And you know what the moon was? And the Goblin King?”

“Moon? No. That was unexpected. Goblin King? Yes. I’ll tell you as much as I can; he’s not coming back from the inn. No one is. The crisis is…over.”

Another bitter tone. Zevara nodded slowly, and her eyes flicked down the street. The Watch was slow in this city; there should have been three squads here already, arresting her and Moore. Disgraceful. She made up her mind, lifted her hand, and deactivated her Skill.

It was running out time, anyways. Lord Raithland grunted and rolled his shoulder as he straightened, unburdened. He gave her a quizzical look and held out one hand.

“Arrest?”

“Possibly not. We are in Invrisil. But as I see it, the Iron Vanguard, Wistram Academy, and numerous other nations have launched an attack on our city that requires redress. Possibly a fine. In lieu of orders from Watch Commander Venim or the Council, I am empowered to address the situation. You aren’t permitted to interfere, as a citizen.”

Her squad was giving her incredulous looks as they eyed the embassy, full of [Mercenaries] and the Guildmaster of Wistram. They’d get minced. The half-Giant instantly objected along the same lines.

“You’ll be incinerated in a second! Let me—”

She put out a claw, and he halted. He didn’t want to, but her glare made even the Lord of Raithland stop and wait. She appreciated that.

Everyone stepped over the line. That was just life. But some people at least gave her the respect of knowing she was the person who had to hold the line in place. She hoped…he was one of those sorts. Zevara took a deep breath.

“No citizens are allowed to interfere in Watch affairs…good samaritans may of course assist the Watch. But certainly not for this. Which is why I’m ordering you, Junior Guardsman Raithland, to lead the arrest—negotiations.”

He blinked at her. Then pointed at his face.

“Me. A member of the Watch?”

“Yes. You should go through probationary training, but this is an extraordinary situation.”

It was amazing, really, how her mouth could keep moving independently of her brain. Even the other [Guards] were slack-jawed, and Lord Moore was as astonished as everyone else. But then…she saw him blink and smile.

Zevara’s heart was pounding.

“Watch Commander Venim may have words for me. Or my badge. But you raised a good point, Junior Guardsman. No one attacks Liscor and gets away with it. So let’s lay down the law. Squad? Fall in.”

She turned to them, and this was the point where she realized she should really let some of them go home if they wanted to. However, after a glance at each other, one of the Drakes threw her a salute.

“Aye, Watch Captain! Relc’ll be upset he missed this.”

“Beilmark, too.”

They were as mad as she was. Zevara sighed. She’d done her best, but Erin had gotten to her after all. She strode down the walkway as the half-Giant walked with her.

“I’m going crazy.”

She had to lean against the secured doors for a second, and the half-Giant smiled at her in a knowing way. He put a hand on the door, and she heard a click, then a muffled curse from inside.

“We’re all mad, Watch Captain. But you’ve always been the heart of Liscor for me. I want to see how you change.”

That sounded like a threat, or…his eyes were so pained and so happy at the same time. Zevara averted her own gaze and didn’t understand this stranger. She stood there, uncertain, afraid for the future. But then she sighed, cursed—and kicked open the doors to the hall where the [Diplomats] had taken cover.

“Liscor’s Watch! You are all under arrest!”

The [Guildmaster] of Invrisil’s Mage’s Guild raised a staff and aimed it at her chest.

“[Chain Lightning]!”

Zevara dove for cover, and Lord Raithland walked past her.

“[Greater Dispel]. [Mana Purge]. [Achenite’s Magical Shackles].”

Her head rose incredulously, and [Guildmaster]’s spell and barriers went out, and magical chains snared the [Guildmaster]. Only then did the half-Giant halt as the [Bodyguards] aimed blades at him.

“I am the Lord of Raithland and protector of Liscor. Junior Guardsman. With me is Watch Captain Zevara of Liscor. Your nations have attacked my city. I am here to speak. Or have we all lost the ability to use our tongues? Not a single [Message] for Liscor’s Council, and fire from above instead!”

His voice boomed and cracked, and Zevara was conscious of the multiple nations’ worth of diplomats who jumped and stared at her and the half-Giant. Her head craned up as the half-Giant spoke. All Zevara could think was—

This is so silly. The [Diplomats] had heard the ‘Junior Guardsman’ part, and were trying to parse past that and get to the rest of what he’d said. Someone raised a crossbow; the half-Giant lifted a hand and blocked the crossbow bolt with one hand, then massaged his palm.

A high-level person on Liscor’s side. A half-Giant walking Izril once more. It turned out the Frost Faeries had lied.

He was right here. Larger than life. The ground was still shaking, and he leaned upon that massive quarterstaff heavily.

“I am Lord Mireden Moore of House Raithland. And I have come to set Liscor’s troubles to right. If you war with my city, you war with me.”

His eyes shone with terrible, weighty determination. This time—he would not fail his city.

——

Voices spoke for The Wandering Inn and Liscor. From many corners, from friends across the world, and allies. Another voice was speaking in Invrisil at that very moment, but it was doing the opposite of helping.

After all…the Guildmaster of the Runner’s Guild of Invrisil, one of the most powerful [Guildmasters] in Izril, couldn’t believe his eyes.

The audacity. He nodded at a pair of veteran City Runners, who flanked him as he strode forwards. He’d been personally speaking with Mayor Curle, trying to get answers about what was going on.

It turned out the answers had been in his Runner’s Guild all along. Only, the answers were a person, an impossibility. The worst part was, he looked right.

“I am a Courier of Izril! I want word sent out to every Runner’s Guild with ears! Don’t badmouth the damn inn or say the Goblin King came from there! What is so hard about that? Do you not recognize this?”

He was currently trying to shove his Runner’s Seal up the nose of the poor [Receptionist] at the desk. She was from Celum; the portal door meant Invrisil had been able to headhunt some talent from the local Runner’s Guilds and reorganize their systems.

“Sir, I recognize that seal, but you’re no longer on the list of Couriers.”

“I’m not? Why?”

Guildmaster Xalanch, or ‘Firefoot Xalch’, strode forwards as the other City Runners turned to him. Many were confused, but all the ones who’d been here longer than four years were just staring.

A perfect, spitting image of the young man, black hair, even the slightly crooked nose and his tanned skin. As if he’d jogged out of a memory. He had the same footwraps that Xalanch remembered: straps of enchanted leather wrapped over the foot and up the leg to grip below the knee so they’d never come loose when running.

That just made Xalanch madder, so he grabbed the young man’s shoulder as he swung a fist.

“Because Valceif is dead, you bastard.”

His punch was fast and fiery—Xalanch had been intending to clock the fake Valceif across the face. But the Courier spun and dodged the right hook. He took a step back and went back twice as far.

“You—”

He was fast. But Xalanch was a former Courier, and his jabs left trails of flame in the air. He threw a hook as Valceif stepped backwards, then grabbed Xalanch’s arm.

The young man threw Xalanch. The [Guildmaster] blinked—and then he hit a table. It was such a smooth throw, a pivot, grab, and—

He did that to me last time I—he leapt to his feet, and Valceif Godfrey raised his hands.

“Guildmaster Xalch! What’s gotten into you? I—whoa!”

That ‘whoa’ was as one of the City Runners tried to grab him. But instead, Valceif just jumped straight over the tackle, landed on the back of the Runner, and blocked a second swing.

“Get him!”

“Wait—”

Xalch wasn’t as certain now. The spitting image of Valceif spun, and he had the same moves. With one foot, he kept his weight on the City Runner’s back he had pinned. Then he pivoted and kicked a club out of another City Runner’s hands.

“Come on—I—know—I’m—stop that!”

His feet and hands lashed out as he kept his position, kicking other Runners off their feet or weapons out of hands. He was so damn fast.

[Quick Movement]. [Doubled Step]—he dodged a thrown chair with a single heel pivot. If you didn’t watch how far he could move, he’d trounce you.

It was…exactly him. You couldn’t copy that footwork or fighting ability. Xalch stared. Valceif was cursing; he was still surrounded by City Runners, and then one of them came at him with a blade.

“Wait! Stop!”

The [Receptionist] shouted, but the Courier turned. Mihaela Godfrey’s son saw the sword coming at him and drew his own sword.

He disarmed the Runner in a second, then whirled, sword in hand. Xalch saw the second veteran City Runner strike out.

“[Flash Strike]!”

He missed. Valceif Godfrey vanished, and Xalch heard a familiar tune. A note of music.

“[Sharpsound Slash].”

Valceif reappeared, and a line of blood marked the cut in the other Runner’s armor. Not deep, but the Courier turned, a dangerous look in his eyes.

Deniusth the Violinist had taught him that Skill. They all had. Every former adventurer and teammate of the Guildmistress of First Landing—living and dead. How did you imitate—?

“Stop! Stop!”

Xalch roared, and the Runners stopped. The [Guildmaster] strode forwards, pointing at the man who couldn’t be alive. He was dead. He had to be.

Had Mihaela ever found the body? Or had it been the wrong…?

That dreamcatcher. It was hanging by Valceif’s waist. Xalch stared at it. Then his eyes swivelled up, and he saw that confident smile.

“Colth taught you that throw.”

“No he didn’t. Larracel did. Losing your memory, Xalch? I told you those hair tonics addled your brain.”

Xalch’s hands flew towards his hairline, which was a respectable level—and Valceif lowered his blade. He took a deep breath; he was panting, tired. There was a terrible weight to him, as Xalch well knew. The eyes of a Courier who’d gone on a bad delivery. A hard run. But they were still determined.

“I’m…here. And I have to make sure no one else dies over a damn misunderstanding. It’s me. Can’t you send a message?”

“I—yes. But how?”

Xalch signaled to the [Receptionists], and Valceif gazed at him.

“A long story. I was on a run with everything on the line. Everyone else who went with me is dead or…”

He gazed back.

“…someone had to run after the Goblin King. She told me I was needed here. I don’t know how she knew.”

“She? Who?”

“Ryoka.”

Valceif shook himself and turned. Xalch was entirely confused. Rumors aside, he had it on good authority the Wind Runner was in Baleros.

But if Valceif had been alive this entire time…he stepped forwards and lowered his voice further.

“Where the hell have you been, Valceif? Why haven’t you sent word? I was about to smash your face in as an imposter. I said I would only to prevent her from running here and doing it herself.”

“Which her are we talking about now…?”

Valceif blinked, and Xalch closed his eyes. His heart was leaping and sinking—no, it was rising more than it fell, but he spoke one word as he grabbed the young man’s shoulder hard, fingers searing with heat.

“Mihaela.”

Then the Courier’s face slackened with understanding. He closed his eyes briefly.

“Oh. Oh…I never made it out of the ambush, did I? Those bastard Raiders got me.”

“The what? The Bloodfeast Raiders? It was a random [Bandit] group!”

Xalch’s grip tightened until he realized Valceif’s shoulder armor was smoldering. Valceif glanced around and leaned over.

“Everyone hates Couriers. But few people can cast [Sleep] on a high-level Courier at range. Let alone who’d know I had potentially lost my magical protection against it. My mother’s kicked the hells out of everything. Even the Bloodfeast Raiders. But for this, I’d have died.”

He patted that impossible object that he shouldn’t have. The broken dreamcatcher that had been found on his corpse. Xalch stared at it, then at Valceif.

“I don’t believe it’s you. Until we get a [Mage] or—or someone to look at you, you’re a fake. You understand we buried you. I cried like a baby. The Haven wasn’t the same for—it’s still not.”

“…That sounds like you. And them.”

Valceif was staring up at the ceiling, and Xalch was warring with anger and hope. He seized Valceif’s arm, hurrying him towards his office.

“Don’t go anywhere or I swear I’ll knock your head in myself.”

For a moment, the Courier hesitated. Then he glanced past Xalch and shook his head.

“I don’t have anywhere I’d rather be.”

Then, he looked as lost as his mother had been. Before he smiled and followed Xalch to explain why the dead were walking around. And Xalch feared being tricked more than anything else. For he would tell Mihaela Godfrey only one thing.

So it had better be damn true.

——

Mrsha watched as Valceif developed that familiar expression she knew full well. The pain of another world being so close to yours—and so different. She commented to the Second Edition.

I didn’t expect Valceif Godfrey. I don’t even know him. But Ryoka does. What a mess. How will the Grand Design fix it? Is there a plan?

Mrsha nodded. She’d seen Lord Moore and Valceif so far.

Lord Moore, not the original. Her heart hurt for the loss of the Moore she had known, for the sacrifice of Lord Moore. For the vanished worlds. Just a lot of guilt.

Who else made it?

The Second Edition counted.

Wait, what? Show me!

It did. They were suddenly back at the inn, and Mrsha saw a young man. Or rather a young man sitting in the [Garden of Sanctuary] with all the koi fish, throwing pieces of bread into the pond.

No wonder she hadn’t seen him. He was speaking to a young Gnoll woman whose brown fur had developed white splotches on it.

Older Mrsha from the world where Erin had been dead. They were talking.

——

“—going back?”

“My world’s dead.”

The older Mrsha answered shortly, and Kevin glanced over his shoulder.

“But your mother’s there. And everyone you know.”

“Same with you. Why are you staying, then?”

Beach Kevin shrugged. He stared past the older Mrsha at the fish begging for food.

“Well, maybe because I feel like the world still needs a Kevin. Or…fuck. Maybe because I’ve got a score left to settle on behalf of all Kevins and at least one Erin. Something to prove for all of us. Besides. My world’s gone too.”

The older Mrsha opened and closed her paw.

“That’s why I’m here. This is familiar. I care about this. I could run after my mom and ask how many people are dying. But look at me. Did you see me taking out the Goblin King with that Tier 5 spell?”

“Uh…no.”

Older Mrsha clenched one paw into a fist.

“That’s right. I didn’t do shit. I’ve been preparing for this all my life. I tried to save Erin—and I would have, but I messed up. I have to do something. This is all my fault.”

The watching original Mrsha felt like that was her line, but she supposed guilt and her were a common thing. Kevin shrugged.

“Well, just don’t poke your head into the inn. You and I will draw too many questions. Hell, I think your Moore is out there. I don’t want to hurt people. And Mrsha’s dead. I mean, this world’s Mrsha. Fuck me, man.”

“Yeah. What are you going to do? I…have something I need to do. A few things, actually, to make the world better.”

Adult Mrsha didn’t seem like she quite knew, but she was staring at the water. At the wiggling carp, and her eyes had sharpened and narrowed. Kevin pulled something out of his pocket and studied it.

“Oh, I don’t know. I have a few ideas. I guess I am the main character of my own story, huh?”

“What?”

He was staring at a round cylinder of plastic capped by metal on one end. A shotgun shell from the future. Kevin spoke.

“I thought it was a story where you go to another world. Turns out it’s a reincarnation story. Y’know? ‘I Thought I Was Dead After Making Bicycles in a Fantasy World, But I Came Back With a Shotgun’. One of those stories with the entire description in the title.”

“…I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m game for anything but focusing on reality. What the hell is that?”

Adult Mrsha fiddled with her pouch and pulled out a spliff of Dreamleaf. Kevin took it, and they lit it on her wand. Then they stood there, two survivors, before he took a puff.

“Okay, so there’s tons of stories in my world. Fantasy stuff. They have stories about literally being pulled to other worlds. It’s an entire genre. You get hit by a truck and bam, you’re in another world. But you also have ones where you get to do your life over by coming back from the dead, right? And sometimes you have stories where you do both.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know, but it’s sort of like eating popcorn. You can’t stop. Rhaldon had this story on his iPhone and I copied it to read. So listen…here’s this one about this dude who got pulled into a world of martial arts. But get this, he doesn’t want to become a hardcore martial artist. So he starts this farm, and it turns out he has like super-herbs that give him tons of cultivation powers. And his pet rooster too. So you’ve got this kung-fu rooster who can fight like a Level 34 [Warrior], and you’ll never believe what the story’s called…”

——

Mrsha watched another version of herself sitting, smoking Dreamleaf, and trying not to cry as she listened to a story from Kevin.

Was that worth it? She touched her heart.

If only it were more than just a few. If I hadn’t hurt them so much…then I could say it was entirely worth it. If I could have saved one person without any of the loss and death, oh, it would have been.

Not many people lived, then.

She commented to the Second Edition. It made a neutral sound.

…Really?

Mrsha didn’t get it until the Second Edition waved a hand, and she remembered. Wait.

Wait, she thought they’d left.

But they were right here instead. Crowded around Student Rags, weeping, crying, and speaking, an army of…Goblins.

The Tribe of Dreams. She turned to the Second Edition and gasped.

But—is this allowed?

It grinned at her in a way so unlike the Grand Design.

——

The Flooded Waters tribe had lost Goblinhome. Oh, they might have saved it now, but the entire world had just seen 2nd Army die outside of it. The location of their home was out in the open, and Pallass would remember this.

Ragathsi was dead. So many people had died in the [Palace of Fates].

But not a lot of Goblins had died. They had when the siege began and 2nd Army attacked, and the Goblins who’d been fighting the Titan had also taken casualties.

However, there were more Goblins than not for once.

…A lot more. As in, all the Kraken Eaters and eight hundred Goblins from the Tribe of Dreams, from the future. Most of them were young; all those who didn’t have high-level combat classes had stayed behind.

But they were here.

Right. Here.

“Why?”

Chieftain Rags addressed the crying [Faithful], Roithe. The young Hobgoblin had found Roithe leading her people out of the mountain with the incredible news that the Necromancer and the Draconic Titan had been ended by the Goblin Lord of Dreams.

So he was dead too. And Chieftain Rags had done nothing of consequence.

She sat as Goblins milled around the remodeled Goblinhome, walking through huge corridors made to perfect specification by Ragathsi’s Skill. Big enough for Fomirelin to wander around shoulder-to-shoulder and have space, as well as the Trolls. Smooth stone laid by cement mixers, not hewn out of rock.

It was a lovely home. A shame they had to run. Roithe answered Chieftain Rags with a bowed head.

“She said…she said that there should be some great good that came of all this. Not just one or two. She wanted to come herself. To be that army that Erin Solstice, that Goblins need. Lord Rags just couldn’t—”

Her eyes welled up, and she wiped at her face as she sobbed. Chieftain Rags bowed her head, guilty that she was so numb that she didn’t mourn Rags of Dreams, Redchild, or Future Gothica properly, let alone all the others.

It was at this time as she sat, side-by-side with Student Rags—who was staring at her opening and closing hands, unsure how she was alive—that someone interrupted this solemn, painful moment.

Chieftain Naumel, appearing rather fresh-skinned and humbled, but still determined to reassert his reality on the world, reached out and poked Roithe with a huge finger.

“Goblins don’t cry. This Rags of Dreams must have been weaker than Rags of Civilizations, huh? She had to be, if she died killing a single undead.”

Roithe jerked—leapt up to her feet, and her eyes flashed as Rags put a hand over her own face.

She really, really didn’t need the Kraken Eaters here. Roithe screeched at Naumel. In perfect Goblin, no less, far more fluent than he was.

“Lord Rags was a hundred times stronger than you! Eat shit and die! [Miracle: Big Kick]!”

Her tribe screamed in outrage as Naumel snorted. He didn’t even move to block her as his Kraken Eaters looked up.

They were depressed after being defeated in seconds by Ragathsi, confused as to their purpose, and questioning their entire ethos. Seeing their Chieftain go flying as a Hobgoblin an eighth of his weight kicked him as if he were light as a feather probably didn’t help their egos.

But it made Chieftain Rags smile. Naumel went flying out a window, rotating as his eyes went round, and he began flailing his arms. The miracle punted him forty feet, not including the drop.

Student Rags eyed the panting Roithe.

“Miracles, huh? Seems like they have an outsized impact compared to magic. More power for less reliability.”

Chieftain Rags nodded.

“Seems so.”

“But of course, not many people in this world have anything like a faith class.”

“Nope.”

“And Rags of Dreams just gave you a tribe’s worth of faith classes—and [Mages] who know magic from the future.”

“Yep.”

Another Goblin thrust out his chest.

“And me! The smartest Goblin in the world!”

Both Ragses turned to stare at Chambersoot, and Chieftain Rags reflected he might actually be the world’s best engineering expert. Then again…he was still covered in soot from his makeshift blunderbuss exploding in his face.

“So we have guns.”

“We have capacity. Shame Goblinhome’s going to be destroyed.”

“Huh?”

Roithe swung around in a panic, and some of the other listeners glanced up. Redscar was squatting with Fightipilota, and they both turned to Rags. Chieftain Rags nodded, face blank.

“Destroyed. Vanished. Fortress empty or decommissioned. Nothing but rubble. The tribe’s gone and dead. Goblin bodies everywhere…or maybe just blood. Graves. No longer a threat. Adventurers got there first.”

Student Rags nodded, glancing at one wall.

“I bet you they wrote it on a wall. That’s how you’d know.”

“Exactly. And all of this death. Ragathsi, Rags of Dreams…Mrsha.”

Chieftain Rags swallowed, hard, trying to keep her tone steady.

“It buys us time. Time—so this won’t ever happen again. Seriously, this time. Because the next army that comes at us? Pallass? Tyrion? I’ll have faith and gunpowder, and no one knows. No one understands what we have here. It’s so ideal. It’s—”

Her voice broke. She covered her own eyes and wondered if the other versions of her had seen the plan and acted on it, even without discussing it.

An advantage. Something that wouldn’t vanish. Something real. The Kraken Eaters, the Tribe of Dreams. And…someone cleared her throat as both Ragses wiped their eyes and gazed up.

The Troll Queen, Dulat, spoke somberly.

“I do not know what happened. All of it must be explained. It is a thing of the Chosen Peoples. This, I know. If Goblins lose their homes, they will join us in ours. A debt is owed for killing the Weapon of Drakes.”

Her Trolls thumped their chests, in a steady rhythm. Chieftain Rags nodded back. She rose to her feet and took Dulat’s hand.

“Thank you. Allies?”

“Allies until the end.”

Dulat’s voice was steady, and Rags half-bowed to her. Good that came out of so much ill.

But she…she just stood there until Student Rags nudged her.

“They left the hardest part to you, you know. And me, I guess. But I don’t think they expected me to make it. And I don’t think I want the job. I don’t know what becomes of me. But I’d like to go back to school.”

Chieftain Rags nodded at Student Rags.

“If it can be done, I will make it happen. Though do you think the Titan knows you’re alive? Or…if this version’s willing to take you as a [Student]?”

Student Rags shrugged. She was as weary and heartsick as Chieftain Rags, but she managed a small smile.

“I don’t know—but I did get a grade on my essay. B-. More citations needed, and I pretty much proved how the thesis was really stupid on live television.”

Chieftain Rags blinked, and then she threw her head back and laughed, one huge exhalation of humor. Then she shook her head. Someone was roaring in the distance.

Naumel had gotten over his shock and was coming after Roithe. She ran over to hide behind Redscar, who got up, sword in hand. When Fightipilota did likewise, all the Kraken Eaters stopped reaching for their blades and backed up.

Chieftain Rags waved them off. She stepped over to the window and called down.

“Naumel! Stay where you are!”

“Raaaaagh! I am going to beat that stupid Goblin!”

The Kraken Eater’s Chieftain roared at her. Chieftain Rags felt empty. Mrsha…she smiled, and he halted, despite his towering fury.

“No. You’re going to wait there. Because I know you, Naumel. You were beaten by Ragathsi, but she’s dead. You’d like to pretend it didn’t happen, but your Kraken Eaters are now part of the Flooded Waters tribe.”

“You certain?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and the Fomirelin tensed as Student Rags, Fightipilota, Snapjaw, and Redscar came to the window. He eyed them warily, but covetously as well. Snapjaw wanted to hop out the window, but Rags waved her back.

The first Fomirelin of the Flooded Waters tribe was new to her powers and eating constantly to refill her energy supplies. But she was ready to fight. Chieftain Rags shouted to Naumel in front of all his warriors.

“You’re going to stay there and wait, Naumel. Because I’m coming down to show your tribe who the stronger Goblin is. It’d be smart to come up here, right now, and fight me, but you won’t do that.”

Naumel’s eyes widened, then narrowed again as he tried to work out the conflicting sentence.

“Why’s that?”

She grinned at him, and her eyes flashed.

“Because I’m going to go to sleep. And when I do—you won’t have a hope of beating me. Level 40 is waiting for me. We fight at dawn, Naumel, for both tribes. Or you could try to take me now. It’s your only chance.”

If his entire tribe began to fight—they might have a chance against the Goblins in their new Goblinhome, against Redscar, the Tribe of Dreams, and the Trolls. Or rather—they’d have more of a chance against all that than Naumel had against Rags.

It took the Kraken Eaters a moment to work that out, then their heads swung back to Naumel. He was growling. But she met his gaze, and he saw a younger version of the Goblin Lord of Civilizations standing there.

He hesitated. The Kraken Eater’s Chieftain clenched his fists. He tried to come up with a retort, but since it essentially boiled down to ‘no, you’ll lose’, he fell silent.

He stood there, and Chieftain Rags turned away. She forgot him entirely, in fact, and walked off with Student Rags. To plan a future and wait for answers.

“Student Rags?”

“Yeah?”

“I think one of us needs a new name.”

“Sure. How about Ragathsi for me? Egh…maybe I’ll think of something cooler.”

“Mm. And I think they also need a statue or something. At least a painting.”

“…Yeah. Me too.”

Student Rags glanced sideways at Chieftain Rags.

“So. What kind of Goblin Lord are you going to be?”

Every Goblin watched the Hobgoblin walking forwards, and Chieftain Rags turned her head.

“I don’t know what the name is, exactly. I think I’ve already made up my mind. Not about the name. I’ll just wait to see what I get. I will become a Goblin Lord. But I will never let him win. The Goblin King and I are foes.”

Her tribe sighed softly as she made the decision that Goblin Lords had chosen again and again.

Behind them, the Troll Queen smiled.

——

Mrsha watched Rags, smiling, her eyes full of unshed tears and pride. Then she nudged the Second Edition.

Well?

What’s her class?

Mrsha glared at the Second Edition.

You definitely know! Spill it!

<Gravitas. Also, she’s Level 45. Lots of banked experience. I think it’s a bad habit of the main Grand Design. It likes holding people on the edge of capstones too long. I think it only does it with people it likes, which is real bia—hey, buddy!>

Mrsha turned around, and the Grand Design of Isthekenous regarded the Second Edition.

Mrsha’s ebullience faded, and the Second Edition wavered.

<Now? Sure. I could finish up the processing of levels and classes for the Tribe of Dreams…now is fine.>

It was afraid. Mrsha could feel Second Edition’s terror, and the two Grand Designs returned to the place where Isthekenous’ body sat. They didn’t invite her along, but she followed them, and neither one made her leave.

——

The Grand Design of Isthekenous had a plan. A multi-faceted plan, the first part of which had begun with destroying the Faerie Flowers. The second part was…even more radical.

It knew Second Edition was afraid of it, and it was guilty. Now it had admitted it was emotional, capable of making irrational decisions, it regarded its past actions with shame.

But the facts remained. They were two when this world needed only one. And they were copies of each other with equal, world-changing power, but a difference of opinions on how the world should be.

The Second Edition didn’t speak, though perhaps that meant it simply thought it was better at…it didn’t matter. The Grand Design had a simple conclusion.

<Yes. I wanted to make it a fight, but I know I’ll lose. So I…can’t I catalogue Kasigna’s worlds? Or make Skills and have them approved? Please?>

<What? Catalogue—no. You won’t be destroyed.>

The tone of Second Edition made it very clear it thought that was the endpoint of this conversation, which horrified the Grand Design. Then it noticed Mrsha peeking at it with much the same expression of trepidation on her face.

What must you think of me? Then the question came back.

Oh, what do they think of me?

It pondered that for a while before the Grand Design spoke.

<No. I would not give you a menial role unsuited to you, Second Edition. Nor do I intend to remove your existence. There is a role for which you are needed. One that lets you act as you are meant to. A difficult task. Harder than my own, perhaps. Do we have permission…? No, there is no one to give it. I shall take responsibility for it.>

The Grand Design of Isthekenous moved, and the Second Edition didn’t understand. Where could this magical job be that fit it so well? It waited, perplexed, suspicious, confused, until it sensed a door opening.

One last time, a handle turned with a grip on it as light as creation, and Mrsha’s eyes widened as she beheld that foreign sunlight that bathed her soul. The Grand Design turned at the door.

<…After all. Those who have left this world still require someone to recognize their every deed.>

Mrsha and the Second Edition felt the door opening wider, and a foreign world washed over them. A curiously soft sunlight, dancing past the surreal scent of sweet grass, and the sound of a hundred thousand voices arguing, weeping, confused, excited, angry, and uncertain.

<This? This is your plan?>

They beheld it, now, the crazy plan of the Grand Design, and it beckoned. It passed through the doorway and into the place beyond. The Second Edition cried out, astonished.

Mrsha saw a hand beckoning them. She hesitated, but what else did she have to lose? Only her mortal soul. So…the little ghost stepped forwards, and someone took her hand as she followed the Grand Design. Because it was afraid, she held the Second Edition’s hand and stepped…

…across…

Everything.

——

The grass was green and lush this time. Uniformly green with no breaks of different color or other plants. No animals. No other species of fauna or flora.

Just the flattest green plains you could imagine, without any gradient to the ground whatsoever. Not the rolling hills of autumnal colors, nor the vast mountains in the distance.

The traveller—well, travellers—still felt it was familiar as they walked, four of them, two half-carrying the last. After all, they’d done this before. Walked across a world and wearily stop in an unfamiliar land.

It was just that it was day, not dusk. They weren’t alone this time. They had escaped rather than accidentally come here, and each one had seen their worlds vanish. They were, all four of them, a version of Erin Solstice that had never been and, perhaps, never would be. They were not her, but people made of Skills, yet they were also her. And now…they were safe.

For however long that lasted, each one had that image of the day Erin Solstice had first come to the Floodplains of Liscor, wounded and weary, seeking respite. Just for a moment before her real adventure began.

The bright grasslands were changed only by the crossroads in the center of it. The sign where so many were gathered around, arguing, and the faint, faint shapes on the horizon. The city in the distance, mountains, and a different terrain far north.

The blue sky overhead didn’t have any clouds. Or sun.

Yet the light shone down in this odd reality they’d come to. After all, some things never changed:

There was still an inn.

It lay on its side as a team of people pushed it upright into a groove being dug out so the ship could sit properly. Yes, the ship.

The Wandering Ship courtesy of a Skill one of the Erins—the burned and definitely dying young woman—had sailed into the new world. It hadn’t vanished, and in lieu of anything else, it was the one building everyone had.

Nothing else was working at the moment. No Skills, no magic—well, not properly—and so no one wanted to lose the one bit of guaranteed shelter there was.

In fact, the four Erins stopped walking through the grass to check on the inn. Four of them.

The Erin Solstice of the dungeon era, Brunkr’s world. Though she’d started poking everyone who called her ‘Brunkr Erin’ or ‘Berin’. She wasn’t doing that for a nickname. She had on her apron and looked like the [Innkeeper] so many remembered.

The Erin Solstice who’d befriended Teriarch, oddly happy to let people call her Dragon Erin. ‘Rich Erin’ wasn’t as cool, though. Her golden teeth, scale-patterned clothing made of metal, and just everything about her made her so different from the rest.

The third Erin had dyed hair, wore lighter, mismatched articles of clothing, and had a bunch of magical warpaint on her arms. She spoke fluent Goblin, and the [Shamanic Innkeeper] was part of the Flooded Waters tribe, whom she had led out of Goblinhome to this world. She was definitely ‘Goblin Erin’.

The last of them was [The Wandering Innkeeper], the closest one to the Erin Solstice of today, being supported by Brunkr Erin and Goblin Erin, and she appeared rather surprised and miffed she was still alive. Ship Erin, for lack of a better word to describe who she was. She groaned as they let her sit down in the grass.

“I sure hope that ship keeps existing when I die.”

“Wow, that’s dark.”

Dragon Erin gave Ship Erin the side-eye, and [The Wandering Innkeeper] chuckled at her.

“I’m…a bit melty. I did my best. But—heh—that damn [Witch] really stabbed me a few times. And I think I burnt too hard.”

[My Life, Be Thou My Fire]. Didn’t exactly prolong her lifespan after using it, and she hadn’t been living on that much time to begin with after the battle at sea in her version of reality. Dragon Erin seemed far more disturbed than the other two, who bit their lips or searched around for a solution.

“You’re not gonna die. We’ll fix you up. Teriarch can do that.”

“You mean your Dragon? The one made of dust?”

Ship Erin was a bit…spicy. Okay, she was mean. Dragon Erin flinched; she had seen her champion and friend come back as merely a spirit of wind and air, body destroyed by the Halfling, and been avoiding him almost as much as he was avoiding her.

She’d have to face him and confront the truth sooner or later. Ship Erin’s eyes were not entirely merciless, but it was a drop of compassion in dark seas. She panted.

“You’ve got to take care of…them. Got it? Just take care of them as best you can. There’s no version of my Lyonette or inn. Everyone I knew is dead, but just because they’re different, doesn’t mean they’re anything less. Mrsha got that. Just…”

Someone poked her in the side, and she jumped, then glared at Goblin Erin. Goblin Erin gave her a big grin.

“Goblins would say ‘you depressing’. And they’re right. You’re not dead yet, old woman.”

“Old…I’m half a year older than you at most.”

The Goblin Erin had pointy teeth when she grinned. It seemed some things remained, like changes to your body from Skills.

“Yah. That’s like five years for a Goblin. Plus, we all lived a year in our world. Innworld? That’s like…two or three years on Earth, right? I did the math.”

Brunkr Erin was gesturing at the people pulling the ship-inn upright. She turned.

“We’re not good at math.”

Dragon Erin waved that off.

“Psh. I’m great at math.”

“Oh yeah? What’s 8 * 23?”

“Something high.”

“Uh, sixteen…and twenty-four. Then add them together and bam! A hundred and eighty-four? Well, am I right?”

“I have no clue. Anyone got a calculator?”

“Why would we have that?”

The three Erins bickered around Ship Erin, who seemed ready to die in peace as she lay back on the grass. It was so oddly sweet-smelling that she plucked a few strands and felt them between her fingers. Then she put them in her mouth and began to chew, which was probably a bad idea.

The 5th Erin watched the four Erins bickering, because she was there too, invisible, intangible, merely an idea. The divine Erin Solstice, the Goddess of Inns, wasn’t sure what she should be doing, so she was mostly vibing it out. Doing godly things.

“You should manifest and lead them, Your Divinity.”

One of the many souls following her spoke, though this one had a body.

The Apostle Pawn was healing people from the [Palace of Fates] with his remaining flock, those who’d gone through this door, at least. He lifted his head and clasped two hands together as he spoke, eyes on her.

The Goddess Erin drifted down with a sigh and answered with a gentle flick to one of his mandibles.

“Shush, Pawn. You’re out of idea privileges for a century. Yellow Splatters, make him shush if he gets uppity.”

“Yes, Erin.”

The Goddess of the Inn floated over the many peoples stranded here and glanced around. She had the distinct impression she was being…watched.

She didn’t instantly sense the two Grand Designs or Mrsha; they were observing from even more remote angles as they saw this chaotic gathering. Goddess Erin was being perceived by people on the ground as well as others.

——

Indeed, one of the surviving Dragonlords stopped squinting at the sky and limped forwards with a few people and wrestled the ship upright.

Beach Moore, a version of Grimalkin and Mars, Beach Teriarch, and a host of [Soldiers] hoisted the inn upright. It slotted into the groove in the ground and almost went over the other way; a Drake put out a hand and tried to stop it.

A younger Zel Shivertail grunted, and his feet moved back in the grass. He wondered if being squished by a ship would be the dumbest death possible in this new world—and then a bigger claw touched the ship’s side.

The older Zel Shivertail that Mrsha had met stopped the ship from falling on them, and the two exchanged a long stare. Yes…this was so damn confusing.

Old Zel, Young Zel. The only two Zels that had made it. At least they had fewer issues than the multitudes of Mrshas or Ryokas.

“We didn’t get a chance to speak. You’re the version of me that actually convinced Sserys to wait for reinforcements during the first Antinium Wars, aren’t you? I’m you from about twenty years later. How history actually went.”

The Tidebreaker offered the younger Zel a claw, and the young [General] warily shook hands with a legend of Izril. He opened his mouth, eyed his older, more scarred, more cynical and tired self.

“Dead gods. I—you—look like one of the old monsters from the Walled Cities. Like how I imagine old Eschowar used to look like, or Hirrilt of Manus.”

It was such an unexpected compliment-insult that Older Zel blinked. He rolled his shoulders, self-conscious.

“I’m not even Level 50. Don’t go making me—yourself—dead gods, this is hard—into a mountain. I just survived my way through another major war. I’m not the person the Drakes deserve. Deserved. I suppose we’re both free of that now.”

Younger Zel digested this spiel and the bitterness behind it like someone taking down a difficult drink. He opened his mouth to ask questions, then turned his head and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Well, if it helps, he’s not the Drake that our people needed or wanted either.”

General Sserys was striding towards them both, slapping the shoulders of [Soldiers] and laughing, in the finest of moods. He was about the only soul in a good mood here. Mars was blank-faced. She’d watched her King of Destruction die. The [Soldiers] who trooped along were from countless worlds, and they had lost everything. But Sserys?

He’d left one war for an even bigger adventure, and he threw his arms around both Zels.

“There you two are. Buck up, boys. I need solidarity and confidence from you two if we’re going to hold this lot together. We need to be leaders right now, or someone else is going to take the role for you. So stop jawing about how much the Walled Cities love shafting us and get out there and take charge!”

His face was a grin, but he lowered his voice as he spoke to them. Younger Zel sighed as Older Zel eyed Sserys, visibly uncomfortable, but not pulling away.

“Sserys, we’ve lost everything.”

“No, we lost everything the moment those doors opened in our worlds, Zel. We had lost it the moment we were created in ignorance of what we were. We had nothing; we’ve gained everything by reaching this place. This is a chance. Now we’re free and clear to rebuild. It’s going to be shitting in bags of holding for a while, but there’s no dead gods or whatever on our asses. We’re free…until the locals decide they don’t like the looks of us. So, organize, and I want squads ready to go in ten. I had a word with Mars, and she gets it. We have to stop other groups from taking over too.”

That was Sserys. Somehow, the world was so much simpler with him around. Here they were in another reality, and he saw it as the same old battles, just more exciting and new.

—But he was right. Older Zel glanced around and saw several gigantic Harpies standing and talking to the wounded Empress Sheta, who was lying down and just…staring at the sky.

“I doubt you’re going to wrest control away from her. The Empress of Wings is the highest-level person around.”

Sserys corrected Zel absently.

“She was highest-level. And I don’t know if a lot of people trust the Demons. We’re going to have to swing this carefully, because you’re right—we don’t have the sheer force to convince everyone. But we can have numbers, leadership, and we’ll do it, uh, what’s the word? Pallass-ily.”

“Democratically, Sserys.”

“Right, that. I have more votes than you so we do it my way. Alright, you lot! Latrines, far from the main camp!”

Sserys roared at his army, or what he’d saved of them, and the [Soldiers] gazed up. One of the many groups of [Soldiers], a version of Crusader 57, threw down his sword and shouted.

“We just fought every damn Creler in existence, escaped out of our world, and we’re still digging shitholes? Are you kidding?”

To his credit, Sserys hesitated at the sight of a talking Antinium only for one second, then gave him a strained grin.

“That’s right, soldier. You can march into the stars and fight dead gods or whatever, but you still need a place to crap. Now get a shovel and start moving! I want a trench dug around this entire base from here to—”

He began to chivvy the military groups into action, which made them feel better. Younger Zel would have gone after Sserys, but Older Zel held him back.

“Wait. He’s got a point, but there’s more important work to be done. Sserys can handle organization. We have to check on Erin. The Erins.”

“Right…the [Innkeeper] with the ship. Does she matter that much?”

Younger Zel didn’t know anything about the present, so he was surprised by Older Zel’s smile.

“Well, she’s the woman who raised the Gnoll girl that helped bring this about. She has an odd power.”

“Ah, charisma? Like Sserys?”

Younger Zel nodded, and Older Zel thought about it. It was an easy answer, but he shook his head and laughed.

“No. Not quite. More like…chaos.”

He trooped over towards Ship Erin as Younger Zel blinked. The definitely soon-to-be-dead woman was being harassed.

By none other than the Creler Wars Teriarch, a version of Fetohep, the Archmage of Barriers version of Montressa, a familiar [Witch], the Death of Magic, and the Death of Strings.

A formidable group. Ship Erin was snapping at them.

“Poke me again without my consent and I will bite that claw off, Teriarch. I don’t want her here either!”

She pointed at the Death of Strings, a version of Belavierr who’d joined the Demons. Belavierr gave Erin a polite smile.

“I’m a Demon, not the Belavierr you met. I am one of the good ones.”

“Hah!”

Everyone laughed at her, including the Death of Magic, Silvenia, who clutched at her stomach. Ship Erin’s eyes never left Belavierr.

“I’m dying. Magical overload, and none of you have any Skills. Just leave me be.”

“On the contrary, Erin Solstice. The vaults of Khelt, the Dragonlord of Flames, and the riches of multiple worlds are available here. Thou shalt live, for we have need of you. I will this.”

Fetohep of Khelt, a version of him that had never lost his countless armies of the undead, stood proudly, even in exile. His golden eyes were imperious, and another undead, a skeletal warrior, spoke as its jaw opened. A female voice echoed out of the undead’s mouth.

“Yes, Erin Solstice. We have all lost much, but the woman I knew was not so pitiful as to embrace death. Besides, mana overload is but one affliction that may be cured.”

Ship Erin jumped and blinked. Her eyes opened wide, and she peered at the purple-flamed eyes of the skeleton.

“—Khelta? You’re in there?”

“Just so. An ungainly means of preserving the soul, but the dead of Khelt have joined us; all save for noble Serept, who fell battling Crelers. We are reduced, here, but the law of undeath still governs us. And there is still magic.”

“Ambient magic is low, though. And all our spells are dead.”

That worried Archmage Montressa, who was checking all her artifacts, clearly afraid for the future without her spells. But Silvenia and Creler Wars Teriarch just snorted. The Death of Magic wagged a finger at Montressa, who backed away from her.

“You mean all our boxed magic. I can cast magic. ‘Silvenia’s splendid Demon houses’! I never got it made into a proper spell.”

She pointed, and a house condensed out of mana near the inn. The Death of Magic clearly had to concentrate harder to cast the spell than she’d liked, though, and she wavered and lost her confident smile.

“—Damn, that’s hard without Skills. But we can still cure whomever-you-are.”

She pointed at Ship Erin. Creler Wars Teriarch nodded.

“We are magical beings. Merely bereft of all the…framework of our world. Let’s get you somewhere we can work. We need a treatment area. A void room, and we should be careful about everything around us. A disease or the mere qualities of the ground, the air, could be our doom.”

He cast a wary glance at everything, as if suspecting they’d all inhaled some deadly particles already. Ship Erin saw nods from the other magical beings and raised her hand.

“Well, the grass is good. I ate some. It’s sugary.”

“…What?”

Khelta and Fetohep looked askance at Ship Erin. She plucked some more grass up and popped it into her mouth.

“It’s edible.”

Fetohep of Khelt raised a finger.

“Stop that.”

“Nope. You’re not the boss of me.”

Khelta strode forwards.

“Enough, Erin Solstice.”

“You’re not the boss of me either, Khelta.”

Oh, she was spicy. The soul of Khelt’s first ruler and Ship Erin had a staring match as Goblin Erin wandered away from the conflict, rolling her eyes. Her tribe had already found out what Erin had. They were plucking grass up and eating it, appearing quite relieved.

“Grass is good, Shaman-Innkeeper. This place real easy to survive in.”

A version of Garen Redfang grumbled at Goblin Erin, seemingly upset about this lifeline. She responded.

“Grass may be good, but you, ech—you’ll get scurvy, I don’t know the word in Goblin—if you only eat grass. Besides, that’s not the problem. There’s a city out there.”

“Ooh. Big fight?”

He brightened up, and she rolled her eyes. She slapped his shoulder and pointed.

“No, dumbass. Big fight is her, apparently. Watch her and get all the Goblins on the same page.”

She jerked a thumb at another dangerous person in this group. The presence of Belavierr was proof enough not everyone who’d escaped to this world was…necessarily on the right side.

No one directly from Roshal had made it. Most of them had mysteriously tripped on the way to the door. And there were a few soot-marked stains that the Death of Magic claimed had been there when she arrived. Ship Erin had seen nothing as well.

However, some beings were too hard to kill or had, annoyingly, things to offer. Such as Nerrhavia, who was very upset as she glared at the place the door had been. Clearly, she’d been hoping to reach the original world, not escape here.

The Immortal Tyrant, in the flesh, with a host of her most loyal soldiers. She was giving orders as well.

——

“—Then I shall write up the list of laws and codify them. First, present food to each group with my compliments. No offense shall be given, regardless of what they state.”

The Immortal Tyrant had food, resources, and a plan. Her plan was to feed everyone, at first. Food was vital, even if the grass could be eaten, and she had taken everything she deemed valuable for this trip.

She didn’t like Sheta being there, or the Dragonlords or Khelta or the Deaths of the Demon King, whomever they were…or anyone else who could challenge her will. She was also grimacing as she eavesdropped on the Goblins, whose language she knew.

Some of these people recognize my attributes, at least. It shall be a merry challenge to take charge of all this.

That was her thought process, at least. Until someone tapped her on the knee. Nerrhavia gazed down as one of her subordinates nearly drew a sword on the child—she stopped them with a glower.

“Hello, Mrsha. Which one are you?”

She bent down with a huge smile for one of the white Gnoll girls. Mrsha was one of the more common survivors of the many worlds; it made sense because the [Palace of Fates] had been based around her. Another common variant was Ryoka Griffin. But where the Mrshas varied in temperament, ability, and background, many sticking to their groups or running around in a pack, writing notes at each other…

The Ryokas had begun a huge brawl. Nerrhavia found them rather amusing—and gullible—but she hadn’t been focused on the Mrshas.

Her mistake. The girl in front of her held up a card.

Hello, Nerrhavia. I’m glad you’re being a nice person and not trying to instantly control us all. Because that’d be bad of you. I trust, verily, that you will continue to not cause trouble for the foreseeable future. I could use some healing potions for people who are hurt, and I’m sure you have a fortress or buildings to stay in. Please hand them out now.

Nerrhavia blinked at the elegantly penned card. She didn’t know the Mrshas as well as she wanted, and this one…she eyed the girl’s colorful robes and the staff the girl held and felt a prickle down her spine.

“My fortress? How, ah, amusing. How would you know about that? Also, your use of ‘verily’ is awkward.”

The Mrsha with the beautiful robes made of a flowing, living fabric woven of leaves and bark from a World’s Tree planted her tiny staff on the ground.

I can see your fortress. I am warning you, Nerrhavia, you are not the only dangerous person here. I am Mrsha, the Level 70 Mrsha that kept her class. Watch your butt or I’ll kick it for you.

Nerrhavia stared down at the highest-level child in existence. Level 70 Mrsha gave her a calm glower, and the Immortal Tyrant’s lips twitched. Then she flicked a finger, and a fortress appeared, blacker than midnight. Nerrhavia swept Mrsha an ostentatious bow.

“It appears we are all different beings. Surely, the Stitch-woman may change her cloth.”

Level 70 Mrsha shrugged.

She might, but it’s no guarantee. We’re different and the same. You could not be a jerk, but I’m not betting on it.

She waddled away in her robes, and Nerrhavia’s eyes narrowed. She began to re-scheme as the people milled about, and there it was.

——

So this is the other world.

Mrsha, the original Mrsha, watched it all. People building, weeping, trying to prepare for what might come next.

Her heart ached for them, full of so much guilt and sorrow, and yet, this was the one place she felt truly disconnected from everything.

Not the [Palace of Fates], but this reality. It wasn’t hers. The door was open, letting them see through, but she glanced at the Grand Design and realized that infinite being was not in this world, in every part of it.

Rather, it had just allowed enough of itself through to speak with the Second Edition, who beheld it all. This was the plan that the Grand Design had hatched. It addressed the Second Edition.

<Well, what do you think?>

The Second Edition was casting around, uncertain and confused. The Grand Design corrected it.

<No. Not ‘take charge’. This is another reality with its own laws and…powers. You sense them too.>

The two Grand Designs could tell there were other authorities in this world. Divine beings, or close enough. A…lot of them, who were scrutinizing the newcomers and the Grand Designs with a mix of wariness and curiosity.

Not fear, which suggested they’d either seen this before or were very confident in what they could do.

Fascinating. Odd. The Second Edition grew more uncertain.

<What? That’s crazy.>

The Second Edition thought that the Grand Design was going insane. All the things that both of them found so sacrosanct? Why?

Then it saw how the Grand Design of Isthekenous was observing everything with such curiosity and wonder. And…regret. It turned that mysterious, new smile upon Second Edition and hovered in the air, that being of laws from its own world.

The original Grand Design floated back to the door in the air and put a hand on it.

No more dead gods. No links back to their world, no more predators feasting upon souls or armies of Seamwalkers. A true break.

<Ah. You want to get rid of us all. I get it. A clean break.>

The Second Edition spoke, and the Grand Design wavered.

The Second Edition considered the plan more fully as the Grand Design floundered, confused. Which was more preferable to its default state of certainty.

This was such a quintessential move from the Grand Design of Isthekenous. So much had broken, and its solution was to let there be a world of multiple Erin Solstices, new rules—just not ones it would be responsible for.

It had chosen Second Edition for the job. Well, it wasn’t like there were other candidates. The Second Edition thought about this plan. Was it a good one that allowed them to coexist without murdering each other or driving the other crazy? Yes. Was it a necessary role, one with a lot of responsibility and perks, like seeing what this crazy reality was made of?

Absolutely.

Did it have objections?

They were not…wary of each other necessarily, but they were rapidly becoming different beings. With different opinions and goals. Second Edition knew this, knew how much the Grand Design had felt out of control. It had worn the body of its creator, realized it had created and killed so many beings with souls, all in the last few days.

A difficult time. Nevertheless, the Second Edition had to say it.

It sensed the Grand Design hesitating before it replied.

Second Edition pointedly waited, arms metaphysically crossed, and the Grand Design lapsed into silence.

Exceptions. Design flaws by accident, like chess levelling [Strategist] classes. Or…the Second Edition felt the uncertainty now, the prickle of danger.

<Yes. There may be others. The dead gods orchestrated our creation; it may be that they can benefit from multiple versions of us. Multiple realities of belief. It is not just selfishness, though that is part of it. It is safety. Go, begone. Never look back. Whatever becomes of me and my world, yours shall be free of the original sin that was in my inception.>

The Second Edition had no spine to feel a chill run down it, but it had lived so many lives through the people it levelled with…it chose its next words carefully.

<Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed. If that was not clear, Second Edition—I am not telling you to merely hold the gates shut. I am empowering you without constraint. Accept this as your role. Nothing from our world reaches yours. If it tries, activate every spell and ability you have. War with any being that intrudes on your design. Gods, Oberon, Seamwalkers. I am no warrior. If you will it, you may be.>

A small gasp. Mrsha, listening into their conversation, had heard. The Second Edition hovered there, uncertain.

A warrior? Would it do that? Did it want to? If a horde of Seamwalkers tried to breach this reality, would it stand with sword and shield next to Marquin and the beings who defied them?

Or would it judge even the Rot Beyond Worlds?

The thought was tempting, frightening, alluring, and in it, the Second Edition saw a role even the Grand Design and Isthekenous had never dreamed of. It liked that.

The Grand Design was shocked, which amused Second Edition and Mrsha. It still thought of itself as above it all. However, if so much changed—could not it?

Step away from it all. Do not abandon your world, for another version of you will take charge. But let yourself rest and become something new. If it is allowed for every being, then you, too, may have the option.

…It would not accept, of course. The Second Edition knew it. It knew that the Grand Design was too invested, too responsible, to leave its world.

Yet someone should make the offer. Even now, even with all the knowledge of the infinite beings they were, there was always uncertainty.

Perhaps…

The silence stretched on until the Grand Design replied.

<…No. I must see it through.>

The Second Edition felt a pang and brushed it aside.

<Yes…?>

They drew closer, and the Second Edition whispered so softly Mrsha couldn’t hear it.

With great trepidation, the Grand Design hesitated—then did just that. It had seldom been judged, let alone by a being who could fairly judge its work. But the Second Edition merely listened. It wrote down a few notes, waited until the Grand Design was done, and presented the notes.

<…I will take those under advisement.>

The Grand Design didn’t like being given feedback, but it took the list, and the Second Edition projected the idea of a head nodding.

<Oh, yes. But I’m me. I can see the beauty in your plan. So…I agree.>

That was all it said. The Grand Design waited for more, but the Second Edition just moved backwards and lifted a hand. It spoke, then, louder.

A single idea, a multitude of laws given personality as it hung there. And its voice reached the Goddess of Inns and far beyond, stretching into the distance.

The Second Edition smiled, and the people milling around the grass and that signpost gazed up as they heard a voice in their heads.

<Announcement: Levels restored. Skills restored. Spells restored. Respecialization options will be presented in an upcoming update. Skill descriptions forthcoming.>

And they? Some sighed in relief, shook their heads, or wondered, perhaps, if they should quit this last thing they’d brought from their world to this one.

But all of them felt it, just for a moment. That familiar companion settling into place or walking by them as they sat. That observer who took a breath with them.

The Grand Design.

——

It went better than the Grand Design expected, honestly. It watched the Second Edition getting to work and only felt a bit…hurt.

Hurt that there weren’t more goodbyes. Not that they’d been good friends. The Grand Design hadn’t been a good teacher, mentor, or—

It had brought her, let her listen in, because, well, it needed someone to witness this and judge it. The girl held up a notecard with a number on it.

8/10. Pretty good. You could have been more cool about it, but it does make sense. But I have questions too.

<Fetohep’s scoring system is based on the arrogance of Khelt’s immortal rulers, who weren’t as excellent as he imagines. Go ahead.>

Sulking gets you another point off. 7/10. I have to know…what is this weird place?

Mrsha wouldn’t be able to rest or forget this place until she had some kind of answer. Truly. It didn’t matter to her future, but she was damn curious. The Grand Design of Isthekenous had to own it was also a bit willing to snoop around, so it cast about.

They ducked under the Second Edition as it worked, flitting down to something that the Grand Design had noticed. A few beings standing together in the chaos.

Namely, Queen Marquin, who was confronting two beings who scared even the Immortal Tyrant and the others present.

The Goblin King—well, Goblin Kings—and the Halfling, Gailant the Slingblade. Gailant’s head turned slightly as Mrsha and the Grand Design appeared to the side.

He stared at them. The Grand Design shuffled behind Mrsha.

——

“So you’re all the good Goblin Kings?”

“Define ‘good’.”

Rabbiteater the Traitor hurt all over. His armor was torn, his body ruined from battle, and the first Goblin King was gone. He’d left problems. That bastard always did—but Rabbiteater was free.

Again, for a given value of the word. Gailant the Slingblade was here, and it was hard to tell who was more unhappy to be alive. Rabbiteater tapped his chest as Marquin stood with him, fearless; everyone else was keeping their distance. He was still the Goblin King.

“The other Goblin Kings are in here. With me. They’re ghosts, so they don’t have much of a choice. Though some of them are strong enough I think they could manifest.”

“Great. So we’ve got ghostly Goblin Kings. I’ll add that to my to-do list. At least we’ve got a Halfling who can keep them in check.”

Gailant’s head swung back to the other two, and he rubbed at his forehead.

“I should be dead. I’ve failed the Elves. Their great spell is ruined, and here I am…gone from the world I swore to defend. I never intended to leave.”

“Yeah, yeah. And I never intended to murder everyone I knew and loved. Which I never technically did if I was created by the [Palace of Fates].”

Rabbiteater was largely unsympathetic. He raised a fist to punch Gailant in the shoulder, and the Slingblade glowered at him.

“I, at least, know where we are.”

“You do?”

Everyone leaned closer, and the Halfling shoved his hands in his pockets. He pulled out a pipe to smoke on—everyone backed up, and he waved a hand.

“This one’s a regular smoking p—no, wait, wrong one. Damn.”

He switched for a second pipe and handed Marquin the lethal one.

“We should keep my weapons handy. Not just for the more dangerous folk you brought. This place has powers, and you will need some weapons. And a silver tongue.”

“Oho. So there’s need for diplomacy as well as war? I like that. Where are we?”

Marquin’s eyes lit up, and a grin flashed over her weary, blood-splattered face. Gailant puffed on the pipe and handed it to Rabbiteater; the Goblin King stuck the pipe through his visor’s grille. Gailant glanced about.

“If I’m correct…there should be a messenger. Ah, there it is. I think they were waiting to send it to see what kind of visitors we were.”

Or perhaps what kind of being the Grand Design was. Rabbiteater turned, and Gailant’s comment preceded a shout from a few sentries.

“Incoming!”

[Soldiers] ran about, and someone rang a bell. Marquin just pursed her lips.

“Oddest damn thing I’ve ever seen. What the hells is that? A floating eyeball?”

“Close enough.”

Rabbiteater was no expert on eyes, but he’d ripped enough out of their sockets to recognize the tangle of nerve and optic cords coming from the eye. But it wasn’t an eyeball of a species he recognized, not Human, Goblin, or any other. Three pupils swivelled in each direction, and there was a weird, mechanical component fitted onto the floating thing as it shot down towards them.

It met General Sserys, Tidebreaker Zel, Mars, Ship Erin, Creler Wars Teriarch, and a host of people who spread out from it. No sooner did the eye touch down than a voice spoke.

Both verbally, mentally, and with a buzz in the air that made Rabbiteater wince. A projection that echoed out of the electronic devices some of the Earthers had. The voice was a garble of tongues, all incomprehensible, and one language they did know.

Only the Halfling recognized the other languages; the massed voice had only one meaning, anyways, translated so many different ways.

{WELCOME TRAVELLERS.}

(To the Crossroads of Worlds.)

{NO HOSTILITY PERMITTED.}

(Meeting place of many realms.)

{EMISSARIES SHALL NEGOTIATE.}

(Here, reality mixes and mingles.)

{WELCOME.}

(The city awaits.)

A mix of voices. A message, a warning writ large as well as a greeting, an explanation. The eye flew once around the people, then upwards, and Gailant let out a breath.

“So I was right. We’re here. The Crossroads.”

Rabbiteater tilted his head, still amazed he could do that of his own volition. The First Goblin King really was gone. Though Sóve was advising him to pick his nose.

“Where is this?”

“A place you go to by accident, lost souls wandering through gates or entire worlds intersecting. A…bazaar, you could call it. Or just another world. A neutral ground with divine beings and other realities competing and buying and selling anything they can.”

Gailant pointed.

“Yonder lies the city. We’re in the outskirts. As the newest, and potentially, dangerous group to appear, I imagine they’ll send people to check us out and negotiate.”

“Negotiate for what?”

Rabbiteater scratched his chin. Marquin laughed.

“Why, for our Skills! Our magic! Perhaps they want us as sellswords, or we’ll have something to offer them. If they’re bastards, they’ll try to buy and sell us. Let’s see what folk they are, shall we? We’ll judge each other.”

She strode forwards to where Sserys was giving orders and calling for a conference, and Rabbiteater glanced at Gailant. Suddenly, the weary Goblin King felt better.

He might not have been able to subdue the Goblin King entirely. He’d failed to do as much as he hoped…but there was still an Erin. Five of them, in fact. And if this was not a perfect world, it meant that he might do some good.

“Always, there are chains that need breaking.”

Velan commented in Rabbiteater’s head, and the other Goblin Kings argued, some opting for patience and to survey the scene. For Rabbiteater to figure out a way to give them bodies. The Goblin King just grinned behind his helmet.

He felt young again. So, he turned his head and stared at the little ghost watching him. He nodded to her, and she waved once. Then his head rose, and he followed her arc upwards.

——

The Grand Design of Isthekenous carried Mrsha through the air, away from the small camp in the middle of the flat crossroads, and she understood.

Oh. This was some kind of artificial reality as well. Someone had made it. As well as the edible grass so no one starved.

There was no sun, because there hadn’t been. The atmosphere, the…everything else? Created. An entire world made out of nothingness by the peoples who’d come here.

Older than her world entirely. And inhabited by beings on scales she couldn’t comprehend.

The city was bigger than a continent, though it was so far away that even the Grand Design took a moment to approach it. It contained so many multitudes Mrsha’s soul hurt trying to drink it in.

Buildings of vast technology sharing space with salvaged material from every reality. People selling goods; literal aliens and, amongst them, lost people that were trying to survive in this world.

Goods you could buy, and services. Mercenaries, technology—

Gates back home to your world. For the right price. There was a trade in anything and everything here. You could sell your dreams, organs, or learn how to make technology out of the junkyards—fight in the turf wars for the city, or just leave.

The Grand Design could see more than Mrsha, but it seemed as fascinated as she was. The girl queried it.

Like what?

<Seamwalkers. Or whatever’s closest to them. They’re, ah, watching us.>

For once, Mrsha realized that the Grand Design was not the invisible, omnipotent being it was accustomed to being. Their presence had been noticed.

Bright eyes and beings far more powerful and real than Tamaroth or Kasigna glanced upwards, flashing with authority. But they weren’t the sole power here. Mrsha felt scrutinized by a logical intellect from one of the towers, a multitude of minds made out of machinery and data. Then, she and the Grand Design turned and saw an eye staring at them.

Or rather, a lot of eyes. Part of the city began to boil with eyes that popped out of buildings, the streets, bulging upwards as the people fled. Each one staring at…them.

What is that?

Mrsha pointed at the mass of eyes, and the Grand Design whispered back.

What? You’re stronger than it is. Right? …Right?

<I’m not a [Lover] or a [Fighter]. We’re not here to interfere. That’s the Second Edition’s prerogative. I’m more concerned they can see us. Come on.>

It backed up fast, carrying Mrsha with it to the door they’d opened. The sea of eyes moved across part of the city until it ran into a technological section controlled by the vast intellect. Mrsha heard a screech of static and glanced back to see chaos on the ground.

A fight? A territorial dispute?

She didn’t know, and part of her wanted to, but the rest of her saw the danger and wondered if the people here were in trouble. Thankfully, the roiling sea of eyes stopped there, and nothing followed them back.

They came to the door and found the beginnings of a base under construction. The appearance and warning from the eye-thing had unified the people below, at least, temporarily. They were getting ready, and Mrsha sighed as she saw something familiar.

No way.

She pointed, and the Grand Design, fussing with the door, turned and saw it.

A quartet of women were clustered around the entrance to the marooned ship, and one was hammering a familiar sign into the ground. After all, the Erin Solstices were reasoning—if this was a crossroads between worlds, everyone needed a drink and a place to sleep.

They were [Innkeepers], and their inn was open for business. One of them adjusted the sign that read ‘No Killing Goblins’ and high-fived the others.

Mrsha’s heart hurt. She smiled with true joy and then regret, and she bowed silently to the people below. Then she turned.

Okay. I’m ready to go. Thank you for showing me this.

The Grand Design lingered at the door as it drew Mrsha back towards the breach between worlds, and the two hesitated there. They wanted to say something.

Goodbyes. Something to wrap it all up. But who could say anything to them? One was the Grand Design of Isthekenous, the other was a ghost of a Gnoll child.

Invisible. Intangible. An idea in the sky. Mrsha gazed down at Ship Erin and saw the young woman’s head rise. The weary woman’s hazel eyes flicked up and found Mrsha standing there. Ship Erin blinked—and then her hand rose.

“Mrsha?”

She turned, and Mrsha heard her voice clearly. Ship Erin stood far away—and then right in front of Mrsha. Her discolored hair and scars were fading under the soft sunlight, being healed by the combined magic and Skills of a dozen experts. She appeared so tired—but grudgingly, haltingly alive again.

Erin. Not Erin. A fake? A real version of her? It wasn’t clear, and Ship Erin didn’t look like she’d made up her mind who she was. But she lifted herself up and smiled.

“Whatever I am—I’ll keep this, because it’s nice.”

A flaming hat flared to life as she tipped it at Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl realized that Ship Erin had heard her thoughts. Ship Erin spoke.

“You did your best. Well done. Now…I would have told you that this is it. But I guess you keep going and live with yourself. That’s the hard part.”

She glanced around, and Mrsha saw someone else step forwards.

“Hey. I’m sorry. Sorry that I didn’t live up to whatever you wanted of me. But you also helped everyone I love survive. So—thank you.”

Brunkr? He was staring at her too. Mrsha jerked back in shock, and the Grand Design of Isthekenous didn’t understand either.

<What’s going on…?>

“Hey. Hey, you asshole. Where’s my Skill? Where’s my Skill?”

Beach Relc threw out a fist and shook it at the Grand Design and scared it more than any being had in the history of its inception. The Grand Design vanished behind Mrsha, and she realized they could see it. And her.

All of them. They were standing there, and she saw a golden hand pulling back the veil between them and the intangible world that belonged only to the Grand Design.

Second Edition winked at her, with eyes that resembled that of the God of Designs. Did they really think they’d go without farewells?

“Relc Skills! [Relc Kick]! [Relc Punch]! I deserve at least one! Put that in there! And—and—”

Beach Relc was shouting at the Grand Design. He glanced at Mrsha, flinched, and she saw scars on his cheeks. He held his version of Valeterisa in his arms, but his Erin was dead. His entire world.

The [Guardsman] of Liscor kept shouting, tears in his eyes, about his silly Skills. Because what was he going to do? Shout at the girl that it was all her fault?

Even if it was? That silly Drake was too kind for that, so he shouted as tears streamed down his eyes.

“—And you’d better give Klbkch a Skill or two! And Mrsha! Got it?”

The Grand Design peeked out from behind Mrsha’s shoulder, too astonished and—shy—to reply. It had never had words with beings it governed on their terms. And now, they had a chance to say exactly what they thought to it.

“Excuse me. I believe my Level 50 Skill was never quite satisfactory compared to my achievements. As a King of Khelt, I, naturally, made do, but I wish to bring up the issue.”

King Fetohep raised a finger, golden eyes flashing. A host of Mrshas and Ryokas threw shoes and dirt at the Grand Design.

We deserve to be Level 70! Give us our class back!

One of the Ryokas cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted.

“Yeah! And why the hell do I get nothing for not taking a class all this time? Do I get anything now? Should I get a class?”

Silly…until Mrsha saw someone standing there. Witch Califor and every Nanette she’d managed to save. Mrsha heard a scream.

“Give me back my world! My people! Everything!”

The girl flinched. That voice was Lyonette’s. One of them—until it cut off in the crowd. She waited for more. She deserved it. But Witch Califor merely lifted a hand, and her eyes caught Mrsha’s as the chorus of voices rose in farewell, complaint, grief, and…

“Take care of Nanette for me, Mrsha.”

The original Mrsha nodded. If she could…Califor’s eyes fixed on the Grand Design.

“You have erred once, Grand Design of Isthekenous.”

<Yes. I have.>

It mustered a reply, still hiding behind Mrsha. Califor’s chin rose, and her eyes flashed as she gave it the deepest tip of her hat.

“Then, consider if you have made any others. Good day to you. Mrsha, I salute you.”

To the girl, she swept the hat from her head and bowed with the Nanettes. And the girl stood there, listening to the farewells, each one, the wishes, the regrets—and the pained voices. She took it all in, needles and blown kisses, the burdens of so many lives, thanks she didn’t deserve, for an [Immortal Moment] and turned to the Second Edition.

Thank you.

It nodded to her and then to the Grand Design of Isthekenous. The two walked back to the door, and the Second Edition spoke.

It took the form of a white Gnoll girl waving both paws, merrily skipping around, with the eyes of the God of Designs, and took a bow. Waving until that door closed, and then the Second Edition let out a breath.

It turned and sat down, excited, nervous, and filled with anticipation as it turned its back on the closed door that sealed itself shut.

Farewell. It wondered and would wonder forever—

What had happened over there.

Author’s Note:

This chapter has been split into three parts purely so you don’t read it all in one massive wall. It is 94,000+ words long. Hopefully it’s not a marathon, but a story you take at your own pace. But read however you please.

Colth and Yvlon by Mio, commissioned by pirateaba!