The weight of greatness vanished, and an otherworldly exhaustion replaced it. He felt like he had gone an entire week without sleep. The reason why was before him.

ALERT

You are suffering from minimal Diminution sickness.

So tired. A migraine pulsed relentlessly behind his eyes. Diminution was the loss of values in an attribute. In ‘Tales of Woe’ it was a common consequence for violating a Geas. It’d been portrayed in the game as a very physically painful experience in such instances. However, stats could also atrophy, a far more painless kind of diminution resulting from underuse or neglect. His situation, however, was neither of these.

You have drawn the attention of AKESHI [The Pristine Reptile]

The Pristine Reptile was venerated as the God of records and historicity. On this planet, the past was a great force of nature, having its own metaphysical significance and weight. All of which made Akeshi kind of a big deal here. In truth, if Aleem ever had to settle on venerating one of the gods, Akeshi would very likely be his top pick. However, she wasn’t so idle that she would take an interest in him. Gods in Orig worked through powerful proxies and representatives much of the time. And one very often had to dissect divine ordinance in order to tell a god’s will apart from the covert desires of their agents.

Kindly report to the nearest Representative of AKESHI [The Pristine Reptile]

Since he was being asked to report to it, ‘Representative’ here would mean a portrayal or symbol of the entity. In other words, a Shrine. Shrines were themselves lesser beings than the gods they portrayed. In ‘Tales of Woe’, they tended to be gratingly officious and self-important. Considering the trend so far, he doubted his experience here would vary.

Aleem read through another particularly annoying string of notifications.

All extraneous Titles temporarily suspended

5% daily sub-Diminution to all Attributes pending report

The fact that it was only a sub-Diminution meant that the effects wouldn’t—shouldn’t—affect his attributes too severely. But it was just as well. This was divine bureaucracy after all. The whole point of nerfing him was to force a meeting as soon as possible. Higher order entities could be very discourteous at times. And if you let them, they’d walk all over you and expect you to grovel in gratitude afterwards. Aleem would have to tread carefully.

He had a sinking feeling that Akeshi’s Representative might be interested in him due to whatever event had resulted in his metempsychosis. His soul schema did not seem to contain anything that might be revealing, but he couldn’t say for sure. The fact that he’d acquired the [Last Breath] Skill was not ‘impressive’. A one-year-old reciting their ABCs without skipping anything was impressive. But when that toddler proceeded to give an eloquent diatribe on the neurological restrictions they and their peers are forced to contend with, one’d know they had a very serious impostor problem on hand.

If his future-past knowledge held true, then his soul schema could not be accessed by mere Representatives without his express permission. ‘Tales of Woe’ had been very specific about that. Offering up access to one’s schema was an act of worshipful reverence. Basic information about a person could be very easily divined, but core information could only be offered. Generally speaking, of course.

There were always exceptions. And he wasn’t quite sure how much of this actually applied to the gods themselves.

Aleem read over the very words that seemed to have been responsible for all this.

Seeded Directives Detected

Focusing on the words for several breaths, he felt a bit of give in his mind. The text unspooled to give him even more information.

Seeded Directives

Hidden criteria implanted at birth. The details of these directives are currently beyond your ability to interpret or implement.

Aleem seized the panic trying to surge out of his chest and tucked it deeper within himself. He traded large gulps of air for heavy sighs. There was no point worrying about any of this. Not yet. It would only distract him. This was fine.

Whatever the seeded directives were, the Representative of Akeshi had intercepted it. He did not know if that was a good thing or not. Akeshi was one of the most benevolent gods on Orig, for a very strained definition of benevolent, of course. Still, she dealt in knowledge. In secrets and hidden truths. This equally applied to her proxies. And he was flush with all three. He could bargain with them.

Silently, Aleem hoped that the Representative whose interest he’d garnered would be Shallentlan. She was fair and reasonable, if a little too sanctimonious. He would rather work with that than some far more self-serving form of crazy.

His eyes felt heavier. And the pounding in his head hadn’t abated. If anything, it had spread to other parts of his body. It appeared that he would be getting some sleep after all. There was just one last thing he needed to puzzle out.

Strong Shadow Affinity Detected

Focusing on the text did not reveal anything more. No further information. Nothing. He’d saved this one for last because it was the only notification remotely approaching good news, but it was a double-edged blade. An affinity was a conceptual attunement to something strongly recognised by mana. It usually had to do with the Aristotelean elements. The problem here was that affinities were cultivated over a lifetime of training and development. It wasn’t unusual for old monsters and ancient powerhouses to have elemental affinities.

Whenever an individual possessed an affinity at a young age, it was almost always a racial trait.

Race

ERROR

Aleem was really trying not to jump to any conclusions. He was really trying. The question now was ‘how many races in Orig possessed a shadow affinity as a racial trait?’

Whatever the actual answer to that was, Aleem only knew of one such race.

Shadelings.

Denizens of darkness and shadow. In ‘Tales of Woe’ there were portions of Orig that still classified shadelings under the ‘evil races’ category. He didn’t know if that applied to Ontacreese. Whatever the case, Aleem was certain that he wasn’t a shadeling. A part shadeling perhaps. All of which would easily mean he was only part Vriorian. But more importantly, there was just one specific character in the game who had been a six-fingered Vriorian with a shadow affinity. Aleem let out a very shaky breath.

ALERT

Diminution sickness has progressed from minimum to mild

ALERT

You are now suffering from mild Diminution sickness

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He dismissed all the notifications, shut his eyes tightly and began massaging his temples. It felt almost ridiculous to sleep now, but he didn’t want to add a compromised health to the list of things going on. Most of the player characters in ‘Tales of Woe’ were fairly overpowered and never had to contend with something as trivial as burnout, or, worse still, a failing health.

Aleem moved over to the flimsy mattress and lay on it. The temperature in the cell was cool. He hadn’t noticed that before. His candle still flickered in the corner. Thoughts of snuffing it out from this distance eased him into sleep.

* * *

The boy scrabbles on the floor futilely, trying and failing to free himself from the foot pressing firmly into his neck. His wide eyes are reddened and swollen, a prominent network of veins bulge on his forehead. “You killed me!” the boy croaks at his assailant. Saliva dribbles from the edge of his lips, as he rasps out his accusations, “Body stealer! Life snatcher! Pretender!”

“Hush,” Aleem says in a voice so cool that it makes both their skins crawl.

Sometimes Aleem is the boy on the floor. He is dying. Dying again. He gasps ineffectually. Then other times Aleem is the assailant, retracting his many legs from the boy’s neck.

Six legs. Seven legs. Eight.

The giant spider sneers at the boy. It wears Aleem’s face, his old face. Luminescent oil flows out of its mouth, and darting shadows consume the oil. A tar-black substance seethes in the background, forming lose depictions of Luxith’s emblem.

On the floor, the boy hacks and wheezes and greedily trades lungfuls of air. “Why?” he cries hoarsely. “Why are you doing this?”

Aleem does not know. He cannot know. He watches mutely, the glimmering grease taking huge bites out of his mind. It doesn’t hurt too much.

The spider answers instead. It speaks in Aleem’s voice. “Because I can.”

Aleem doesn’t want to be here. Neither does the boy. Neither of them wants to be dead. Neither of them—

“I know what you’re thinking,” the spider sings. It sprouts wings from its eyes and begins spinning a thick ward of white silk that shines like gold sometimes. “But you can’t leave now. It’s only just begun.”

“JUSt beGUN!!!” the writhing tar choruses.

“YOu aRe a PaWn, iN oUr gAmeS!!!”

—Ai

“Little, little, LITTLE!!!”

“Please,” the boy begs, “Please! My name is Aleem.”

—Rai

“Your name is ‘PaWn’!!!”

“Pawn, pawn, pawn,” the shadows chant.

The boy mewls in terror.

—Ao.rai

“PaWn!” the spider screams.

“Gwa.yao.rai.”

Aleem reeled awake. He lay shuddering and panting in his bed. The room was so cold, yet he was drenched in sweat. Haimol was looking down at him with concern, a hand on Aleem’s shoulder. Aleem manoeuvred himself onto his elbows. “What’s going on?” he croaked.

“You’ve been screaming in your sleep, boy.” Haimol was stooped on one knee. “Nightmares?”

Aleem nodded. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up fully. The cell was much brighter than it had any right to be. He noticed now that there was a lantern beside Haimol. His brain caught up with him. “Wait,” he squinted at Haimol through bleary eyes. “How could you hear me?” This entire gallery was warded from sound, Aleem was certain.

Haimol stared at him incredulously. “That’s what you—” he let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if in amused disbelief. “Are you sure you’ve lost your memories, lad? Come on,” he rose to a half crouch and reached a hand out to Aleem, “let’s go out topside. Fresh air might do you some good.” Haimol was not a large man by any standards. He was barely even taller than Aleem’s fourteen-year-old body.

Still, Aleem clasped Haimol’s hand and was hoisted to his feet without so much as a grunt from the old timer.

“Watch your head,” Haimol said, half a second too late.

Aleem bonked his head against the low ceiling. It wasn’t painful, just annoying. His dreadlocks were good for something at least. He looked to see that his candle was little more than a hardened lump of wax. Shame, that.

Haimol led the way through the gallery. “I have a Skill,” he suddenly said. He glanced back to see Aleem’s quizzical expression. “You asked how I could hear you screaming.”

“Oh. Okay. But isn’t sound restricted in here somehow?”

“An enchantment.”

Aleem had figured as much.

“And let me tell you, funny thing is sounds within this gallery aren’t nearly as muted as you might think. It may sound rather hushed while you’re in here, but people on the outside can hear you much better.”

“Is that… how it’s supposed to work?”

“Na. Damned thing’s been broken for years. Pursuivant can’t be bothered to shell out funds for repairing something that might as well be a luxury sound chamber.”

“Huh. Is that why you were able to hear me then? Sound bled out and your Skill picked up on it?”

“No, no. That’s all on [Warden’s Domain],” Haimol said. “It lets me get a feel for whatever’s going on in the Stockade. Couldn’t turn it off if I wanted.”

Ironic thing for a ‘[Turn Key]’ to say, but still, Aleem’s eyes widened. “You can tell what’s happening in the entire Stockade at all times?” That was very concerning. If this man was working for Tanton, it made sense that he had a mean of spying in on Aleem.

Haimol let out a tinny laugh just as they crossed the threshold. Instantly, his laughter morphed into something richer and hearty. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but no. I mean,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I do love having the sprogs and a few of the runts believe I’m all-seeing. But in truth, the Skill’s quite uh … conditional.” From his wording Aleem suspected the man was being intentionally vague, which made sense really. Who would willingly give away the details of something so useful? Aleem made a note to himself to avoid doing anything suspicious while he was within the stockade.

They reached the splitting corridors, and took the one that led away from Haimol’s den. They turned a corner and ascended a flight of stairs. There were glim-stones atop the walls, mostly invalidating Haimol’s lantern.

“It’s so quiet,” Aleem noted in a mildly hushed voice. It felt wrong somehow to speak too loudly in the nightly silence.

“Barely past the witching hour,” Haimol said. “And besides, the stockade isn’t seeing a lot of activity of late.”

The walls were the same everywhere they passed. Smooth and dusky. The air was cold, but much less so than it’d been on the lower floor. They walked past several large doors, all of which were closed. There was a quaintness to the stockade, a teasing atmosphere that tickled the explorer in him. He suspected that Haimol wouldn’t have a problem with that if he asked, but Aleem held his peace. He memorised their movements and their paths.

Soon they came upon another flight of stairs. Shorter this time, and it led up to a round trap door on the ceiling. It was firmly hasped, from what Aleem could see, and had some sort of combination lock.

The trapdoor opened out into the night sky, which was replete with stars. Aleem paused on the steps, taking in the sight. A big fat moon with a soft pink hue. Soros, the second moon of four in Orig. And what a sight it was. There was a civilisation of Vriorians that actually lived on it, though that wasn’t public knowledge. The mere thought of possibly visiting there one day filled Aleem with some excitement. Magical flight. Now that would be an exhilarating experience.

Aleem walked onto the roof of the stockade and saw now that it was really a roofgarden. There were patches of green and lush vegetation neatly sectioned off. The air here smelled fresh and clean. The wind was cool, but pleasantly so. The irony wasn’t lost on Aleem, really. A military jail cell with a picturesque garden atop it. He chuckled to himself as he panned the rooftop.

Haimol closed the trapdoor and moved over to a set of reed chairs off to the side. Aleem joined him, claiming one of the seats. There was a rather girthy, sapling with yellow, rounded winterberry-looking leaves nearby. He recognised it from the game, as these had featured quite heavily. A Biduen tree. The thing was about half his height, but he doubted he could wrap his arms around it.

“Did I come here often?” Aleem asked.

“Gods no. This is your second time up here. Imagine bringing a bunch of spritely children to the top of a roof unassisted.”

The man had a point, there were no handrails of any kind on the roof. That said, the stockade was merely a bungalow, underground floors notwithstanding. The drop wasn’t too bad, really. Still, he knew that it sounded too much like the very sort of thing a precipitate child might say right before falling off. Rather than give Haimol a reason to no longer bring him up here, he just kept his mouth shut. The atmosphere was calming, the view charming.

He could see out over the Outpost. The terrain had a soft decline towards the centre. It was a shallow bowl, and the stockade seemed closer to the brim. Most of the buildings were one-storied, or rather not-bungalows; it made sense that there would be lower floors in each one. Long pillars were scattered about as far as his eyes could see in the dark, they held lively green flames atop them. Some sort of signalling system of some kind, perhaps.

Haimol whipped out a pipe and lit it. In moments he was puffing out balmy clouds of that lemony goodness Aleem had smelled in the man’s den.

Aleem closed his eyes and called to mind the visualisation Des had guided him in. The black goo was… cold and— Aleem froze. Had it been black before?

No, it’d been colourless. He focused on it, screwing his eyes tighter than necessary. He willed it to flow as it once had. Slowly, very slowly, it began to move. It felt stickier than he remembered. And it wasn’t the slightest bit hot. There was also an accompanying degree of discomfort.

He opened his eyes. “There’s something wrong with my mana, I think.”

Haimol smiled as one might when a child complains about monsters beneath their bed. It was a kind smile. “You will have some difficulty guiding it, since you are presently still recovering. The mana is in the blood, and will very often reflect the internal condition.

“What Des did earlier when she incited your mana helped you more than you might realise. The effects must have worn off by now, however.” He gestured at Aleem’s chest, “This is merely the true state of things.”

Aleem shifted in his seat. “So, it’s supposed to be moving very slowly?”

“For your age and experience, yes. Just focus on doing what you’ve been doing. Steer mana through your ducts. In time the speed will improve. Here,” he sat straighter, shifting his seat to face Aleem’s, “let me show you a simple exercise. You’ll like this one.”

Aleem mirrored the man’s posture.

“Close your eyes and imagine you are a pool of water.”

Aleem complied.

“Something lightly touches your surface right in the middle. The touch produces a wavelet that expands all the way to your extremities.”

Aleem could feel an almost indiscernible vibration spread out of his chest. His lips tightened in a smile.

“As the wavelet breaks against the edges of the pool, notice the slight disturbances in the water. How they taper out.” The man paused, and Aleem could hear him draw from the pipe. “Now imagine you are that disturbance.”

Aleem cracked an eye open, “Getting a bit complex.”

“Oh, I know.” His eyes sparkled in the soft shine of the pipe in his hand. “But humour me.“

Aleem nodded and closed his eye. “I am the disturbance, you said.”

“Now reach towards the edges of the pool and reconstitute yourself into your previous form. A band of waves.”

Aleem scrunched his face as he tried visualising Haimol’s directions. He felt a tingle in his fingers, toes, on the top of his head. Then it vanished.

He tried once more with poorer results. The third attempt produced no sensations at all. What’s more, he couldn’t just visualise it into happening. He tried to imagine what Haimol’s direction would look like, and he struggled to picture it in his mind.

It was something Aleem had started to notice about this world. Even acts as mundane as visualisation had a spirituality all their own. He released his hold on his mana and found that he could better envisage himself as the reconstituted band of waves. Seizing his mana once more, he struggled to so much as evoke the image.

Aleem shook his head and opened his eyes. “It’s not working.”

“That’s why it’s an exercise, boy,” Haimol said, puffing smoke in his face. “You get to practice.” The man chuckled to himself. “‘Not working’, he says.”

Aleem really couldn’t complain. This was something he wanted to do. Learn magic. Practice magic. He retreated within himself once more and worked at the exercise, beginning with personalising the pool.

The sounds of his own breathing and Hamiol’s pipe faded into the background as he cycled through the visualisation. Whenever he personalised the nigh imperceptible backwash, the image fell apart. He’d then begin as the pool yet untouched.

It was calming. He’d earned some proficiency in meditation back on Earth. The principle was the same, though the engagement here was high enough that his concentration barely wavered.

So single-minded was Aleem’s rehearsal that he didn’t notice when he transitioned into slumber.