I physically recoil. Become Shirasil’s Champion? “No! Never.”

“Why not?” He splays his hands. “You want to challenge the gods, don’t you? You want to change the system. I can help you do that. I can give you the power you need to get there.”

I scoff. “Not if it means working for the gods. I won’t be used by you. You yourself said the power Champions have is only borrowed from their gods—that it’s only a fraction of their strength. I won’t be beholden to you, and I certainly don’t want power that’s only a fraction of yours.” I lift my chin. “No. I’ll get stronger my own way.”

Shirasil giggles. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just so refreshing to have a mortal speak to me this way! Hilarious.” A growl creeps into his voice. “Oh, the others would kill you on the spot.”

He’s insane. Despite my bravado, shivers run up and down my back. Maybe he hadn’t killed me before because he thought he could use me. But if I refuse, what motive does he have to keep me alive? That’s why he told me about the gods’ weakness, wasn’t it? No god would simply let someone walk away after revealing something like that.

Shirasil chuckles to himself, passing a hand over his face. When he looks up at me, with those empty, soulless eyes, his expression is composed once more. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says. “After all, no one can be expected to make such a decision without all available information at their disposal, first, hm? Alright then. You think you stand any chance of challenging the gods without immortal aid? Let’s look at the facts.”

[Check,] Echo abruptly says, and stats appear over my vision.

[Name: Shirasil]

[Title: God]

[Class: Anarchic Alchemist]

[Level: 100]

[Attack: 2500]

[Agility: 750]

[HP: 10,000/10,000]

[Affinities: Wind, Shadow, Space]

[Role: The Inquisitor]

I blink as the numbers scroll past. Ten thousand hit points? But it’s not infinite. Any number, no matter how big, can be brought to zero. And level one hundred is lower than I would have thought, for a god. But buried among the numbers, I notice something else.

“You have a Role?” I ask.

“We all have a role to play, dear,” Shirasil says. “Now, as for your stats…” He flicks a finger in the air before him, and I feel Echo stir, pulling the values from my mind.

[Name: Sal]

[Class: Rogue (pending evolution)]

[Level: 20]

[Attack: 41]

[Agility: 27]

[HP: 90/90]

[Affinities: Poison]

[Role: Chef]

“What are you doing?” I demand, waving my hand in the air between us, as if I could interrupt his influence over Echo. “Stop it!”

“Too bad you hit 20 with Maru’s death,” Shirasil continues, staring off into space as if I’m no longer even there. “Should have gone up several more levels from the experience alone. There’s a cap at each Class Evolution, however. But you see now the disparity you’re working with? The mountain you’d need to summit within one human lifespan? Even Maru couldn’t have achieved her level had the boon of being a Champion not allowed her to live three hundred years—that’s three hundred years of battle, training, and level ups. You’re not even on the trail, yet.” He tips his head toward me, which I can only interpret as a glance. “But you could be. Now let’s see, what have we got to work with…”

[Class options available,] Echo says as the words scroll through my vision and mind.

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[Rabid Blade: A small bladed-weapons class which specializes in “Death by a Thousand Cuts.” Available skills often involve poisoned throwing knives and toxic hand-to-hand fighting. The user gains +20 to Accuracy with Bladed Weapons, and +10 to Efficacy with Poisons.]

“Not a bad option,” Shirasil comments. “Rather fits your skillset, I think.”

“Stop,” I say, shaking my head as if to dislodge Shirasil’s influence over Echo and my interface. But Echo continues regardless.

[Bane Alchemist,] Echo continues. [An alchemic class which specializes in brewing various spells in potion-form, specifically with respect to debuffs and status effects. +15 to Efficacy with Alchemic Brewing, +5 Resistance to all debuffs, and +10 Damage to Poison related effects.]

“Ah, a class after my own heart,” Shirasil says, laying a hand dramatically over his chest. “I would be remiss if I didn’t encourage you to pick this one. It will make up quite a bit for your lack of innate magical ability.”

For a moment I forget about Echo, too distracted by Shirasil’s comment. Lisari is—was?—an alchemist. And Shirasil’s class was some kind of alchemist, too. How much of Lisari was an act, and how much of her was real? How much of Lisari is still in Shirasil? Does he just have a soft spot for alchemy, or was there more to that whole charade?

Echo brings up the last Class Evolution option.

Shirasil laughs. “The System can seem to have quite the sense of humor, occasionally, doesn’t it?”

[Culinary Rogue: A chef class which specializes in various cooking-related skills, including but not limited to: knifework, kitchen tool proficiency, cooking, baking, brewing, and ingredient identification and utilization. +25 to Accuracy with Kitchen-Related tools, +20 Efficacy to any consumables created with the assistance of heat, +10 Potency to any buff/debuff spells activated by the user, and +10 Resistance to temperature related debuffs.]

I frown at the last option. It’s like the system wants me to be a chef, which makes me want to be one even less. Then again, Shirasil’s nudging is similarly summoning an instinctive revulsion in me. Even if Alchemist is a good class, the fact that he wants me to pick it—that it would represent some interest or skill we have in common—inherently repulses me.

“Don’t sleep too long on that,” Shirasil says. “No matter what you pick, a class evolution will allow you to progress much more swiftly. Now, let’s see here, what else have we got…”

The class skills vanish, and suddenly I’m looking at what appears to be a settings menu.

“You must make sure your interface is set to private,” Shirasil says. “This should help keep you from being recognized by gods on the spot. Of course, I can’t do anything about Widengra at this point, since he knows your face; avoiding him would be highly advisable.”

[Privacy setting activated,] Echo says. [Role setting obscured.]

“Stop doing that!” I object. “Get out of my head!”

“Dear, if I were in your head, all of this would be far easier,” Shirasil says. “I’m merely tampering with some display settings, as you haven’t locked those down yet, and I have elevated permissions. That should be fixed now, however.”

I shake my head. “What does that even mean?”

“It means no one will see your role unless you want them to,” Shirasil says. “Really, you ought to be asking the System more questions. Learning how to use your interface to its utmost potential might become a life or death skill with the gods after you.”

“System?” I repeat. “You mean Echo?”

He tips his head. “Echo?”

He doesn’t know about Echo. Desperately holding onto that one nugget of privacy, I decide not to elaborate. “Why are you helping me with all of this anyway? I already told you I won’t work for you.”

“Well that’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” Shirasil says. “You want the gods dead. I want to see a shake up in the heavens. You don’t have to work for me to be doing work for me. You see?”

Not really. “But you’re a god. Why would you want your own kind killed?”

He laughs. “You might be the only one who would ask that. Do you recall what I am the god of?”

I frown, trying to remember the lines from the textbook he—Lisari—had shared with me. “The god of chaos. Destruction.”

“Ah, yes,” he says with a bitter chuckle. “That is what they think, isn’t it? That it’s my nature to want to break things; to dismantle order; to disturb peace.”

I hesitate, but he rounds on me before I have a chance to respond.

“Wrong!” he seethes, towering over me.

There’s a madness etched across his features, a wild danger to his stance. Again, out of nowhere, I feel that imminent sense of doom washing over me. This unpredictable insanity. He could snap at any moment, and I would never see it coming.

“I’m not some exterminator who revels in death, like Widengra,” he insists. “I’m not some prophet who tries to control the fate of everything she can See, like Lorata.” He draws himself up. “I am Curiosity. I am questions. I am the insatiable appetite to know, to seek out, to go prodding dragons just so I can observe the explosive consequences. That is my nature, you understand? I can’t stand stagnation. It itches at me like beetles beneath the skin. I must usher in change even if it’s painful. Even when it requires sacrifice. Oh, and we have been brackish, stewing in complacency, for far too long.”

He spins around, grinning madly. “And then you all appeared! Something new. Something unexpected. Something fresh.”

“All?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean? Are there more like me?”

He takes my arm and gives me a reassuring pat. “There’s no one quite like you, Sal. But that’s enough chit chat. Time is running short. First we need to do something about this.” He holds up my maimed hand.

Shirasil tsks to himself, turning it over in his grasp. It still aches dully, and I try to pull away, but his hold on my wrist only tightens.

“The system would have healed it properly on its own,” he says. “Shame they interfered by using healing magic on it first. No matter. Nothing your ascension can’t take care of!”

My heart lurches in my chest. “No!” I try to jerk back, but his grip is like a vice. “I won’t!”

“Even after everything I’ve told you?” Shirasil wonders, mild surprise in his voice. “After all the evidence I’ve presented? Surely you understand this is the only way to achieve your goals.”

“I don’t care,” I snarl. “I won’t be your champion.”

Shirasil laughs. “You really haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said, have you?” He waggles a finger, the picture of teacherly patience. “I told you as Lisari, but perhaps it bears repeating.” He smiles. “When the gods expect something from mortals, it’s never an ask. It’s a promise.”

His grip goes white-hot as magic punches through me.