The rest of The Habitat’s defenders were quickly dispensed of, the iron stink of their blood driving the caged moths into a frenzy.
While the raiders spread around the containment zone, the Qi Master leading them pranced in front of the protective dome. A hand cupped to his ear amplified the sweet complaints spewing from inside.
“You Sand Devils will pay for this!"
"All the gangs will!”
“One day soon, Setsu, your blood will drain into the sand.”
In a theatrical fashion, the Qi Master twirled his arm a couple revolutions, then pointed back to his men by the cages, signalling for them to begin.
But what the Earthfriends expected to happen next didn’t.
In a surprise twist, a group of horsemen lit up braziers and wafted emerald smoke through the containment zone. The raiders positioned by the cages then released the monsters, which, rather than attacking anyone, chased after the horsemen, who were galloping towards the city.
The Earthfriends inside the dome wailed and swore in despair. The more rational ones activated Communication Stones to warn their families of the impending assault. Amongst this group, one Earthfriend activated her stone for three seconds, saying nothing, then severed the link.
An alleyway in The Slums. 14 minutes until the assassination of the Earthfriends; 1.6 hours until The Empire’s deadline for producing the cure.
Large Lips was lining up for a third helping of soup when he heard an unusual noise coming from the person he mistook as The Saviour’s pocket.
“What was that?” asked a boy further ahead in the line.
“That’s the signal for our mission to begin,” said The Saviour with an ironic smile. Putting down his ladle, he summoned into his arms a stack of envelopes. “It’s essential that these are delivered six minutes from now, no earlier, no later. Can you boys do that?”
“Of course!” said their leader. “The Delivery Roaches never fail!”
The street urchins eagerly accepted the envelopes into their grubby hands. The cover of each was marked with the intended recipients’ name and a hand-drawn map of their whereabouts.
Large Lips took one glimpse of his, recognised the name, and broke into a sprint, racing out the alleyway at the front of the pack of street urchins.
He soared through the slum streets, utilising shortcuts he’d memorised through past deliveries.
Slipping through a gap in a Village fence, he was spotted by an Ibanmothe Textileworker doing an early morning stretch routine outside her tent. She gave him a friendly wave. “That shirt's ragged! Let me patch it up!”
“Later, Mrs Maj." The boy vaulted onto a wine barrel resting against the fence on the opposite side of the Village. “I’m on a mission!”
He reached a wooden fort with a whole minute to spare. Although there were no external markings, he knew this was the place: the headquarters for the Chibe Sand Devils.
Hiding in an alleyway until the delivery time came up, he then darted across the street and gave the door six rapid knocks with his knuckles. The door was immediately swung open by a brawny Cutthroat, whose wariness faded upon recognising the street urchin.
“I’ve got an urgent letter for Erika,” said Large Lips, seriously. “It needs to be given to her in person, pronto!”
“Come on in, then.”
The Cutthroat led the street urchin through the fort until they arrived outside a bedchamber. Telling the boy to wait, he went inside, then reemerged a brief while later with an Ibanmothe Crusader whose hair had been messed up by her pillow.
Erika, accepting the envelope, gave the boy a gold coin and sent him on his way.
Waving the Cutthroat off as well, she then returned to her bedchamber where she opened the letter without a sense of urgency, the street urchins always exaggerating the importance of their messages.
Her flippancy evaporated after reading the first line.
"Your second-in-command has defected to The Empire's side."
According to the sender, Setsu was presently commanding her Offworlder battalion to conduct a false flag attack involving the curse-sick Earthfriends. This would provide The Empire justification to purge The Slums of the remaining non-loyal factions. The sender recommended they gather only their most trusted members and use the chance to escape. If they needed supplies to survive the barrens or merely desired revenge, The Empire’s forces would be stretched thin in the coming battle, leaving their infrastructure vulnerable to looting.
The last line told her to study the sky above the western edge of The Slums.
Following this instruction, she opened her bedroom window. Discovering nothing at first, when she raised a telescope, she spotted a cloud of blurry, semi-camouflaged shapes beating their wings.
Lupi’s Emporium, a lone figure resembling Ramiro sitting on the roof. 8 minutes until the assassination; 1.5 hours until the deadline.
As often happens, Henry was chewing on the concept of time.
It was night still, but in eighteen minutes the sun would crest the horizon, meaning he'd begun at sunset and finished around sunrise. The day-night cycle was quite short in Saana. In Suchi, which was near the world’s equator, night and day both lasted around 4.8 hours regardless of the season. This already brief time corresponded to the passing of a mere 72 minutes in the real world.
72 minutes...in most instances, this would be one of the forgotten breaths in a person’s life – not long enough to visit the movies, barely enough to enjoy a dinner at a restaurant. On rare occasions, though, 72 minutes could take on immense importance, such as when one is waiting in an emergency room with a ruptured organ. Given the right circumstances, 72 minutes could even be sufficient for someone extremely annoyed to lay the stumbling blocks that would bring an ‘Empire’ to its knees.
Such a peculiar thing, time was.
Around Henry, the streets became crammed with Villagers in battle gear. Commanding them was a company of sand-coloured guards, who’d joined them from a nearby military compound.
Earlier, he’d been stumped as to why The Empire had insisted that the moth transformations were irreversible – it seemed utterly pointless. The answer, though, exposed itself to him during his study of The Empire’s past schemes, when he’d been trying to get a feel for how they operated.
Ramiro, it turned out, was a closet sadist. In the very literal sense, he derived sexual gratification from causing others pain and humiliation. His favourite source of joy was making his followers unwittingly complicit in his crimes, especially murder. This tendency of his was so pervasive that he compulsively snuck these acts into his schemes, even when doing so posed needless risk.
Once this character trait had been revealed, a fog obscuring Henry’s vision had been lifted. Before him was laid out the totality of Ramiro and his sneaky plans, as clear for observation as the barren Suchi savanna.
Today, Ramiro was getting his kicks by having the Villagers carry out the assassination in place of his men, mistakenly believing that there was no saving the moths.
At least, that had been the plan.
In a moment, a raiding party of begrudged gang members would assault the military compound conveniently within sight of ‘Lupi’s’ emporium, and the air would resound with the death screams of the guards inside whose numbers had been thinned out by the defence against the moths.
Before that, though, Henry swapped his gear, pressed a hand to a Spelltome, and jumped through a hole in the roof.
Falling a second or two longer than would be expected based on the height of the emporium, he landed at the bottom of a shaft dug under the building, the impact diminished by the Spelltome's stats.
Turning, he began to run through a tunnel.
He soon came upon a long line of empty two-wheel carts being lifted at their handles by animated skeletons. Passing these by, he reached the base of another shaft. Climbing a ladder to the top, he pulled himself onto a platform. There, Donkey Bro was waiting beside the Infernal Commander he'd used against The Wolf Empress with toes for eyes and intestines for a lower jaw. Its purpose was to control the skeletons in Henry’s place while he was out of range.
Henry, ignoring their complaints, monitored the in-game clock ticking away.
When the sweet spot was about to strike, he ripped a stat buff scroll, then had the Infernal Commander take the donkey's front, while he took the back. Squatting down, they hoisted the animal above their heads.
“This is demeaning. I’m a king, not a spade!”
“It's the last one, I promise. Three...two...one...now.”
Donkey Bro used his
In an instant, the underside of a warehouse roof was exposed above and explosions could be heard from a battle raging outside.
Lowering the donkey, Henry climbed up into a space the size of a helicopter hanger. Around him were sacks, cages, boxes, barrels, and other containers of Alchemy ingredients. Whatever guards had been stationed here had rushed out to join the fray.
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An entire wall had been dedicated to cages with fine-wire meshing containing insects. As he snuck up to one cage, the black beetles inside noticed his approach. They clattered their wings together, creating a soft rumble reminiscent of a thundercloud. From this sound arose their name - Blackstorm Beetles.
He ran his hand along the mesh, exciting them further.
“All this unnecessary work just to identify you guys...”
Sliding the lid of the cage ajar, he pulled out a cloth sack and began shovelling the beetles inside.
A red username flashed above his head. The beetles may in some sense belong to him, considering he paid for them, but the ring identity he was using was a stranger. Thus, the system labelled him a thief.
Filling up a few sacks, he soon ran out of space in his Spatial Bracelet, so he switched to transferring the sacks into The Ring of a Thousand Souls. The item happened to have separate inventories for each of its identities, which was how he carried around his library of Spelltomes while still having room for other equipment. The function was convenient during robberies.
When the beetle cage was almost empty, he moved along to the next ingredient.
After maxing out his inventory space, he traced his path back to the breach and offloaded the ingredients, throwing some sacks straight down the shaft, while handing the ones with fragile contents to the Infernal Commander.
Donkey Bro, observing the Infernal Commander descend via the ladder, had an epiphany. “How am I supposed to get to the bottom?”
“Jump,” said Henry. “The stat buff will keep you safe.”
Donkey Bro looked over the drop. “Even if your words contain their usual deceit, I will go. Farewell to the pain of existence!” Saying this, it walked over the edge.
Henry, chuckling, returned to sneaking around the warehouse to collect a new load.
In this way, he gradually gathered the ingredients necessary to produce enough cure potions.
With each load, his flashing name darkened and the sounds of fighting outside grew fiercer. He didn't have to worry about the combatants turning up at this warehouse because the 'gang' fighting outside were actually his own people in disguise. To give the real Slum gangs, who might be reluctant, the bravery to attack, he'd faked the first strikes.
During one trip, a message came through from Archdeacon Mohon saying he’d been forced to reveal himself to save an Earthfriend from assassination. The timing was about what Henry’d predicted.
After the last sack was thrown down, Henry had the Infernal Commander begin moving them with the skeletons. Meanwhile, he remained in the warehouse, sealing the breach to hide the evidence of his breaking in.
Finishing with that, he pulled out a couple of Spelltomes and tossed flame spells around him.
With the building being constructed of wood and the left-over ingredients being mostly plant matter, the warehouse soon became like the inside of a fire place, burning support beams raining down and the heat causing his character to sweat profusely.
This fire would spread to the nearby rooms, incinerating whatever The Empire had stored in them, and then to the warehouses nearby. This part wasn't completely essential, but screw them.
Henry activated his ring to change identity, and the flashing name—which had become black due to the staggering property damage—vanished without a trace.
Using The Cloak of Water and Flame, he finally transformed into fire, blending into the inferno and making his exit.
Earlier. Above ground. The time of the assassination.
The giant vampire moths had descended upon the slums.
Occasionally, a moth would break its camouflage to swoop down on an unfortunate soul who’d succumbed to the sleep-inducing neurotoxic dust they were spreading. Stabbing the victim with its proboscis, it would drain them of their bodily fluids, transforming them into a dried shell of skin and bone.
The NPCs boarded up inside their shacks and tents, while hundreds of thousands of brave noobs, many logging on after receiving messages from their friends, flooded the narrow streets with battlelust.
In one area among many, an NPC Fighter was tanking a moth’s attacks whenever it dived at him. The monster's back was being filled with spear points and spell explosions by two hundred Villager noobs and a 50-strong platoon of NPC guards, spread amongst the collapsed ruins of former shacks.
The Fighter’s shield glowed, nullifying part of the force produced by a thrust of the moth’s proboscis. However, this moth being slightly too powerful for his defence, the shield and his shoulder behind it were still pierced.
The Fighter gritted his teeth through the pain. “Its health is nearing zero! Prepare to evacuate!”
The others slowed down their attacks, the casters cancelling their spells outright and finding a place amongst the rubble to sit and rest.
“Scram!” yelled the Fighter.
The melee troops except the Fighter bolted, those with movement abilities activating them to increase their speed.
Unfortunately, with the unevenness of the ground and the players’ lack of coordination, a few of the Villagers tripped, creating a chain reaction that brought the rest down with them.
The moth gave a soul-chilling shriek. Glowing like a meteor, it span in a circle, showering anyone within 60 metres with the dust remaining on its wings.
The melee troops in their entanglement of meat and metal tried to hold their breaths to no avail. They instantly passed out, their faces spasming in terror from the dust-induced nightmares.
At this moment, one of the sleeping Fighters should have been using
"Crap! Fire all you've got!"
The Archers shot their arrows, but, with their low-levels and the monster being so massive, none could take it down. Spellcasters, knowing they couldn’t finish anything before it flew away, didn’t bother.
“Damn it!"
Suddenly, there was a racket of clattering metal like a microwave tossing about in a tumble dryer.
From the rooftop of the half-destroyed shack he’d been sheltering inside, a golden figure came flying over the moth, a golden zweihander raised above his head.
“Lord, guide my blade!”
As the golden figure landed on the moth’s back, his sword chopped down, hacking one of the monster's wings off at the base.
The behemoth slammed into the earth, its exoskeleton crunching under its hulking mass.
The Crusader jumped down. Heaving his sword over his shoulder, he walked away from the moth flapping around behind him without looking back.
“Nice one!” Cathy, hovering amongst the ranged group, clapped enthusiastically. A handful of Villagers joined her in a sporadic applause.
“There’s no need, noble citizens! It’s only a knight’s duty!”
“Good work, Justinian.” The NPC Fighter who’d been tanking the moth struggled to his feet. Since he was a higher level than the Villagers, the neurotoxin had worn off for him quicker.
He shuffled up to the Crusader, before moving past him, a conflicted expression on his face.
A golden gauntlet held him back by the wrist of his sword arm.
“Stay your hand, Sir Gyors.”
“You’ve read the directive, Justinian. There’s no reversing this...whatever this is. To leave someone with such an affliction, it is not a kindness.”
Justinian shook his head, his golden locks swinging from side to side. “In the kingdom of God, no soul is beyond salvation. Keep faith!”
Twang!
Both ducked.
An arrow zipped past them towards the moth.
As it was about to strike its target, though, the energy pulsating at its tip was negated by a golden force field enclosing the monster. The arrow ricocheted harmlessly off its head.
No one could locate the shooter, but the Miracleworker who’d saved the moth was a young man who’d stepped from behind a destroyed building, dressed in a sky-blue friar’s frock with countless names inscribed on it.
After whispering into a Communication Stone that he’d revealed himself and receiving an affirmative reply from the other end, he pressed a finger to his throat.
“This is Archdeacon Mohon speaking on behalf of the church. Please cooperate with the nearest clergy members in capturing the moths alive. Anyone who ignores this order will be given the punishment for murder.”
His voice entered the ears of the surrounding Villagers and NPCs, along with everyone else in The Slums.
Archdeacon Mohon smiled in a fatherly way and walked up to those gathered around the giant moth.
Although Henry viewed him fondly after raising him from a kid, to a stranger, the Archdeacon gave off a sinister impression due to a pair of eyes so deep set they were shrouded by the shadow of his brow ridge. This impression worsened when fifty guards stepped out from their hiding places to flank him.
A Cutthroat lying on the ground whispered to a Beast Tamer pretending to sleep beside him. “Bro, why’s the church here?”
“Whatever their reason, it can’t be good.”
The NPC guards bowed in respect.
Archdeacon Mohon approached Justinian and patted his golden pauldron. “Correct you were, brave one. I don’t know if everyone in this world can be saved, but I have a feeling Friend Mozga here can be.”
The Fighter politely contradicted him. “Archdeacon, it is said that no cure has been found in history.”
Archdeacon Mohon laughed. “We are living in history! The clay of our ancestors is in our grasp. Before we pass it on, perhaps we may mould it into something better.”
Everyone turned as the sound of combat broke out nearby, then abruptly ended.
A moment later, a Cutthroat and an Earthfriend appeared carrying an Ibanmothe Bowman whose wrist tendons had been severed.
When the assassin recognised Archdeacon Mohon, his face blanched.
The Archdeacon maintained his fatherly smile as the assassin was brought to him. Extending a hand, he touched the man’s left ear, which was covered in dozens of holes from piercings that’d been removed to anonymise his identity.
“They weren’t involved,” said the assassin. “I was working alone.”
Archdeacon Mohon’s irises shimmered with miniature scales and balances. These indicated the use of the Peopleworker skill
“Who hired you?”
“They didn’t show themselves.”
“Have you fulfilled similar contracts in the past?”
“No.”
It was a lie.
Archdeacon Mohon released a meaningful sigh, containing a mixture of disappointment and shame, like that of a parent accepting that their child who’d been in and out of jail had ceased to be a good person.
“For disgracing us, you are no longer Ibana. What was your name?”
The assassin grimaced as if someone had kneed him in the gut.
The NPCs hearing the edict became sombre. The Villagers, being newbies, whispered amongst themselves about the cause of the man’s anguish.
“I was Vad Jaroka," replied the assassin.
Archdeacon Mohon nodded. “Bhith. Bhrath. Dhuin...”
While he began to cast a spell, the guards stripped the assassin naked without the man putting up any resistance.
Amongst the Villagers watching in shock, Justinian was squeezing his zweihander’s hilt. Although he was appalled by the heretical ritual, he held himself back. Byzantium’s Village Head had warned him repeatedly that attacking the Ibanpita would result in him being expelled from the zone, rendering it impossible to continue helping The Slum's suffering citizens.
With the spell’s completion, at the tip of Mohon’s index finger condensed a coin-sized orb, swirling the blue of the sky and the red of blood. As he tapped the assassin’s forehead, the man’s body went slack and the cuts on his wrists healed.
The unconscious body was then raised into the air by a magical force, before being flattened out into a supine position like someone lying on a bed.
The skin of his back began to split apart, creating a network of thousands of red lines, none thicker than a hair. At his back’s centrepoint, a single crimson droplet condensed and fell, followed by another, then another.
Bleeding out one drop at a time, he would take several days to die.
Archdeacon Mohon addressed The Empire’s NPC guards, ignoring the Villagers. “If any wish to speak of the good deeds of the man once known as Vad Jaroka that would justify his restoration, his case may be brought to me.”
Ordering a 6-man squad to stay and protect the moth, the Archdeacon left with the rest of his entourage to assist the other clergy platoons now working around The Slums.
Behind them, the naked assassin's body floated along, leaving a tiny red trail in the dirt.
On top of The Slum’s tallest Achievement Pillar, an azure-haired Earthfriend with giant antlers winced.
“What a barbaric tradition.”
His ear twitched as he caught the sound of rushing wind.
From the steppes to the north, a spear was rocketing towards him at hundreds of kilometres per hour.
Seated on it was an old pygmy woman with sinuous muscles hidden inside a goatskin coat. As she neared the city, a moth tried to intercept her, only to fly away in terror when she frowned at it.
It was evident when she stopped by his side that, standing up, she wouldn't reach the man's waist.
The Earthfriend thrust out his arms to embrace her. “Nerin! How are the goats? Do Maiara and Rayena miss me?”
Nerin made her spear hover a bit further back. “Why are you here? What mischief are you plotting?”
The Earthfriend laughed. “Do friends need a reason to visit?”
“We’re not friends.”
The Earthfriend rubbed his shoulders as though they were shivering. “You know how it is up in Togavi during winter. A man gets sick of the overcast skies and the icy winds of the maelstrom. Sometimes he longs for the warmth of the equatorial sun.”
“I’ll remind you that Suchi is my protectorate. Go back to yours.”
“Relaaaaax. I’m not going to do a thing.”
Indeed, scanning the slums below, he could see that there was no need for his help. The curious Offworlder and the religious guy had coordinated enough to prevent the mothfriends dying.
Speaking of the curious Offworlder, where had he gone? The tracking pheromone seemed to have been removed by the transmogri-doohicky.
The Earthfriend stroked his azure beard, the cogs of his mischievous mind churning to produce plans for finding the Offworlder and of the fun they would have afterwards.
By his side, the pygmy woman massaged her temples in frustration.