Alan stood in a spotlight arena at the highest level of the Royal Horde’s tower. Golden chimes jangled in anticipation of the duel about to take place. Roland—the right hand of Gosfor and brother of Itsy—whipped his gold-plated pious staff into ready stance. Green Saro blinked throughout it, telling Alan which Saro he chose.

“Saro locked,” Gosfor declared in a hesitant voice. “Display your chosen Titles on three. One. Two. Three.”

Alan Right

Title: Forbidden Merchant of the Shade

Roland Boyar

Title: Virtuous Healer of the Royal Horde

“Excellent. Points will be delivered on knockdowns. First to three wins.” Before Gosfor could snap his glittering fingers to start the duel, Alan glanced at Trish watching, then fell into the darkness of his blade. He rarely visited the soul realm encasing some of his most trusted allies and instead generally summoned them out. But here, he needed discretion.

“Afarus. We’ve trained Black versus Green before. But never serene Green. His Title suggests healing only. Does he plan to let me carve him up and just heal on the spot?”

Afarus’ golden eyes blinked open like a cat in a dark jungle. “It is unorthodox to think a Healer can tire out a warrior this way without succumbing to their own mortal wounds first. Perhaps it’s Gray in disguise. Or—”

“Duelists. Begin!” Gosfor declared, jarring Alan back to the present.

Alan gritted his teeth, letting anger wash over him. Whatever softness he felt upon reuniting with Trish melted into the ashes of their relationship. She’d cheated on him with some casino manager on the strip. He’d promised lavish dinners and gaudy bags. That’s what his friend Rich told him back in the day. And he had no reason to lie.

Dread tripled, causing his muscles to flex, his forehead to perspire. He was becoming Farante Del Sol reincarnate, and all the Blackness that surrounded him.

With a swipe of Alan’s blade, he unleashed a stream of Black that zigzagged behind Roland, forming as Afarus the legendary Bladesman, who manifested to slice down the Healer.

Poomf!

With one blind jab of Roland’s staff, a pulse of Green dissolved Afarus’ shadow to dust. Alan swung his dark blade again, this time evoking eight souls of ancient warriors to manifest and strike at once.

Roland shut his eyes, whipping his staff into a wild blur, moving at speeds Alan had only seen with Red activated. One by one, Alan’s souls were blocked and bested. He knew repeating the process would be useless, but sitting idle after an attack on a Green user would spell certain defeat. They could replenish with any ounce of time given.

I know this because I lived it.

Alan had to be ruthless. He had to clear his mind of hope and focus on all things wrong. The frogs’ vision of his despair. What if it came true? What if he was the destroyer of worlds instead of the noble broker?

In this moment, he had to be.

Fssh!

He dashed with evil speed, black fire left in his tracks as he rushed the nearly invisible film surrounding Roland. The sparkling shield seemed like a non-Saro ability tethered to Roland’s weapon, which led Alan to believe his trance would also be free game in the duel.

Shng! Shng!

Alan sliced hard at the film, leaving high-pitched echoes resounding all over the space as his blade snapped hard in the other direction after every swing. As soon as he was off footing, Roland absorbed the shield into his staff and countered.

Alan ducked one quick swing aimed for his head while unleashing streams of Black through his grip and into his sword, concentrating on his next counter-strike.

He grunted and thrusted at the open ribcage, stabbing deep.

Roland didn’t even try to evade it. Instead, he took the incision and countered with a hard-wound overhead strike.

Clang!

Just by willing it, Alan manifested a stream of Black Saro that shaped into Afarus’ arms and sword to block.

Anxiety flowed through Alan’s veins. What kind of coward would bow to a conqueror? The anger made him twist the blade— blood seeping from the wound—and with another yank, he dragged Roland to his knees.

“Point!” Gosfor held up a white flag.

Ohm!

The thin, translucent film bloomed from Roland’s staff, throwing Alan back.

He spun once midair, landing on his feet, ready to charge again.

Black slivers poured out of Alan’s eyes now, lining his face like goth makeup, dripping all the way down corroded fangs coating his white teeth. Glimpsing his opponent pressing his Green-pulsing hand over the wound to heal it, Alan rushed with everything he had, sprinting three steps before creating a Black ramp that shot him forward.

Shng!

The film deflected him in the other direction, causing him to slide to a stop on his heels.

“Do you see, Your Excellence? There is no honor in him. Not even a reset between points.” Roland motioned to Alan, showcasing the feral darkness consuming his body. “Just another gargoyle in sheep’s clothing.”

The words instantly sobered Alan from his drunken anger.

He’s right. I can’t lose myself. Half of this is a show for Gosfor.

Shit!

With a deep breath, he dialed back the consuming Saro and instead focused hard on the staff. A trance lit up his mind, bringing him to an impossible castle atop a cloud with the staff encased within a fountain by its side. A less devout-looking Roland with shorter hair dove off a white phoenix, landing with a puff of mist.

This didn’t seem like Ojin to Alan. Not at all. And when a king with a white beard and white robes leapt from the circular window two stories up, Alan had no idea what to expect.

“The king who sits alone.” Roland pulled a Blue Saro wand and pointed it in the man’s direction.

“How did you find this realm?” The king drew his claymore angrily, long cloak making him appear more priest than warrior.

“Perseverance,” Roland said. “I come for the staff. The source of all isolation.”

“It is not yours to take, child of the Horde. I earned this in the light-crimson fog and claimed my realm from a noble Deenom. You are not welcome!”

“You protect one. I protect many,” Roland countered.

“At what cost?” The king gripped his sword, readying to fight.

“Everything.”

Alan flew back to the present, now understanding the lengths Roland would go to protect the Horde and how powerful his staff truly was. That’s why he was confident to go into the battle with healing Green.

He shook his head. Something wasn’t right. A hidden realm like that couldn’t be found on a whim. He had to have previous knowledge of it somehow. Instinct told him to fall back into the trance. So that’s what he did.

An epic clash of king and Healer began. Roland evaded every swing with ease, then used his feral Green to spring vines from the cloudy surface that entwined the king’s legs. The struggle went on as the king cut free, but as Alan sped the trance up, it was clear who would prevail.

The king fell to one knee, out of breath. “You strike the heart of your god? His oldest friend?” He held his head, looking up at Roland with blood leaking from his mouth.

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“You abandoned the Horde.” Roland arced an eyebrow.

“I left admirably, with great tribute and well wishes,” the king seethed.

“Hiding a treasure that could turn the tide of an entire realm.”

“It is my right as a free man!” The king coughed.

Roland lifted his wand threateningly, about to deal the killing blow. “Diten Rouge, I hereby declare treason!”

Alan flew back to the present with wide eyes.

“Oh, have you run out of Saro already, savior of the universe?” Roland tilted his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Alan flashed an angered smile. “Perhaps I have.”

Roland’s brow furrowed.

“Gosfor, noble god of the Royal Horde,” Alan raised his voice. “Your hand hides from you, visiting places you cannot see.”

Roland bared his teeth, dropping back into ready stance with a fully healed abdomen. “What games do you play, Merchant?”

Gosfor held his head. “Whatever do you mean? That cannot be true… he has proven loyal for decades, noble Alan. Do not—”

Clng!

Alan raised his sword, tracing the staff with keen eyes, reading Roland’s body language—the way he shifted weight to his left foot while pushing the bottom half of his staff low.

Clng!

Alan moved his blade fluidly, changing stance from aggressive to guard—as he would against Afarus. Each attacking side of the staff pulsed with healing Green, making Alan question the intention of Roland’s strikes. Theoretically if Roland landed a blow, Alan would be cured of affliction. Why? It worked against corrupted souls, sure. But Alan was flesh and blood.

No matter.

“Driten Rouge,” Alan spoke aloud mid-combat, causing Gosfor to gasp and Roland to quicken his pace. Alan swung high left and low right so fast it felt like he hadn’t moved at all, and when he lifted his foot to evade a sweep kick, he found the chance to speak again. “Roland kil—”

Roland shifted all of his weight into an unorthodox dive backward, swinging his staff so the Green-pulsing tip smacked Alan across the face.

His body suddenly felt lighter than air. Euphoric tingles stretched up from his toes, and when his vision landed on Trish, there was an angelic glow beaming around her. All of the hate and distrust melted once more into the best times of his life. When he kissed her for the first time at the top of the Stratosphere. He spent a whole week’s worth of wages to get her up there with him, on a date he never thought she’d agree to.

Some days were lucky, and this was his luckiest. He spoke smoothly and cracked jokes with good timing, and at the end… earned his kiss.

She looked beautiful that night. Black dress, gold heels, and a natural smile with no lipstick. Perfect.

Whack!

Another jab to the stomach landed him curled over on his knees, delighted.

“Point!” Gosfor held up a black flag.

Alan didn’t care in that moment. His old life had come roaring back, depleting whatever dread poisoned his heart. Maybe they could build a life together in his new realm? Forget all this war and deception. Yeah. She would appreciate Token. He could remold entire mountains to recreate their old apartment and forget about all the turmoil that followed.

That would be blissful. Alan smiled, halos in his vision.

Whack!

Roland struck Alan’s jaw again while he was down, splashing a fresh round of Green Saro over his face. What a feeling… like being hit through time. He felt his mother’s warmth, like nothing could hurt him. His father picking through his coin collection, laughing into exhaustion. A restful sleep was on the way.

“Alan! Snap out of it, you idiot!” Itsy’s voice rang through him like a bell.

“Who’s side are you on, sister?” Roland pointed threateningly at her.

“The one where you see reason, ‘course. Do I have to remind you the last times you’ve made mistakes?” Itsy hissed.

Meanwhile, Alan clung to his heavenly thoughts, doing anything to sink back into Trish and him running into the high rollers casino just to watch them gamble away big money. “Flies on a wall,” she would say. “But not forever, right?” She’d squeeze his arm. “You’ll be a king and I your queen.”

He’d promised her all those things in the beginning, didn’t he?

It wasn’t only Trish at fault for their ultimate fate. He’d made promises too. Ones he didn’t live up to.

Our story isn’t over. She’s still here.

I’m not in the past…

Alan narrowed his eyes with renewed clarity, anger coating his thoughts once more.

Fate pulls us together like a cruel joke, he thought. Or maybe so she could see what I’ve become. You wanted power, Trish? You wanted a man with aspiration?

Well here I stand before a god and his servant.

Roland’s staff came swinging for another Green-filled swing, but with a flick of his wrist, Alan summoned Durger to absorb the blow, sending him puffing out of existence, giving Alan enough time to reignite his Black dread and dissolve into a shade.

For a moment in time, his surrounding inverted to grayscale, and as he passed through a wide-eyed Roland he felt all of his anxiety, all of his secrets, a mind full of worried strategic thoughts. He was afraid.

Alan formed again at the Healer’s back, kicked out his knee, and held the dark blade to his throat.

“Point!” Gosfor held up his white flag, hand shaking.

Alan hissed with dark slivers rushing between his teeth, then kicked the Healer down. There was so much conflicting energy rushing through him. Trish was right there. There was so much more he wanted to say, especially after being hand delivered a fresh batch of memories. But a critical matter remained at hand… one bigger than him.

“Gosfor. Was Driten Rouge your closest friend?”

Gosfor’s glittery eyebrows dripped down his face like tears. “The hand to my precious realm. But the task became too much for him—”

“Your Excellence.” Roland used his staff to push himself back to his feet. “Do not reveal our past. He will manipulate you with it.”

Gosfor lowered the white flag, signaling the duelists to fight again. “And so he left us, honorably of course.” He looked at his hands. “Oh how I wish we were at war then, so I could’ve been summoned from the sky to give that man a hug.”

The dread dissipated from Alan’s chest for a fraction of a second. The god’s words were genuine, and sad. It almost made Alan retract his intentions of outing Roland. But this was ultimately a negotiation.

What would better serve Alan and those counting on him? Should he hold onto Roland’s secret and force the Healer to do his bidding—bringing the Royal Horde to his alliance?

No. I can never trust a man like him. That’s what my instincts tell me. He’ll stab me the first chance he gets.

Roland stared Alan down with scathing anger. His breath was heavy, staff pulsing. It was a standoff. The hand of Gosfor awaited Alan’s decision. Would he go on?

Alan took a strong breath.

Tension mounted.

“What if I told you Driten never found his peace?” Alan stated, and as soon as the words left his lips, Roland shouted and slammed his staff hard over the arena floor, expanding his translucent shield in hopes to shove Alan back.

With an ostentatious twirl of his blade, Alan dissolved himself into a shade just long enough to pass into the shield, then emerged flesh and blood again, locking Black and Green together.

The barrier was soundproof. Alan could see Itsy’s lips moving, Gosfor’s heavy breathing, but could hear none of it.

“You threaten the stability of a powerful realm, Merchant,” Roland scoffed.

“For the betterment of the universe,” Alan stood confidently.

“You are no better than Jaeger. An invader. We never asked for any of this.” Roland clenched his jaw.

Alan didn’t take the bait. He knew damn well Roland was flailing because of his secret. In a war as big as this one, Roland knew he couldn’t hide—which is why he chose to fall in line with Hyndole.

“What do you want?” Roland cracked. “You want us to bow and join your alliance? Fine.”

“That’s it right there.” Alan pointed his blade. “You fail to listen.”

Roland gritted his teeth. “What do you babble about now?”

“I came here precisely so you don’t have to bow. Now I guess you’ll have to see the hard way that this decision will be made based on merit and nothing more.”

“Fool. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Roland swung his staff angrily.

“You should never have challenged me,” Alan’s voice deepened, Black Saro crisscrossing over his body, leaking from his eyes. He flooded the entire bubble with fog, reducing it to a stormy globe. Then he rushed.

Seeing the outline of Roland clearly was part of the dread’s gift. Like a predator, Alan stalked and converged with frightening speed. He cut Roland’s calf, evoking a blind swing of his Green-filled staff.

Woosh!

Woosh!

Roland hit nothing but air, yelling in frustration.

Alan sliced at Roland’s back, then dashed as a shade through him, landing right in front.

Roland’s eyes widened as Alan elbowed the staff out of his hand—rewinding the shield with it.

They stared at one another as the dark fog dissipated with Roland on his knees and Alan’s blade once again an inch from his neck.

“Point! Match!” Gosfor gasped. “My dear Roland, tell me you are alright.”

He only bowed his head in shame.

“Gosfor. Your hand stole this staff of isolation from Driten and killed him.” Alan lifted his chin, bracing for the god’s peril.

“No! No. That cannot be true.” Gosfor ripped at his hair, pudgy gut jumbling as he paced back and forth.

Roland turned sharply away.

A moment of tense air lingered, letting the damning words settle.

“It cannot be. No.”

“I’m afraid so,” Alan said. “The vision was as clear as I see you now.”

“Why?” Gosfor fell to his knees.

“The man abandoned his oath to protect the realm,” Roland spoke through gritted teeth. “He hid a weapon that could protect us all.”

Gosfor wept like he lost a son. “And now… we protect it with his blood on our hands.”

The entire room began to perspire. The painting of the wave and stone atop it dripped with water. The chimes bled gold. And even the Serpent String dagger lathered in blood.

Gosfor’s face was in his hands. “Roland, no.”

Alan knew the decision would be hard but necessary. “This is but a fraction of the turmoil the Red Pact’s reign would bring.”

Gosfor sniffed and wiped his tears. “Alan. You bring hope and despair. Nobility and betrayal. What would you have me do?”

Alan nodded to himself. “I think I see it now. This realm has sections that represent very different visions. They aren’t yours, but rather the elites you trust most.”

“Quite right!” Itsy raised her eyebrows. “This city changed so much since we came, Rolly. The layout looks so much like those sketches you used to draw, with Gos’ dragon flair, of course.”

“Changed for the better?” Alan asked.

“Yes, I think so.” Itsy smirked. “And the green camps I told you about, that’s Illiana’s vision as a forest woman. And the Iron Cellar covenant? Mister Ohnroth’s. Gos gave this land to his people. That’s why we love ‘im for it.”

Gosfor struggled to his feet, listening to the exchange.

“Gosfor, Your Excellence. Instate Itsy Boyar as your hand.”

Itsy’s eyes widened. “Jackoff Mcgee, are you mad?”

“Far from it,” Alan said. “Roland is obviously invaluable but needs to be admonished for his terrible crime. Have him report to his sister, who may possess less strategic prowess but infinitely better instincts. Any and all movements from here on will be blessed or rejected by someone who bleeds for your realm and has a moral compass—albeit a strange one—to boot.”

Gosfor’s hand went to his chin, still wiping the last of his tears.

“The Royal Horde will join the Unlikely Guds, and your hand will continue her travels with me, ensuring our future and that this great realm never bows.” Alan eyed Roland angrily.

“Yes.” Gosfor nodded.

“Your Excellence!” Roland pleaded.

“Yes, Alan. I will do this. You have my crown.” Gosfor turned to the painting, staring at himself atop the high stone. “And my army.”

WAR-TIME OFFER FULFILLED.

If Gosfor, god of the Royal Horde realm, accepts your terms into the alliance “Unlikely Guds.” Unique War Titles will be bestowed to your party.

Reverence with the Royal Horde increased to 100/100

War Title achieved: Merchant Bounty Hunter of the Horde