Memories of Gregory Stumpchild
Time: Jiǎzǐ 44th, 1st Year of the 108th Epoch
Greg had done it.
The Satyr had been born with nothing and lived for years with nothing, but that was all about to change.
So long as he finished quickly and could keep his lucky break from being discovered by that lunatic a boss, Greg had a chance to be something more than another abandoned Stumpchild.
A sudden cold gripped his shoulder.
The Assassin flinched, causing his short sword to slip from the knee-jerk reaction. Its nicked and slightly rusted edge cut through more of the wood than he wanted and nearly cut free that section before Greg could get into position to catch the rare material. Although the rise would be less than half a Chi, the impact might've been enough to ruin 10% of his net profit. Which, considering he was pilfering a recently vacated Realm Hopper den, was a lot of Drach about to go to waste.
In horror, he watched the cluster of eight translucent red eggs rapidly float upwards and swing left to right before coming to a stop. Greg paused, confused, until he saw what had happened and grinned.
Fate must have smiled upon him, for the blade had failed to cut through the last strip of wood, and that was enough to keep the worst from happening. Maybe Greg could thank the Heavens, or maybe he could thank his habitual lack of blade maintenance. Either way, he was so happy that his soaked furry rear end swayed side to side in celebration.
An act that caused his coin purse to slap one inner thigh and shake free a few emerald droplets, instantly reminding the Assassin of how vulnerable he was. The time to celebrate his heavenly fortune should be over a few drinks with kin back in the Capital, not dancing in a Wild Zone while naked and covered in foul smelling toxic water. On that though, he'd need to really scrub out the stench of rot and decay before returning else the Boss's keen nose would pick up on it.
Couldn't have her asking to many questions.
Cradling the Hopper eggs with a free hand, he relieved that brilliant wood strip of its burden with a quick cut. Careful not to send himself drifting away again, he turned away from the nearly depleted nest and half-expected to find someone standing behind him. However, the Satyr found no one waiting to donate his trove to themselves; only the Pholóē trees kept him company. He shrugged, chalking the sensation to only water running up his back.
With the coast clear, the cluster was placed with the others stored inside his Herb Case. Greg knew he should shut the lid quickly as the Enchantment on the Artifact was poorly scribed, attempting to remove the air even when open. Mana stones weren't cheap, and overuse would wear down the Runes even faster. But he couldn't help but marvel at his new trove. He had collected at least 40 eggs, and with the Circus bringing in Cultivators from all over Europa, Alchemy shops would pay half a silver a piece to maintain their stocks. And to think there was another cluster of 20 still stuck to the underside of the hollow's lip.
Just thinking about those kinds of profits could make a Satyr smile from horn to horn, not that coin wouldn't have the same effect on every Cultivator. The pursuit of Enlightenment meant spending absurd amounts of money on Cultivation resources, and poverty was a constant companion for those traveling the Dao alone.
At first, Greg cursed the Boss for sending him on a fool's errand to chase after what was likely just Pete's cheap Scout Array sensing ghosts. But if paranoia was why he now had the potential to earn 30 times what shares he'd get from hanging over contestants, he'd be happy to search the whole island.
With that much Drach combined with his savings, Greg could buy something he had wanted ever since becoming a Cultivator; an uncommon Class Manual. One that would guide him to a Class evolution he wanted and prove to Pete that investing in Intellect was a smart investment and not a stupid waste of AP. As if that rock-for-brains had any right to call anyone stupid with short sighted Stats like his.
Shaking away the distracting thoughts, Greg closed the lid and replaced the rock weighing down the Artifact. Time was running out, and the Boss would come looking, believing Greg was either dead or doing precisely what he was doing now. If she saw his loot, that would be the end of any plans. Boss would take everything for herself, leave him nothing, and the weaker Cultivator wouldn't even be allowed to protest. Doing so would only get him recycled— his Soul returned to Samsara for another go-around.
'Enlightenment at all costs', that was Heaven's ultimate Mandate.
Therefore, avoiding suspicion was paramount. Greg still needed to cleanse himself in the sea, dress, and hide the Herb Case somewhere on the chariot. He'd need to rush and risk cutting some corners to collect the last eggs.
His weapons were just heavy enough to keep him grounded, but he still took in a lung full of super-dense air to keep his footing. Greg squared his waist within striking range of the hollow and placed a hand on a sword hilt hung on the opposite side. The air would slow any strike as if submerged in the sea, but the Skill should remain in effect as long as he didn't halt mid-swing.
"Dual Reaper's Parting." Said the Assassin, his voice so unnaturally deep it bordered on unintelligible, but his Core would understand nevertheless. The continuous tingling sensation beginning behind his navel and ending at the tips of his fingers was proof of that.
Both swords were pulled clear of their scabbards, each cutting edge tinged with a black haze that invoked feelings of separation and endings. The Skill touched on both Concepts to produce a Qi-enhanced cutting edge that no mundane metal could produce. That fact was proven true, for his short swords glided through wood with no more resistance than a spoon through cream. They cut a triangle wedge out of the wood, and after sheathing his weapons, Greg snatched the final cluster, finding none had been damaged.
Reaper's Parting, including his dual variant, was a Class favorite for sudden attacks as many fools forget that a holstered weapon is still a weapon and armor always had gaps to be exploited. True, the Skill required a bladed weapon to be sheathed first and only lasted a single continuous slash, which limited its utility. However, there were many sword styles that focused on drawing techniques, allowing Assassins to use the Skill mid-combat to deadly effect.
Sadly, Greg never learned any martial art, armed or not. If he failed to kill or deal a critical blow on a target, then he got the fuck out of there in the confusion. Hells, he ran even after a successful ambush, as one could never be too careful. Greg had actually become somewhat known for this tactic and, before being picked by his current employers, was known in some circles as the Hit-and-Run Killer. Luckily, trees rarely fight back, so instead of running away, the Satyr went to add the last-
Something red bobbed out of sight just at the upper edge of his vision, and he immediately closed the Herb Case before looking up.
A hiss of alarm escaped between the Satyr's teeth, and his heart sank at the thought of 50 coppers being lost. But Greg needn't fear such a loss, for the Hopper egg remained fixed mid-air.
Why the egg had suddenly stopped did make one black brow raise in question, but the brow dropped as he dismissed any further speculation on such a minor anomaly.
So an object that should have continued to float, didn't. So what? If being a Stumpchild had taught him one thing, it was to never ask too many questions because answers were usually a dagger to the Core.
The Satyr reached for the egg, only for it to animate and evade capture at the last moment. Scrambling back in fear, a hoof caught on the Herb Case; he lost balance and… didn't fall because that was very hard to accomplish on this island.
After ensuring the box was safely between his legs, Greg studied the Beast egg closely, only to realize it wasn't one at all. The colour, size, and shape were right, but it produced a soft light like the glowstone lamps in the city. What's more, the unidentified flying object, currently making figure eights in the air, hinted at something more important: It was alive.
An old memory was suddenly knocked loose in his horned head, one from when he was a little fawn working as a dishboy in a tavern. Hadn't Greg heard of something like this before? That night, an old off-world fisherman was deep in his cups and loudly told tall tales about his younger days. Much of the story was drowned out by the sounds of pot scrubbing and screaming kitchen staff, but Greg could recall a few scraps. There was a part about the living light leading the fleet to a cave, all but the old fisherman's ship boat entering, and the story ended with the fisherman boasting about how rich the voyage made him. Until everything was stolen, thanks to his ex-husband.
Greg suspected divorce was to blame for that last bit.
…Well, whatever it was, the red orb didn't seem hostile, so leaving shouldn't be an issue. Not taking his eyes off the orb, he began crouching down to retrieve-
He immediately took a single step back as the light creature spontaneously began shifting through a rainbow of different hues. Going from red to orange, to yellow, and everything in between until finally settling on a very familiar shade of pink before zipping behind him. Expecting an attack, the Assassin whipped around, primed to unleash his only offensive Skill, but the orb did something else unexpected.
The orb tripled in size and shifted into a pair of stylized crossed knives he saw every time he opened the Core screen, the emblem of the Assassin. Fear overtook him at the idea of this unknown Beast knowing his Class, and he took two steps back… only to pause again when it became a purple bow and arrow. That was the emblem for the Archer Class! Now, it had become the dark blue skull that represented Warlocks.
This repeated with every Class emblem; his hands gripping the blades fell to the sides as he stood transfixed. It felt as if the light Beast was trying to keep his attention, but for what purpose, the Satyr hadn't the foggiest idea. That was until the fisherman's tale bubbled forth again, reminding Greg that the fisherman had been led to riches by a similar entity.
Could this light be another windfall sent by the Heavens, here to give its forgotten child a Fate-altering gift?
Perhaps one that would allow the Assassin to change Classes? Such Artifacts were real but were normally reserved for Clan scions who regretted their chosen path. The fact that one could be on this island seemed too good to be true.
But he thought the same when discovering the nest. So maybe…
On a desperate hope, when the light finally morphed into a string of prayer beads, he motioned for it to stop. It did so, and the green beads began pulsing from dull to bright… almost like it asked him if he was sure! Greg nodded, pleased that everything was unfolding exactly the way he wanted.
He felt a sort of metaphysical weight had been taken from him then, almost as if a literal burden had been lifted, and now he was lighter than he had been only moments before.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Still maintaining the form of Mala beads, the Heavenly light zipped over Greg again, dove into the tree hollow, and made a big show of disappearing in a flash of green light. Which was strange because he knew for a fact that the hollow was empty, all valuables were already in his possession…
Ah! Greg understood what was going on. Obviously, his Artifact could only be found after its luminous guardian judged him worthy. If he looked now, there would certainly be something to find.
He swam in a state of near frenzy, hardly noticing that he now needed to swim when before he walked. But what did he care about such minor mysteries like that? His wildest dreams were about to come true, and unlike that moronic fisherman from the tavern, he wasn't stupid enough to ruin them by getting married.
Smiling maniacally, the Satyr rammed his head and shoulders back into the hollow, eager to accept his deserved and long overdue reward from the Universe.
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Unbeknownst to the hired thug, the half-remembered tale told by a drunken and financially ruined fleet captain turned fisherman was precisely that; half-remembered. If little Gregory had heard the whole story from the former Captain, he would have known to always consider the cost of trusting strange lights.
On a storm beaten ocean, whose waters had a particularly nasty habit of testing the Fates of sailors by conjuring elementals at random, there sailed a fleet of trollors. The Captain of the fleet wished to get ahead of the competition and started the fishing season early by chasing the tail end of a winter storm. His gamble initially failed as the schools were frightened away by the elements and the elementals. On the return trip, however, the Captain's men had spotted what seemed like a second moon beckoning them from afar. The scout vessel reported the light led to a cave jutting from a risen oceanic mountain, and what was more, the cave was littered with riches.
The Captain thanked Fate for this impossible opportunity and ordered all ships but his to follow the moon-like light, enter the cave, and take everything. When the last boat entered, the Captain watched with grim satisfaction when the light winked out of existence along with the mountain and crew.
Gone, as if they were never there.
Unfortunately for the fleet, the mountain wasn't a mountain but a Colossal Phantom Angler who had no business being alive. The cave was really a mouth, the light a luminous lure, but the bait within was the genuine article; sadly, that was a small comfort for the sailors. Fortunately for the Captain, who had heard the myths, he had made off like a bandit in his lawsuit against the ruling Clan of the world. Phantom Anglers were promised to have already been driven to extinction by the Clan, so the Captain was owed financial compensation for what had been 'lost'.
However, one of Gregory's assumptions was spot on. Not long after, the Captain fell in love with the widow of one of the men he'd sacrificed for personal gain and lost every ill-gotten coin in the divorce. As it turned out, the Captian talked in his sleep.
Karma remembers all debts and settles all scores.
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Greg's reward came in the form of an attack that all beings with a similar vulnerability fear.
The Satyr's vision flashed, muscles from knees to abdomen took on the properties of jelly, and his bewildered nervous system reported a sensation of what can only be described as white static. That static, Greg knew with tragic certainty, was a warning— Sirens forecasting disaster. What came after would shake his will to live, and that dreaded knowledge tore free a silent scream of horror before becoming one of agony.
"BAAAHHHHH!!!" Bleated the enraged Assassin, curling up into the fetal position with hands cupping his damaged assets. "AHHH! FUCKING HELLS!"
Of course, he sounded like a giant speaking through a subway PA system, but anyone who heard would understand. Some bastard, a sick and twisted monster, had kicked him in the balls.
Greg's eyelids were forced closed from pain, yet he could tell his unanchored body had flipped upside down, and only his rapid breathing kept him from floating away. But being upside down meant he was now facing the cowardly attacker, and that fact alone gave him the strength to wrench open his bloodshot eyes.
The sight that greeted him suckered punched anger, giving reason a brief time at the helm while the primal emotion stumbled back to its feet.
His attacker's dark nose almost touched Greg's, and all he could make out was an irritated frown and a pair of black-tinted glasses that the Satyr could see his shocked reflection in.
The Stranger's head bobbed in what looked suspiciously like a nod of approval and took a large step back, allowing for a proper look.
His blood froze in an instant, the inferno of violent instinct becoming a fast-fading ember.
That form… Greg had seen it once before, on the day he started walking the Dao. But what would a Celestial Attendant be doing out in the Wild Zone? He'd never even heard of one exiting their Pagoda before, yet one came out here to kick him in the stones?! Boundless Void, nothing about this made any- Wait, it didn't make sense.
Looking closer, the Assassin noticed inconsistencies with his rash assumptions, and each observation becoming kindling for the ember still burning within.
Disregarding the foreign aesthetic of the inner clothes, no member of the Court would willingly wear that ratty white robe. Honestly that rag was was almost more stitch work than cloth. With the eyes obscured, it was impossible to tell if they were the correct colour, but the lack of white anywhere in that corded hair was enough to confirm the truth. This Stranger was only a Mortal species that resembled a-
The Stranger raised an eyebrow and rolled an open hand at him, making the universal gesture of 'Can we hurry this up?'
Veins on his forehead, especially the larger ones that supplied blood to the horns, became visible and throbbed from the casual provocation.
So, this must be one of the hoofless fuckers Pete's array picked up, eh? Well, the Boss's no kill order could suck his bruised member for all he cared. This fool was DEAD! If Bronte asked, he'd just say it was self-defense.
"Dual," Greg growled under his breath. Qi was already surging from the Class Core as he was unwilling to waste time flipping the right side up while the Stranger was within striking range. To keep the element of surprise, he only went for the sword hilt on the third trigger word. "Reaper's-"
*PREREQUISITES FOR ASSASSIN SKILL, Dual Reaper's Parting, ARE NOT MET.*
The interruption was not spoken, for the message's meaning was imparted directly to his Soul. It was his Core, warning him that the Skill would fail should he attempt using it and to avoid Aether Reflux, had safely dumped the unused Prana energy.
While, not passing out from his Body Foundation being forced to hold far more Qi than it normally did was peak. That still didn't mean the Satyr wasn't asking himself WHAT THE HELLS JUST HAPPENED!? The only prerequisite besides the minimal amount of Qi was his… Uh oh.
Suddenly, Greg became very conscious of his increased buoyancy. Whispering a desperate prayer, both his hands crept up the sheathes he had grabbed by mistake, only to confirm what he already suspected. His swords were missing.
"MERRRR." Came a laugh that sounded far too monstrous to originate from a Mortal, altered air or not.
Still upside down, the Assassin stared blankly at the Stranger, who shook his head to deny the unspoken allegation before pointedly looking up. So Greg followed his gaze and saw a creature with monochromatic skin watching him hungrily from the treetops. His jaw dropped as the Spiritual Beast used her tail to wave his own swords mockingly at him, a pink tongue licking one unblinking eye. The Beast had only the weapons, but it didn't take a genius to know the Herb Case was probably long gone by now.
The Assassin swallowed hard, understanding he had been tricked the moment he saw that damned light. He glared at the unknown Cultivator, who still watched him with unsettling interest, almost as if Greg was the first Satyr he'd ever come across.
There would be no winning this fight, but winning was a relative term, and he wasn't called the Hit-And-Run Killer for nothing. Escape was still possible; so long as he could get one hoof on solid ground, the Assassin's escape Skill would dash Greg to safety. Assuming the Stranger didn't have a way to catch up.
Manipulating that ball of light with such precision and control meant the Stranger had extremely high Cunning. That hinted at him being either a Sage or a Merchant. Sages rarely had escape or mobility Skills in the lower Cuts, and the fact that the Stranger stole instead of cheated Greg out of his loot pointed at the former. Dealing with a Sage would be best, for they were notoriously bad in close combat. Likely, that was why the Stranger ambushed him and brought a tamed Beast for backup.
Thinking about it now, this situation may not be as costly as he originally feared. Along with his cloths, there were a pair of Class suppression cuffs back in the chariot. If he could bait out a chase with the lone Cultivator and managed to cuff him, Greg could torture the location of his stolen trove before bringing in the miserable bastard.
In a non-threatening manner as possible, Greg gestured to the Stranger, motioning if he could flip himself right-side up. The Stranger raised an eyebrow and seem to consider the request, but it was impossible to read the expression any further.
That lack of any visible feedback alone set off alarm bells for the Satyr, a life long time survivor of Olympia's criminal underworld. In his experience, even the coldest and most ruthless Cultivators inhabiting the Capital's slums displayed some cracks of emotion. Normally those cracks were a sneerful boasts or sadistic glee, but any hint of what was to come was better than nothing. Being the target of that unwavering and silent attention made the Satyr feel like a lamb shackled before a cook who had yet to decide the day's meal.
So Greg thanked every one of the Sacred 108 when he finally received a nod of approval and could set the plan in motion. He was close enough to the tree to use it to right himself while slowly lowering his body closer to the ground.
Sensing his intention as always, the Class Core began sending a cocktail Qi and Mana towards his legs in preparation. It took far longer this time, almost a full second as the Mind Foundation was his least invested of the three.
"Whatever you're planning, I highly recommend reconsidering it." A voice neither male nor female spoke gently, their voice somehow unaffected by the environment. "Trust me, this can only end in one way."
Freezing agonizingly close to the ground, Greg watched a Spirit sporting a blue robes from an unknown temple walk out from behind the same tree he held on to. The Spirit gave the Satyr something he had experienced in a very long time. A smile radiating real kindness, and the sight of it made the Assassin want to scuttle away like Stump Mites forced into the daylight.
"I know introductions are a bit late, and your first interaction with our group must have been far from pleasant, but I am a firm believer in mending bridges." Continued the Spirit calmly as if the whole mess could be solved with talk. "I am the Spirit known as Ego; the Princess above you is our lovely Monochrome." They looked up with a slight frown and spoke to the Beast like a disapproving adult would a child, "Who I noticed was suspiciously adept at pickpocketing, which is not something to be proud of. And obviously, you have met-"
But the Stumpchild was done with this shit show and with his legs tingling with Aether infused energy, he was out of here.
Using the tree as an anchor, he forced himself down on the dirt with so much force his hooves were buried in the dirt. That was fine, better than fine even, because it gave the Assassin firm footing. He opened his mouth to speak, knowing a Spirit couldn't stop him, and any Sage's attack would trigger too late.
So it came as a real surprise to Greg when the Stranger, without moving a muscle, suddenly accelerated forward like an arrow shot from a bow.
Before the first syllable could leave his mouth, a fist slammed into the Satyr's throat, killing the Skill as effectively as any Class suppressing cuffs. Greg erupted into a choking coughing fit, tears clouded his vision and he seriously worried that the crazed Cultivator had broken something.
When he'd finally refined control, he found the brawler Sage pointing the ends of the Satyr's own swords at his throat and hairy leg. The latter still wet with deadly poison. Also judging from the stink of rotting meat wafting from above, the Beast was far closer now.
The message of absolute compliance was received loud and clear.
"I told you to reconsider such foolish actions, my young Satyr. The Soul may be immortal, but this iteration of you is not." The Spirit chided with a rueful shake of their bald head. They stiffened slightly and turned quizzically at the Stranger. "Ah. My partner would like me to communicate two things to you on his behalf. First, you may call him the Professor, as you two will not be acquainted long enough to ever need his actual name. Next, he thanks you for the incredibly valuable information you have allowed him to collect, as it will greatly further his research. However, he warns that if you try to escape or call for help, he will do… very bad things."
The Professor snorted and the Spirit sighed, rolling their eyes.
"To be accurate, he actually gave a very vivid explanation of what will happen to you in the name of research. But I am sure you wish to sleep at night, so there is no need for me to go into detail, yes?"
Greg nodded in agreement as much as the blade at his throat would allow. However, he needed to understand what they planned to do with him. Pointing to himself, Greg asked, in the clearest voice that could be produce, "Hostage?"
"What?" The Spirit snickered, the ghostly light in their eyes brightening. "Don't be ridiculous; of course you aren't a hostage. In fact, we've come to you in order to negotiate a peaceful surrender. Our surrender."