Despite having reached impossible heights for a Combat Class user, Rob didn't quite embody what was expected of a Berserker.
Sure, the trademarks were all there. Reckless assaults, rampant self-endangerment, adrenaline-fueled battle highs...yet he also employed too much strategy. Nowhere could that be seen more in how he utilized Rampage. It was a Skill designed to facilitate continued aggression, but half the time he just used it for dodging.
In fact, most of Rob's Berserker tendencies were calculated – including the ones that would have looked batshit insane to an outside observer. How far could he push Blood for Blood to increase his damage without putting himself at risk? Was it worth enduring an attack and then attempting to heal with Lifesteal during his counter-offensive? Which opponent could he distract with Enmity to assist his allies? Even Living Bomb, a Skill that turned him into a literal mini-nuke, had often been used to force surrenders and minimize casualties.
It took a surprising amount of forethought to rampage like a mindless beast.
That's not to say he wasn't a successful Berserker. The results certainly spoke for themselves. Yet while Rob would always enjoy shocking people with brazen maneuvers, in his heart of hearts, he viewed himself as a combat strategist. Recklessness was just a tool in his arsenal to be brought out when necessary.
"HUMAN–"
On most days, anyway.
"POINTLESS–"
Today?
"MORTAL–"
Today, he was not a strategist.
He was a BERSERKER.
"ROB! STOP!"
No reply was given. The personification of Humanity's vengeance remained silent as he chased Kismet across the divine realms. Conversation was a privilege afforded to reasonable actors – a category the gods had long since disqualified themselves from. Any words that came out of their mouths would be less trustworthy than the soldiers hiding within a Trojan horse.
Of course, Rob was hardly incapable of seeing reason himself. If communication absolutely needed to take place, then he would be willing to send his two most trusted advisors in his stead. They were named Righty and Lefty, and each was clenched tight with anticipation, greatly looking forward to showing off their debating skills.
Kismet screamed with panic as Righty put forth a rational argument. The closed fist, empowered by Purge Divinity, came inches from carving deep gouges into Kismet's face. With a glimmer of vibrant light, the god cast a teleportation spell, vanishing before Lefty could add to the discussion.
{BEHIND.} BEHIND!
Rob whirled around. In one fraction of an instant, he spotted Kismet. In the next fraction of an instant, he was upon him once more. The god fled yet again, firing powerful rays of mana as he disappeared, but Purge Divinity nullified the attack like water droplets splashing harmlessly on a hot stove.
RIGHT. {RIGHT!}
So it continued. Kismet ran, and Rob pursued. The HUMAN's advance was unceasing, his gaze laser-focused, like a heat-seeking missile fueled by rage. He hadn't blinked once since the {hunt} first began. Rob would consider it a personal failure if he ever stopped moving forward.
That was the bare minimum needed to back a god into a corner.
The divine realms were, in essence, the gods' cosmic playground. Rob couldn't have picked a worse battlefield to challenge them on – not that there was much of a choice. Here, they had free reign to treat the laws of reality like suggestions. Kismet showcased that by effortlessly transposing himself to a different spatial position if Rob got too close for comfort.
But almighty as they were, the gods were still limited by the rate of their cognition. Kismet couldn't react faster than his own thoughts. So whenever he escaped with a teleportation spell, Rob made sure to follow with speed that was nearly teleportation, rushing so quickly that his movement couldn't be tracked with the naked eye.
It left virtually no room for Kismet to breathe, forcing him into a cycle of constant retreat. The most he could manage in response was random potshots, all of which were easily blocked by Purge Divinity. In spite of their repeated back-and-forth, the two combatants were stuck in something of a high-speed stalemate. The only injury either had received was the mana-scar emblazoned on Kismet's face – a parting gift from Rob's initial ambush.
Rob didn't mind. He was bound to strike gold again sooner or later. Even if Kismet's mana was nigh-inexhaustible, the god's composure was already beginning to fray. When was the last time he'd gotten into a fight? A real one? Hundreds of thousands of years ago?
You should've warmed up before exercising, Rob mused, cackling gleefully as his fingernails scraped at Kismet's afterimage.
The HUMAN turned around to continue his chase. As he did, a flicker of motion passed by his field of vision. It was one of Riardin's Rangers, engaged in battle versus another god.
Rob put them out of his mind, concentrating solely on Kismet. As much as he wanted to rush to their aid...this was how it had to be. One god for each Party member. He couldn't afford to deviate from that. Leaving Kismet alone, even for a few seconds, would give the gods' leader time to cook up something nasty.
Wasn't the easiest decision to make, but Rob had faith in his friends. He truly believed that they could handle themselves. The other gods felt like pale imitations of Kismet's mana; still obscenely powerful, yet manageable for Level 99 Combat Class users hopped up on shared defensive buffs and Almighty Resistance. Right now, the best thing he could do for his Party was to keep running down Priority Target #1 with the fury of an unhinged BERSERKER.
It was always such a nice feeling when business intersected with pleasure.
Rush. Punch. {BACK-LEFT.} Rush. Punch. FORWARD-RIGHT. Kismet's last-second teleports grew more frantic, the god spouting obscenities as Rob came centimeters away from tearing his head off. The gap shortened by a hair with every step of their dance.
"TALK!" Kismet hurriedly blurted out a single plea as he escaped. It took him six additional teleports before he found the time to say another. "DEAL!"
{Don't you dare,} Leveling High warned. Its static was buzzing like a whirlwind of plague-ridden insects. {If you fall prey to his honeyed words, then I will seize control of this body, no matter how it would impact our battle efficacy.}
Won't be an issue. Rob was about to tune out Leveling High's griping when he noticed something...peculiar. 'Never Forget Your Rage' seemed to be empowering their body slightly more than before.
Now that was interesting. Rob kept up his charge on Kismet, and at the same time, devoted a small portion of his attention span to exploring this avenue. Question for ya. Why do you want to kill the gods so badly?
{WHAT?!}
The static flared. Rob's Dexterity increased by a sliver.
...You heard me. Why do you want to kill the gods? I know you're obsessed with hunting strong prey, and weak prey, and everything in-between, but this seems more personal. Like a grudge or something.
{I HOLD THE SAME REGARD FOR THEM AS I DO ALL OTHER CREATURES!}
Nah. We share a headspace, and you're doing a shit job at hiding your true feelings from me. Rob internally raised his eyebrows. Come on! Spill the tea. They steal your lunch money or what?
The static screeched. Rob's pace quickened once again. Kismet gasped with horror as he teleported right in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding having his torso caved open by Purge Divinity.
And there it is. While two instances could be a coincidence, three made a pattern. Leveling High's emotions were influencing 'Never Forget Your Rage'.
It hadn't been that way when battling Ragnavi, the Dungeons, or the Leviathans – but then again, Leveling High was never angry at any of those. Just happy to kill them. For whatever reason, the gods clearly weren't in the same ballpark.
A wonderful notion popped into Rob's mind. At the moment, he was basically maxed out on how much he could hate the gods. Pushing it further was like squeezing water from stone. If he could double-up on that hatred, though...
It took effort not to lose composure and mistime his next charge. Rob had rarely felt more hyped than learning he could emotionally torture Leveling High for extra stats.
I wonder what they did to you, he said, intentionally prodding at an unhealed scar. Eternal suffering like the Skills? Is that why you're...well, you?
{BE SILENT!}
Must have been *bad* for you to end up so broken. They apparently molded you to be like an Original Will that never separated, so – improvising here – I'm guessing you got subjected to a mental simulation of sorts. That means endless drifting through the void. Eons of protracted isolation. Your only solace being the occasional planet that was ruined by your very touch. Then you 'woke up' and learned it was all a dream, which frankly would've just made things worse–
Blood trickled from Rob's ears as the static loudened to a deafening pitch. His soul gorged itself on Leveling High's incandescent anger, infusing 'Never Forget Your Rage' with newfound power.
Speed that was already bordering on teleportation became even faster.
Finally, it happened. Kismet hesitated. Rob wasn't sure why. Maybe he was dumbfounded over the mortal's ever-increasing Dexterity. Maybe something in the adjacent fights had distracted him. Or maybe he'd spent a precious moment attempting to think of ways to turn the situation around.
Either way, it was a moment that he could not spare. By the time that Kismet started to cast his teleportation spell, Rob was already there. The HUMAN's vicious smile deepened, his teeth bared, grinning from ear-to-ear as his arm struck forward like a whip of lightning.
Error: Due to your Soul Instability, Purge Divinity has failed to activate!
And his un-empowered fist connected with Kismet's ethereal jaw. It left a rough bruise – or whatever the equivalent was when punching an avatar of living mana – but that was all.
NO GOD DAMNIT NOT NOW–
Kismet unleashed a desperate burst of magic, as if was trying to drown him in pure, undiluted power. Aside from the Second Will's Corrupted Cataclysm, it was the most staggeringly potent attack that Rob had ever witnessed. He hastily shifted away, unable to activate Dauntless Reprisal in time, and unwilling to test his Almighty Resistance against magic that could have decimated entire villages.
His movement was suddenly halted by a thin film of shimmering light. Kismet's mana had coated the surface of his body, trapping him in a skintight prison of divine energy. Without Almighty Resistance, it would have rapidly dissolved him into a meaty slurry. As it was, the prison's damage was lessened to a tingle...although it served its purpose of keeping Rob in place while Kismet's magic burst drew closer.
All of this transpired in the blink of an eye. Any other Combat Class user would have been caught off-guard – and promptly reduced to atoms. Rob's high Quick Thinking and ludicrous Perception, however, let him see everything play out in slow-motion. The HUMAN immediately shattered the prison with Purge Divinity, then dodged as swiftly as he could.
He was still a shade too slow. Kismet's mana engulfed his left arm in a torrent of searing mana. It ate through skin, flesh, and bone within just one-half of a second, leaving nothing behind but a stump.
"HAH! YOU–"
Kismet's jubilation was cut short. He looked even more shocked than when he'd been ambushed and scarred. Because when he gazed upon Rob's visage, expecting to find dismay, or at least just a wince of pain...
The god instead found excitement. Genuine, maniacal excitement.
Half a second. Half a second! Kismet's god-burst had taken half a freaking second to vaporize his arm. For someone with stats as high as Rob, that may as well have been an eternity. It was proof that Almighty Resistance was paying dividends – the gods couldn't instantly kill him at the drop of a hat.
Rob chose to wait as he cast Lifesurge and restored his arm. He wanted the full gravity of the situation to sink in before resuming his hunt. A Purge Divinity strike might wound Kismet, but the mental damage from realizing how fucked he was would hurt far worse.
The BERSERKER trembled with joy as he saw comprehension gradually dawn on the god's featureless face. You get it now, don't you? Can't kill me. Have to disintegrate my body over the course of half a second...but I'm fast. Fast enough to dodge the worst you can throw at me. And as long as my head survives, I can heal with Lifesurge. Which is on a 30-second cooldown. Or with Lifesteal. Just by injuring you. Or with Regeneration, or Dauntless Reprisal. I'm basically invincible unless I screw up bad.
His eyes opened wider, as if staring into the god's nonexistent soul. So how about it? You up to the task? Think you can overkill me before I heal? DO YOU THINK YOU CAN? OR WILL I RIP YOU TO PIECES FIRST? TEAR YOUR ESSENCE LIMB FROM LIMB? GRIND YOU TO DUST AND CAST YOU INTO OBLIVION? HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE VULNERABLE?! HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE *MORTAL*?!
All of that came straight from the heart, and Rob was tempted to give voice to it...but he was still of the opinion that spoken words were wasted on the gods. He thus opted for brevity, choosing a succinct, polite way to express his thoughts.
"HahahahahhahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
--
Keira shuddered as the laughter of Madness echoed throughout the divine realms. It was a haunting sound that would have chilled a seasoned war veteran to their marrow. Like the song that would play when the stars finally went out in the sky.
Paradoxically, though, it also helped to soothe her nerves. If Rob was...enjoying himself to this extent, then his opponent was likely faring poorly.
Which was also evident from how he hadn't stopped pursuing Kismet since Riardin's Rangers entered the divine realms. Rob might act recklessly at times, but he wasn't one to repeat the same tactic over and over without good reason. While Keira couldn't open the Party Screen to check on his HP, it was obvious that Kismet had done little to stymie the Human's unending advance.
Other details...were harder to discern. Rob and Kismet's fight – if it could be called that – was nearly impossible to follow. They were like two tornadoes blasting around the divine realms, a pair of natural disasters to avoid lest you be rent asunder. Rob hadn't come close to barreling through a member of Riardin's Rangers yet, but at the speed he was charging, no one wanted to end up being his first accident.
After all, how often did someone notice when an ant lay in their path?
Keira didn't want to think of him in that manner, but it was difficult not to when his very presence was warping the fabric of the divine realms. Something about the combination of his Purging energy and aura of power was clashing with everything around him. The atmosphere seemed heavier, more dense. Jagged floating rifts – like cracks in glass – were tearing open mid-air, as if the realms would break apart and collapse if Rob's fight went on for too long.
None of that even seemed intentional. They were simply byproducts of him being an existence that surpassed what reality could endure.
"Terrifying..."
The god's muttering snapped Keira out of her trance. She chastised herself, eyeing the fragmented deity that had been her dueling partner until a few seconds ago. It probably could've taken advantage of her lapse in concentration, but apparently, it was just as unnerved by Rob's laughter as she was.
"What..." It trailed off once more, searching for the right words. "What...have we wrought? How did things go so awry?"
Should I provide an itemized list of your blunders? Keira swallowed the retort before it could sneak past her lips. Satisfying as it would be, she was perfectly content to let her god waste time brooding.
'My' god. The corners of her lips twitched. Perhaps it has a point. When *did* things go so awry? Keira appreciated Rob's confidence in his allies, but he might have overestimated Riardin's Rangers by just a tad. She was beginning to suspect that he'd lost his sense of normalcy, and was subconsciously conflating his own power with that of his Party members.
That was the only explanation she could produce as to why Rob thought leaving them to challenge the remaining seven gods was a feasible idea. Riardin's Rangers had gotten split up almost immediately, each embroiled in their own individual battles as they struggled to stay alive. One god per Party member was – to put it mildly – a rather arduous task for non-Rob combatants to overcome.
Granted, these weren't true gods. Not in the way that Kismet's aura felt like. While the rest of the gods came across as overly-fragmented offshoots of a greater whole, he would have snuffed out any other member of Riardin's Rangers with contemptuous ease. His power and mana dwarfed that of his cohorts.
By too much, actually. That was another reason why Keira saw no reason to resume her duel – time was on her side.
Earlier, at the start, it was all she could do to just stay alive. Overly-fragmented as it may be, her god was still a divine being; one that existed strictly above mortals in every capacity. The notion of defeating it in combat seemed like no more than a madman's delusion.
Danger Sense had warned her as much. The second she set foot in the divine realms, it started shrieking at the top of its lungs, incessantly warning her that everything and everywhere was a threat. Keira was well-aware that she'd embarked upon a suicide mission in the making.
Then, slowly, bit by bit...fighting her god became easier. That was the simplest way to describe it. The god's movements dulled, and her own movements seemed to shine in comparison. She went from feeling as if she was withstanding an inexorable force of nature, to 'merely' battling something as strong as an average Blight.
At first Keira assumed that it was due to learning the creature's patterns, but examining closer with Sense Mana proved otherwise. She wasn't growing stronger – her god was growing weaker.
And Kismet was to blame. He had been siphoning mana from his allies, weakening them to bolster his own prowess and strength.
Because of Rob.
Because the strongest of the gods was faltering when pressed by one angry Human.
Keira's god seemed to reach a conclusion as it observed Rob and Kismet rushing around the battlefield. Something akin to dread flared within its gaze. What would happen, it wondered, if Rob's onslaught never let up? Would Kismet need to keep stealing mana from his allies just to tread water?
At what point would the other gods be so diminished that they started falling to mortals in single combat?
It made its decision. The god flew towards Rob as the Human dashed nearby, hoping to intercept or distract him. Kismet had been on the defensive for the entire duration of this fight, not given any real opportunity to display the full extent of his power. One small opening might be all that was needed to shift momentum in his favor.
The god charged forth – and Keira's greatsword was there to meet it. Mundane steel collided with a divine entity, pushing the creature back before it could attack Rob.
Keira felt a giddy sensation rise in her throat as she celebrated the first major blow she'd scored in their duel thus far. The fact that it probably wouldn't have happened if the god was focused on her instead of Rob was immaterial. A Warrior of Elatra had met a god head-on...and it yielded.
"That's enough," she stated, donning a mask of self-assured stoicism as her opponent raised its head to scowl at her. "You will go no further."
"Stand aside," the god hissed. "Unlike the Human's strange Purging ability that strikes at our core, you wield steel crafted by mortal means. That sword will hinder, delay, but it cannot kill the divine. Your defeat is guaranteed by virtue of your lowly birth."
"What of it?"
The god's eyes widened as Keira didn't so much as budge. Its gaze shifted from her, to Rob, then Kismet, then back to her. "I propose an accord. What do you desire in exchange for surrender?"
She was about to tell the god exactly where it could stick its accord – when a thought came to her. "Hmm." Keira tapped her foot on the ground. The gods always upheld their vows, like an oathbound compulsion. "Would you remove Leveling High in exchange for me exiting the battle? Remove it safely, to clarify. In a way that wouldn't kill or severely injure Rob."
"Leveling High was not my purview."
"Ah. Pity."
Blue streaks of mana shot past the god as it barely managed to dodge Keira's Spear of Steel. Her greatsword re-appeared in her palm a moment later, just in time for her empty-handed swinging motion to turn into a crushing torso blow. "Was planning to use and betray you, but if you have naught to offer, then feel free to go ahead and die. Will simplify matters."
She threw herself to the side, narrowly avoiding a mana burst that singed the ends of her hair. "All this because of the Human," the god snapped, its voice dripping with derision. "You have tethered yourself to a flailing lunatic. This ill-fated venture shall end with your Party's complete annihilation."
It gathered mana around its body. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that mortals let cheap sentimentality drive them to an early grave."
...Cheap?
Keira grit her teeth and dashed forward. The god fired another burst of energy, but she covered her body with her greatsword, trusting Steel Soul to render the weapon close to invulnerable. Employing every ounce of her colossal Strength, she carved straight through the god's mana and slammed into it with a bludgeon of resentment.
It was left stunned – especially when the Savage Warrior redoubled her assault, eyes glaring as she furiously swung her greatsword, battering the god again and again.
How dare this creature attempt to judge whether or not a person's sentiment was cheap. It didn't have the right. Mortal emotions were as comprehensible to the gods as mercy was to a rabid gorebeast. She refused to be lectured by heartless abominations cloaked in a guise of life.
What did it know of anything they had been through? The small moments where they'd shared affection or made each other laugh? The large moments where they'd professed their love or saved each others' lives? It would take her hours to list everything she could recall, then hours more if she asked Rob to contribute anything she may have missed.
A god that existed above such 'petty' concerns would never know what it was like to meet someone who categorically improved every aspect of your life.
It was Rob who had first helped Keira reconnect with the people around her. While she still held some antipathy for the Village Elves these days, back then, her feelings bordered on outright hatred. Rob changed that. He helped bring the Ranger trainees closer together, which eventually led to the formation of Riardin's Rangers. Before then, none of them would have afforded her the time of day...nor would she have extended that courtesy to them, either.
Those changes weren't incidental. Rob had admitted that his impetus for strengthening ties with the Ranger trainees was for her sake. He hadn't wanted her to be an outcast among her own people.
Where would Keira be now without that act of kindness, given freely and without expectation of reward? If she somehow survived the Village's invasion, she'd likely have washed her hands of Elves in general and left to become an embittered wanderer. Gradually, over time, she would've lost enjoyment for anything except swinging her blade – until even that joy inevitably faded to a dull grayness.
The reason that Keira could enjoy pummeling this god was because of Rob being a nosy busybody incapable of turning away from someone in need.
Everyone in Riardin's Rangers possessed a story like that. Rob had been there for all of them at some point or another. They weren't quite indebted to him – he wouldn't have wanted them to consider it like that – yet it was impossible to deny they'd formed bonds of trust more unbreakable than a Steel Soul greatsword. If he needed them, then they would be there to answer the call.
Following him on a suicide mission to the divine realms was just a matter of course, really.
The gods would never understand that. They could study mortals for a thousand years longer and fail to grasp the concept of forged kinship. It was an experience you had to live through first. Only then would a person truly comprehend its value.
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Doubly so for someone like Keira, who'd once been at risk of permanent isolation. She remembered what life was like in The Village, and she had absolutely no intention of returning to those dismal days of yore. Her present circumstances were much preferable.
The joy of combat...the warmth of camaraderie...the passion of love... Keira dodged between several mana lasers, pivoting in a circular motion to crash her greatsword against the god's head. I have been spoiled with riches. No person could ask for more. And miraculously, while I would be willing to do anything to protect these feelings...all that is required of me is to fight alongside Rob and Riardin's Rangers.
A smile spread across her face. As if I wouldn't have already. My sword is theirs, now and always. I will gladly stay with them until the end.
She readied herself as the god prepared its counterattack. Radiant mana gathered into a corona of destructive wrath.
Until the *very* end.
--
"Aw, what's wrong?"
Malika cackled as the god thrashed about inside her spell's grip, trapped and unable to free itself. It looked positively pathetic. She relished the moment with a glee that was downright villainous – albeit entirely deserved.
"You were boasting soooooo much just a few seconds ago." Her tone was a mixture of brutal, cutting sharpness and mockery fit for a theater performance. "Now look at you. Where did all that vaunted power disappear to?"
In truth, she knew precisely where. Her sky-high Sense Mana had noticed what was happening the instant that Kismet started draining his allies. It wasn't actually this specific god's fault that its leader wasn't up to the task of fighting Rob alone.
Malika was still going to taunt the creature over its ill fortune, though. Turnabout was fair play – and the gods were every bit the annoying bastards she had anticipated they would be.
"What did you say your name was? Iram?" The young Archmage tilted her head with an exaggerated motion. "A word of advice, Iram. Pointless squirming does not befit a deity. I think it would be best if you preserve your energy instead. You'll need it for – stop right there!"
She whirled around, pointing her hands at a second god that had zipped past the corner of her peripheral vision, rushing to ambush Keira from behind. Malika halted the creature in its tracks, imprisoning it in another cage of mana. Sweat began dripping down her brow from the strain of maintaining two mana prisons at once.
It was well worth the effort. For all her insults over the gods' supposed weakness, Malika knew that the rest of Riardin's Rangers – Rob excluded – were struggling far more than she was. Unlike them, she was uniquely suited to this situation, endowed with unique advantages that her friends lacked.
If she didn't do everything in her power to help them attain victory, then she would be a disgrace of a Party member and of an Archmage.
Malika took a moment to glance around the divine realms. Everyone else was caught up in their own isolated battles, either fighting in single combat or with just one ally by their side. All of them were wholly focused on the opponent in front of them; assessing the broader situation was a luxury afforded only to her, a spellcaster capable of snaring her enemies like rats in a trap.
Could I push for a third? After giving the thought due consideration, Malika shook her head with a regretful air. Can't. Imprisoning two gods is the limit of what I can muster.
She let out an aggrieved sigh. I'll just have to be satisfied with that. It *is* already a feat that would turn the heads of other mages.
Although she estimated that a high-Level Mage Circle could accomplish the same. The gods' inherent nature was a double-edged sword. They were creatures of living mana that had not taken physical shape, similar to some monsters back in the mortal realms. Those types of creatures would appear on occasion, materializing as formless masses of energy rather than animals or beasts.
They were exceedingly rare – and liable to cause trouble whenever they appeared. Beings of unshaped mana were inordinately difficult to kill with physical attacks. Hitting one with a sword was like smacking a rock against water and expecting the latter to dry up.
While physical attacks empowered by Skills fared slightly better, in general, it was simplest to fight mana with mana. Offensive spells were much more effective at inflicting damage, meaning that mages performed to greater success than their weapon-wielding counterparts.
Malika could have let loose the fury of her magic on these two imprisoned gods. Other mages certainly wouldn't have hesitated to do so. It was standard protocol for slaying formless mana-creatures. And yet, that would be...
Inefficient. The gods were not the everyday monsters of Elatra. Even after being sapped by Kismet, they possessed mana on a scale that boggled the mind. Malika could exhaust all of her MP ten times over and come no closer to extinguishing their loathsome existences.
They knew it, too. She could tell by how the gods seemed annoyed, as opposed to worried. Both of them assumed that her MP would soon run out – upon which their cages would dissipate, leaving them free to take vengeance on the unsightly mortal that had caused such a grievous offense.
You should have wondered how I single-handedly made those cages to begin with. The gods' struggling paused as Malika sent them a glare of profound scorn. Did these fools earnestly believe this was the limit of her expertise? That she was some rudimentary spellcaster with only mana-prisons and offensive magic to her name?
No. Among mages, she was an artist. A visionary. A master. A ruler. Mana was her domain, and she reigned over it like no other could.
On this stage, even gods were no more than unruly subjects who had committed treason against their queen.
"What are you–"
The gods went from talking to screaming in the same sentence. Unfamiliar agony wracked their bodies, resembling the confused sound that a Dragon with Heat Immunity made when she was burnt to death. They could not put this pain into words, and thus, they shrieked like newborn babes experiencing pain for the very first time.
Offensive spells? How trite. How quaint. Malika was an Awakened Class user, and she demanded a higher class of magecraft. Her Sense Mana was the highest in the world – it let her discern the gods' individual tapestries with uncanny detail. She could see the threads of mana that made up their essence...
And which strings to tug to make it all unravel.
The process was still taxing. It would still take time. But the gods would perish – and with MP to spare. Then she would move on to the others, disabling and unmaking the lesser gods, freeing up Riardin's Rangers to overwhelm Kismet with one concerted assault.
"You shouldn't have crossed me!" Malika let her laughter rise above the gods' piteous wailing. "Me, who shall use magic to change the world like never before! Me, who will one day be the greatest spellcaster who ever lived!"
...
...Wait...wasn't she already the greatest? There were some Leader mages throughout history with more general experience than her, but in terms of Levels...
Aw. For some reason, the notion felt oddly disappointing.
Revised goal, then! Being the greatest mage so far was for layabouts. Instead, she needed to set such a high standard that no one could ever hope to meet it. Future mage generations should gaze upon her achievements and despair, for they would have no choice but to weep and worship at her feet, extolling triumphs beyond their wildest imagination. Archmage Malika – The Untouchable Legend.
Much better. A pleased grin settled onto her face. I'll etch the first notch of my legacy by slaying–
CRACK.
Malika yelped as a reality-defying, mid-air rift tore open several feet beside her.
Only morbid fascination kept her from scurrying away as fast as she could. Its aura of mana was repugnant, like milk festering under a hot sun for weeks.
Rob's battle with Kismet was causing these – mostly his constant forward charges while Purge Corruption emanated from his body. It was anathema to the divine realms as a whole. If her unraveling of the gods was like tugging at strings, then his Purge was like setting the support beams of a building aflame.
Ordinarily, Malika wouldn't have cared. Let the gods' house burn to cinders. Seeing as she was currently inside the divine realms, however...
Pushing her focus to its maximum, she gingerly reached out towards the rift with a tendril of mana. There was no time to plan, so Malika acted on instinct, trusting Sense Mana to guide her eyes. Carefully, as if handling centuries-old cloth, she sharpened her tendril, then used it to sew the opening and close it tight.
Steady. Gently. This level of damage would have normally recovered on its own, but with Rob exhibiting no signs of slowing his unrelenting pursuit, it was only going to get worse. Just imagine you're fixing a stitch. Even though you were always lousy at handicrafts. Okay, imagine you're watching someone *competent* fix a stitch. There we go. Almost–
Malika exhaled with relief as the rift abruptly vanished, its accompanying sensation of repugnance disappearing as well. The Archmage indulged in a brief moment of triumph – before detecting two new rifts that had appeared in the time it took her to fix the first. She immediately moved on to the next, sewing it shut as quickly as was safe.
Thankfully, fixing them felt easier now that she'd gotten some experience. She should be able to stay ahead of the damage Rob was inflicting on the divine realms. It was unfortunate that she had to pause her tender ministrations on the two imprisoned gods, but ensuring that reality didn't collapse was more important, and it affected everyone here. If the gods were smart, they'd let her work in peace.
And if Malika was less preoccupied, perhaps she would have paid closer scrutiny to trusting an immortal being's sense of self-preservation.
The gods were not idle as she went from rift to rift, mending tears in the fabric of divinity. They never stopped rebelling against their confines. Rattling the bars of cages that had been left unattended.
Malika only noticed when she turned around from fixing another rift – to find a vengeful reaper flying straight towards her.
In that instant, she realized four things. A god had broken free. She was too surprised to cast a spell in time. Her Dexterity wasn't remotely high enough to dodge.
She was going to die.
"Get. Back."
Announced with two ice-cold words, a massive hailstorm of arrows descended upon the god. It was a truly breathtaking amount of projectiles, as if they had been fired by twenty high-Level Rangers firing in unison. Arrow after arrow, Skill after Skill, all riddling the god's body with holes and turning it into a perforated patchwork of mana.
The creature wasn't anywhere near dead – just momentarily stunned. Malika seized her opportunity like the lifeline that it was, imprisoning the god once more before it could respond. She strengthened its confines, then reinforced the other god's cage as well. No reason to take chances.
I...I was careless. Shivers began creeping up and down her body. It had been weeks since she last came that close to death. They were–
The shivers stilled as a comforting hand rested on her shoulder. "I'll cover you," Orn'tol said, nodding. "Continue what you were doing. I can tell it was important."
"R-right." Malika breathed deep, forcing a smile onto her face. "Thank you."
He snorted. "You incapacitated my opponent with a gesture. If I can't do at least this much, then I'm hardly pulling my weight, am I?"
A small laugh bubbled up from inside Malika's chest. Her smile softened, becoming more genuine. "I'll just be happy to have keen eyes guarding my blind spots. I need that, it seems."
She sped towards the next rift, her steps light. Funny – even though she'd been a hairsbreadth away from death just seconds earlier, it felt as if it never happened at all.
--
Orn'tol's grin faded as Malika looked away from him. He turned to face the imprisoned gods, his head whipping around so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. The young Ranger gazed at them a vicious glare more piercing than every arrow he had just shot forth.
I don't care if a bow isn't suited to harming gods, or how many Skills it takes, or how much mana I have to pour into my attacks. If you try that again, mark my words – I will fucking kill you.
He mouthed the threat rather than speak it aloud. Didn't want Malika to hear and potentially dampen her renewed spirits. By how the gods flinched, they understood his intent regardless.
Satisfied, Orn'tol angled his posture so that he could watch over the gods and Malika at the same time. Pride swelled within him as he watched her seal the rifts endangering the divine realms. While he wasn't an expert on magecraft, he'd learned enough to recognize that she was accomplishing something incredible. Other mages would have needed to study the rifts in detail, confer with their colleagues, test numerous theories, and then slowly develop a restoration spell over an extended period of trial-and-error.
Malika created one from instinct during a high-stress combat situation.
Orn'tol hoped she knew how intensely proud of her that he was. He would make sure to remind her when she wasn't in need of her full concentration. This feat was just the latest in a long line of Malika's wondrous achievements. She could be a headache at times – it was a Prerequisite for little sisters – but few people were as dedicated to forging their own path. When she boldly claimed that she would change the world, he believed her.
Her willful nature, combined with the abilities of a Level 99 Archmage...she'll shake the mage community to its foundations. Orn'tol smirked, almost pitying those poor sods who were unaware of the diminutive storm brewing in the distance.
Level 99. His thoughts hitched on that detail. I suppose I've risen to that height as well.
The notion still didn't feel real to him. Riardin's Rangers had spent months theorizing whether Rob would eventually attain Level 99, and what might happen when he did. For the Human to show up one day and suddenly bring them to Level 99 was...not the most absurd thing he'd done, relative to his other exploits, but shocking nonetheless.
Orn'tol faintly shook his head as he recalled the attacks he'd launched just a minute prior. A flurry of arrows with power sufficient to give a god pause – and it had somehow come from him.
Could I change the world too, if I so desired? Revolutionize the way of Rangers? Be enshrined in the annals of history?
After a few seconds of deliberation, he decided that it didn't really matter. Changing the world was never his goal. Since the moment he'd witnessed rays of light falling from the sky eight years ago, erasing his family and his home, dreams of glory had been the furthest thing from his mind.
Orn'tol fought only to ensure that nothing would be taken from him or Malika ever again.
Now, at long last, he had reached that point. Riardin's Rangers were all Level 99 or higher. Once the gods perished, nothing would be left that could threaten their way of life. And while others in his position may have been tempted to conquer lands, or ascend to a title of prominence, Orn'tol was more than happy to savor the peace and stability he had craved since first picking up a bow.
With this power, he could finally walk through life free of fear.
--
Sylpeiros was an ant crawling beneath titans.
Ragged breaths churned his lungs as he fought just to stay upright. His legs felt weak as limp noodles, forcing him to use his spear as a makeshift walking stick. Each passing second drained energy from his body, as if the divine realms were rejecting his presence on a fundamental level.
This was a domain for gods, and he was trespassing where mortals were never meant to tread.
Not that Riardin's Rangers seemed to care. His lamentable state was a far cry from theirs. Whereas he had expended most of his Stamina merely to dodge errant attacks that weren't even aimed at him, they were holding strong against the eight gods – Weren't there supposed to be six? – and in some cases, managing to gain an advantage despite overwhelming odds. If there was but one more ally fighting by their side, victory might very well be assured.
Sylpeiros wished he could be that ally.
He'd realized his mistake the instant he followed Riardin's Rangers through the Fiend mages' portal. The divine realms were toxic to mortals, as if the air itself was poisoned by abnormal mana. Without Rob's shared Skill buffs, none here would be able to challenge the gods...and there was only room in a Party for eight people.
I was the leftover. A bitter laugh wormed its way out of his throat. No – I was never even in consideration. By some astounding means, the Human had casually raised his friends' Levels all to 99. It took just one moment for Sylpeiros to go from the third-highest-Level fighter in the world, to the ninth-highest.
Intentional or otherwise, Rob's message had been clear: 'This is our fight.'
Sylpeiros purposefully ignored it – and was now paying the price for his hubris. The Leader of Elven territory had been reduced to a bystander. Worse, a liability, one left praying that Riardin's Rangers would achieve a swift victory before his Stamina ran dry.
...He was fairly certain that half of them had either forgotten he was here, or hadn't noticed to begin with. Maybe more than half.
Although if Sylpeiros was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure how much he could have contributed even if his body was in good condition. The difference between Level 82 and Level 99 – especially Level 99s empowered with the Human's shared combat buffs – was the difference between a lake and an ocean. He was the weakest link among their allies by a wide margin.
If anything, the gods would single him out, essentially using him as a hostage against Riardin's Rangers. Standing aside was the best he could do to help right now.
What a farce I've written. It had taken him days to accept that the gods were Elatra's enemy. Days further to rally enough courage to be willing to strike at the ascendant creators of his world. When the moment finally arrived, he had expunged his worries and doubts, determined to do what he thought was right.
And it was all for naught.
Why did I come here?
"Why did you come here?"
Sylpeiros jolted with surprise as an orb of mana materialized directly in front of his face. He automatically assumed a combat stance, raised his spear – then nearly tripped without the leverage of his 'walking stick' to aid him.
"I can see why you slipped under our awareness," the orb continued. Its voice was significantly less imposing than what Sylpeiros had heard of the other gods, sounding like a fragment of a fragment. "You are feeble. No true threat."
"To hell with you." Vigor flowed through him, as if spite and frustration were overpowering his fatigue. "If you've come to mock me, then at least make your barbs interesting – something that I don't already know."
"We would like to propose an accord."
For several long seconds, only the sounds of distant battle could be heard.
Sylpeiros narrowed his gaze. "Accord?"
"You are the Elven Seneschal, correct?" The orb flashed with a spark of mana. "I speak here as the voice of gods – they who possess authority over the divine realms. What I declare now is immutable fact. Any deals struck will and must be upheld."
Riardin's Rangers told me that the gods are incapable of lying. "What deal were you contemplating?" Sylpeiros ventured, unsure of which direction this conversation was heading.
"Above all else, what you strive for is the Elves' survival. We shall grant that desire. When Elatra's mana is consumed, Elven territory and its people will be left untouched. We also offer blanket immunity from our influence until the heat death of the universe. There are no loopholes contained within these statements. We will leave your world, and the Elves will live on, the same as before, with identical quality of life, in perpetuity...albeit constrained to just one territory."
The orb inched closer. "In exchange – betray the other mortals."
Sylpeiros' grip on his spear tightened.
"Make use of your frailty." The orb glowed with palpable malice. "Approach one of Riardin's Rangers. Beg assistance. Then, when they are distracted, plunge your spear into their heart. If any single member of their Party falls, the rest will succumb soon enough, too emotionally distraught by the loss of an ally to defend themselves properly. Such is the fatal flaw of bonded mortals."
Silence.
The orb seemed to tilt its nonexistent head. "If you fail to kill one of them, then no matter. The distraction alone should suffice. Their Party only persists because of the Human's relentless assault." It spat the word with hatred. "Kismet will be able to eliminate them all if given the chance. He just needs a single opportunity. And whether you succeed or not, we shall consider it a bargain fulfilled. Merely by attempting, you guarantee the survival of Elven territory."
"That's...I..."
"You are hesitating." The orb shone with a kaleidoscope of colors. "Why? We offer you what you want. I repeat – there are no loopholes. If you accept, the future will play out exactly as you imagine it will."
Sylpeiros' face had gone entirely pale. He averted his gaze, but the orb shifted with it.
"More boons can be added. We will grant you power. Raise you to Level 99. Improve Elven territory. Strike down your enemies. Anything within reason may be requested."
The orb was millimeters away now, its eyeless gaze feeling like a dagger stabbing through Sylpeiros' heart. "What is it that you desire?"
I don't know.
Accepting the gods' accord was his duty. Even this momentary hesitation was a betrayal of the highest order. As Leader, he was honor-bound to walk down any path that would result in Elven territory's survival.
Just as he had done so in the past.
Eight years ago, someone had told him that he must make one of two choices. The first choice: suppress his wrath like quenching a burning flame. In doing so, he would also put all of his people in jeopardy. It was possible that everyone in Elven territory would be exterminated as a consequence of his folly.
The second choice: give into his wrath, like spreading wildfire across the lands. His people's survival would be assured. As a bonus, he would get to satiate the built-up animosity that lay within his heart.
He chose the second. Or, more accurately, he surrendered to Ragnavi's threats – and to his own weakness. Thus began the onset of the Scouring.
The Cataclysm followed not long after.
Sylpeiros let out a short, hushed gasp. All at once, a sense of clarity had begun illuminating his mind. It was as if scorching rays were dispelling the fog of uncertainty clouding his thoughts.
Revealing the shame and regret that lay beneath.
"Before..." Sylpeiros' body trembled, and it wasn't because of his fatigue. "Before, you asked me why I'd come here. Just now, you asked me what it is that I desire."
He forced out the words, refusing to let them go unsaid. "I think those questions are one and the same."
The orb glimmered with something resembling curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"An infuriating man once told me that there is no such thing as atonement – only a future that can still be altered. I believe I hoped to prove him wrong. Here, I was meant to find...I'm not exactly sure. An answer that would somehow wash away the past, perhaps."
Slowly, Sylpeiros' trembling subsided. "But he was right. The past is the past. That regret is earned, deserved, and I cannot wipe it clean."
"Then seize your desires. Accept our–"
His spear lashed out. It was a feeble strike, no stronger than a common arrow, yet it sent the orb fleeing backwards out of sheer surprise. "What–"
Sylpeiros interrupted it by slamming the end of his spear on the ground. Exhaustion sought to pull him down, yet his legs remained steady. "The mistakes of the past must not be repeated. That is my true duty. As Leader, I will protect all Elatrans from those who seek to do them harm. And if my life must be given in exchange, then I consider it squaring away one fraction of a debt that can never be fully repaid."
Mana coalesced around him. "Listen well, vile abomination of the divine realms. You wish to know what it is that I desire? To know why I've come here today? My answer is simple–"
Thunder sparked, and the aura of a Skill glowed around his spear. For a Combat Class user, there was no greater statement of intent.
"Because if I hadn't come here, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life."
He lunged.