Can I go back to fighting eldritch abominations?
Rob had read once that fear of public speaking was the #1 phobia in the world. During his time as a PR mouthpiece in Fiend territory, he'd mostly gotten over the initial nervous butterflies, but it still wasn't fun to step onto a podium and present yourself in front of thousands of people. The crowd stretching out before him was the single-largest gathering he'd ever seen.
It didn't help that half of them looked like frightened rodents, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Rob couldn't blame them. The Fiends had every reason to be anxious – aside from Rob himself, Riardin's Rangers and the Grand Overseers were also in attendance, adding a dozen people of extreme power and influence sitting behind the Level 124 Leader. This was the kind of grandstanding that typically preceded the onset of a tyrannical regime.
That's why I'm here. Gotta set the populace at ease. Rob schooled his features, retaining an expression of benevolent neutrality. No pressure. Don't worry about potentially bombing. Not like there would be any *real* consequences besides social embarrassment.
He paused. Wait, no, that would suck. Damn. Okay. At least my friends are here for moral support...meaning they get a front-row seat to any gaffes.
Message Received from Party Member: Diplomacy
Diplomacy: Are you sure you don't want me to telepathically feed you lines?
Diplomacy: No offense, but you seem just a little out of sorts.
Rob: I spent my last conscious month trekking through an isolated wasteland with only Duran for company, then solo-Dungeon crawling while Leveling High screeched at me. This is a big adjustment.
Rob: That said – yeah, I'm sure. Have to start this off with sincerity. My words, in my voice.
Rob: Won't work otherwise.
"Thanks to everyone who was brave enough to attend today," Rob began. His voice had been loudened by a spell from the Overseers, projecting across the congregation of Fiends. "You won't regret it. And I don't mean that in an ominous, foreboding way. By the end of this conference, you're going to be bragging to all your friends and family who missed out."
The Fiends stared at him in confusion. Which was a definite improvement from naked fear, although he still had his work cut out for him. No amount of PR fluff pieces from the Overseers could erase the fact that he'd left Fiendland several months ago, then returned as a supreme existence that defied conventional logic.
What the people needed now, more than anything, was stability. They had to be reassured that the tentative peace they'd been enjoying wasn't about to come to an abrupt, bitter end.
Rob held up a sheet of paper, presenting it to the crowd. "The Grand Overseers have written a speech for me to read out." He eyes the paper with visible distaste, as if it was a wriggling cockroach. "I told them that no way in hell am I reciting prepackaged tripe after the last few months I've had. In their infinite wisdom and kindness, they then told me to put on my big boy pants and suck it up."
A mischievous grin inched up his face. "But life is all about compromises, right? So the compromise that I've decided on – with zero input from them – is to read just the very first line. Now, without further ado:"
He cleared his throat and raised his voice. "We have lived in trying times."
Silence.
"Phew, glad that's over with." Rob made a show of tearing the speech to shreds. "Next, let's–"
"Damnit, Rob!" Overseer Nelrith had jumped out of her seat, jabbing an aggrieved finger at him. "That is not what we agreed upon!"
"We is a strong word when I wasn't consulted at all. Seriously, did any of you bother to read this drivel out loud before handing it to me? You can write this shit, but you can't say it!"
"It was crafted to be as inoffensive as possible! That is what Fiend territory needs! There will be time to indulge your antics at a later date!"
"Look, I already agreed to license myself to three more theater plays and a brand new line of carved wooden figures! What else do you want from me?!"
The crowd gaped at Rob and the Overseer's bickering, utterly mystified by the sight. Leaders weren't supposed to get into public verbal slapfights with their subordinates. It simply didn't happen. And Leaders definitely didn't let themselves appear to be at a disadvantage during such disagreements, as if he was tacitly asking forgiveness for going behind the Overseers' backs.
With each word spoken, the Fiends' mental image of the untouchable Level 124 demigod was torn down, replaced by past memories of him acting like a goofball during his off-hours, or working tirelessly to save people during the Corruption epidemic. It wasn't constructing a new image – just reminding people of the man they knew he was.
Exactly as Rob intended. He believed that people responded well to sincerity. While ditching his speech had been planned in advance, his spat with Nelrith was entirely ad-libbed, as the Overseers had purposefully not been warned. His kneejerk replies lacked any filter whatsoever, and their annoyance was 100% natural.
They're gonna be even more annoyed when I start pushing for democratic voting procedures, he mused. One step at a time, though. Rome wasn't built in a day, and societal reforms need to percolate first so people can get used to new ideas. For now...
"We'll finish this later," Rob said, interrupting Nelrith in the middle of her tirade. He gestured towards the crowd. "Can't keep our audience waiting, right?"
The Overseer let out a long-suffering sigh, then collapsed into her chair, waving for him to continue. Rob gave her two thumbs-up and turned back towards the Fiends. "Sorry 'bout that. Professional disagreement. All part of the job."
He paused, allowing the Fiend civilians to stop and collect their thoughts. That brief interaction between Leader and Overseer had left everyone completely engrossed, their expectations shattered and in pieces on the floor. They hadn't the faintest notion of what this conference held in store of them next.
"I'm guessing that many of you came today to hear me address the multitude of rumors swirling around," Rob continued. "Going down the list: the Blight is dead. Dragon Queen Ragnavi is dead. Fiend territory has forged alliances with every other nation in Elatra. I broke the Level 99 barrier and hit Level 124. My Party members each hit Level 99. Leveling High has vanished from within me."
Rob shifted his tone from playful to serious. "At the risk of giving credence to street-corner gossipmongers...for once, the rumor mill got it right. Everything you've heard is true."
A long silence stretched on, settling over the crowd like a heavy blanket. The Fiends stood frozen as they tried and failed to comprehend what Rob had told them.
It wasn't that they didn't believe him – he'd given them no reason to distrust the veracity of his statements. However, just one of those talking points being confirmed as true would have drastically altered the course of their territory's future. ALL of them being true?
The people here couldn't even begin to imagine what tomorrow looked like anymore.
"I know it's a lot to take in," Rob muttered. "Still processing it myself. But remember that, for once, it's all good news. Nothing about your lives will change for the worse. This, I swear."
He let his words sink in for a bit, then pressed on. "We'll be releasing a written statement later today to help clarify matters. Before that, though, I figured it would benefit you guys if I explained things in-person. Let's open the floor – does anyone have any questions? Just raise your hand if you wish to speak."
Another deviation from expectations. Leaders didn't 'open the floor'. It took the Fiends a short while to adjust, and even then only a few were bold enough to actually raise their hands.
Rob chose one at random. "You, big beefy dude in the back. Got something you want to ask?"
The Fiend hesitated, as if worried that he'd missed some sort of trap, before standing up straight and yelling so that he could be heard across the street. "Lord Rob, how did you achieve Level 124? Is 99 not the limit we assumed?"
Perfect first question. Easy lay-up. "During my journey to slay the Blight, I reached Level 99 and learned a Class Skill that allowed me to continue leveling up further. None of my Party members got the same Skill, so it seems to be unique to me. I've also stopped gaining EXP since hitting Level 124 – apparently, there's a limit to breaking limits."
That was all they were getting. Information about the gods and the Skills was to be kept tightly under wraps. Maybe some details could be released gradually over time, but for the most part, that would just incite widespread panic without any upside. The gods' influence would never truly die if people became aware that their history had been shaped and molded by cosmic horrors.
Fuck that. Rob intended to Purge their stain from existence in every way possible.
He could envision no greater form of victory.
As Rob finished his explanation, another person raised their hand. "Did you gain all that Experience from killing Blights?" she asked, without waiting to be called on. "Does that mean the Blights are dead? Permanently? They won't return?"
"Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Corruption will never again encroach upon Fiend territory. Any pestilence that lingers throughout the rest of Elatra will slowly fade away." Rob grinned. "Although I wouldn't advise taking a vacation to the Deadlands just yet. That dumpster fire of a territory is...a work-in-progress."
Palpable relief spread through the Fiends. The Corruption plague had come dangerously close to outright ending their civilization. They couldn't have asked for better news than this. People started chatting excitedly with each other, momentarily forgetting about the impromptu Q&A session.
Eventually, one of them noticed that Rob was waiting patiently for someone to raise their hand. "Lord Rob!" they said, still swelling with enthusiasm. "You said the Dragon Queen has perished as well?"
"Sure did."
"How did she fall? Was it in battle against the Blight?"
"Hah! No. Ragnavi went nuts and tried to kill me and my Party. She also slaughtered a bunch of our allies – including her own troops. So we put the Queen down like the rabid beast she was."
The crowd's chatter ceased in an instant. They turned to stare at him.
"What?" Rob shrugged. "You all know she deserved it. That fucker was crazy."
His nonchalance took them off-guard. After several moments, they collectively gave him a look of 'Well...can't argue with that.' Even civilians in Fiend territory, who were largely insulated from the rest of Elatra, had heard a number of unflattering tales about the despotic Queen of Dragons.
"Lord Rob?" The next Fiend to raise their hand appeared more reticent. "On the subject of – wait never mind!"
She abruptly cut herself off. The Human tilted his head, befuddled. "You okay?"
"No, it's just, um...how did you remove Leveling High?"
Rob stifled a laugh. Oh, you were about to say 'on the subject of crazy people'. I can see how that wouldn't have gone over well with other Leaders. "I'll admit that Leveling High became too much to handle after I rose past Level 99. Didn't know what to do. Got desperate."
The Human put on a triumphant smile. "Desperate enough to try a risky, experimental procedure. When I returned to Fiend territory, mentally prepared for the worst, an esteemed Soul Surgeon known as Hauz managed to successfully remove the curse from my mind. Without him, I wouldn't be standing here today."
A half-truth. While Hauz had helped save Rob's life by assisting with Soul Repair's ministrations, the Surgeon was also being given credit for performing an operation that never took place – which he actually wasn't super happy about. Soul Repair needed to stay hidden, as it would just result in a line of questioning that led to the Skills, but the Surgeon had no desire to be lauded with undeserved accolades. He wanted to earn his respect.
That was fine. Hauz would have another opportunity to make his mark very soon.
"Then...Leveling High is gone forever?" The Fiend's eyes widened as she looked up at him. "You are free?"
Rob's smile dimmed. "Yeah. I am."
Visions of Ismaire and the long-dead Humans flashed in his mind. I'm not a native Elatran, but I hope this counts as a victory in their stead. The bane that afflicted them all, that caused untold suffering, that helped drag their nation to the pits of hell...is dead.
We beat it, in the end.
The crowd quieted, seeming to sense his mood – or just observing the look on his face. Only a person with negative social tact would have raised their hand then.
"Lord Rob?" One Fiend was waving their arm insistently, sounding puzzled. "I am rather confused."
He pushed his smile back up. "About what?"
"Well, to be honest? I thought your name was Roy."
You could have heard a pin drop.
Rob burst out laughing. The Fiends recoiled, then settled down, realizing that this wasn't the prelude to a him lashing out at an affront to his honor or whatever. "Nope," he wheezed, after he'd caught his breath. "It's been 'Rob' since Day 1. Not Roy."
"Then why do so many people call you that?"
"Because, my friend...there are some battles you just can't win."
He jumped down off the podium, landing in front of the crowd.
They gasped. Their reaction was perhaps a tad dramatic, but understandably so. The Leader of their territory had, quite literally, gone from standing above them to walking among them.
Which was very much the point.
"Speaking of Roy – heard a new theatrical performance of my exploits came out while I was snoozing." Rob lifted both eyebrows. "Also heard it was hot garbage. That's right up my alley."
He glanced back and motioned for his friends to follow. "Field trip!"
Everyone gasped again as Riardin's Rangers – ignoring protests from the Grand Overseers – jumped down as well. The gathering of Fiends parted like the Red Sea as Rob's Party casually strode forth, acting no different than any other close-knit group of friends hanging out. They knew they were probably about to scare the crap out of whatever poor actors were portraying their likenesses, but they were having too much fun to care.
On that day, when Riardin's Rangers crashed a play, then gave a standing ovation when the curtains finally fell, the people of Fiend territory began to understand that their heroes were far more ordinary than they had presumed.
--
"Are you certain you wish to go through with this?"
Something in Hauz's tone prompted Vul'to to sit up. "Yes?" the Soul Guardian replied, with a note of bewilderment. "Is that not why I've come here?"
At present, they were within Surgeon Hauz's personal quarters, surrounded by the Fiend's most trustworthy assistants. Riardin's Rangers were waiting outside, likely fretting and worrying themselves to death. Vul'to – feeling much more calm than his Party members, somehow – was lying on a cold operating table. The Clay of Life had been prepared, ready to receive his soul.
It was time. With no imminent catastrophes that required his shield arm to help defend against, Vul'to was at last free to attempt Soul Surgery to regain his Elven body. Upon his soul being placed into the Clay of Life, it would theoretically grow into a vessel matching his original form, the same as it had done for Diplomacy.
Hauz eyed him for several seconds before slowly nodding. "I am merely confirming that you are aware of the inherent risks involved," the Surgeon clarified.
"We have addressed those already. I know what ill outcomes may transpire." Vul'to chuckled. "Do I detect a hint of concern in that voice of yours?"
He said it in jest, but Hauz didn't retort, instead turning away. The Fiend remained silent, a frustrated sigh escaping him. "This is why I try to avoid long-term commitments," he murmured. "Should have known better than to let myself become mildly fond of your Party. My hands need to stay steady, and performing surgery is substantially easier without emotional attachments mucking things up."
Ah, Vul'to thought. He's worried he might kill me.
It was a distinct possibility. The former Elf's soul had already been transplanted into a new body once before. No one could predict how it would respond to being removed and transplanted a second time. This procedure was rife with unknown variables – a boon for the progress of science, but less so for the patient about to submit themselves to a Surgeon's claws.
If Vul'to were to examine this scenario from a wholly pragmatic viewpoint...he shouldn't go through with the operation. Currently, his soul and body were stable. There wouldn't be any complications from continuing to live out the rest of his days as a Fiend. Conversely, becoming an Elf again would raise questions within the general populace that would prove difficult to answer.
Was this surgery truly necessary, then? He was gambling his life for a luxury, and he'd been a Fiend for months now, anyway. It didn't impact his day-to-day livelihood. Eventually, he might even grow accustomed to existing in this body, gradually forgetting why regaining his Elven form was ever such a strong desire in the first place.
'Accustomed to', Vul'to noted. That's the problem, isn't it? I could grow 'accustomed' to these circumstances – but never happy. I'm not proficient enough with Deception to fool myself there. As long as I am a Fiend, I won't feel comfortable in my own skin.
That was well-worth gambling his life to amend.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
How can I assuage Hauz's fears, though? The Surgeon needed to be brimming with confidence in order to maximize their chances of success. At this rate, if the operation went awry, Hauz was going to convince himself that he was at fault.
Just then, an idea came to Vul'to. While it wasn't the kind of solution that he would've normally concocted...perhaps time spent with some of his more irreverent friends had rubbed off on him.
"So be it. Let's cancel the surgery."
Hauz blinked rapidly at Vul'to's declaration. "What?" the Fiend uttered.
Vul'to shrugged, emulating that air of slightly aggravating nonchalance that Rob seemed a master of. "You were correct. There's far too many risks. Can't wager my future on hypotheticals and leaps of faith. Would be different if I had a competent Surgeon tending to me, but..."
He fixed the man with a pitying gaze. "It appears that you're simply not up to the task."
Hauz's assistants froze in place, like a group of Fiend-shaped dolls, their faces locked into portraits of shock. The Surgeon in question was just as motionless, examining Vul'to with eyes of glinting steel.
When the silence had reached its breaking point, Hauz leaned forward. "I know you're saying this to goad me." His mouth widened into an anticipatory grin. "And it worked."
The Surgeon whirled around with a flash of intent. "Prepare yourselves," he told his assistants. "This patient today will receive the greatest care that Fiend territory has to offer. The honor of our station demands no less."
Satisfied, the Soul Guardian laid back down, his task completed. Hauz functioned best when the notion of failure was a distant impossibility. Vul'to could do nothing more to influence whether the procedure ended in success...or not.
Whatever happened next was out of his hands.
He closed his eyes, hoping they would open again.
--
To his immediate glee, they did.
Vul'to felt the changes right away. His gaze snapped down in an instant, poring over every detail of his shirtless body. Electricity raced through the Guardian's veins, his breathing growing ragged at what he saw.
Shorter height. Reduced musculature. Smooth skin that wasn't ashen-pale. No scales. Slender fingers. Slender fingers with no claws.
Lips quivering, Vul'to gingerly raised his hands to touch his face. The skin there was smooth as well. His fingertips crept up, coming to rest on top of his head, now full with silver hair.
Different. Something inside his skull felt different. Moreso than anything else. What was–
It struck him like a thunderbolt of realization.
The craving was gone.
His ever-present yearning for souls, the suppressed addiction that had hounded him as a result of stealing the body of a prolific Soul Eater – was gone. As if it was no worse than a fading nightmare.
For the first time in months, his mind felt clear.
He was himself once more.
Vul'to sat so transfixed that he didn't even notice Meyneth and Riardin's Rangers standing beside him. Not until the Dragonkin had put her hand on his. "Congratulations," she stated, her eyes shimmering with tears. Just one word, but it held an entire novel's worth of emotion.
That was when his own tears started to flow.
--
"You guys bounced back quickly," Rob said, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "This place is looking like nothing ever happened."
He meant it, too. The capital city of Harpy territory had previously spent months withering under Blighted King Elnaril's rule of depravity – only to then be attacked and occupied by the allied coalition. As the cherry on top, Ragnavi's armies had also cut a bloody swath through the southern regions of Harpy territory, inflicting casualties not seen since the days of the Cataclysm.
Wasn't exactly the nation's finest hour. When Rob departed for the Deadlands earlier that year, the Harpy capital was still in recovery mode, its people doing their utmost to put the past behind them.
From what he could tell, they'd done an admirable job. The city's structural damage had been repaired by Utility Class users, and there was no longer a pervasive atmosphere of misery clouding the streets. Its overall mood reminded Rob of Fiend territory. Now that the crisis had passed – and that news of the Dragon Queen's untimely demise had spread – the Harpies were allowing themselves to relax once more, progressing nicely down the road to recovery.
Should finish this quickly so they can go back to that, Rob thought. His arrival had thrown a wrench into the Harpies' respite. Despite him having notified them days in advance that he was coming, when the Level 124 Human Leader teleported onto their doorstep...he was pretty sure that most of the soldiers promptly shat themselves.
He would've felt bad about it if the looks on their faces weren't so goddamn funny.
After the Harpies were done picking up the remnants of their shattered dignity, they assigned a group of elite soldiers to him, who then led him into the capital city. Ostensibly, the soldiers were there to act as his honor guard. In reality, they were there to raise the alarm if he went on a rampage, sacrificing themselves to give their people a few precious seconds of heads-up.
Rob had expected as much. While Fiend territory was more or less used to him by now, he knew that he was essentially a walking, talking WMD to the other nations. It would take years to convince them that he wasn't going to suddenly drop the act and declare himself Overlord. Especially considering that Ragnavi being an outlier Leader had resulted in all sorts of bad shit.
His first stop in the capital city was visiting Celiane – the woman who'd helped get other Harpies on board when they were planning King Elnaril's assassination. She barely flinched when greeting him, exhibiting more spine than the Combat Class users. Her warm welcome instilled Rob with hope that his escort could loosen up around him, but after several failed attempts at small talk, he gave up on trying. They were too innately terrified of him to respond in any natural way.
I should never take Fiend territory for granted, he told himself, as they walked through the city streets. Harpy civilians moved away the moment they spotted him, some even immediately taking to the skies. If I didn't have a place to keep me grounded, a home where I could feel vaguely normal...it wouldn't have ended well for anyone, I think.
He was also scheduled to meet the interim leaders – with a lowercase L – of the Harpies' rebuilt government. Diplomacy had declined to participate, the traitorous bastard. They wanted Rob to 'train his political acumen in a low-stakes environment' and 'ingratiate himself with a fledgling administration', which were all valid points but added up to him being trapped in hours of circular conversation. Politics had been simpler when he could just impress people by killing Blights.
Before Rob submitted himself to an afternoon of mind-numbing drudgery, though...there was one more stop he needed to make.
Soon enough, he and his entourage found themselves standing in front of a barred door, marked with numerous 'KEEP OUT' and 'HERE BE DANGER' warnings. Well, Rob was standing in front of it, at least. The Harpies had backed up as far as they could.
"Is this wise, my Lord?" One of the soldiers broke their self-imposed silence. "We have strict orders to stay at a distance."
He waved a dismissive hand. "As the guy who suggested this whole setup – don't sweat it. I'm not in any danger. If they couldn't control me 30 Levels and 300 points in Mind ago, they aren't gonna manage it now."
The Harpies said nothing more as he unlocked the door and walked inside, closing it behind him.
Rob quietly strolled through a winding series of hallways. It was an important part of the prison's design. Physical distance greatly reduced the effects of Mind Magic. The Harpies had also came up with a way to deliver food and water from afar, meaning that he was the first person to enter these halls in months.
It didn't take long to reach the living quarters at the center of the prison. Dozens of inmates were located inside, separated from the outside world by bars of thickened steel. Rob brushed it aside like tissue paper, the sound of crunching metal alerting the cell's inhabitants.
"Hey." He raised a hand in greeting. They didn't return the favor – nor could they, as they possessed no hands to speak of. The prisoners were what appeared to be large floating jellyfish, each staring at him with a faceless gaze of astonishment.
The Gellin. Masters of Mind Magic. Slaves to the gods' will.
Until recently.
"Have you felt it?" he asked, gently.
They sent him emotional impressions of shock, relief, and awe. Sensations flooded Rob's mind, conjuring a mental image of having his head forcibly shoved underwater – only for the pressure to vanish, and him taking a deep breath, filling his lungs with crystal-clear air.
His mouth split into a genuine, beaming smile. This was what he'd hoped for. The gods' deaths had released the Gellin from their divine compulsions. They no longer needed to be imprisoned for fear that they would be ordered to wreak havoc with Mind Magic and sabotage.
A minuscule chance remained that they were still hidden sleeper agents, set to cause problems in the event that Kismet and his cronies perished, but Rob doubted that was the case. It didn't fit the gods' typical pattern of behavior. Those pricks had always tossed mortals aside after using them, and they'd lost interest in the Gellin after the Empress failed to mind-control Rob.
"What you're hoping is true. The gods are dead. Killed 'em myself." His voice filled with enthusiasm. You're free. You can go home now."
Rob had anticipated impressions of excitement, jubilation – maybe gratitude. Those were all there, yet he also felt a strong undercurrent of...apprehension? Sort of. It was a strange hodgepodge of emotions. Like decision paralysis combined with the terror of the unknown.
His eyes widened with understanding. The Gellin had been born with these compulsions. It was an intrinsic part of their lives. While they were ecstatic to gain their freedom, freedom represented change, and change without stability or direction was a daunting prospect.
"...Tell you what." Rob began. "You guys want to come on a sightseeing tour in Fiend territory? It'll give you time to figure things out. Should probably let the Overseers know first, but fuck it, they owe me for that PR pamphlet they distributed. I swear they're misspelling my name on purpose at this point."
The Gellin were stunned by his suggestion, every single of them emitting an aura of total surprise. Their Empress slowly drifted forward, coming to stop before Rob. After a pensive silence, she spoke to him – not with an impression of emotion, but with real words echoing in his mind.
'You have a task for us?'
"Didn't mean it like that. I just think spreading your wings will be good for you. Should look around, take inspiration from what you see, all that jazz. Who knows? Might find something that appeals to you."
'But then what?'
"Hey – it's your life." Rob grinned. "That's for you to decide."
--
"You aren't going to accept their proposal?" Chani asked.
Meyneth arched an eyebrow at her sister. "Do you believe that I should?" she asked, with a quizzical tone.
Chani paused, seemingly caught unawares by having her question answered with another question. "You are the only Dragonkin I've ever met who would even contemplate refusing."
"True," Meyneth acknowledged. "Yet I care little for the whims and predilections of other Dragonkin. They are not me, and I am not them. We hold differing values." She took a bite of her charred laryx. "Consider this perspective – what do I have to gain from accepting?"
With a grimace of distaste, Chani glared down at the charred laryx on her own plate. Two months spent in Fiend territory, and she still hadn't grown to appreciate its...unique selection of cuisine. "The benefits are plain and obvious. As the Leader of Dragonkin territory, you would attain more power than nearly anyone else in the world."
"To do what with?"
Her sister froze. "Huh?"
Meyneth took another bite. "I can see why the Dragonkin nobles wish to elevate me to the station of Leader," she said, in-between chews. "It would provide them with a Level 99 figurehead, establish diplomatic inroads to Fiend territory, and slightly lessen the combat efficacy of Riardin's Rangers."
She shook her head. "What I cannot see is the benefits I stand to gain from this. So they would make me Leader – what of it? What would I do with the power newly vested in me?"
To Chani's credit, she thought hard before answering this time. "Power...constitutes many things. Safety. Influence. The capacity to impose your will on the world. You truly want none of that?"
"I am Level 99 and a member of the strongest Party in history. That's worth more safety and influence than the backing of entire nations. Becoming Leader of Dragonkin territory would be a demotion."
Meyneth smirked. "And as for imposing my will upon the world, I shall have to decline. I possess no shortage of friends and Party members who've taken up that mantle. Personally, I am quite content with my present state of affairs. It leaves me free to explore avenues and hobbies that are unrelated to combat. The position of Leader would grant me nothing that I desire."
"...You'd...get a castle?"
"I prefer cozier domiciles." Meyneth frowned. "Besides – can you imagine having to corral the nobles day in and day out? Bunch of headless chickens. I'd rather submerge my head in acid than listen to their complaints and petty power plays for centuries to follow."
Chani laughed. "I've met some of them, and they aren't that bad," she protested, although without much energy.
Meyneth arched both eyebrows this time. "Then why has their interim leader sent multiple letters begging that I usurp his position, each more desperate than the last?"
"Poor sod," Chani muttered. "I don't envy him."
"That is what I've been saying, yes."
They exchanged wry smiles. Chani had likely been swayed by Meyneth's points already, but she'd adopted the role of what Rob called 'Devil's Advocate'. It was surprising how enjoyable a debate could be when there was no heat to their arguments.
As her sister looked back down at her plate of food, working up the nerve to delve into it again, Meyneth took a moment to marvel over her circumstances. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in the same room with a blood relative who didn't detest her – not before Chani started residing in Fiend territory. The feeling was...novel. Pleasant.
Something she wouldn't mind getting used to.
It had taken weeks since returning from the Deadlands for Meyneth to realize that Chani wasn't going back to Dragonkin territory. When Riardin's Rangers offered her a place to stay as thanks for saving Meyneth's life during Ragnavi's betrayal, in truth, they hadn't really thought she would take them up on it. Certainly not for this long, at any rate.
Their confusion only rose as the political landscape developed in what it was currently. Now that Riardin's Rangers were the most important people in the world, Chani's status as Meyneth's sister would have guaranteed her a position of unassailable influence in the Dragonkin courts. Fame and fortune beyond her wildest dreams were but one Teleportation Crystal away.
Yet despite Chani's initial gripes about Fiend territory, and despite the prestige that awaited her in their native homeland...here she sat, doggedly attempting to find the flavor in a local dish that she'd described as tasting like burnt wood chips.
Meyneth hadn't the faintest idea why, but she wasn't going to complain.
A knock on the door dispelled her ruminations. "Enter," she said.
The door creaked open, and a smile automatically spread across her face when Vul'to stepped inside. His gait was stable and steady, the Elf having adjusted to his original body with aplomb, as if he'd never left it. He seemed much more joyful nowadays, like an inner peace had been returned to him.
"Good tidings, Meyneth," Vul'to warmly greeted. He held up a letter of sealed parchment. "I have come bearing a missive for you."
"Is it from the interim Dragonkin leader?"
"Yes, actually. How did you know?"
Meyneth ignored her sister snorting with laughter, and then choking on her food. "Through a basic application of pattern recognition," she answered. "I suppose he thinks that fourth time's the charm."
Vul'to hesitated. "You've already decided to refuse?"
"Decided before you walked in the door."
The Elf lowered his hand, the parchment crumpling in his tightening grip. "Meyneth...if you don't mind, could I speak to you alone?"
After excusing Chani from the room – and dislodging the charred laryx from within her esophagus – Vul'to sat down in front of Meyneth. "I just want to make sure," he began, in a voice that was soft yet firm. "Is becoming Leader of Dragonkin territory something you privately desire? It would be unfair if you held back for our sakes when–"
"No," she flatly stated.
"But–"
"Please don't force me to reiterate the conversation I had with Chani. I assure you, Vul'to, that I am precisely where I want to be."
His posture slackened. "That's wonderful to hear." The Elf's mouth broadened into a smile. "Is it because Chani is staying as well? You finally have the chance to live with family. Family that's worthy of you, I mean."
"What are you talking about?" Meyneth queried, sounding genuinely confused. "I've been living with family for close to a year now."