On that very day, after a long night of partying that ironically felt far too short, we all tried to make the most of our time together, catching up on everything we had missed. Eventually, though, everyone departed for their respective destinations. White and Honey left for the land of men, Lucy and his twin demoness companions returned to the underworld, along with the Ferron Patriarch, whose capital was in the same direction. Aquaflora and Licht departed for their respective new capitals, each now a Patriarch and Matriarch. Even Veuilleuse-19 was gone, heading to the Ferron capital to receive the healing she needed.
And so, I found myself alone in the Umbryan capital—my capital, as it could now be called, for in that moment, the ancestral tree that served as the city's barrier was effectively mine.
It’s been a few months since that day. Most of my time has been spent poring over the remnants of what my predecessor left behind in his castle. Books, countless books, very different from what had been available to me in the land of men.
These texts covered a variety of subjects, but I was drawn most to the history books. Not because I had a particular love for history—far from it—but because they were among the few elven-written works that weren’t abstract poetry, fanciful calligraphy, or bestiaries.
Thing is that most of the books in that library were written by humans. Only about a tenth of the collection bore elven authorship, and an even smaller percentage of those were historical texts. Yet, that small collection held enough content to keep me engaged. And entertained—because, as it turned out, elves have a unique way of writing, even about something like history, where a certain degree of neutrality is typically expected. Whoever the authors of these books were, neutrality wasn’t part of their repertoire.
Their contempt for other families bled through every line. One could almost feel the disdain radiating from the pages whenever the author wrote about a family not their own. This made for an amusing reading experience, especially since each book came from a different author, aligned with a different family.
Diving into one text was like immersing oneself in the grandeur and authority of one family, only to step into another book and be bathed in equally palpable scorn directed right back at the previous one. It was a cycle of ego-stroking and contempt, perfectly preserved in ink and parchment, and I found myself oddly enthralled by it.
Putting aside the authors' biases, I learned some fascinating information about Quel’thalas, specifically about the elven monarchs who, across the millennia, tried to rule their own corners of the continent.
There were many of them throughout elven history—perhaps not in this last half-millennium, but in the earliest recorded days, numerous elven monarchs sought to establish their own domains with their families. For each monarch mentioned, the outcome was always the same: usurpation by someone stronger and the thorough extermination of their family.
One has to say that genocide has been an inseparable part of elven history. Or at the very least, it was.
The closer I got to the present in my reading, the fewer such genocides appeared. The explanation was rather simple: with the emergence of more ancestral trees—most under the control of a select few elven monarchs—there were fewer and fewer souls brave enough to manifest an ancestral tree of their own and found a family. In other words, there were simply fewer families to be exterminated. Today, a peculiar balance has been reached. There are no families left to annihilate, and no one is suicidal enough to try founding one, knowing what their fate would likely be.
After about a month, I finished reading all the available history books. I tried diving into the other texts, but none captured my attention as the history books had. I briefly considered rereading them, but my good memory turned out to be more of a curse than a blessing in this case. With every detail still fresh in my mind, rereading felt redundant. So, I had to find a new hobby altogether.
Eventually, I found one: exploring my capital. It was something Honey, Aquaflora, and I used to do when we were still trying to convince the Umbryan capital to accept our offer. It was a little lonely to do that on my own, but it was a distracting enough activity. There were large corners of the city I had technically “yet” to visit, so for the past few weeks, I made it my routine to walk the streets of my capital.
I dressed in an outfit that I believed would grant me the most discretion, which in this particular instance, involved something that would hide the feature that would immediately give my cover away—namely, my face and the length of my ears—without being too conspicuous, as that would give me away. Circumstances were different now; I couldn't afford to walk into the streets as I did back then with Honey and Aquaflora—at least, not without consequence.
If I were to be recognized now, I would immediately be flocked by elves bowing in reverence. The first time it happened, I believed it was because of my new status as the holder of the Obsidial Tree. But then I remembered—these people are clueless about these latest developments.
Yes, the entire Umbryan population is unaware that their beloved Patriarch is no more. Thanks to Lucy, he’s been usurped without making much of a fuss. They most likely sensed that something has changed, but ultimately, I don't think they know that I'm the one who manifested the ancestral tree that serves as both a barrier and something more. They know me and worship me for another reason altogether—because they recognize me as their savior, or the Binding Queen, as I heard some of them call me in reverence.
I sat on a corner of a plaza built around a well. I liked the spot. I found it melancholic. It reminded me of the Path of Convergence in the portuary city of Miriandelle.
"Savior, huh?" I mused, my voice barely above a whisper. "I wonder if they would still think of me as their savior if they knew the truth? Surely not—they’d definitely hate me with all their soul."
I stood there, rooted in my spot as people came and went, drawing water from the well. After a while, feeling a bit parched, I decided to quench my thirst. Leaning over the well, I drew up a bucket and took a deep sip. That’s when I noticed—out of the corner of my eye—a presence that didn’t initially register. But after a couple of seconds, it hit me, and I almost choked on my water.
"You’re alright, miss?" asked the man standing nearby. There was nothing particularly special about him—at least, that’s what I thought at first. But as memories flooded back, I recognized the man.
My heart pounded in my chest like I’d been startled, but I quickly pulled myself together. "I’m alright," I replied, wiping my mouth. "But one of these days, I’m going to inadvertently assault you again."
"What might you be talking about, miss?" he responded, feigning ignorance.
"I already figured it out, so spare me the act." I narrowed my eyes at him.
The man kept pretending for a moment longer, but soon enough, he gave up the act, a devious smile curling on his lips.
"You think I’m joking, but next time you pop up on me, I might really unintentionally attack you. And you better not blame me for that."
He chuckled dryly, raising his cane slightly before bringing it down against his foot with a soft tap. "Since you wanted me to stop pretending, let’s not pretend that if you ever do that, it won’t be because of the surprise, but rather because you want to."
"And why would I want to do that?"
"I don’t know. I’ve always been very harmless to you, yet somehow I feel like you want to kill me."
"Harmless, huh?"
"Name one thing I’ve ever done against you."
I looked him straight in the eyes, and though I knew it was dangerous to confront someone like him, I said, "You killed Veilleuse, and you’re always creeping around like a venomous snake."
For years, I’d gone on with my life thinking that my first-ever steed—the one I’d stolen from the Weiß stable—Veilleuse, had been killed in retaliation, or perhaps out of pure malice, by the bandits who came back to collect their due in that small village. But after slaughtering them, I never got a confession, which made me question if it had really been them.
I remembered hallucinating seeing this man back then, but for a time, I chose to ignore that detail. However, as I met him again and pieced together where I’d seen him the first and second times, it became clear: he was the one who killed Veilleuse, not the bandits.
As if amused by the accusation, he defended himself with a casual shrug. "First of all, I didn’t kill your horse. What point would there be for me in doing that? None, considering what I am, right? The one who did kill your horse, however, was the one I usurped back then. He wanted your help since you seemed capable of dealing with his village’s little problem, and the only way he could think of to get your attention was to kill your horse and blame it on the bandits. So he did."
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
He paused, then added, "As for me creeping up on you—I don’t do it on purpose. Though I admit, you and I have crossed paths more than once."
"So you’re saying it’s just coincidence?"
"Yes."
"So was it coincidence that the Argyrian Patriarch was so intent on finding the wielder of [Rule and Overrule]?"
This was my sevehth interaction with him. The first had been when he posed as the village elder. The second time, we met on the grand steps leading to the local Býg'mæk temple of the city of Ashhold, right after he’d finished asking for directions from Dungeon Master 09, posing as a random old man. I’d had many similar experiences over the years where he appeared like a ghost, always with the same face. Yet, somehow, my brain never associated him with any prior memory. Worst of all, I’d immediately forget about the encounter once it was over which is weird since forgetting isn’t something I ever do.
The last time, when this random man with a cane popped up on me, I finally realized I’d seen him seven times before. I acted on my immediate, most primal instincts and came to realize that I was dealing with something far beyond what I was used to.
"You’re thinking it was I who sent the Argyrian Patriarch after that authority wielder?"
Goblin and I had once discussed how suspicious the timing and circumstances were around the Argyrian Patriarch's interference in his mission to recover the authority.
It was clear the Patriarch was after something specific, something he believed was in the possession of the little boy—the very boy Goblin and the others had only recently managed to tame. That boy became the Patriarch's first victim. Yet, ironically, if the Authority truly was his aim, it was no longer in the boy’s possession. Goblin, Charlie, Blondie, and Bortz had already seized it from its very unstable wielder, and using it, they attempted to put down the Patriarch—an attempt that resulted in the sacrifice of Frank and Charlie and left the Argyrian Patriarch in a maddened state.
Back when I talked to Goblin about how suspicious the overall timing was, I didn’t remember "his" existence. I couldn’t connect "him" to the incident. Now, with my memories restored, I have no doubt—he is my prime suspect.
Staring practically into my soul, the man smiled. "Alright, I guess I owe you that much for the trouble. Yes, you're right. 'I' – and by 'I' I don't mean the one whose identity I currently usurped, but me as an entity – sent the Patriarch after him."
Apprehensively, I asked, "You wanted him to acquire the authority?"
"Was I not believable enough last time when I told you that I have nothing to compete against you and your kin? He shook his head, then sighed. "Trust me or not, I did not send him to recover the authority—at least, that wasn’t my goal when sending the argyrian patriarch over there. I sent him to get rid of someone I believed had to go. The clash between your people and him over authority was just an unfortunate turn of events."
At these words, I winced then with even more apprehension, I asked, confused, "You wanted him to kill the child? Why?"
"I can certainly answer that, but would you believe my response? Because it’s a very unconvincing answer, I have to concede that myself."
"I'll do my best to believe you..."
"Well, then..." he announced, before telling me, eyes staring deep into my soul, "I just believed he’d been through enough. I felt pity for him, so I thought, out of pure goodwill, why not put an end to his misery? He’s been through a lot—first dying so young, so innocent, before getting to experience anything worthy. Then being sent to that place—I believe your kind call it hell—only to be thrust into this alien world with a power he only had the vaguest concept of use of. That’s enough to break the toughest of minds. For something as fragile as his, I couldn’t help but feel... what’s it called again? Empathy."
"Empathy," I echoed.
I was no saint. I was aware that, to most, I seemed to be withdrawn from aspects of humanity that defined being humane, such as empathy. To the common people, I was somewhat alien, and they were right to think so. But right now, I felt like I was the mundane one facing the alien. I’d always felt that in his presence. The fact that he could mess with my memory and senses was plenty of reason to see him as alien. But listening to him talk about his own version of empathy—speaking of this advanced knowledge as if it were common—made me wonder just how much more he knew.
"Just what are you?" I asked.
One thing was obvious about him—he wasn’t an entity recognized by the system. Most likely because he didn’t operate through the system like authorities do. Proof of that lay in an encounter less than a hundred years ago when I was still active in the underworld. I stumbled upon him and actually remembered him. My reaction was violent. Thinking back, it could’ve cost much more than it was worth, but it allowed me to establish the reality that this—whatever he actually is—is not something to mess with. And I don’t say that in the same way monarchs are not to be messed with. Against monarchs, I still have my pride. When facing him, all semblance of pride is curbed. There’s only pretense left for me.
Seeing him leave my question unanswered, I probed further. "Are you something like K.R.U.L?"
We’d had our interactions with divinity—nothing like the divine the monarchs of this world claim to be. True divinity. That interaction came through Mighty K.R.U.L.
"Me?" he said, amused. "No. What an abundant imagination you have there. But no, I’m not something like K.R.U.L—or as you and your kin call him, Mighty K.R.U.L."
Tsk. He knows even that! Only us Dungeon Masters refer to him that way. Just what in this world does he not know?
"Are you a god?"
"What’s next? Are you going to ask me if I’m the Goddess you and your kin venerate?"
"I do not know much about her, but I do know that she's not you. She can't be you."
"That much is obvious. I may represent a lot, but I have nothing of an entity representing corruption," he said, stepping aside to allow two female elves to draw water from the well.
It was like they'd been put under a spell—they didn’t seem to notice the obvious. They saw my face and simply proceeded as if nothing was out of the ordinary. They saw his face—far more atypical than mine—with silver hair and uncharacteristically blue eyes for an Umbryan elf. Moreover, he was dressed in a style that reminded me of the Ferron Patriarch’s fashion—an outfit that stuck out like a sore thumb. Yet, like they'd just seen fellow Umbryan elves, they drew their water and left, leaving me alone with him once again.
He added, "Come on, don't look at me like that. I didn’t answer your question for your own sake. I have no satisfying way to explain to you what I am. It’s best for you to just think of me as... an alien."
"An alien..."
"Yes, something beyond comprehension. He pointed at me, "—your comprehension. So really, no point in explaining something you can't understand, right? Let's do this instead: make peace with it, and I'll answer another of your questions, whatever it is, so long as I have the answer."
"In exchange for what?"
"Nothing. This is just me trying to reward you for your hard work here in Quel'thalas. You know, I really felt bad for Charlie and Frank. They didn’t deserve what happened to them, so I want to right that wrong with an answer to the question of your choice."
While I wanted to believe that, for I firmly believe that for something like him, there was no point in lying. But playing tricks… I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something fishy about his sudden benevolence. And, fairly enough, it didn’t take me long to figure out what it was.
"The answer you're going to give me… I'm not going to remember it, am I?"
That's how it’s always been with him. There was no reason to think it would be any different this time.
"I'm not even going to remember you exist."
"Such is my nature," he said, with a hint of mischief. "But I'm willing to make an exception, though it won’t be free—at least not entirely."
"What do you me—want?"
"Just to make a bet with you."
"A bet..."
"What you want to ask me, you want to share with your kin, right? It's pointless if you just learn and almost immediately forget about it. So here's what I propose: you take my bet, you ask me your question, and I give you your answer. You will forget about the answer, but if I win the bet, I’ll allow you to remember my answer—and, by extension, my existence. If I lose, well, you're never going to remember my answer."
The way he voiced the terms was very concerning. "What exactly are we betting on here?"
A devious smile spread across his face. "Your defeat or victory."
My defeat or victory… against who? The answer came naturally—against Cleon.
My frown deepened as I realized what the true terms were. "So you lose if I win against Cleon, and you win if I lose against Cleon. That's the deal, right?"
He nodded.
Reasonably displeased by those terms, I contested, "Those terms guarantee me a loss no matter how you look at it. I'm going to win against Cleon, but your terms guarantee that I'll never remem—" I stopped mid sentence as a realization struck me.
"So much confidence. Are you that certain of your victory already?"
I barely registered his last sentence, for I just came to the realization that this bet is going to be fought by a clueless version.
From the smile he conjured, it seemed that the bet was indeed going to be battled the way I figured it was going to be fought. By a version of me unaware of the stakes at hand. That meant, regardless of the decision I made here, the outcome couldn’t be manipulated to make him win or lose. That’s assuming, of course, that the answer he was going to give me was even worth considering letting him win—because letting him win would literally mean allowing myself to die against Cleon.
"Can we discuss the terms of the bet?"
He shook his head. "We can discuss withdrawal."
"Does withdrawal mean that you won't answer any question?"
"What do you think it mean?"
I sighed heavily, thinking about my next course of action. I could either accept the bet or withdraw. But withdrawing would give me no reward, as I wouldn’t learn anything and would forget everything once he left. The former option would guarantee me an answer to my question, even if I forgot it almost immediately after.
From here on out, the question was whether or not I’d be able to access that answer again and make use of it. But as I’d come to realize earlier, the outcome wasn’t something a clued version of me would have control over.
After a dozen or so seconds of contemplation, I made my decision. "I take the bet."
"I expected that from the first-ever person to remember my true face." Smiling, he added, "I hope I win this bet. I really want you to remember me. Each moment I share with someone is like grains of sand slipping through their hands—there for an instant, then gone, leaving no trace behind. It's a little lonely, you know."
"Is that the kindest way you found to put it—that you want to see me lose?"
"I was only trying to appeal to your empathy, but well, I suppose yes. Anyway, since you agreed, I suppose it’s time for me to answer your question. So, what will it be, Dungeon Master 08?"