Turn Away

I will never apologise for victory, no matter the means. Even so…

I watched as the grey man reached out into the street, long fingers closing around a woman’s throat and instantly spreading the Blight to her. She didn’t even have time to scream before her whole head was consumed by the spreading grey and she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. A few moments later her grey body began to rise again, her killer having already moved on.

Human Peasant Destruction Caused +36 Exp

You cannot level up until you evolve.

…Nope, seems releasing an extraordinarily lethal, sapient plague that destroys the souls of its victims before puppeting their corpses into hideous mockeries of life used to further spread itself was a brilliant idea!

I sprinted in the opposite direction as quickly as possible, paying close attention to each notification of my having caused the destruction of random civilians and the occasional soldier; each notification gave much, much less experience than I imagined a human should. While a few dozen points is quite a bit for me, I get the feeling I’m getting less points for causing death by proxy than I would for killing myself.

Even as I darted between piles of garbage in filth encrusted alleys, I couldn’t help but ponder this new facet of the system. At what point do you stop getting credit for deaths that are arguably your fault? I presume a general would get credit for ordering his men to kill, but would he get credit for sending them to their deaths? Does a king get credit for ordering the general to order his men to kill? Does a blacksmith get credit for those who kill with a blade he forged? Does an engineer get credit if a building he creates collapses under its own weight or due to someone else’s actions?

I already know shrapnel from an attack counts as part of the attack, but what if I blow up a building and a month later an uncollapsed bit falls and crushes someone? If you plant a tree that later gets chopped down and used to impale someone, do you get credit for creating the wood for the stake? Where does this end? What degree of separation is a step too far?

It made sense when it was Blight directly from me, but would it eventually become too separated? If you shoot someone with a gun, few would argue that it wasn't you that killed them; but if you set a gun on the side of the road and someone uses it to kill? Technically, that murder couldn't have been done like that without you leaving the gun; even so, few would claim you killed them. If this infection swallowed the whole city, would I get credit for it? What if someone ventured into the Blighted ruins and got infected, would I get credit for that too?

If I nuked a city and someone died of radiation poisoning or cancer fifty years later because of the fallout, would I still get credit?

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the spiralling thoughts before I descended into incoherence or got myself killed from distraction. I had only the knowledge that apparently those killed by the byproducts of the Blight I released gave me partial credit, even though said byproducts were separate creatures not acting directly on my behalf. That’s not nearly enough information to create a working theory. All I'm doing is circling the same question in different words: what degree of separation from a death one arguably caused will be too far to get credit? Perhaps even more simply, what does and does not count as a kill for the system?

I have no answer for that, and I can't find one without further experimentation or finding pre-existing studies; neither of which I can look into now.

My distracted thoughts nearly led me to walk straight into danger as the sound of panicked screams and truncated gurgles behind me faded into the sounds of blades clashing in front of me. I slowed to a crawl, wrapping myself in the shadows of dilapidated walls as I peered around a corner.

The place was slimy and reeked of poverty and despair; garbage and general debris were scattered about every open space, trash fires were being used to cook vermin and at least one suspiciously humanoid hunk of meat, and crudely made and often torn up tents were lining walls stained by smog and grime. The residents within said tents were simply huddling to themselves and pointedly ignoring the large group of hoodlums trying to murder each other with an eclectic collection of kitchen knives and crude, cleaver like blades.

So engrossed in their vicious battle were these filth encrusted youths that they didn't even seem to notice or care about the sounds of catastrophe on the wind. One of the few adults amongst the squabbling thugs, a goliath of a man with an oddly ornate patch over one eye and a beautifully crafted halberd, cleaved the head from a ganger that couldn't have been older than thirteen with a contemptuous sneer. He turned to one of the older thugs and barked an order at him that I couldn't hear over the din of the melee.

While most of this sorry lot were barely into their teens, this apparent leader was seemingly in his forties, his single green eye burning out from his pale face as he ran a gloved hand through short-cropped brown hair. He batted aside an opportunistic strike from one of the many destitute youths that got through his own small army of idiot punks,, deflecting the cleaver-like blade aside effortlessly with one hand. His free hand almost completely encircled the kid's head before the muscles in his arm bulged and he crushed his skull between his fingers.

A closer look showed the ruffians on his side of this little engagement were marginally better off, their clothes somewhat less ragged, their skin slightly cleaner, and their weapons displaying visibly better upkeep. Normally, I would be mildly interested about the history and nature of some street gangs; however, given this whole area was likely going to be swallowed by the oncoming Blight, I hardly cared.

I noted their respective symbols on the off chance they'd survive and be potentially useful or dangerous in the future, then slipped between some tents and continued searching for somewhere to sleep and evolve. I did think the symbol of an emerald talon emblazoned on the back of that gang leader's golden jacket stood out much more than the ragged, mauve coloured snake banners his rivals waved about.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Still, one gang of thugs is hardly different from any other; especially when faced with complete annihilation.

----------------------------------------

Zildan's eyes snapped open and he immediately knew something was very, very wrong.

It had taken him far longer than it probably should have to recognize that something wasn’t right in this city. As an apprentice field agent, he had mostly been following his master in retaking locations lost utterly to the Blight; thus, the sight of the ineffable greyness creeping over the land and swallowing everything was totally normal to him.

He had forgotten that such behavior was only present in late stage Blight infection, something that should not be possible in a city that was still inhabited and mostly uncorrupted. Blight spreading to soulless matter outside the presence of aetherium was unheard of.

Aetherium doesn’t spontaneously form with such a small concentration of Blighted. Studies into the exact method Aetherium towers were created by thus far had either been entirely unsuccessful or kept secret by those stuffy bastards of the Order Of The Grey Hand. Were it up to him, those bloody cultists would be wiped out like the scum they are, but the Grandmaster had made an agreement with them. He knew the Grandmaster was a wise man, if he said those freaks were currently necessary, then he would stay his blade.

For now.

He pushed himself up with a hand, shaking off thoughts of the rival Order and back onto his present issues. The only thing he knew about aetherium was that it seemed to form spontaneously when the Blighted formed in large enough numbers and it allowed raw Blight to infect inorganic and soulless materials. Organic terraforming, he had heard his master say the Grandmaster had called it; all he cared was that it made retaking territory that had fallen to the Blight nigh impossible. You can burn it away, but that material is forever lost.

He had personally seen the Grandmaster destroy an entire Blighted mountain to purge the land of a massive Blight infection; thousands of tons of ore and stone, one hundred kilometers of earth, innumerable Blighted, and dozens of nearby villages suspected of infection, all turned to ash with a systematic ruthlessness that made even the psychopaths running the Great Nations shudder.

The Grandmaster didn’t even blink when he gave the command; it was their Order’s greatest duty to purge the Blight wherever it can be found, no matter the cost.

Zildan pushed himself until he was sitting on the edge of the gurney he awoke on, feeling the numb chill of that blasted mask fading from his limbs as he took deep, slow breaths. He should have seen it when he first arrived, when he saw the Blight spreading through the lake water; if there’s aetherium somewhere down in that madman’s demented lab, then things were about to get much, much worse for this city. He attempted to slap himself only for him to remember he was missing an arm when it failed to connect.

Sending a glance at where his arm should have been, he pushed himself to his feet. Taking a few unsteady steps before he adjusted to his altered center of balance, he nearly fell over when a fake cough from behind startled him.

He sent an angry glare at the man he hesitated to call a doctor. He had the proper class and skills to be counted as such, yet his evident lack of formalized training and scruples, not to mention his title literally being “Back Alley Surgeon,” told a rather unsavory story. Besides, a level twenty doctor told a grim tale in and of itself.

Successful doctors don’t tend to rack up enough kills to get such a high level.

While the butcher’s flinch was gratifying, it also reminded him he wasn’t wearing his mask at present; he had grown so used to the protective covering hiding his expressions that he had forgotten what it was like to have his face seen. More importantly, being without his uniform was not just rampantly unsafe, but totally against regulations!

His master would flay him alive if he found out he spent any amount of time in a Blighted infested city with his bare flesh exposed!

His panicking only increased when he realised the familiar burning sensation of his finely woven infernium uniform was missing. Damn thing felt like acid on his skin and whispered poison into his thoughts, but it was a damn sight better than getting his soul obliterated by the Blight!

Before he could descend into a full blown panic attack, the “doctor” cleared his throat. He began speaking as soon as he saw the Crow’s purple eyes lock on him, “Yer outfit was torn ta shite and covered in pus, gristle and things I dinnae wanna think about. Were up ta me, I’da burnt da fucka, but you Crows a’e obssessed wi’ da shite so I’s put it in da wash.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, the blood soaked digit pointing at a small coffee table seemingly repurposed into a surgical tray, “Yer mask’s sittin’ ova’ dere.”

The cretin’s speech pattern made sparks dance in Zildan’s palm, but he repressed the urge to set the cur on fire; his duty was to purge sickness, not ignorance. Besides, setting nominal allies on fire for minor annoyances was how his Order got kicked out of Zerghast.

Of course, Zerghast fell to the walking rot less than six years later without the Crows there to protect them, but his personal vindication wasn’t relevant.

Grunting at the “doctor”, the actual plague doctor moved just slightly faster than a normal walk to reach his helmet. As desperate as he was, he didn’t want to sprint; showing weakness, even in front of someone who had literally shoved his guts back in and sowed him up, was anathema to him.

A trembling hand grasped the beak shaped mask, sending an irritated glance at the cracked goggles before pushing his black hair back and sliding it on. The familiar burning sensation of infernium on flesh was almost as comforting as his first breath of blessedly filtered air.

It's truly amazing what one can draw comfort from, if given enough time to attach themselves to it. He was one of few amongst the Order that had opted not to line his suit with silk for comfort; after he accidentally set himself on fire in his early days, he had rather firmly decided the harmless discomfort was far better than third degree burns over forty percent of his body. Initially he couldn't stand to directly touch Infernium, even for a brief time; ten years of wearing it nonstop had changed that however, and he now felt a deep sense of unease without its burning touch.

Not to mention the soothing taste of magically filtered air; normal air almost made him nauseous after breathing the bitter purity of the filtered stuff for a decade.

He would need to get the glasses fixed when he returned to headquarters, no one out here had the expertise to repair or craft infernium glass. Still, he could see well enough to fight and that was good enough for now. He sent a glare over his shoulder at the surgeon that had likely saved his life, “Is my uniform in functional condition?”

The bone cutter grunted, "Well, I s'pose tha' depends on yer def'nitions o' "func-shun-al". Ya could cer'ly put 'em on ya, but they's burnt ta shite and torn ta ribbons. Not ta mention the missin' arm, but I don't s'pose that's matters none."

A frown spread across Zildan’s face, “I presume it’s intact enough to still qualify as clothing rather than rags?” He could work with torn clothes, every member of the Order was required to carry infernium thread and learn basic sewing in case field repairs were required; too many agents had been lost to avoidable attrition because they didn’t have access to proper repairs before they implemented that training. If the clothes were intact enough, he could stitch them up into something at least mostly functional.

The surgeon shrugged, “Were up ta me dey’d be scrap, but I s’pose you could tek-nee-cally call ‘em “clothes” ifin we’re bein’ mighty generous.”

It would have to be good enough, considering the sheer amount of Blight he could sense, he didn’t have time to be picky. He sent a glance to the alley doctor, “Point me towards this “wash”, then get yourself out of here; this place will either be on fire or drowning in Blight sooner than later.” Normally, it wasn’t his job to get civilians out alive, too much risk of an unseen infection getting out through them; still, he would never let it be said that he was an ungrateful man.

He ignored the frantic scrambling he could hear behind him as he looked around, the doctor having abandoned all pretense of civility when he heard of the imminent existential threat and not even attempting to point out where he had put the Crow’s uniform in his haste to be anywhere but here. In his blind panic he ran full tilt into the door, knocking himself out cold with a wet crunch.

A sigh slipped between the plague doctor’s teeth, why could no one outside the Order handle panic? One little existential threat and everyone loses all sense, often doing more to ensure their demise than even the disease!

By the flame, he missed purging devastated ruins; at least they tended to be devoid of panicking idiots.