He didn't know what this 'other way' was. But Abe had been adamant, and refused to see reason. Tyr would labor to see it not so, but he knew he'd have to do it eventually. The not so faceless men continued their suicidal charge, but their corpses remained after death this time. Returning based on his observation with new bodies. Content to fill all the trenches and earthen defenses with their corpses. Armor, weapons, and all. Tyr was part of the team of fire elementalists dedicated to dragging the corpses free and cremating them when Daito approached. A black masked and robed figure following at his side.
Tyr glared at the feminine figure. “That's...”
“You?” She chuckled. “Sure am. I'd give you a gold star, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out.”
“Don't be an asshole.” He replied.
“I'm you. If that is the case, we're both assholes.”
“I don't think the mechanics of this multiverse of yours support that logic.”
“Tyr.” Daito coughed. “Well... You're acquainted. Baby Tyr, this is my Tyr. She is the love of my life and my most cherished friend. I'd expect you two to get along, perhaps help one another.”
“Baby Tyr...?” Tyr's mouth soured, looking on as the woman removed her mask. She looked so much like his mother that he found it hard to speak. “Wait... I thought you were into...?”
“Men?” Daito's mouth split into a bright grin. “I sure do. But I'm fluid, young man, life is so dull if we constrain ourselves to one option when there are so many available.”
“Well, that's confusing. When you say your Tyr...” Tyr paused. The actual Tyr. Well, they were both real, technically. Well, not technically, they were literally real – but he supposed it could also be technically real? Right? Uh... “What am I?”
Tyr. The woman Tyr, despite the fact that they looked as twins except the angle of their eyebrows and shape of their jawline. It was really perplexing, the kind of mental strain that Tyr disliked the most. Tyr, like the actual Tyr that was also male, and a guy, and the actual Tyr. Uh... Anyways... She spoke, the female version of himself... “Don't let it bother you. This happens all the time. I've met over a hundred versions of myself, and yourself, obviously.”
“...Okay.” Tyr... The actual... You know what? Forget it. “Do you need something?”
“Well, I was determined to rub all of this in your face, since you should have stopped them all from entering what as so obviously a trap. But I suppose I'll settle for helping you get out of this mess. We all will.” She replied.
...All?
“Oui monsieur.” That one had a thin black mustache, contrasting oddly with his white hair, pencil thin and dressed in a tuxedo for some reason.
“Yo.” Pretty similar to Tyr himself, with tattoos covering his neck and metallic rings buried in his flesh. Wearing some kind of baggy hooded sweater. The primary difference was the brightly colored hair.
“Howdy.”
“Okay, yeah. I get it, there are a lot of version of me just strutting about space like it's another day. They all have cliché stereotype character quirks to separate one another, like the guy in the wide brimmed hat – very cool. Are you strong? Can you fight?” Tyr asked. The... Yeah, he definitely wasn't about to do this.
“Of course.” The one with the bright hair replied. “That's all we ever do. Always and forever, it is our given purpose until such a time comes where we are called to a specific world. Even then, we still keep fighting – for the most part. Depends on the world, I come from a LitRPG universe, but Tyre over there was a sentient AI construct born from a VRMMO until he was gifted a mortal body. Then you have Lucas, who comes from some contrived cyberpunk garbage IP that nobody can make heads or tails of, a very bizarre technology level. Like... They'd got laser swords and shit but apparently nobody has invented a computer, and all of their music is garbage techno. I was just kind of chilling one day and got hit by a truck, now I'm here – but I also come from a steampunk LitRPG, we have metal aircraft and giant mecha suits but we were all still using flintlock firearms for some reason. G over there comes from a cartoon world of some kind that was invaded by sapient radishes, that sort of thing...”
“That sort of thing...” Tyr repeated the words, squinting through the migraine. What the fuck was a LitRPG?
“I get it man.” Nose-ring replied with an understanding nod. His eccentric appearance at odds with what appeared to be a rather normal personality. “I really do.”
“Why can we all exist here, but not back on my world?” Tyr asked.
“That's an odd question. What's the technology level of your civilization on the Kardashev scale?” The woman asked. Of them all, there were only one woman, apparently the gods didn't give much thought to gender equality.
“...What.” Tyr had no idea what that was, but apparently Daito did.
“They are a type-0 mana capable.” He said. “Terrestrial bound, only a few of them have gone beyond but since this world is in a quarantine status... Well, you know. Their science is magic and for the most part vice versa. Many still believe the existence of microbial organisms is a myth, and think the world is flat. Not even close to approaching type-1.”
“Seriously...?” She coughed politely before turning back to the younger and even more irascible version of herself. But... Not the worst. “Okay, so... I'm not going to explain the specifics to you. This is an astral rift, which means it's not a part of what you might consider 'governed reality'. It exists outside the linear expansion of space and time. We can exist here together, but not on one single world. Apparently there's only enough room for one Tyr on a single world. Never tested the theory, but that's the gist of it, its the same with all individual nim.”
“Okay.” Tyr said. “Then who the hell is that guy?” He pointed at a man that seemed to be more machine than human, with a plate of steel on his skull blinking with blue lights. They did not look alike in the slightest, unlike most of the others. He'd begun nicknaming them in his head. There was bucket-hat Tyr, butler Tyr, nose ring Tyr, lady Tyr...
“That's dystopian space opera Tyr, you could call him grimdark Tyr but there are a lot of those.” She mused with a shrug. “I get it. It's a weird aesthetic. Don't ask, he punches things real hard and does everything I say, unlike most of the others. Anyways...”
They'd help fight, but they could only do their best, and most of them were around a 'class-7' existence, whatever that meant. For reference, a primus was a 'class-S+'. Something beyond fifteen points on the scale. Lady Tyr was a class-10, the strongest of them all and the reason they'd all been made to behave when in one single group. For a further reference, 'Hjemland Tyr' was a class-4 bordering a class-5. Like all men, or women he supposed, they were incredibly obsessed with their 'power levels'. A class-5 was a threat to a city block, a class-10 to a country, and a S-class of 15+ superseded that. Maybe a continent, maybe more – though Tyr doubted Jartor could destroy a continent. Lady Tyr explained that it was incredibly inconsistent, and like the spira, it wasn't something so contrived as a power indicative source of energy. Spira was a living things right to exist, their bond with the world, it didn't translate directly to strength.
They existed as a force without homes of their own any longer, but not having the fortune of dying when they were destroyed. Patrolling astral spaces and seeing to various tasks alongside other nephilim. Of which, Tyr was not the only one. There were countless billions of them, maybe more.
Needless to say, his head was spinning by the time they broke huddle and equipped themselves identically. All of them wearing the same, single horned armor left to him by his mother. Which he supposed wasn't the strangest thing he'd ever seen considering the rapid escalation of literary contrivances. Apparently, they'd been here the entire time just... Hanging out. Waiting for the conduit to change. If it landed on a world with no Tyr, they'd roll some dice and send one on their way. If there was a Tyr, they'd either cross bridges to a new astral space or just stay and wait around. Only acting because of the incredible amount of lives that were at risk. Not out of selflessness though, but out of need. Things would be bad if all of these people up and died while they were in the space, or so she'd claimed.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Oi!” Tyr called after them. “Don't go putting any horns on my helmet! I don't care what 'class' you think you are!”
“What is he talking about?” One of them asked. He liked the look, could use with a bit more clanking or steam at the joints but it worked well enough. Skinsuits were very common in the multiverse and it was necessary that they retain as little individuality as possible so as not to alert the tribals to the existence of alternate dimensions where unnecessary.
“I think he's afraid we're going to cuckold him. It was an old saying in medieval times, I think?”
“Ah, the old 'green hat' shtick.”
“Primitives, man. He thinks that because we're all basically clones of one another that we'd go around having non-consensual sex with his partner? That'd be rape... Kids cracked. I've never much liked sword and sorcery worlds...”
“Tell me about it. Well... Maybe watch bucket-hat Tyr, on second thought.”
“Good point. After all that talk about 'hoochie coochie', I'm still not sure how I feel about that guy.”
–
There wasn't much time to celebrate the 'comedy' of discovering so many sudden doppelgangers, nor did Tyr want to learn more than he had to about the 'multiverse'. They'd all taken their places and the general consensus was that it was 'magic'. To most people, even the mages, this was all well and good. Haemonculi and automata existed, and they weren't in a position to go about enforcing magical law. All of them were as terrified as could be. Sighting a few bizarre weapons and an exceptional display of mirror or cloning magic was just a passing curiosity. Some of the archmages had tried to talk to him about it, calling it 'divine', but they'd been ignored.
The 'faceless' men came for days, incessantly, and then – the monsters. Monster was sort of a catch all term for a mana-born creature. Largely, it was a misnomer. It was just easy to call them that, like goblins. There were goblins who were monsters, and there were goblins that we not. Undead were, by definition, monsters. But if they were monsters, then so were golems, haemonculi, and essentially all automata. But they weren't, so long as they were borne from a mage utilizing the own native mana of a world. It was all too confusing to keep track of and identify the difference when half the time they were looking to kill you anyways. Hence, it was just easier to bandy the word about without thinking too much about it.
Fogmen, in this case, were absolutely monsters. They had flat faces, with no lips, a pair of round beady eyes and four fingered hands. Legs with no feet, but that didn't stop them from flitting across the ground. They were, by and large, scrawny things. Capable of feats of movement and strength that belied their thin limbs. Wander too far into the mist engulfing the cursed lands, and you'd run into them. Them, or worse, that is – if such a thing existed. The tomes certainly claimed there was worse things that could crawl from the taboo lands.
They burst from the fog with the stilts of their legs dancing just above the surface of the ground, wrapped in black cloth and wielding curved blades. Hundreds of them. Leaning forward into the squall, their wicked blades flashing with red moonlight. Silent, but they always were. Never making a noise, only intent on reaping lives of the unfortunate beings who'd wandered too close to their territory. Unlike the faceless men, they made easy work of the incline, dashing up it with little effort, each trailing a thin tendril of the fog that seemed to connect them to the wider storm beyond. Like so many puppets, their strings at their backs.
For some reason, they avoided Tyr. He'd expected to be struck first, standing with sword raised at the tip of the platform he stood on. Crying out to them, and yet they turned and dashed straight into the pike line. Seeking notably more difficult targets. As for why, he had a feeling. These creatures likely existed only to reap souls. To collect more for whatever the malign intelligence beyond the fog was. But his could not be claimed. As for the other Tyr's, they'd been a bit smarter. One could be seen, legs wide on a pile of dirt letting his multi-barreled cannon spray into the mass of them, tearing them apart. They'd heal, their wounds giving way to no flesh or blood, just a hole by which to see the mist that incorporated them. But there was a limit to it. Eventually, they'd become real and splatter into gory bits of ichorous, milky white blood.
All along the lines, men were screaming, fighting – and dying. They would reach a crescendo in the conflict, and then just before they'd broken through, the fogmen would recoil and make the first sound they had since it had begun. A pained shriek. No, not pained. Almost... Lustful? Some exclamation of joy that stung the ears of the men who heard it. They were enjoying this, intent to play at whatever game they did. They'd cry out in ecstasy and the storm would grow closer, only by a few inches, but it was closing in with alarming consistency. Just as Tyr observed the phenomena closer, his mind shrieked like shards of glass rubbing against one another. Nails on a chalkboard. It was agonizing, but it also brought a voice with it.
“Neph...Ilim!”
“Administrator?” He winced. Beyond her voice was some kind of interference or static injected directly into his brain. “Can you stop, this is--”
“Emotion!” More screeching, Tyr fell to his knees with ears and nostrils bleeding freely. He could barely stand it. If not for the mental link, he'd have never heard her over the howling coming from the background. Like a static laced storm observed through a window, whistling balefully. “Don't let them feed on your emotion--” The line dropped after a particularly violent movement in the storm. The tower was engulfed in the mist and fell silent as a result.
“Did you hear that?” Tyr asked the others, but they hadn't. Jura knelt in concern, patting at his braided hair and looking for any injury. Two had, however. Daito stood with them, and so did the female version of Tyr.
“Fogmen feed on emotion. Negative emotion, to be precise. When the conduit is open, they become more numerous, swarms of them will feel it and turn this into a feeding ground – that's why you'll notice they aren't killing your men just yet. Additionally, it seems that the one beyond the mist is feeding on the backwash and using it to forcibly compress the astral space. To create a gate to a new world. That's how the bridges spread, almost contagious in their own way. That's why your world is quarantined, I'd guess.”
“How do we stop it?” Tyr cried. There were so many fogmen all around, shrieking and cavorting in suggestive ways. Often, they'd leave mortal wounds on a soldier but would not finish them off. The arrows and spells striking them were unable to cause any lasting damage and those that were wounded very frequently avoided death and retreated to the rear. Moving like a school of fish all around the front lines and harassing anything in front of them. “Positive emotion as the alternative?”
Female Tyr shook her head. “No, we'd need something so negative as to overload them. Positivity would only excite them, because that could be turned around. Typically hopelessness and despair is the best weapon against the fog in this state, but Bellen is not here with us.”
“Bellen?” Tyr frowned. Bellen was one of the few gods that humanity did not worship, and he refused to be in any case, or so they claimed. Of all the gods of darkness only Thanatos, the shepherd, was revered. Naturally, some cults existed, but his aspect was quite morose. Well, it was the very definition of morose. Bellen was the god of depression, hopelessness, and sadness. To have nothing and wish for nothing. A god of entropy in the emotional sense rather than a representative of destruction or an end.
“Hope or despair, there are few emotions so powerful or common among men. Many monsters can enforce hopelessness on a person, but very few of them wish to feel something with none that they can take or feed on. It is the only emotion that, in context to the fogmen, cannot sustain them – because it is emotional entropy.” She frowned, removing her helmet despite the plan, allowing her long hair to trail away into the whipping wind. Scores were dying every second and the fog was getting stronger. Engulfing half the citadel and breaking clean through the astral gate back to their home world. Truly trapping them. As the fight went on, and the fear felt by the men started to expand, it would only get worse.
“Tyr!” Daito cried. They stood at the eye of a storm of the screaming, skeletal fogmen. “Let's play them a song!”
“A song...?” Tyr paused, but he remembered. His song of reflection had been so empty, so barren and desolate. But could he play it now? He was happy with Jura and the others, and didn't feel that black hand on his heart so often these days. He'd stay here for many years in contentment if not for the events unfolding. “Okay. I'll try...”
Even so, he wasn't so confident. A bit of irony in the hopelessness that he felt with that as their only real option.
“Don't try!” Daito cried, pulling his shamisen free of it's harness and holding it in his hands. They had mere minutes before the army was engulfed. The fogmen were not the only problem, but the mist itself. Lest they all join these creatures in eternal suffering, existing only as echoes of themselves – prey for those beyond the rift. Constantly seeking an end that would not come, like the faceless men they'd been fighting all this time. “Do!”