For a moment, Alistair worried his gambit was going to fail. The blizzard did not abate, and his allies’ aura signatures grew dimmer. If he had abandoned this idea and gone for a head first assault, he wouldn’t have wasted valuable time.
After a long and treacherous second, an equally powerful voice gave a response.
“Explain.”
Alistair let out a sigh of relief. The blizzard parted and the cold retreated. To not give out an aggressive impression, he sauntered over toward George without using any ability or the vast majority of his speed.
Alexandra and the others were fine, if a little shaken up by the sudden Dao field. Sally Ryder split into three dozen people, some of whom Alistair recognized as the constituent people for her previous fusion against Dragonus. The others, he found hard to read. Lesser Samatha worked for more substantial truths, he figured. They were all prepared for what he had to say next.
Alistair walked until he felt like he was an appropriate distance away, perhaps the width of a basketball court. He could feel the scrutinizing eyes of the Devil Kings from afar. There was a sudden wail from behind him, and he whipped his head back, only to feel a sudden outburst of killing intent from George.
It wasn’t nearly as refined as Alistair’s, but it was still as powerful as a Beast Lord’s, and it stopped the attacker in his tracks. The surviving Shadow Twin turned the shadows covering his body into a black panther exoskeleton, charging at Alistair.
The pain and grief in his eyes was real, and Alistair couldn’t help but feel pity for the man. The Shadow Twin strained against his master’s control. The killing intent wasn’t strong enough for him to be physically held back, but the subordinate Devil King recognized who had the authority.
“Obey or die,” George said, his voice soft yet somehow still carrying all the way across the landscape.
For a moment, Alistair wondered if the twin would sacrifice his life in his anger, but he chose to fall to one knee and bow to his lord.
“I apologize for my subordinate’s behavior,” George stated. “Now, explain.”
For the first time in what felt like was a decade, Alistair was facing the man at the center of his problems. The spectre that had been haunting him for the better part of the initiation.
Back then, George was known as the Iceman. It was funny to think about that George had been Alexandra’s comrade at the very, very beginning of the initiation before going rogue. They were chasing Jackson Morley, the crooked politician, when saw the ice cultivator for a few seconds before he fled.
Alistair remembered him as a tall man with frozen blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Some might have called him handsome, but his features were harsh and angular, and he had the look of an evil man. A psychopath. Not a very scientific claim, but that’s what Alistair thought.
He couldn’t say the same for the current George. He looked like he was formed out of ice, his skin having a slight blue tint and perfectly smooth. His features had smoothed out and neotonized, giving him the youthful appearance of a teenager, and his ears were slightly upturned and pointy, like an elf’s.
The hollow and profane aura that all other Devil Kings had was muted with him, though Alistair’s nose never got things wrong. He was a Devil King, just an august one.
“I propose a truce until the sixth and final wave of [Armageddon],” Alistair said. “The system hasn’t revealed all the facets of the sixth Quest. The sixth wave of [Armageddon] is only used if there’s less than a 5% margin of difference in Contribution Score between the two highest freehold owners. Well, technically, the sixth wave will happen no matter what, but it only matters for Global Mayorship if that condition is met. Otherwise, after the fifth wave, the one with the highest Contribution Score will become the Global Mayor.”
George’s pools of fire bored into Alistair for an uncomfortably long amount of time. A few times, he almost opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself, unsure of what to say. After what felt like was five minutes, the Devil King leader finally answered.
“And?”
“You believe me?” Alistair asked.
“If were to lie, you would only be damning yourself.”
“Very well,” Alistair replied. He could feel the heat returning as the kaiju started to regain some activity. They had to finish their discussion quickly before the beast recovered from its volcanic eruption. “I think you can understand the strange situation we’re in. You’re trying to conquer the subregions, I’m trying to stop you. I can tell you’ve held back your other Devil Kings because you fear losing them. Anyone close to the level 60 threshold is a rare commodity at this point.
“A truce will be advantageous to us both. It will give us time to deal with the difficulties of [Armageddon] without being worried about the other attacking. The Quest is already difficult as is, without additional threats. If either side loses too much manpower… well, I believe you understand what I’m saying.”
George looked at him with cold eyes, despite them being on fire. “You know of the predations?”
“I’ve talked to my sponsor,” Alistair nodded. “But you could figure it out with logic even if you didn’t have any information. The Final Frontier Empire is a corrupt kleptocracy. Vultures are going to come to Earth, especially now that we’ve shown unusual potential for a newly initiated world. The more high level people survive, the better. I’d say that even if you end up victorious.”
“What you say I have heard from a credible source,” George said. “If we postpone our battle until the sixth wave, why would this reduce the carnage instead of it taking place in one moment?”
“It might not.” Alistair didn’t sugarcoat his words. “That part is a gamble, though logically one battle has less opportunity for death than a continuous war. However, the main benefit would come from not having Earth destroyed in the meantime by [Armageddon]. We have a chance to shore up our freeholds. Even if you don’t care about human life in the slightest, reducing the population even further would be disastrous for our long-term prospects. This would be beneficial to us both. There is one extra thing I’m willing to throw in.”
This was the most uncertain part. He had burned his positive Karma before this to divine whether it was the right choice or not, and come up empty. That wasn’t surprising in the least—his abilities were not that of a Fate-Diviner, able to see the far future while the near future was murky. He only had his gut to rely on.
Alistair produced the Experiment Cursed Needle #7. George’s nonchalant demeanor changed to one of undisguised desire when he saw the object, though only for a second before returning to its typical phlegmatic expression.
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“It’s yours, if you accept.”
Alistair gave his spiel. He spoke the truth and only the truth. It was George’s turn to contemplate. Once again, for a long moment, he said nothing and did nothing. Then, he started to laugh.
Alistair wasn’t sure what to do, and he was positive the other Devil Kings were just as confused as he was. George laughed into a sigh, and said, “Your terms are acceptable. I shall call the Herald of the Pathfinder.”
George didn’t thrust his hands into the sky like Anthony did, but the beam of gray light appeared just the same. Alistair figured out that a cultivator in the top 10 could call on the Herald of the Pathfinder one time during the initiation for compacts. He thought it would have been too prohibitive for the Visionary-level Herald, but it appeared that sending such a tiny sliver of its consciousness was insubstantial.
The angelic being that was the Herald formed from the gray light. The androgenous being was as sublime as Alistair remembered. Even though his power had grown so much since the last time he saw it, its strength was truly unfathomable to him, even through the suppression for their safety. Three realms above was too high a metric to comprehend.
“I am Sylas, herald of the Pathfinder AI. Who has requested my service?”
Its words were identical to last time, the voice coming from everywhere in the universe at once.
“We require your assistance to seal a pact between us,” George said. “Tell the Herald our terms, Alistair.”
Alistair felt off at the Devil King’s words. Did he expect a trap at this moment? There was a murkiness that Alistair didn’t like. He didn’t dare use [Eyes of Truth] to see the threads of Fate, out of fear that George would back out at their critical junction.
Alistair felt more nervous about this than an actual battle, but he said his piece. “Neither party shall make any moves, intentional or otherwise, to gain subregions from either side. Any inadvertently gained subregions will be return immediately. The current counts of 69,513 subregions for George Moulin’s freehold and 87,360 for Alistair Tan’s freehold shall remain unchanged for the remainder of [Armageddon].”
If George reacted to the sudden increase in his enemy’s subregion count, he didn’t show, nor did he make any outbursts against the pact given the change. It wasn’t a purposeful trickery on Alistair’s part. In the short preparations he made before planning the attack, he had met with his sponsor for their last encounter, and also appeared before all the major human freeholds, essentially demanding their cooperation.
It wasn’t something he did lightly, but humanity needed a leader now more than ever.
“Neither party shall attack, invade, or kill any members of the other party. Neither party shall sabotage the other party’s land or resources. Neither party shall enter the other party’s territory without permission. Five minutes before the Contribution Scores are compared, the party with a greater score will transfer points to make them equal, or if the total combined score is odd, make them within one point. In addition, George Moulin shall receive the item within my possession, Experiment Cursed Needle #7, as a token of a goodwill. That is my compact.”
“There is no need to be so specific,” Sylas said in a hollow, monotone voice. There was no recognition of Alistair in the way he talked. Perhaps this consciousness instance was separate from the one he encountered in the void. “My programming can calculate the transcendental intent of your words. Are these terms agreeable to you, George Moulin?”
“I intended this day to be your last,” George said. “But your arguments are convincing. I accept the terms.”
Sylas procured a golden tome. “Place your hand on the book.”
Alistair placed his hand over the glowing book, feeling the familiar energy oscillate through his meridians. The herald closed the tome and performed the same ritual for George, who complied with grace.
“Let it hereby be known that Alistair Tan, majority owner of the Northeast Order Freehold, and George Moulin, majority owner of the Cursed Lands, will enter into a continuous pact delineated by the aforementioned terms. You should now be receiving a spiritual endowment of perfect understanding of the conditions, which cannot be fooled by legal trickery. The spirit of the law triumphs over falsehoods, as enshrined by the Eternal Mandate of the Prime Thinker.”
Alistair felt the spiritual endowment, in the words of the Pathfinder put it, as a sudden hiccup within his soulcore’s connection to his mind. The concept was complex, but he understood his own terms even better than the way he phrased it. There was no equivocation nor loopholes.
An indelible bond formed between his and George’s soul. Any party to break the contract would be met with certain death. A gruesome one at that, involving the crumbling of the soulcore from the inside out.
When it was over, it felt like a weight had been lifted from Alistair’s shoulders. While he had never given up hope, it was like the path toward the light grew a little more clearer. Most of all, he rejoiced for the average person. No doubt he had bought them a small saving grace. Many would still perish, but it would be far fewer than the default outcome.
The Herald of the Pathfinder vanished into thin air once the compact was complete. Not a trace of its almighty aura remained. Alistair and George were left facing each other, though the confrontation took on a different lens now that they could not come to blows.
“It is done,” George said. He took out the emerald-colored needle from his robes, the Herald having already transferred it. “Since this is my land, I think you should be leaving now.”
Alistair didn’t waste one second gathering his allies. Jesse teleported them away with haste, and they disappeared in a column of scarlet light. That was right in time for the beast to start its activity again. George’s latent aura wasn’t enough to hold back the lava-borne heat, and the remaining Devil Kings started to sweat.
Out of the corner of his eye, George spotted Elijah mourning over his twin brother’s corpse. The body was a gruesome sight, blood and guts oozing out of the former Devil King known as a Shadow Twin. For such an orthodox cultivator, Alistair could be a ferocious enemy.
Morgana let gravity carry her down from Partial Flight’s reach. “Are the predations really that bad, master? I know the Man in Shadows warned us, but surely we could have stamped out the humans here and now?”
George sighed, conjuring one of his cigarettes and lighting it with frost, while he played with the needle in his other hand. “You felt his strength, did you not? And he still hides things, I know of it. I would have had to go all out, and you all would have likely died.”
Morgana was the only one left that challenged him. Admiral used to do that sometimes, and that pesky Saturn Alius. The Saturn that had shocked him for the first time during the initiation by somehow managing to steal his Experiment Cursed Needle #7, and then hid away.
George fondly recalled one of the debates they had, what felt like decades ago.
“We kill without a thought,” Saturn had said. “Does not that not mean those above us can kill us without a thought?”
“Can, or should?” George asked. “The Heavens do not take kindly to those who indiscriminately kill those far lesser than themselves. The Man in Shadows says that the fell Karma they accumulate makes such ventures not worth any benefits one might accrue, except for the most unorthodox of cultivators. Even then, it is said they shall one day get their comeuppance in the cycle of Samsara.”
“The gap between us and the regular folk of Earth is immeasurable, yet we barely accrue any fell Karma for our slaughter.”
“The gap between us and the regular folk of Earth is nothing in the grand scheme of the Multiverse. We’re in the same realm.”
Saturn looked up. “That may be the case, but the practical results remain the same.”
“Are you telling me to care about the lives of insects?” George asked. “Because some others may consider me an insect? Have you not snuffed out the lives of many and converted many more?”
“You’re right about that.” Saturn chuckled. “You’re right about that.”
Morgana’s words snapped him back to the present. “The only way he would set up this truce is if he thinks he’s going to get stronger than you in the next few months. Surely he can’t be that foolish? Your proto-Domain cannot be rivaled.”
“If he’s stolen Oracle’s memories like I believe he has, then he does not know of proto-Domain,” George answered. That’s not the only reason he would ask for a truce. Alistair appeared to be a genuine zealot, a man with a heart of gold that would put others before himself.
The only part that made him wary was that he appeared to be rewarded for such idiotic behavior. It was as if some greater power had reversed the rules of advancement for only one individual on the entire planet, and the more that individual shared, the stronger they got. It was nonsensical, yet he was starting to believe it to be true.
George caressed his precious needle. “He has certainly made a mistake, do not get me wrong. Returning this needle will be his fatal oversight.”