Brewed from rare and exotic ingredients such as Beron’s Dream and Amber Lily, the potion of Greater Healing is a legendary alchemic, its reputation well known throughout the explored lands. It can mend even the most grievous of wounds and has the power to draw souls back from death’s cold embrace. Those who drink it feel a surge of vitality, their spirit renewed, and their bodies become hale and whole.
It is no wonder the Temples, in their all-consuming greed, have forbidden its use and manufacture within their dioces.
- Notes found in the quarters of Master Bertrand of the University of Quas.
Aelayah may have doubted me, but at least she had come through on what I had wished for. The days of indolent relaxation were over, replaced by a steady diet of grim death.
The Lady had offered a princely sum to anyone who could face and defeat me in single combat. Word spread quickly through the city, and soon, long lines formed outside the palace of Salahaem, the Place of the Dancing Water. If I had not known better, I might have thought her a vindictive woman, doing her utmost to have me killed indirectly.
An ad hoc dueling area had been set up by the servants, a simple circle of stone about ten paces in diameter. It was here that at least ten men had lost their worthless, pathetic lives.
All who had faced me were made to sign a waiver, ensuring they could not seek legal redress in the event of their death—a death that was of course all but certain for I wished it to be so. Inevitable.
Among the challengers, one had been an ambitious farmer, another a veteran of an old war, desperate enough to believe that one of his tricks from his youth might have saved him. The rest, including the last one I had killed, had all been overly adventurous adventurers, driven by a greed far greater than their skill or power.
The latest would-be claimant of the grand prize, a nameless adventurer, now lay in the garden grass, his blood congealing under the early afternoon sun. With an evil smile on my face, I realized that five Copper and two Silver badges would have to be returned to the Guild this day.
I sat down on a chair that bent slightly under the weight of my armor. Elenora removed my battered helm, brushed my hair aside, and gently washed my face with a scented towel, her fingers lingering on my skin. She smiled at me and as she did so, I felt my heart quicken and a heat in my loins. The morning’s violence had stirred something primal within me, an almost disturbing need. Or perhaps I had grown more attracted to Elenora after bedding her, the patterns and whorls across her soft skin had added some spice.
Aelayah appeared to look on impassively as the blonde woman continued with her ministrations, but I noticed a certain stiffness in her posture. That one I would leave for now, allowing the seeds of my suggestions time to germinate.
Elenora offered me a cup of cool juice, which I accepted gladly. I noticed that every now and again she would look at the recent dead, with an odd, hungering look. Shaking my head I dismissed my dark observation and drank deeply, the refreshing taste washed away the lingering metallic tang in my mouth.
I needed a bit more focus. With less than a week until the festival, I needed to grind as much experience as possible. It wasn't that I feared failure; I simply thought it wise to demonstrate a token of my dedication. Appearances were important in affairs of the higher station that I now enjoyed.
Beside me, the pile of spoils grew steadily. I made sure the servants added the fallen adventurers' equipment to the ever-growing heap of treasure. At first, I thought the increasing number of dead would deter others from seeking Aelayah’s prize, but it had the opposite effect.
With each challenger who perished, the value of victory only rose. By battle's right, the victor could claim everything. They must have believed that I would tire after each successive victory, but they saw only what I allowed them to see. I needed neither rest nor alchemics to stay battle-ready. I was blessed with the great spark of magic—the song of Mana, as some of the more poetic locals liked to call it.
I couldn't use any of my Aura spells—they would reveal too much of my hand. Facing a peerless warrior is one thing, but facing a peerless warrior who can command Mana is an entirely different challenge. This left me relying heavily on my Greater Drain spell, which not only weakened and directly damaged my enemies but also kept my physical and magical reserves at or near their maximum. The spell was invisible to all but me, its dark tentacles silently siphoning the very lifeforce from my foes.
Nor could I openly use my Mimic. For now, it was shaped as an additional layer to my vambrace, allowing me to tap into its defensive powers to block and deflect many attacks. The thing, I swore, was learning as I was. It was growing faster—fast enough, at least, to defend me against nearly all attacks with preternatural ease. Some attacks, of course, I let through. It was good to give people hope that I could be defeated.
For the people still waiting in line for the honor of fighting me, it would be a question of timing. The perfect time when the reward matched the risk. Poor fools, they never had a chance.
Earlier today, I noticed that some of the servants had started betting on the outcomes of my bouts.
Taking a deep breath, I soon realized that, unlike my body, my armor was taking quite a beating. Great dents had been made by maces and hammers, and the chainmail was torn and rent in several places. The couter—the armor at my elbow joint—had been heavily damaged after a particularly brutal elbow strike I had inflicted on one of my opponents.
After that, I had no choice but to rip it off, as it began to hinder my range of motion. I made a note to have a sturdier piece crafted, perhaps from more exotic materials than common steel, at some point in the future. By the end of today, I could most likely probably afford it.
And so the monotony of death continued. Rinse and repeat, over and over again. I switched things up every now and then, using Azag-Gishban, my sword-hammer, my mace-flail, or Tsengelt-Tum. I had long since learned to use mace-flail primarily as a mace, with the flail at the end adding just a little extra chaos to the angles of my strikes. You simply could not rely on the swinging ball to deliver the full power of a strike. Sometimes, I even used the two weapons together, but it was an unwieldly experience. Still, it was a splash of variety in a dry desert of boredom.
Also, I felt that using my hammer, Bellringer, was almost like cheating. I decided it was best to keep things in the spirit of fair play. And, the one time I did use it against an unsuspecting fool, the hammer seemed to keen in my hand with a silent song, thirsting for violence. It was as if the act of crushing out a life brought the Shocksteel weapon a spasm dark delight.
It was late afternoon now, the smell of fresh death permeating the grounds, the spilled blood lapped up by the quiet grass. It caused many of the gathered higher-born to hold perfumed handkerchiefs up to their noses. Of course, the growing stench was a poor ward against their blossoming curiosity. The greater part of them still remained, with some even forgoing their usual heavy luncheon for a light snack to keep tabs on the unfolding events.
Another small source of delight for me was that Aelayah’s expression had changed somewhat as I continued almost without pause through my bouts. The girl had known of course, had seen some measure of my skill, but the feat of raw endurance I was putting on display must have made her reconsider my earlier claims. Perhaps the seeds I had planted were taking root earlier than expected.
This line of thought reminded me of a tidbit from my old world as I kicked another challenger in his unprotected genitals. It was a small fact: some women could be excited by displays of violence. Of course, before coming to this world, I had neither the chance nor the inclination to show such things to the opposite sex.
The creature writhed on the floor like the worm he was, clutching his nether regions. My armored fist smashed into his throat, ending his suffering and rewarding me with a few more token experience points.
I was starting to find this whole experience strangely liberating. A shame I was still grinding on lower-level enemies.
“You are Gilgamesh of Uruk,” came a booming voice that arrested my attention.
A beast loomed over me, a grotesque figure of fur and steel. It had taken the aspect of a great ape, its silver-maned head snarling beneath a helmet that seemed almost too small for the bestial light in its eyes. Thick, powerful arms, longer and more muscular than its legs, flexed with a strength that could crush bone. Two great fangs protruded from its maw, and from head to toe, it was encased in heavy, articulated plate armor that clinked and groaned with its repressed aggression.
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I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of the coming battle. This one might actually pose a challenge.
“I am—” the beast began, its voice deep and guttural, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand, as if swatting away a fly.
“You are nothing, animal,” I said resignedly, the words leaving my lips with casual indifference. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The beast hesitated, as if taken aback by my dismissal, then puffed out its chest, thumping its armored breastplate with a resounding clang. “I would ask but one boon of you, mighty one of the furless,” it rumbled.
I shrugged, indifferent. “Don’t care.”
“No weapons,” it demanded, voice thick with pride and challenge.
The Beastkin roared and many of the onlookers withdrew back a step
“I am your greater!” the ape creature boasted, shaking its head and thumping its chest in a display of aggression. “Fight me with what nature gave us. The purity of unarmed combat.”
I couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the request, the sheer audacity of it, sent a bark of laughter ripping through my chest. It was a raw, unrestrained sound, tinged with madness. This beast wanted to strip away my advantage, force me to face it on its terms. How bold. How utterly foolish.
I thought to use Identify or Sage’s Sight flickered in my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. This jester was not worth the space he’d take up in my memory and I would not do him or it the honor.
Giving him a nod, I gestured mockingly for him to begin.
The ape-like Beastkin roared, a sound that was primal and furious. It charged, its massive armored fists swinging like hammers, aiming to crush me with sheer brute force. I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the first swing, the air whistling past my ear as his fist smashed into the ground, sending up clods of earth and innocent grass.
He was strong, no doubt about that, but Strength alone would not be enough.
I moved in close, inside his reach where his massive long arms were less of an advantage, and delivered a sharp strike to the inside of his elbow. I had used Entropic Strike, wanting to see what effect it would have on a foe such as this.
Arcane script flared across the surface of the armor, warding off the magic of the blow. Magical armor, what a brazen cheat, I thought to myself with a chuckle. The imbued magic of his armor, however, did little against the raw physical force of the blow and the armor joint started to buckle.
Forced to block another swing with my Mimic arm, I danced around the great ape, searching for another opening. None presented itself, so I began to call forth my spell, Greater Drain. The voices within me rejoiced as they helped form the dark verse that would unleash its power. The damned brute had forced my hand.
I rolled out of the way of another ground-pounding strike, absently realizing that even in full armor, a man could be quite agile. Just as I was feeling pleased with my acrobatic display, the Beastkin's massive fist caught me across the helm, nearly snapping the bones in my neck.
You have gained 1 Constitution.
Reeling from the shock and humiliation of the blow, I felt blood in my mouth and was forced to let the Mimic take over my defense even as I reflexively pushed away the notification. More strikes came, and without my coordination, I couldn't fully absorb the force of the attacks, leaving me off-balance as I was pushed back.
I found myself at the perimeter of the stone circle, struggling to hold onto the threads of the spell. The voices repeated the same refrain, over and over, until a small part of my conscious mind joined them. Together, we clawed the spell back into existence and sent it rushing on void wings toward the Beastkin.
Thick ribbons of midnight shot toward the Beastkin's elbow joint, where I had previously struck with an Entropic Strike. A small patch of gray darkness was slowly eating away at the wards on his armor, a lingering effect of the Entropic Strike that spoiled the sigils and script on the plate, creating a crucial opening. My Greater Drain pierced through this chink in his armor, siphoning away his life force.
As the stolen energy surged into me, it was like a direct shot of vitality to my veins, snapping me out of my fugue. Haemoraged flesh began to heal and clarity return. But as I gathered my wits, I realized to my chagrin that the Beastkin had managed to inflict an impressive seventy points of damage, filling up my Asura gauge considerably.
Playing it safe, I dodged another flurry of blows. If the creature could hit this hard then even I could not simply absorb all the damage head-on. I began to cast a silently cast spell, a spell I had not used in a long time. The voices did not assist me, their silence a sign of the disproval. Heal came slowly, far slower than it should have.
Holy energy, the very stuff of the Divine, flowed into me and mixed with the ecstasy that was Greater Drain. Fatigue and weariness left me, pain left me, and what was left was a body and mind hale and whole. Regrettably, by doing so my Asura gauge was reset.
Frustrated, I wanted to release my rage upon this creature… this thing that dared to hurt me.
Frenzied Strikes. Frenzied Strikes. Frenzied Strikes.
How I so wanted to vent my anger! How easy it would be! But, no, no. This was not the place for that most unpredictable of skills.
I would face this beast calm and collected.
With renewed vigor, I began my counterassault. I was completely focused now on winning. I ducked another massive punch and lashed out as it passed overhead. I made sure to target the joint at his elbow where my Entropic Strike had weakened it before.
There was a satisfying crunch as my blow connected against the armor, caving it in. He let out a feral cry as his arm suddenly became awkward and limp. The Beastkin howled again in pain and rage, swinging his other fist in a wild arc in reaction. I lowered my knees, absorbing the greater portion of the force with my Mimic vambrance. At the same time, I shot out a Power Strike infused kick at the side of his knee. There was a solid impact, but it wasn’t enough to completely disable him. Still, another joint compromised, another howl of pain.
He hobbled around now, wildly swinging at me.
I danced around the lumbering brute, avoiding his feeble and clumsy attempts to grab me. Wishing to conserve Mana, I launched a combination of punches and kicks at his trunk with Power Strike. Though solid hits, the blows had little effect, eliciting only a grunt or two of pain from the ape Beastkin at best.
I realized something. While I was stronger and much faster than him, my blows landing with a force that would shatter bones in a lesser creature, I was still much lighter. Each time I struck, he barely moved, absorbing the impact with his massive bulk. It was like hitting a mountain—no matter how hard I hit, he remained standing. I needed more mass, more weight behind my strikes to truly be more effective against an opponent such as this. I was like a blade without a handle, sharp but lacking the force to drive my intent home.
Perhaps it was time to attempt an unarmed technique I had never mastered. A technique that could be used against an armored opponent such as this. After all, even if I failed, perish the thought, my Greater Drain would eventually reduce the Beastkin to a lifeless husk.
Fen had once spoken about focusing on nothing to tap into the energy of Kai, or some such nonsense—clearing the mind of all unwanted thoughts to achieve purity of purpose, a state close to the void. But for someone like me, that was an impossibility. My former teacher had been wrong; there is no silence in the void, only the clamor of a hundred greedy voices.
Perhaps, there was another way?
I could feel I was on the verge of a new enlightenment, a lesson that could only be learned in the heat of battle, not through focused practice or contemplation.
Believing I was toying with it, the Beastkin, now enraged and desperate, charged at me again. Its wounded limbs slowed it down but did not stop its mad, bull-like rush.
Perhaps it wasn’t about achieving silence or the focus of pure thought. Maybe, just maybe, it was about shouting louder, ensuring that one’s will was all that could be heard.
Time seemed to slow as a revelation came to me. For the first time, the voices within were silenced. Deftly sidestepping his charge, I struck his breastplate with an open palm. Something passed from me into him—a strange energy, akin to what I had felt when I first used Power Strike beneath the boughs of an Aeyory tree long ago.
You have learned Lotus Palm (lvl.1)
At last, he stumbled, falling to one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he coughed blood, the power of my last strike ravaging his insides.
“I curse you, furless,” he spat, blood and saliva spraying from his mouth. His voice was thick with venom, his eyes burning with hatred. “May your strength turn to ash in your hands. May you—”
Before he could finish, I reached out, my hand clamping down on his lower jaw. With a swift, brutal motion, I tore his mouth open. Reaching in, I grabbed his tongue and tugged, feeling the resistance of muscle and sinew. Kicking against his bulk, I ripped his tongue free. The curse died in his throat, replaced by a mute gurgling scream, blood pouring from the gaping wound.
A few of the notables covered their eyes at this, others, more select in their tastes looked on with rapturous wonder.
The Beastkin collapsed, his body twitching as life drained from him. I stood over him, holding his severed tongue in my hand, blood dripping from my fingers. The fight was over. Disgusted, I threw his own dismembered organ at his face.
Hovering over him, I waited for my Greater Drain spell to end his life, savoring his pathetic mewlings.
You have slain a Beastkin 70 experience gained.
The flow of energy was cut, and I crashed down from a heady high.
Elenora rushed to attend to me, taking off my helm and wiping away the blood and sweat with a cool sweet-scented towel.
“A great victory, Gilgamesh. You have made that one’s boasts lies,” she commented, smiling in a sweet voice.
I felt my pride swell and returned her smile with one of my own. “There have been many that have professed to be my better. They were crushed by the weight of their false pride and my iron fist.”