It was something like a man-sized egg, gleaming and brilliantly white, with a third of the egg removed to allow space for a body to enter. The interior was filled with mist, a bright, pulsing white fog, dense and vibrant, almost reminiscent of the Mystorium as it had flowed to me so many times in the arena.
As I stepped backward into the pod and sat down, I could barely see my hand through the haze. The density of it felt unnatural. I was seated, yet it seemed as if gentle forces—not mere cushions—held me in place. It was warm and comforting inside, calm and strangely wholesome. Almost immediately, the pain in my calf began to ebb away.
The room contained five pods, all positioned to face a vast, floor-to-ceiling wall of glass, revealing our city and the vast territory beyond. This was higher than even Baltazar’s office. This space, and others on this floor, were for the Griidlords alone, alongside the priests who tended to us.
Not far above lay the Oracle’s chamber.
The pods formed a semicircle, staggered back from one another so that each Griidlord could see the view through the massive window, while also maintaining a clear sightline to one another. My pod was conspicuously centered in the arc. To my left rested the room's only other occupant—Chowwick.
He had been asleep when I entered with the priests, who had guided me softly to my seat and remained tight-lipped about his condition.
Now I sat alone, the pod’s energies working on both my flesh and armor. Well, almost alone…
The voice nattered in my ear, insisting I keep my head up. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow we’ll find something to kill. We might have forever to level you up, but I can’t wait forever.”
I thought back to it, So, we can finally get on with your nebulous and mysterious plans?
“Yes! Of course! Oh, such nebulous plans!” it replied.
I exhaled heavily, feeling my chest deflate. I’m being pulled in so many directions, I thought to it. You have your plan to be set free; Baltazar wants to do something that sounds like rewriting society and… maybe, conquering the world? I have my father’s—no, my—business to attend to. I need to figure out what to do with Harold, the house…
“Oh, those are little things, kiddo. You know what doesn’t hurt any of them?”
I started to think, Leveli–
“LEVELLING!” the voice boomed over my own thoughts. “You need to level. And don’t worry about ol’ Baltie. I think the man might have high ambitions, but his heart’s in the wrong place. You could do worse than considering what he said.”
What would you know about it? I thought.
“Me? What would I know?” it replied. “Oh, I don’t know… maybe the fact that I’ve existed for countless generations and hold the compiled wisdom of the ages!”
That’s your response to everything.
We paused. Only the sound of Chowwick’s snoring and the hum of the Tower’s ventilation filled the silence.
After some time, I thought, Voice?
“Yes, kiddo?” It was playing sweet, trying to sound intimate and friendly.
What do I call you?
“You call me Voice.”
But that’s not your name. That’s a ridiculous thing to call someone. What’s your name?
The voice hesitated. When it finally spoke, there was an unexpected note of vulnerability. “I don’t share my name. I can’t lie, so I can’t give you a false name. There’s… some power in knowing it. I’d like to tell you.”
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"Then do."
"I’ve never… it’s been so long."
We were interrupted by a sudden shuffling and rustling as the doors to the chamber slid open.
"Jacob?" I exclaimed, sitting forward.
The voice muttered, Oh, not this dithering old fool again.
Jacob looked up, momentarily confused as to why anyone would be saying his name. With a furrowed brow, he continued shuffling toward me, his arms filled with barely rolled sheets of parchment.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
His head trembled slightly as he walked, wobbling in a barely controlled tremor. "You need to level," he said.
I nodded slowly. "And you’re going to help me?"
Jacob’s head snapped back, and he regarded me with a somewhat disoriented look, dropping several of the sheets so he could unroll one in particular.
The voice added, He's your chaplain.
“My chaplain?” I burst out loud, unable to conceal my dismay.
“Yes…” Jacob said, his eyebrows dancing with puzzlement. “Oh my, oh dear boy, do you not know what a chaplain is?”
I did, but he went on, “I am a priest assigned to support your role. I am your own personal advisor; I will tend your suit, plan your progression, and be your right hand in your quest to fulfill the Oracle’s will for you."
I worked to contain my disappointment. Jacob was pleasant enough—in fact, by priestly standards, he was downright likable. But a Griidlord’s chaplain was crucial, responsible for training, planning, and strategy. I had envisioned a chaplain as a sergeant, someone to push and compel me. Jacob was a dithering ancient. As I looked at him, I noticed his shoes were on the wrong feet.
He began unrolling the massive sheet of parchment as I watched him. Everything he did had a bumbling, distracted quality. I had to remind myself that he was a tower dweller, a high-ranking priest—he must have redeeming qualities.
The unrolled parchment turned out to be a map, stretching from around Green Bay in the northeast to the area west of Tennessee below, all the way to the eastern coast, encompassing Boston, New York, and the cities of our part of the world. The map was dotted with circles and stars of various colors, littered with tiny, awkward handwriting.
Jacob said, "The Lord Supreme informs me you want to prioritize leveling. To do this efficiently, we must choose our targets carefully. Pursuing weak foes will waste time—you’ll level fastest against fearsome enemies, though injuries or, ho-ho, death wouldn’t be very helpful, would they?”
He cackled as he held the map up, almost completely obscuring it from my view. I leaned forward in the pod to try and see better.
“No! No, my boy, sit back. Let the Oracle’s essence heal you. There… yes, lean back. Can you see now, boy?"
"Thank you."
"Now, where was I?” He rubbed his brow, clearly befuddled. Then he brightened, “Ah, yes, fiend lairs near trade routes! Now, what level are you again? Ah, yes, 10. A very fine start indeed. But what can I set you against that will stretch and challenge you without… de-spining you?”
I pointed. “What about the two big stars? The one east of Buffalo, near the Veil? And that one in the hills outside Pittsburgh territory?”
Jacob blinked a few times, then laughed. Strangely, it didn’t feel like mockery—he seemed genuinely amused, as if he thought I was joking. He quickly sobered when he saw my confusion.
“Oh, you’re serious! No, no. The one in the hills is Doom, a Class 9 fiend. He took up residence in the ruins of Cleveland but was driven out when the Tower re-emerged. And that one near the Veil? That’s Sinful Bob, an old fiend, a terror to the folks on Buffalo’s edge. He’s a Class 12. Far too much for a Griidlord in training to handle, yet not enough sport for a higher-leveled lord. He plays it safe out there, only venturing into civilized lands every few years, long enough to eat a village and vanish before Buffalo can respond—if they had the organization to respond.”
"But I took out the Class 4 on the way to Dodge," I said.
Jacob shook his head. "Yes, but you were what? Level 8? Comparing a fiend’s class to a Griidlord’s level roughly converts by doubling. At level 10, you’re about a match for a Class 5. A Class 9 like Doom would be like fighting a level 18 Griidlord."
"But taking him out would boost my level quickly, right?"
“Oh, certainly—but it would be nearly impossible for you. But speaking of Buffalo…” Jacob paused thoughtfully. “There’s a Griidlord gone rogue from Buffalo."
Jacob nodded slowly. “Oh yes. Some kerfuffle in Buffalo. The Green Men and the Overlords are at odds in the city, and everyone in between is suffering. There was some business with a murder, I think... something about death threats to the Bishop... oh, I can’t remember exactly. What matters is that the Arrow of Buffalo is marked for death. He’s running wild now. The man is a level 24, but he’s injured, and as a renegade, he can’t access healing. It might be a stretch, but at level 10, with type advantage and his wounds, you could collect the bounty. The people of Buffalo would celebrate you bringing him to justice, and the level reward would be substantial.”
I said, “You… you want me to kill another Griidlord?”
Jacob shrugged, rolling up the map and reaching for another from the pile at his feet. “Only if it’s convenient.”
As he unfurled another map, this one more focused on the region around Boston, I paused, lost in my own thoughts and not hearing Jacob’s continued rambling.
The weight of killing the Hordesmen still pressed on me. Though it might have been justified, the idea of killing someone from our own region, someone culturally closer to me—another Griidlord—made my stomach tighten uncomfortably.