Swords brushed against each other and humming like an out-of-tune violin, their match was at its climax. Joyce felt a joy unlike anything she’d felt before, but it was quickly cut short by a sudden whisper in her head.
“Ah, whoops, that was too much power. Let me dial that down right away!” The goddess interjected.
‘Dial it down?! What are you doing?’ Joyce protested in her head. ‘I’m so close to winning!’
“I know, I know... but I don’t want you to be too OP, okay? Besides,” the goddess materialized an arrow which pointed at Archibald.
Above his head, a name tag appeared. Next to the commander’s name, a visible indicator of level popped up. It read: “Level 30” Stone-faced by the revelation, Joyce inhaled instead of speaking up or objecting, but fell silent.
“Exactly,” the goddess asserted. “You’ve got this, and I’m sure you have more questions, but me squeezing in this extra call has left me pooped. We’ll talk again soon, though I might send you some mail.”
The last thing Joyce heard before the battle resumed was the goddess’ echoing voice, stating, “I’m gonna go get hammered now and crash on my couch, see ya!”
As the surge of power ebbed away, leaving Joyce once again at her original level of prowess, so too did the fog of her rampage subside. Now fully conscious and in control of her body, she pressed on the sword. Finding scant resistance from the enemy in front of her she pushed for a final swing.
In one wide swoop, she mimicked Archibald’s earlier move and dashed away his sword, catching with it a strand of his hair. To both of their surprise though, the entanglement took a lot more hair with it—Archibald’s entire head of hair fell off and to his feet, whilst his broadsword was brushed away.
They both stood still for a second, stricken by what had just happened. Joyce, in particular, furrowed her brow, trying to process what she witnessed. Her mouth agape, she darted her eyes towards the golden locks which now lay tarnished on the ground, before looking back up at the commander before her.
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Defeated and embarrassed, Archibald’s tyrant-like facade instantly crumbled as he fell to his knees, gasping, “My manhood, my virility!!” He trembled, struggling to pick up the fake headpiece. “How dare you!?”
Sigurd let out a chuckle. He tried to contain it, but it backfired. From his downed position, the commander twisted his neck up. Their eyes met and, in his, Sigurd noticed the broken was shedding tears.
He sheathed his longsword and finally spoke up, “Well, at least now I know why you’re name is Archibald.”
“Don’t mock me, you swine!” The desperate commander cried.
Sigurd squatted and, finding inspiration in the goddess’ words from when they first met, uttered, “Hey, relax Archie, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He caressed Archibald’s back, much as the goddess had done to Joyce. The glint shining off of the commander’s bare dome partially blinded him. “Male-patterned baldness is nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to everyone.”
“Archie??” Archibald’s voice cracked. He shook Sigurd’s hand off his back and shot straight up, toupee in hand, further adding, “You laugh now, but know that this isn’t over.”
He backed away, clutching his “manhood” with one arm and pointing at Sigurd with the other, “I will have my vengeance over this transgression against my person! In the end, I’ll have the last laugh!” He turned and sprinted for the side entrance.
Fleeing like a scared puppy, with his tail between his legs, Archibald scurried off the encampment. The echoes of battle faded, the dust settling around Joyce, as everything around her grew silent. With the enemy’s champion defeated, and most of the opposing force decimated by the whirlwind of destruction that was Sigurd rampaging through the valley, he picked up his fallen sword and stepped out of the encampment to find the battle—nay, the war—had been won.
One last message window opened up before her eyes, as her comrades in arms rushed to the enemy encampment in celebration, and it read: “Congratulations! You’re now level 8!”
She sighed, wondering what this new reality would bring, and what further surprises might lie in store. Guided by the goddess's cryptic revelations, she would soon embark upon the world, empowered by the very being she loathed. And so Joyce, now bearing the mantle of the fallen soldier Sigurd, stood at the precipice of a journey unlike any other.