"Yeah, there's no fucking way you're coming in here."

Lowe tilted his head back, taking in the Temple Warder who loomed over him like a thundercloud given flesh. She wasn’t quite 'Latham-big,' but neither was she likely to be mistaken for a garden gnome. Her arms were crossed over her chest, biceps flexing against the confines of her uniform in a way that suggested they had their own opinions about his presence. "Why not?" he asked, managing to sound only mildly put out.

"'Why not,' he says," drawled the second Warder, leaning lazily against his halberd. He was older and his belly had long since declared independence from the rest of his physique. "What possible justification could there be for you being on the 'no entry' list?"

Lowe considered this.

Off the top of his head, he could think of at least half a dozen reasons why he might not be the Celestial Temple's favourite visitor. There was the murder of Gianna d'Avec, the late High Priestess of Gravalk—a case that, while technically solved, had left enough scorched earth behind to grow suspicion for a generation. Then there was that misunderstanding with the Harbinger of Oulian, which had ended in both literal and metaphorical fireworks.

And, of course, the less said about his dealings with the Avatar of Blurian, the better.

Still, he was pretty sure he’d racked up enough goodwill with at least one of Soar’s gods during all of that to avoid outright excommunication. Or so he had thought.

However, he was saved from further debate by the sudden, looming presence of Warder Latham appearing in the Temple doorway.

"It's okay, Ferok. I'll take it from here."

It was childish, but Lowe felt a little burst of pleasure as the other two Warders visibly quailed in Latham's presence. Yeah, you better run, he thought as they retreated into the main building. That's my mate, that is.

"What the fuck are you doing here, little man?" It seemed the Warder was less delighted to see him than might have been hoped. "I told you to steer clear of this place until some of the bad feeling dies down."

Lowe tried a 'what did I do' gesture. "I stopped by your house first, but Hel said you were on the night shift. And it does seem pretty harsh to say I'm banned from this place!"

"We're still sweeping up the dematerialised ashes of supplicants murdered during your last visit. I'm not sure 'harsh' is entirely justified."

"Hang on. All of the deaths were hardly my fault!"

"Little man, how about I explain this to you via the method of analogy? Say, for example, a man is being pursued by a ravenous tiger - a tiger, let's make clear, that this man has gone out of his way to piss off royally - and, in the process of his escape, he leads said angry big cat into a crowded room whereby all of the occupants are torn to pieces allowing the man to escape. Now, how do you think the friends and relatives of the rendered and consumed will likely feel towards that man the next time he rocks up for a chinwag?"

"Okay, so you have a point."

"Indeed. I have a point. Come on, let's see if we can get out of fireball range before a lower floor avatar decides to make a name for themselves."

*

Over eighteen muffins, ten bacon sandwiches and a vat of coffee, Lowe filled his friend in on developments, mainly focusing on what Verlick had shown him of the Dreadnaughts and the subsequent 'ranking up' of his Mental Fortress.

"Never heard of it," the Warder said, motioning for the Waitress to refresh his plates.

"No," Lowe said, dropping yet another gold coin on the table. "By the way, at what stage did we decide it was my responsibility to pick up your tab?"

"Oh, I don't know. Probably somewhere in between the third or fourth time I saved your life? Or, it might have been around when you asked my ladyfriend - a very expensive and highly sought-after mercenary - to beat up a Public Relations Bard for you. A Bard who, it should be noted, has since been murdered, bringing all kinds of undesired heat her way. It's likely to be one of them, I'd have thought."

"Ladyfriend? What are you, an eighty-year-old maiden aunt?"

"Fuck you, Lowe."

They sat together in comfortable silence for a moment whilst Latham consumed his way through the last of the food.

"How is your 'ladyfriend', by the way? If it puts minds at ease, I haven't seen any sign of her presence in Kregg's apartment. And he was too badly melted for anything she did to him to show up to the Deathcaller. She obviously got in and out clean."

"Well, some of us are professionals, little man, and others -" Latham looked around, searching for the Waitress who reappeared at a run with a new plate of pastries -"Ah, excellent!"

"Others are . . . "

"Largely only good for picking up the bill. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your increasingly broken build. Talk me through again how this Skill initially appeared."

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Lowe did so, adding in what Hel beat out of Kregg.

"Fucking necrotic slime. Can't stand the stuff," the Warder said, swallowing a croissant whole.

"No, I can't say I'm much of a fan either."

"Okay, so what do you have? Three deaths at the museum, a member of staff who went missing at the time of the second murder and necrotic slime everywhere."

"And a missing nasty that got loose from its cage a few months before any of this happened," Lowe added.

"And you've not only got a new Skill out of the whole thing, but it's 'ranked up' too. You know, as far as I can tell, if we're looking at who benefits from this whole thing, you're the only person coming out ahead. A less self-assured man might think he was being manipulated in some way . . . "

Lowe shifted uncomfortably at that. His mind returned to the case that had first brought him into contact with Latham - he'd been used by the powers that be there, too.

"Come on then," Latham said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Let’s have a look at these ‘rank up’ options."

Lowe shared the notification with the Temple Warder, who leaned forward, his broad face tightening into a frown as he read. The silence stretched long enough to grow roots. "Do you need me to explain any of the longer words?" Lowe asked.

"Fuck you, Lowe."

"Just trying to be helpful."

Latham dismissed the notification with a huff and leaned back. His expression grew thoughtful, a rare stillness settling over him. "I’ve not come across anything like this before."

Lowe opened his mouth to speak, but the Warder silenced him with a sharp gesture, his palm out like a barricade. "The appearance of a new Skill itself is strange enough. People don’t just spontaneously gain Skills by tinkering with the ones they’ve already got. But this has happened to you twice now, in less than a year."

Lowe nodded, recalling the first time. Medic! had manifested after Hel's friend had been hurt dragged him out of captivity, bleeding like a butcher's apron. He’d barely thought about it at the time, but Medic! had branched from Roll with the Punches, hadn't it?

"If I were laying down gold on this," Latham continued, "I’d bet it’s tied to you being Classless. Without a pre-set roadmap to follow, your progression seems a bit more . . . flexible."

"Flexible?" Lowe repeated.

"You know, stretchable. Like a blob," Latham said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "Without a rigid mould to force your Skills into, your progression has more room to—what’s the word—shift? Reshape itself? It’s like you’re working with an amorphous ball of potential instead of a standard, cookie-cutter build."

"And in this analogy, I’m a blob, am I?"

"A blob with potential. Don’t knock it."

Having spent more time than he might have hoped looking at melted, amorphous blobs of late, Lowe couldn't help but think Latham's choice of words was somewhat arch. "And you've never heard of anyone else doing this before?"

"Little man, with the best will in the world, the life-expediency of Soar's Classless is about as long as it takes to say 'XP Farming.' If your old boss hadn't been pushing to keep you around until you were a useful card to play, I doubt you'd have survived a week. Guys in your situation usually don't live long enough to get a chance to manifest new Skills this way."

Memories of the immediate aftermath of his Classtration tried to rise to the surface of Lowe's mind, but he pushed them down. Now was, very much, not the time. "So, what, I might be able to develop more Skills?"

Latham shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling like tectonic plates shifting. "No idea. Not a fucking clue, to be honest. But you've pulled it off twice now, and in quick succession. So, yeah, it’s not unreasonable to think it could happen again. Just don’t let it go to your head."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his tone growing pointed. "The rest of us? We’ve got Class perks and patron gods tossing Skills at us like it’s our nameday. You? You’re out here brewing up your own bespoke abilities from scratch, cobbling together what the rest of us get handed on a gilded platter. Sure, it’s impressive—cool, even—but don’t start thinking you’re going to make me lose sleep over the rise of some terrifying new powerhouse. Not yet, anyway."

Lowe nodded at that. He would need to generate a whole host of Skills this way even to get close to the range of he had had at his disposal before . . . the incident. "But the rank up?" he asked, tentatively, oddly disappointed about the news thus far.

"Ah, now that is more interesting. What's your thinking on which to choose?"

"I like the idea of the Reflective Barrier. As far as I can tell, just by opening my front door, I'm under constant mental assault. It would be nice to give a little back."

Latham was shaking his head. "Oh, diddums! Are all the nasty men and women trying to influence your mind? Poor you. It's almost like you're living in a fucking modern age of grifters, charlatans and hustlers. What do you think will happen if you rank up with this bad boy?"

"I don't know, maybe people will learn to stop forcing their thoughts inside other people's heads?"

"Fucking hell, little man! Were you always this wet behind the ears?" Lowe was about to reply, but Latham raised his voice and continued. "I've got about nine - no, it's ten - mental passives running right now. Most of them are versions of a common or garden 'I will fuck you up' intimidation Skill, but there are a couple of others doing more subtle information gathering about the world around me. What do you think would happen if you start mentally slapping me about over coffee?"

"I'd hurt you?" Lowe suggested.

"Like fuck you would. Even with all the under-the-table bollocks you've got going on, I'm still so far above your level you should be licking my shoes for me deigning to speak to you without ripping your fucking arm off. No. You fucking wouldn't hurt me. All that would happen is that, eventually, I'd realise what the irritating buzzing in my ears was and, if I was in a good mood, I might just restrict myself to putting you into a coma."

Latham leant forward as he said that, which made Lowe realise that Level ?? didn't just need mental passives to be intimidating.

“Yeah, Reflective Barrier’s tempting. Real tempting. But let’s face it, you’d end up turning Soar into a war zone every time someone gave you the hard sell. That’s fine for the little fish—blow up a few con artists’ brains, put the fear of whatever into street-level grifters—but the big players?” He tilted his head.“You’d have your guts for garters before the ink dried on the incident reports.”

Lowe nodded, swirling the dregs of his drink and setting it down with a soft clink. “So, not Reflective Barrier. That leaves two options. Which do you like?”

The Warder’s grin widened into something that was almost feral. He tapped the notification floating between them.

“Now, this is where it gets interesting…”