[ Sanctuary - 0 Occupants ]

That was the first person I have ever killed.

For what?

Because she thought she’d got a lucky break? She’d found something she could make her home?

She didn’t know I am alive. She didn’t know she had taken control over someone else. She couldn’t have known… and I couldn’t have told her. Why didn’t you give me the ability to communicate?

The system administrator doesn’t answer. He curses his body; his inability to communicate. He curses his rashness, his coldness.

Well… her name was Edna Hex. That’s an evil name… right? She said she wanted to be queen… she would have ruled over others, without any compassion.

Except he doesn’t know that and now he never will. People judge others on their actions; not their intentions. Edna made the mistake of speaking to herself.

What if they were just little fantasies from an old lady? What if she was meant to help people, protect people?

Maybe she was even going to do a better job with this whole ’Sanctuary’ thing than I was.

If this was a test; if any of this is a test… I have failed it. I wish I had my memories. I wish I knew just what kind of person I was… to know if I was always like this and I should just resign myself… or to know if I’m worse, now.

Just like that, a single memory forces itself inside his head.

—

He’s walking down a dimly lit street of a city filled to the brim with trash. As rain cascades, mingling with the grime and despair that seems to brought in with every gust of wind, he strides with indifference to the beggars around him, practically up to their eyeballs in poverty.

There’s a ragged figure huddled against a wall, in such a position that it catches his attention — a homeless man shivering from the cold. With a subtle curl of his lips, he casually sidesteps the huddled form. The man’s hand, seeking not just coin but warmth and a morsel of kindness, goes noticed and ignored. The man isn’t invisible, it’s just that nobody cares.

A stray through lances through his mind. I have a spare coat.

He silences it as quick as it came.

Give enough away and you get the prize of joinin’ ’em down there.

Starts with a coat; then grows like a rash.

Clothes, coin, booze and drugs; in that order.

The last part is empathy.

You catch that… and you’ll not make it to sunrise.

Ignore it.

Go on with your day.

He does go on with his day, working himself to the bone — and eventually heading back the way he came. It’s faster, in the morning, to go another way… but some force draws him to walk the same path.

As he does, his eyes lick the alleys, looking for the homeless man… and then he finds him.

He’s laid out.

He’s dead; cold to the bone. He must have chilled in the night. The man asks himself a question.

Would he still be here… if I’d given my coat?

He ignores it. It’s his own mind, after all — it should bend to his will. It’s an irrelevant question, and a stupid one besides.

By no means is it his job to help.

His duty is to himself.

Maybe one day, he could help — but that is a long, long way away. If he gets bogged down now, he’d never make it. It’s better to secure the long term.

With that, he returns to the walk-path, blending in with the thousand other people walking besides him, coats turned up to deflect the smell of the city’s putrid air.

He cannot do anything to fight the grim reality of life; he’s been given no tools to keep people Safe, to give them Power or to spread Compassion.

He’s got empathy enough for his own family — beyond that, it’s not worth it. There’s nothing to Discover, no secret that he can find to give people Hope.

He will never be a sanctuary for the lost or the damned.

And there’s certainly no path to Redemption.

There’s no reason to even seek it; he is a perfect specimen of the world.

He’s doing exactly what he should be; and he doesn’t have the energy to do an iota more.

Even if I wanted to.

—

That was me… the previous me. Why did the memory unlock? What benefit did that serve?

So you can relish in the knowledge of who you used to be whilst also knowing that it has absolutely no practical benefit in your current situation.

So, this is a punishment?

The administrator doesn’t respond.

He should have known.

I’m just repeating. Nothing has changed.

He turns his mind to the corpse, and has the Guardian pick it up… only to find he cannot. The hands do not detach from the pickaxe… as before. So he is forced to watch the corpse rot inside him. A monument to his sins.

[ Simple Guardian 1 requires neophyte attribute ]

[ STR | DEX | VIT ]

Would this allow the guardian to move her? I don’t… I don’t want to look at it any more. He’ll need to lift her… so strength.

A small flash of golden light. A light he doesn’t deserve…

The guardian rumbles, a subtle transformation rocking its body.

Rigidity becomes a little softer, a newfound flexibility shaping inside it. Minute cracks appear along the stone, meandering like tributaries to rivers.

When the guardian walks, it is less like a wind-up toy and more like a toddler. Less mechanical, more fluid — but still somewhat alien in concept.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The pickaxe looses as balls of stone become actual fingers — still large and block-like but unmistakably more dexterous.

It grips the pickaxe with a looser grip, moving it around as if it needs to get used to its new body. Then it turns and looks up at Caau’s point of vision, and a glimmer of consciousness blares in its eyes.

You are… alive?

No answer comes… but it waits for a task.

Can you… speak? Talk? Even make hand gestures?

Nothing of the sort. The guardian instead stares at Caau, waiting for a task. He looks at the women.

Take her into the darkness; far enough away that I can’t see her.

The guardian doesn’t judge its orders, reaching down to grasp the frail corpse with a single hand, then carrying it almost like luggage through the portal and into the dark; but not before the rifle drops from her side and onto the floor.

It’s a strange thing, something like a revolver only with strange runes spread across it and a much elongated barrel. She’d fired it before… and it’d done some damage.

After the guardian returns, he gets it to pick up the weapon.

[ You have received Hexgun ]

Base Template: Equilibrium Rifle

A weapon that uses cartridges of two opposing energies to order to propel a solid mass into a target.

This revolver has been meticulously specialised to take advantage of Abyssal-Celestial reactions. Ignore the small notches on the handle, they’re just there to remind the woman— sorry, the new owner -- of the previous owner’s sentimental attachment to their beloved and precious granddaughter.

Heartwarming. Leilani Nadezhda.

That’s a lovely name. I’m sure it will serve its new owner very well.

Okay.

That’s all he can muster for the moment. He wants to feel remorse but he just starts to feel an annoyance. He didn’t ask for her to come here.

She stole from him… and she was going to take it away. There was nothing else to be done.

His mind flashes back to the vision he saw of his past.

Nothing has changed; my rationale is still sound. I do not have the tools to be good.

—

Arden Lockwood was, by all accounts by all that knew him, a coward. Where the other, larger boys were drawn to their father’s or mother’s swords or shields, plates of armour or gambeson… he preferred the animals.

At least the ones that didn’t bite him.

A lovely trait for a farm-boy… but he was meant to be a warrior. His mother was a expeditionary of the 1st Layer of the Forgotten Lands; and so was his father.

He was small, not talented in Intelligence or Vitality like his parents, not Strong or Dexterous like the other boys, and possessed little in the way of Charisma or Wisdom, either.

There was no reason to make him an expeditionary… but that is the only path he had to take.

The rest were locked off by those who already had the skills they could pass down to their children.

Who would hire him as a baker when they could hire someone who could bake twice as fast and twice as well for no other reason that they were able to afford abilities to do so?

No, his path was much like his parents: Ability farmers.

They would descend on an Expedition, claim whatever materials and abilities they could, and then sell them to the highest bidder.

For the 1st and 2nd Layers of the First Realm… there weren’t many high bids. Not when teams could dive into the second or even third realms out of all of them.

He was ten when they took him down on his first Expedition. It was in aide of unlocking his class as early as he could; only needing to hold a weapon with the purpose of attacking or defending himself.

Then a Minor Horde had come… that which ascends from the depths below to raid and pillage the surface. His parents had spoken of them more commonly… to which he assumed they had simply become more common.

This Minor Horde had forced them further underground to avoid the onslaught… and then they had found another… going deeper.

As an individual, each one could handle the 1st Layer on their own… and as team, they could handle the 2nd.

They all died on the 3rd.

That’s what happened to them. That is his recollection of events, now a year out.

Father died… then mother, so full of optimism… had died too.

Arden was only alive because he had been lucky… because something out there had chosen him of all things to bless.

There had only been one thing to do in that moment. To seize the calm and the power he felt within those walls and become something greater.

To devote himself to the ideal of safety; using his Blessing of Protection, and satiety, to protect others, never needing food, nor water, not sleep.

He didn’t even get tired.

When he smelt that fresh air… it was something beyond intoxicating. He had left a spineless, weak child — and he had returned with a glorious mission.

It had started with training.

He had quickly discovered that his body no longer worked the same.

Where before, he would be a sweating, grimy mess after a few minutes of running… he found he could easily outrun his fellow boys.

He would win no sprints… especially with the growth of his body — but none could best him in endurance.

He could throw his fists at trees for all day and all night; and it would leave not a scratch.

He’d tried practically anything to hurt himself; to see how far this protection went. He had given other kids the task of breaking his body.

Sticks, rocks, pushes down cliffs into freezing rivers… and nothing. He could feel the hits, but they didn’t harm him.

It was only after all of that… that the words started.

Freak.

Mutant.

Creature.

From the other children; he could ignore… even the one he had thought his friend… but the adults looked upon him with so many emotions he couldn’t begin to process.

Jealousy… fear… annoyance… anger.

Why has he been blessed, but I haven’t?

He’s not human… he hasn’t been ever since he returned.

He doesn’t eat… doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t contribute…

I hate him! Why is he stronger than me! I have done everything!

It was emotion that was his anathema.

The blade that could pierce his hide.

His Blessings had helped him forget his parents deaths… had given him a task to complete so that he could move on.

But they wouldn’t let him.

He tried to help the menfolk move logs, and he was denied.

He had saved one of his once-friends from a river, wading through the rushing water like a titan against the smallest puddle… only to be called a freak, and have his friend’s grip snatched away from him.

It didn’t help that with every passing moment, he grew larger and larger.

At eleven and a half, he was by far the largest of the boys in the village.

He towered over anyone else even close to his age by an entire head or more.

He had a single connection; a girl who was also cast out by the village for no singular reason other than the fact she is horrifyingly ugly.

Her name was Eliza… and she had found no solace.

He had never particularly met with her before… but the rumours were horrific — and unfortunately true, down to the letter.

Now, he places the last log of her new home; built from the ground up by himself. It seems to be in his nature… now… to build. For what else is safer than four walls that separate you from the world when you do not wish to deal with it?

“Thank you… Arden.” She says, and even her voice is horrible, full of constant breaks and varying pitch — and with no small amount of drawl on every word.

He smiles, and reaches out a relatively massive, meaty hand to push open the door. “I am no carpenter. I do not know how to give you a proper door.”

She walks in, and immediately her shoulders droop; a thick tension that suspended them suddenly cut loose. He smiles. Arden closes the door; more a flap than anything, and sits on a log he had found specifically to hold his weight. “For what it is worth, I am sorry for what they have done.”

Her hair flows down her back, and she twists, her bones creaking despite her youth. “I… think I am used to it… at this point. The words don’t really bother me… but the eyes. They’re silent… yet… I’m sure you have felt it. The judgement in silence.”

She sits on the log besides him, taking in his preposterous bulk. “Thank you for doing this… even for me.”

He shakes his head. “You are owed safety; in mind, body, and soul — regardless of your appearance.”

She turns her eyes downwards. “Oh.” She says. “So you think so too? That I’m ugly.”

Arden doesn’t know what to say; and in times where he does not know what to say, he simply reverts to his honesty. “Yes. I do.”

Everything is silent, and then tears start to hit the wood. “Of course… why would anything go right? Why would I even begin to think someone might love me?”

He puts a hand out, nearly large enough to eclipse her entire body, and places it ever-so-gently on her shoulder. “I do not wish to lie to you… or mislead you… or give you false hope…” He speaks; but he doesn’t know where he’s going.

She slaps away his hand. He moves it when it doesn't budge.

Her voice quivers as she speaks, choking back tears. "So you want me to know I'm ugly... you won't lie, like everyone else." She turns her gaze downwards, unable to look Arden in the eyes.

“Why can nobody just ignore it? I wish it would go away! I don’t want this life anymore!”

Something sparks in him as she runs for the door… an involuntary motion sees him snap out with enough force to force a flow of air and seize her hand, holding her as though he is a fortress and she is a block of stone.

She reels back in fear; but she can barely even move.

Why did he do this?

The answer comes to him. “I have vowed to keep you safe… to keep everyone safe.”

She throws fist at his face, over and over.

It… tingles. A very, very slightly painful tingle.

When nothing else has done the same.

That proves it in his mind.

“Part of keeping people safe is dealing with what is hurting them.” She spouts. “You want to keep me safe? Go kill them! All of them! They wouldn’t stand a chance against you!”

Arden shakes his head. “I will not be doing that. I will not kill unless I absolutely must.”

He picks her up like she is a blade of grass, and deposits her in the centre of the room, then crouches so he is at head-height with her.

“I will tell you what happened… when I went down below. If you are willing to live for a while longer, I have a feeling you could find salvation. I am Blessed… but I believe you are Cursed.”