The expressions of the two remaining adventurers changed. From the faux-polite mannerism to one of cold indifference. Titor looked at the corpse — or rather, the lack of one — but quickly seemed to forget about this strange anomaly. Perhaps, in large Alliance wars, something like this was not entirely unexpected.

Titor sighed. “Well, there is that rumor that you are a former professional,” he said.

His companion nodded, as he began to circle Aren, disappearing into his blindspot.

“But even if that were true, what can a washed-up pro do? Stygian has three professional players, all ranked in the top one thousand,” Titor said, emphasizing their rankings.

It was quite impressive. More than a billion people played Singularity, at some level of activity. Large battles — epic open field killing grounds — regularly saw a thousand adventurers fight each other for the control of resources and territory. Being in the top thousand was as impressive as being in the top one hundred.

“Even if you were Yan Li, what could you possibly do?” Titor continued. “Just surrender now, and we might still spare your friends. This is absurd.”

Titor was not wrong. From his perspective, without the advantage of a sneak attack, Aren would be quickly ground down to dust and killed. After all, they would not be foolish enough to attack Aren without learning his rank in the Adventurer’s Guild or his rank in the Coalition Army. His lack of fame — save for that one instance where he killed the Scar of Rakab — was an indicator of his powerlessness. So what? He could strike once with deadly effect — Assassins could do that too. Plenty of classes were capable of such feats. Their companion was foolish and fell to Aren’s trap. That was all there was to it.

Even if Titor was wrong, and Aren was someone like Yan Li — that is to say, even if he could be victorious here — Stygian had professional players. The Alliance had resources, allies, territorial control, influence, and professional players. What could Exalt do? In the short-term and the long-term, Titor was suggesting that Aren stood no chance.

Titor’s companion then made his move, stepping forward suddenly and lunging. His saber slid out of its sheath with a rasp of metal on leather and in the same motion headed for Aren’s neck.

Effortlessly, Aren leaned his head back and to the side, never truly aware of the coming attack. He only followed the bidding of the death line and its infallible guidance. The saber narrowly missed Aren’s neck and jugular by only a few millimeters.

They moved in slow motion. Although Aren experienced the memory of this passage of time at normal speed, his first-hand experience was extremely slow. He could see everything — he could even see the muscles in his opponent’s jaw contract and flex, strand by strand. Nothing escaped his perception.

The fencer slashed sideways, trying to catch Aren’s neck on the backswing, but this time, Aren managed to duck under it, not even losing a single hair to the attack. From their perspective, he must’ve looked extremely nimble and fast. Prescient almost.

Prescience had nothing to do with it. Here, the death line stalled out, splintered and showed him many potential futures that all led towards the same conclusion — his victory. But from his fight with Eto, he knew how fickle destiny could be. This incredible reaction time was bestowed to him by his hyper-increased perception of reality. Now that his buffer was open, he felt nigh invincible.

It also made him think of how it felt that his time was limited — that he only had, what, a year, or several months, perhaps even just weeks to accomplish something. The reason was that even with this hyper-enhanced perception, he knew that his death was certain if he did not act perfectly in the one or two seconds he bought with his dodge.

Aren’s blade sung as he turned his body to face his attacker, even as he saw Titor begin to advance on Aren, as his smile bloomed. Titor’s footsteps were loud, and surely, the adventurer believed that this was an impossible situation to overcome. Whether Aren managed to kill Titor’s companion or not, Titor would finish Aren off.

But Aren did not plan on dying here. Perhaps the clan would judge his actions here to be rash, idiotic, unbelievable, and many other things, but they were all logical decisions. He did not act immaturely or brashly when Stygian insulted him by commanding him to disband his clan as if they were nobodies.

It was logical. In that moment, he felt the overview of the situation — the future — and he felt the outcome in his stomach. Then he felt the butterflies in his stomach — it was exciting. The thought was there, but he didn’t question it: Did AGMI see the future the same way?

His bloodforged blade — what he decided to call Camille’s gift — left a harrowing trail of red mist in its wake. It looked like a sword that was made of metal with a reddish alloy, but if one were to look much closer they would be able to see that the object lost cohesion under acceleration and then reformed itself from blood mist — which is what gave it that reddish color. Aren only saw it because the AI in his eye worked even in Singularity, giving him unnaturally detailed perception.

The blade passed through the companion’s throat with incredible ease, the [Singing Crescent] inflicting a mortal wound as it howled to its triumph with a hollow note. Or perhaps it howled to its bloodthirst.

Blood erupted from the adventurer’s neck, his eyes becoming unfocused. The adventurer’s pupils immediately blew out, and Aren knew that this one could feel the brutal pain of Singularity, and what it meant to be playing at this level, with limiters off. For Aren, it was necessary to play without pain suppressors, to avoid his headache — to replace the phantom pain with virtual sensations — but now he was just used to doing things this way.

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Aren could feel the warmth of the blood that splashed on his face. He could feel the snap of the thread of fate that connected them — these two strangers — as if this outcome, and this meeting, was unavoidable and preordained. The more Aren believed that it was destiny itself that bid this adventurer to die to him, the more powerful Aren felt. They say that strong conviction in one’s abilities can improve one’s performance — to maximize one’s ability. That is why, probably, the adventurer looked so scared and surprised. The way Aren moved — the way he casually attacked fatally with minimal motion — it seemed inhuman. It was frightening, and this fear showed on that person’s face.

Without finishing off his opponent, Aren turned with the death line. Most people would’ve likely tried to either use their mortally wounded foe as a shield, or finish him off, but not Aren. Aren knew that he didn’t have enough time for that.

Aren heard a mocking snort behind him.

[ Injury sustained. Severity: Critical wound. Organs heavily damaged. Combat ability reduction: Severe. Recovery time: Twenty-three days. ]

The detailed analysis of the result of his injury was likely because of an increase in the [Damage Assessment] ability from earlier.

The blade that devoured a hole into his side seemed to indeed be from the family of weapons considered shadowblades. It had an ornate design with many runic markings artistically carved along the blade. Where Aren’s blood touched the sword shrouded in ash, audible pops and flares of black energy annihilated the offending liquid and kept the blade clean, but not the black leather gloves that held it. There was a lot of blood.

[ Magic Type: Elemental Decay. ]

Those were the words that popped up in a small info window above the blade shrouded in ash — specifically, the ash storm itself. Ash. Decay. It made sense in a way.

Above his head, Titor had a black, ash circlet with three peaks. He did not wear it. It floated above his head. It looked like a broken halo. The word aperture came to mind when Aren saw it — an opening. It was as if it was the physical manifestation of whatever type of magic Titor used, related to decay. Perhaps it was like Aren’s [Arcane Territory] — a special, unique variant of such a skill-set, tailored for whatever Unique class Titor possessed.

Titor’s satisfied grin began to crumble and fade as he saw Aren’s satisfied grin. Horror began to seep into Titor’s eyes. “Do you not feel pain?” Titor asked, eyes wide.

Aren’s sword plunged into Titor’s chest with a sickening crunch as the blade carved through ribs. Titor’s eyes widened even further, eyeballs almost popping out of his skull. He held his breath for all of two seconds before exhaling and then gasping for air.

“I feel pain,” Aren said, as calmly as he could. The pain was overwhelming. Titor’s sword was like a rod made of molten metal, devouring his insides. But even that was nothing compared to the agony Aren once felt in the real world. Compared to that, and this being Singularity — a virtual world — it was almost cartoonish.

Aren saw the moment when Titor realized what happened. The gambit Aren took to take Titor’s blow, risking his life for a chance to strike at Titor before he could reveal his full abilities. Aren was confident of his chances against another individual with a Unique class, but this had the highest chance of success. How many times, even with his overwhelming abilities, was Aren struck from behind, or nearly killed by the most banal of circumstances — especially overconfidence? Too many. But Aren learned his lesson. Titor did not.

“How… did you… know?” Titor gasped out the words, as his weight began to grow on Aren’s wearying wrist. But Aren would not allow Titor to slip from his sword. No. Aren was sending a message. Inspiring fear and terror into Titor and those that might come in the future.

“I did not,” Aren half-admitted. He had the death line on his side, but he knew from first-hand experience that fate can be a fickle thing. There, at that moment, the death line ended, and Aren knew that it was going to be a simultaneous blow. Would he live or die?

Aren twisted the blade, mercilessly, and Titor’s jaw dropped, his eyebrows shooting up. “I made my death ground here,” Aren said, tone freezing cold. “I will either be the last one standing, or I will die. It is that simple.”

Titor’s eyes gleamed. Surprise. Tears. Enlightenment. Inspiration. All these things showed on his face after Aren spoke those words. And regret.

Titor’s blood splashed out onto the ground as Aren freed his sword, obliterating Titor’s heart in the process and killing him instantly.

[ Fate devoured: Obtained Unique class: Lord of Ash. Information obtained on Prey: Important members and officers, classes, important locations. ]

[ You have obtained a Unique class. It will be converted to an object and added to your inventory. Because you are a Calamity, you have the option of modifying some traits of it, absorbing its traits for your own class sets, or keeping it as is. Note that any modification or absorption will reduce the class to Legendary status. ]

Even as Aren fell to his knees, his mind developed a map of these important locations he gained information on. They were strongholds, outposts, forward bases, and resource collection points. Many of them were quite close to Rakab.

However, just like the fact that Aren now had an onyx circlet in his satchel, it flew right over his head, so to speak. The reason was simple. The pain he was in was extraordinary. And though it was nothing like the agony he once felt, and cartoonish in comparison, it still hurt quite a bit. Now that no one was around, Aren did not have to put up a brave front of cold indifference — like he was emulating the AGMI that were the incarnations of his nightmares until recently.

He pulled up the clan list and whispered prayers in his heart for someone — preferably Cassandra — to be online. No luck.

Aren groaned, exhaling sharply and then drawing in a breath — reminiscent of Titor’s last moments.

Please, Aren could not help himself but speak those words in his mind. Someone…

Then, a point of light appeared in the sky. Aren felt some relief as he looked up, where the dancing colors of fading twilight interacted with divine attention.

[ Ytra, Goddess of Nature, curses you. All shall see the stigma of the crime you have committed against nature. May your wounds never heal. Should you die, may you become one of the undead. ]

[ Your injuries have become permanent. ]

Aren stared at the fading divine light coming from the clouds — that ray of kind and warm sunshine — and as his mind processed what just happened, anger and fury crashed through the void in his betrayed heart and burned in his veins. With a hateful glare at the holy point of emerging light, Aren growled, overwhelmed by anger. “Fuck… you.”

[ Your reputation with Ytra, Goddess of Nature, is now: Abhorred. ]