Blake told Annie and Seul-ki he had some ‘power changes’ due to the tournament. He had no interest yet and maybe ever in describing his new relationship with Psion, and was pleased when neither girl asked any questions.

Annie didn’t because she believed him, and also because she didn’t care. Seul-ki, he had no doubt, because she recognized he was lying, but was perfectly comfortable with that.

It reminded him he had chosen the perfect women. Though he did wonder how Annie would react if she knew his exact relationship with Seul-ki or Ilya…

But there was no time to worry about the merits of his love life. Blake decided it was time for a new round and generation of Making, to be interrupted only by an army of demons pouring out their last portals in the remaining orc towers.

“I’m not to be disturbed,” he explained to the others. “Unless Ilya asks for me, or there’s a fire or something. I’ll be busy. Possibly for days.”

Pliny looked back down at his experiments without a word. Seul-ki bowed politely and wandered off. Annie put her hands behind her back and scuffed the floor with a dainty foot.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? There’s nothing to do in this tower.”

“Whatever you like, my dear,” Blake said, already opening his Making power and staring at the display. “You can wander the tower. You can leave and explore a little, if you like. Seul-ki might like to come along. But don’t go far. And do be careful.”

Annie didn’t leave right away, and he sensed a definite teenage huff when she finally marched off. But for now, he just couldn’t care. He knew he was about to drop down one of his rabbit holes, mind entranced and addicted to a new puzzle, the boring world reduced to an interfering annoyance.

He tried to make a new ‘sphere’ to smash his old one. But he basically…couldn’t. It was like Primordial Making refused to clone a project. The more he tried, the more it varied. The more he pushed for a specific design, the less efficient it became.

When he finally gave up and went back to a focus on purpose and function, the power instead made a kind of giant bat with a spike. Like it was almost mocking him. This too floated—though slowly—and happily chased after his swinging sphere before smashing it like a big pinata.

Blake winced as it crashed into the wall, bringing down tiles and chunks of stone and maybe even cracking a support beam. Pliny popped up from under a table, ears flopping as he pulled off his dust covered goggles.

“Sorry about that,” Blake called. The engineer just shrugged like these things happened before going back to his hammering.

“Perhaps I should try some non combat models,” Blake muttered, not sure if he could fix the damage so easily with his new power.

Turned out he was right to be concerned. Sort of. Primordial Making was very good at fixing things, it just wasn’t good at making them consistent. If reality was a kind of image his new Making power was modifying, it felt like all he had was a big random brush to swipe it with.

The colors and surfaces never matched. White, uniform tiles became a rainbow. Broken floorboards changed from stone to concrete to plastic in the space of a few feet. It did the job, technically speaking, but it was the kind of tool that would drive a perfectionist to lose his damn mind.

Fortunately, Blake was comfortable with chaos. And he had to admit there was something…beautiful about the seemingly random nature of his creations.

He started making sculptures just to see what would happen, and usually ended up with hybrid monsters suited for Greek drama. He made table and chair ‘sets’ so ridiculous only kids would appreciate them. He made ‘tools’ that might technically work, but which no self-respecting craftsman would use.

All in all, it was a wonderful, frustrating, absorbing first day.

Blake was eventually forced to stop before his body gave out, his mana getting too low to do anything. Seul-ki refused to re-charge him until he ate something.

“I thought you were going for a walk with Annie,” he said, chewing some impossible blend of Korean and Orc cuisine mechanically. His maybe main ally in the game raised her carefully plucked brow.

“We were gone all day. And then we slept. It’s the next morning, Blake.”

“Oh.” He glanced at the sun through a window with a scowl. “Have I eaten enough? I want to try some more combat models. I think I’ve learned a few things from the sculptures. At least enough to stop making basic shapes.”

Seul-ki quirked a judgmental head. But she eventually leaned forward and kissed his brow, sending a delightful jolt of power through him.

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“What would I do without you?” He smiled, taking her delicate hands in his. But he saw Annie near her room staring and let go. “Well. Thank you. I promise I’ll sleep. Soon. Ish.”

Seul-ki gave him a ‘I don’t believe you but that’s fine’ kind of look before walking towards her room. Blake managed to smile at Annie, not getting one in return. But for the moment he didn’t really care.

There was only the next construct, and applying all he’d learned. He had so much to do, so much to understand, and so little time. He didn’t intend to waste a moment.

**

Jeong, Emperor of the World, crawled through an ancient sewage pipe. He was beginning to suspect his God had created the dungeon entrance intentionally—a reminder, perhaps, for his would-be champions, of what he thought of the living. Another little dose of humility.

It was the third time Jeong had gone inside. He had found the Eternal God’s ancient temple in what he’d taken to calling the Desert of the Dead—fifty miles south of the capital, past the outskirts of the civilized world, through a few aggressive tribes of orcs and half animal humanoids.

A raiding party of hyena-men had thought they found easy prey when Jeong entered the desert alone.

“We told you humans,” said their leader with a snarl. “This place. Forbidden. Tonight you roast in fire. We send your ugly head to your people.”

Jeong had crushed the leader’s throat without a word. He’d snapped the legs of the other raiders, dragging them one by one into a pile before breaking their bodies apart as they screamed and begged for mercy.

Only one he’d spared—the young warrior weeping silently as he stared at his kin. Finally he’d met Jeong’s stare with the expression they all should have had since the beginning.

“Go and tell your people,” Jeong said, holding the creature’s chin in a bloody hand. “Tell them humans go wherever they wish. Show them this pile of dead fools. Tell them they crossed the chief of all men.”

The creature nodded, and Jeong let him go. He had always been fond of turning enemies into servants. Though he supposed slave was preferable.

No other creatures had bothered him, at least not until he’d arrived at the temple. Skeletal things guarded the entrance, from man-sized humanoids with spears to mammoth-sized beasts with gold-ringed tusks.

Jeong had destroyed them all easily enough. He was fond of fighting the walking dead, even before his Golden Shield. They were always so slow and ponderous, and with his Divine Vessels providing his inhuman speed and endless stamina, he could smash them apart without much concern.

But the dungeon itself was…complicated. The undead inside were truly never-ending, and a foul mist spread over everything, even wearing down Jeong’s shield over time. As far as he could tell, he was required to solve a series of intricate puzzles, collecting pieces of tile to build a kind of colored pyramid in a central hall.

But every room teleported him, seemingly randomly. He had yet to discern any kind of pattern, and each time he teleported he was required to destroy more of the endless dead, wasting more time standing in the foul miasma.

So he was forced to eventually retreat before his Shield wore down. A day or so outside and it rejuvenated completely, then he would take whatever tiles he’d found and go to the hall outside the teleporting rooms and place his pieces.

Then he’d return to the teleporters, searching and crushing the walking corpses until he’d weakened enough he knew he had to get out again.

Losing time was a problem. What was happening in the capital in his absence he had no idea. His loss to Mason Nimitz and his premature exit from the tournament would have caused a scandal and a stir.

The many disloyal players and opportunists may well be plotting against him this very moment, telling each other and others he had fled the city and wouldn’t return. That the time of Jeong was over.

Some would try to seek out his Vessels, no doubt. But only the Vessels themselves knew who they were. Any member of Jeong’s House could be used—all that was required was to sign a kind of agreement, binding their power to his, and suffering the physical or mental consequences.

All had been sworn to secrecy by contract, and they would only be discovered with physical or cognitive tests administered by someone who understood the power. Otherwise, the only reasonable way to eliminate them would be to force every player and civilian to quit Jeong’s House with the threat of violence. Or gather all those Jeong had favored in some way, assume they were Vessels, and kill them. That’s what Jeong would do.

But only Damian and his wife understood his Vessel power. And there were enough loyalists and fear of him that building the support to oppose him would be difficult, and take time. Jeong would return before long. He was making progress.

Soon enough he would have the weapon he was promised—a way to defeat Mason Nimitz in battle, and erase the shame and failure that had cracked the foundation of his dynasty.

In a hundred years, he told himself, there would be no one left who even remembered. Jeong would destroy his enemies, unite mankind, and re-write the history of this world. The name Mason Nimitz would not exist, and therefore Jeong’s defeat would not exist.

The final ticks of his Golden Shield renewed, and Jeong stepped to the rune-covered door that would lead him to the ancient temple. He had no idea what it said, nor did he care. His god kept things from him, of course, he knew that. But all that mattered was power.

He had warned this weapon would be difficult to wield. That it would cause Jeong pain. That he would suffer as long as he kept it. But suffering was an old friend to the emperor of the world. He had been afraid most of his life—of starvation, of weakness, of betrayal.

He feared nothing now except failure. If suffering was the price of victory, it was a cost he would pay without a moment’s hesitation. He reached for the temple door for what he hoped was the third and final time, imagining the faces of any traitors in the capital when he returned.

He hoped it was Erik the Swede. Or maybe Michael. He truly did. Even if it cost him more time to conquer the Nexus, wiping the smug caster’s brains off the floor would be a day of days. And perhaps he could replace him soon with a different Nimitz.

The young Blake seemed to Jeong a like-minded soul. His potential betrayal of his brother would be a psychological blow, if nothing else. And unlike Erik, his inexperience would make him…far more malleable.

Jeong was patient. He would wait and see. If he was required to kill traitors to secure his rule, he would kill them without hesitation. He would kill Blake. He would kill Mason. He would butcher nine out of ten men if it meant re-shaping the rest.

But first, the weapon. Then his triumphant return to the capital to set things in order. Then the Nexus.

And finally the West, and with it, the world. Jeong touched the temple of his God, and vanished inside.