The Sanctuary was bursting with life. Everyone had something to do—a role to play. Tensions were high, but not like before. Enemies were working together, children were helping in any way they could. What could unite different humans better, than a new threat?

Rosalyn stood on the newly erected wall. It was yet another circle of stone, broken wood, and old-earth remains that circled the Sanctuary, widening the grounds it covered. It was better crafted than the previous attempts. They had a few [Builders], and [Architects] of higher levels now. While most had tried to become combat-oriented during the early dangerous days, it was not that easy to change one's class.

The casters capable of shaping the earth were helping too, albeit with difficulty. They were more in tune with destruction and attack patterns, rather than creating things. The Sanctuary was still far off from what had been during the time of the golden barrier when the System’s protection made sure they were safe. Getting there was a tough ordeal.

Things had calmed down after the initial war with the rotting monsters that seemed to crawl endlessly out of the forest. Too much if one asked her. The clam had given newfound motivation to people like Cole – and there were a few – to seek ways to establish themselves.

Now, in such a short time all was gone. [Scouts] had found a strange construct of flesh, pulsing deep into the forest, mimicking the construction of a Sanctuary. It was terrifying though for those monsters to have evolved so fast, to have become more human.

And humans themselves… violent, greedy, and obsessed with power. Skills gave them importance, and the more time passed, the more everyone found their ego. Found themselves. Teamwork was more difficult to achieve than ever. Her manipulations and using the truths she saw in all had a limit. At some point, they would stop caring.

Rosalyn didn’t have the combat power to be an effective leader. She was an honest one. She could be trusted. However, that didn’t earn respect. Killing did. Power did.

She knew it was not only classes that made them act that way. It was an excuse. Classes made what was already there stronger. The System itself made people more of what they fundamentally already were.

There were exceptions, of course. The good ones. Most of them had died, and others had given up. Only she and the few who held the raging masses that wanted levels and skills at bay persisted. To what end?

Emerson was lulling between threatening everyone out of order and sitting alone in dark rooms, crying. It was a mental breakdown if she had ever seen one, and they were unable to help him. Even getting close to the man was becoming difficult. There was a stench… not one that assaulted the nose or made one want to vomit. It was a different kind of stench. A feeling that permeated a person as they saw the first corpse, or stepped among a silent graveyard.

Emerson felt like death. That made him instrumental. His return and what Alan had done had solidified her position more than she had hoped. People were pooling their points and they even had purchased another shield. A guarantee that they could last an attack, even for a little bit.

And Alan – the one who had what it took to help Emerson fucked off to somewhere, exploring, thriving. Rosalyn couldn’t blame him, even though she tried. If she could, if she had it in her, she would’ve left too. The pressure of trying to do right by anyone, of having to ignore lies said straight to her face in the name of peace – because the liars knew it was something she had to do – and worst of all, having to kill in the name of peace… was too much. Perhaps battling monsters in the wild was better.

Sometimes she hated her class.

At times she felt she was losing herself like the worst cases. Like those who had gone mad. Her abilities were grounding her in sharp contrast to the changes she experienced. There was something about knowing lies. Even ones she told herself.

That didn’t stop doubt though. Truth was subjective. And ever-flowing concept. A frustrating thing. There were simple truths, sure, but a lot of it was viewpoints, feelings, and all the factors that bent it like soft pliable putty.

She squinted. In the distance, beyond the walls they were erecting, stood a sword. It had been left there as a massage of sorts. A warning. A deadline. It was rusting visibly, with little flakes breaking off. What would happen once it disappeared? Would it be another desperate fight, another slew of deaths that would break her spirit even further? Was that the purpose of the System?

Their recent visitors – humans from another Sanctuary – had been quite clear in their demands.

Submit to being examined, give all fire users to them, and then relinquish control of the World Temple. They would be integrated into the city, whatever that meant. The [scouts] had found no city. No Sanctuaries nearby.

The other option was death.

Even Cole, if he was still alive, would’ve been flabbergasted at the attitude of the newcomers. For all his faults, the man had wanted the good of the regular people. He had killed, cheated, and lied, but only those he felt were a threat to his influence. Nothing the truly powerful hadn’t done back on Earth. Post-system it was simply not as veiled.

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To conquer, to kill and enslave, was human nature and now it was more apparent than ever. Even in her own people. Rosalyn only hoped they would manage to fight back, when the time came.

Hopefully, Alan would return and deal with it all, before disappearing again. She hated how much hope she put on that unreliable guy’s shoulders, but he was the strongest one in the whole Sanctuary. They needed him, and the only connection to him that remained was Cole, who was a husk of himself. The last time she had seen him she had been terrified. All skin and bones, and eyes that were dead.

Broken.

All the arrogance, the desire for power, the scheming – gone.

The other was the girl. The [Warlock]. What Alan had done to her was still a mystery, but she came by often. Begging for anyone to remove the curse. Pleading for someone to find Alan. Praying to her Patron who had apparently remained deaf and powerless to stop the terrible curse infecting her mind.

In some ways, what Alan had done to the two was more evil than what the monsters had done. Monsters were monsters. Alan was a human.

Rosalyn blinked and looked to the side. A flash of blue had drawn her attention, and now Rabbit stood there. She had decided to stop calling him Top Rabbit. It sounded silly.

He was a man of few words and many wondrous skills. He could move great distances in a blink and return to his original position the next second. He could cast lightning and held other mysterious abilities.

She couldn’t understand him, but he was strong, supported her, and his group loved him. They were all weird. Young. Idealistic. They saw themselves as heroes of sorts.

She knew what brutalities they were capable of, but who wasn’t? her own hands were already washed with blood.

And soon, she would have to add some more.

***

Mayra sat in her room, inscribing. Her ‘tower’ if it could’ve been called had been repurposed by her own will. She had given it all away. No one bowed to her in fear anymore. No one came for the little bits of guidance she had offered. Obtaining and giving knowledge gave her power. Levels.

Trading away her scrolls had made her grow.

That was over now.

Cole was gone, and so was all her support.

The scrolls she made were all she had. Losing herself to work was all that helped her. Scribbles that somehow turned into real, tangible power through her skills. Inscriptions. A power that could be wielded by almost anyone that took hold of them. Her class was a goldmine… if the world was normal. If she was allowed access to the World Temple again. If she was not shunned.

She screamed in frustration and tore the scroll she had been working on. It turned to ash soon after, as if the paper had immolated in shame. Her patron had given her some guidance on curses. It had been costly, but she knew it was possible to counteract them.

Yet, her patron had not allowed another [Ancient] tier skill to be given birth. Not even to save her.

[Remove Minor Curse] was all she had managed with the little she had and the spell hadn’t even begun to touch upon what Alan had done to her. His power made no sense, and she knew it was not the work of a patron. It was something else. The patrons were limited in what they could provide to the ones serving them. Their presence was still weak in this new world. Leveling, and strengthening herself would make the connection better.

So, she worked. Fighting was faster, but she was not a good fighter. She needed to prepare well since her skills took time and effort. There was no easy way to achieve that.

She regretted seeking help from her patron.

What she needed to do was provide knowledge, and in return, she was to be given knowledge. She had little to give on her own, yet she had done so. A last resort now that people ignored her. It gave her the ability to infuse into scrolls spells she couldn’t do herself. So far what she had known of the world, of technology, literature, and games, had all been stripped away in a trade. She had given memories of her family, memories of her hobbies, memories of Earth. At times she struggled to remember who she had been before the System. A lot remained, but it was fractured.

And it was not enough. Not even close. A scam. She waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. The thought was dangerous, for while her patron had been merciful. Now, as she was stronger, but had less value… not so much.

The shadows lingered in her vision. Losing her memories had proven better at counteracting the curse than the help she had received. What had been figures of her past, tormenting her at night, appearing in shadowy corners and reaching for her but never harming, were now simply faceless horrors she couldn’t recognize. Somehow that was better.

Their presence still made her tear up and cry often. She had tried bargaining, screaming, attacking. The hallucinations didn’t care. The emotions they brought her bore drills through her stomach, forcing her to suffer for her sins.

At the time her patron had even rewarded her for sending Alan away, even if she hadn’t done exactly as told. The refusal of a [Warlock] to pick a patron had seemed to infuriate her own.

But her patron was not paying the price for that now. It was not They who had to suffer the horrors, the soft touches that didn’t allow her to fall asleep, the words.

She felt the madness creeping in. Paranoia the likes of which she hadn’t known before was now her constant companion, and if she listened closely, she could seldom hear voices too. They blamed her. Shamed her for what she had become. A failure. A prisoner of her mind.

The work helped center her, but still… it was not enough. With each passing day, the curse was eating away at the little confidence the System and her skills had given her. To finally be someone and to be brought down in such a way was too cruel. Too cruel.

She didn’t know what Alan had suffered because of her, but at times she hoped it had been a lot. She hoped it was at least comparable to what she was going through because of his touch. The Curse.

And the man didn’t seem to care. He was gone, just like that. Leaving her with this terrible affliction that seemed to have no end, and disappearing. He had told her to seek him out, but that had been a lie. If he was here now…

What would she do? She couldn’t fight him! She could beg. She could promise to serve him. Would he accept? Mayra knew she could be useful. Yes, very useful.

A pang of pain shot through her and the tattoos covering her skin lit up. Her patron didn’t like such thoughts.

She swallowed the rage. Becoming a [Warlock] had seemed like the greatest idea. Connecting to an alien lifeform that could grant her power. And edge over everyone else. How wrong she had been.

Maybe Alan would make for a better master? Maybe he could save her from—

Another bout of pain made her cry out. She threw herself to the ground, tears falling from her eyes. Stomach-churning. She felt weak. So Weak.

And so mad.

All she could do was keep inscribing scrolls, and hoping she could redeem herself. The pile kept growing.