“What the hell do you mean you can’t send in the raiding party now?!” shouted Artyom into his phone. “I gave you a literal textbook on the Goddess and told you exactly what I’m up against! So why the fuck not?!”
“Artyom,” said Gus from the other end of the call, trying to calm him down. “We’re already conducting a trick-or-treat, with the absolute highest priority. You’ll have to wait a few days at least if you want help, and longer if you want them to be in good shape.”
“Even the other teams?!” asked Artyom, trying and failing to control his voice.
“Yes. The artillery team, the Legionaries of Earth, and the SWAT teams. They’re all busy with something big.”
Artyom put his free hand on his forehead and let out an embittered sigh. “At least tell me what’s going on that’s so important.”
“You remember your last mission, right? The one where you picked up Kai Freeman?” asked Gus, his tone ever neutral.
“Yeah, there were some agents staying back to find the other summoned Earthers… you found them, didn’t you?”
“Indeed we did, and they’re being held hostage from us by an army.”
Artyom instinctively stood up, but Gus seemed to read his mind.
“Don’t worry, we have it under control. The assault should be underway right now. If we’re lucky, they should finish up quickly and head over your way in a few days. So I’m going to stress this again. Until they arrive, stay. Out. Of. Trouble.”
“And I’ll say it again, only as long as Tommy’s safe.”
“...Alright.” He paused for a second, the sound of rustling in the background. “But don’t think that I’m about to throw you into the meat grinder defenseless. I’m sending over your full kit.”
“My full what?” asked Artyom, now feeling cheered up with a sly smile on his face.
“Ugh,” sighed Gus. “Your ‘Ass-Kicking Kit’.” The words dripped out of his mouth like a tasteless venom.
“See, that wasn’t so hard!” exclaimed Artyom, returning to his previously cheerful demeanor for what it was worth, given the new horrors he’d stumbled upon earlier that day. “Hope this is enough to deal with whatever I’ll be put up against until help arrives.”
“It’d better be. You’re one of our best Artyom, even if you are out of your element on your own like this. There are some changes you should be aware of, however,” said Gus.
“Hm? Like what?”
“Let me give you a once-over of everything first, to make sure I don’t miss any details.”
A wooden crate began to rise out of the ground next to Artyom, who quickly opened it up and began perusing its contents as soon as it had fully ascended. With practiced motions, he quickly donned the armor and weapons inside, bringing himself back to his full combat capacity, at least without the benefit of any levels.
“First of all, you’ve got your standard Quicksteel-thread armor with a non-newtonian fluid enchantment,” said Gus. Artyom looked at his new sweater and sweatpants, comforted in its familiarity and fabric-like feel. Quicksteel was a very interesting material that TOAL had come across in its earlier years, an alloy of vanadium steel and mercury magically bound together with mithril. The non-newtonian fluid enchantment took advantage of the liquid properties of mercury in order to make the entire alloy harden when impacted by significant force, allowing for the armor to be soft and flexible when moving but completely solid when struck. Better yet, the force applied to the hardened zones would be distributed across the softer parts without harming the user, making for an incredible combination. It was the perfect lightweight battle armor.
Being touted as the all-around better version of steel with half the weight and twice the durability, pure mithril metal was usually the go-to material used in forging armor when it was available. Of course, most fantastical worlds got stuck in the rut of over-reliance on these kinds of magical wonder-materials, and rarely took the time and effort to perform proper research into more advanced material sciences.
“Hey Gus, are we still paying off the royalties on the metallurgist who figured out all of our alloys?” asked Artyom.
“We’ll be paying her for the rest of her life,” sighed Gus. The metallurgical maestro in question was an Earther they rescued years ago and dropped off in a world dominated by dwarven smiths. She fit in like she lived there all her life, and traded any pertinent discoveries to TOAL at a cost. “At least all she asked for was a lifetime supply of ice cream and not something harder to come by.”
“Ice cream we can do,” added Artyom. “Best part is, we get to stock our mess halls with any leftovers! So in that vein, I hope she lives long.”
Gus silently nodded on the other side of the call. “Let’s move on, there’s more. Next up is a charging addon to your mana battery. There haven’t been any changes to it, but it should work with your existing prototype, letting it fill up much faster.”
“Alright,” said Artyom, checking the piece over. “What else?”
“There’s your shield. We’ve redesigned it to better deal with magical fire.”
“Really now. Any neat enchantments?”
“Nope. And I’d like to see you try to enchant beryllium-bronze. It’s one of the few alloys we know of that outright kills most magic it comes into contact with. And better yet, it’s also a great thermal conductor, so it should be able to dissipate any heat it picks up underneath the mithril cover plate.”
“So that’s what these weird spikes sticking out the front and sides are for?”
“That’s right, they’re cooling fins. Or so I’m told, by the research team. Feel free to bash someone’s face in with it if you feel it’s necessary. It should be sturdy enough to take a few of those kinds of hits.”
“Looks like you all went above and beyond for me.”
“With everything you’ve described about that World, I only regret not being able to do more for you,” lamented Gus.
“Like sending an assault team?” asked Artyom with a sly grin.
“Yes, like that,” replied Gus, matter of factly. “But we’re not done, there’s one last item.”
“You mean the gun?” asked Artyom, carefully handling the normal-looking pistol in his hand. “Anything special about it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. It’s just a normal gun.”
“Right,” replied Artyom. “The old school types never see it coming. And it should get around any kind of magic detection. Pretty smart, including this!”
“And that should be everything,” concluded Gus. “I really hope you won’t be needing these, but you’re armed for the worst. Stay safe, Artyom.”
“Thanks, I’ll do my best.”
Artyom hung up the phone and hid the box before heading back to the hotel. He walked by his old room before remembering that it was in no state to sleep in, with the debris from the smashed furniture and assassin corpses littering the floor. The room was cordoned off by a uniformed guard who violently glared at anyone who even remotely approached the door. After making a quick 180 and heading back to the lobby, Artyom found the rest of the party.
“There you are, Artyom!” exclaimed Tommy. “I hope your day off helped you feel better. And it looks like you did some shopping!”
“Yeah, it helped a lot, and I picked up some new gear to help me feel safer,” replied Artyom. The other party members were gathered there as well, Neitra standing to the side while the four others were each leaning on the hero pleadingly.
“Come on, Tommy. Why can’t we sleep with you tonight?” pleaded Lensa.
“Sorry, but I already promised Artyom that we’d share a room for the night because of the assassins,” replied the Great Hero.
The ladies quickly shifted their gazes to Artyom, each giving him a wicked glare. He didn’t flinch at their reaction, knowing that their apparent frustration at being clam jammed was only a cover for their abhorrence at his life.
With a few more grumbles, they eventually acquiesced and went back to their own rooms. That night, Artyom slept on the floor again inside of Tommy’s now well-warded suite with his new, fabric-like armor still on and gear by his side. Radio silence brought him to a tenuous sleep, as he dreamed of the dangers that could follow the next day. He dreamed of the shadows of the four vixens assailing him in all manners of attack; knives, swords, and fire. His sleeping visions faded to black before a conclusion to the combat could be reached.
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The next morning, Artyom awoke well rested despite the stress from the day before. Luckily, his contingency plans against the four ladies did more to assuage his fears than their dark secret did to worsen them. As he left the bathroom, he saw the Great Hero still asleep in his bed, an innocent look on his face as he was surrounded in a veritable castle of extravagantly soft pillows. Artyom smiled, the wholesome sight tugging at some kind of parental instinct deep within him. Here was the reason he fought; an innocent kid from Earth who didn’t ask to get mixed up in any of this business. At least he was brought over to a Fairytale World instead of a Gilded World or worse, and was having the most wonderful adventure of a lifetime. At least, that was what he probably thought about it. Artyom looked down with a sigh, concluding that simply doting over the sleeping child wouldn’t accomplish anything.
He decided to get ready for the day by cooking them both breakfast using the groceries provisioned by the hotel. Anyone who could afford a room like theirs would most likely be ordering room service instead of cooking for themselves, but Artyom figured the well stocked icebox was mostly for show or on the off-chance that a hotel patron brought along their own private chef. Some flour and baking powder here, some sliced tomatoes there, and finally topped with some cheese and… olives and anchovies, Artyom stuck the would-be dish into the oven.
“Mm, mom, … for lunch,” mumbled Tommy as he awoke to a memory he had once thought lost.
“Good morning, son,” replied Artyom, a bemused grin on his face. “I made breakfast while you were sleeping in.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Oh, uh, hey Artyom,” replied the hero awkwardly. He slowly squirmed his way out of his fortress of fluff and made his way to the kitchen with bleary eyes. “Is that what I think it is?”
Artyom decided not to tease the boy for calling him his mom, and slowly nodded his head in confirmation. “You said it was your favorite and that nobody here made it.”
“Pizza…” he looked ahead, wide-eyed and nostalgic, before pausing. “But wait, isn’t it still breakfast?”
“Eh, pizza’s healthier than most breakfast cereals anyway from what I’ve heard. And besides, it’s late enough that it’s pretty much brunch. You have a big day ahead of you with getting that holy weapon or whatever, and I have a feeling that we’re going to need all of our energy for this one.”
Tommy nodded with a soft smile before turning around and heading to the bathroom to ready himself for the day. By the time he’d finished up, the pizza was finished cooking and plated on the dining room table. There were two medium pies, one for each of them, Artyom’s being half cheese and half veggie. Even though he’d originally intended to make the pizza for himself as a sort of mid-mission reward, he was happy to share the spoils with somebody else.
Soon enough, they’d finished eating and felt energized enough to take on the day. The rest of the party knocked on their door soon after, already having filled themselves with meals from room service. As Tommy opened the door, all five women standing outside cringed at the odor emanating from inside.
“What’s that stench?” asked Daisy. “Did a fish swim into your room and die?”
“No, it’s pizza!” exclaimed Tommy, unperturbed by Daisy’s attitude. “With olives and anchovies, my favorite!”
“Well that explains the smell, then,” replied Xerica. “Come on, Tommy. We have to get the Goddess’ holy sword today, so change into your armor quickly and let’s get going!”
“Oh alright,” sighed the Great Hero as he walked back to where his armor was safely stored and carried it into a separate room to change.
To the side, Artyom stood looking at the entourage just outside the doorway in his quicksteel thread armor and an apron on top. To the unassuming, his clothes looked more akin to workout clothes than highly advanced body armor, and the apron on top did little to convince the onlookers otherwise. The four sirens of the group glared at him again, somehow more confrontationally than they did yesterday.
“What?” asked Artyom. “Jealous that I didn’t make any of you pizza?”
With a collective sneer, the ladies slammed the door shut letting the two stragglers get ready for the day’s mission.
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It wasn’t quite noon when the party had arrived at the church, but the glaring sun was close enough to its peak to not matter as it exposed the other townsfolk scuttling around looking for lunch. Having already filled themselves with a large brunch, the six adventurers had the luxury of standing apart from the throngs of mid-day eaters.
The building they approached was in truth more of a cathedral than a humble church, its high stone walls seeming to impose on the very sky itself to accommodate its mere presence. Tommy, in the lead, pulled open its large wooden doors and made his way inside with Neitra by his side for once. As soon as they were through, Xerica, who was next in line, quickly and quietly slammed the door shut. She slowly turned around to face Artyom, her arms crossed and a judgemental expression on her face. What got to Artyom about was that it wasn’t a normal sort of judging look you’d give to a stranger on the street. It was the kind you gave to insects.
“We need to get one thing straight, Artyom,” she said as the other ladies formed a circle around him.
By instinct, Artyom cast his standard suite of advanced combat spells while baring the shield at his side, all the while his face remained entirely placid. These were predators he was facing down, ones who were fully capable of turning him into a meal if they so wished. To show weakness was to court death itself, and metaphorically he was already spoken for.
“Tommy is our man, and you’ve come in the way between us long enough,” Xerica continued.
“This is your last chance, or we’re going to have to do something about it,” ominously added Ecole from his left.
“We know your secret!” sneered Daisy, to his right. “And if you don’t want it to get loose, you’ll do what’s best for you by leaving the party.”
Artyom looked around at the four sirens as he casually reached into his pocket and primed several flashbang and smoke bomb scrolls. “And what secret would that be?” he asked innocently, the ends of his lips edging ever so slightly upwards in a cocksure smirk of his own.
“That you’re not from here, from this World,” replied Lensa from behind him. She displayed none of her distinct shyness as she did so. Her eyebrows began to narrow and mouth contorted into a terrible snarl. “Your mere existence is apostate to the Goddess herself, and we aren’t scared to reveal your secret to the world.”
“Tommy will be forced to kick you out of the team then!” exclaimed Daisy with a sadistic grin. “Then you’ll be a pariah and nobody will want anything to do with you! Then who knows who might come and finish you off?”
The four demons looked at Artyom with malicious and bloodthirsty smiles, basking in their apparent victory. He adopted the same smirk in response, accompanied by a mirthless chuckle. It grew louder as it soon transformed into a deep cackle.
“And what’s so funny?” asked Xerica, her smile beginning to falter.
“It’s kind of cute, actually,” began Artyom. “How you all think you can strongarm me off the party like that. The moment I leave, you and your goddess can finish me off yourselves without Tommy finding out, and pinning it on the Dark Lord or whoever to spur him forward. So I’m not leaving.”
“But your secret, we’re not scared to tell everyone!” started Lensa.
“Oh, but you should be!” replied Artyom, smiling with malicious glee. He knew that what he was about to deliver onto these gatekeepers was going to be better than what he did to Cress back in Brimhaven. “Because I know your secrets as well. And I have nothing to lose by blabbing.”
“And now it’s our turn to ask. What ‘secrets’ would those be?” asked Ecole with a taunting, confident smirk.
“Well, there are several of them, actually,” said Artyom. “First, the obvious one, is that you’re working for your goddess directly, not just as ‘the chosen one’s prophecy-ordained companions’ but her personal servants. Second, the subtler one, is that this prophecy is bunk and you all kidnapped Tommy from his home. The Dark Lord’s forces are pathetic and you four could march on over to his castle and kill everyone there if you wanted to right now. I mean come on, his elite assassins? I killed them all while half asleep!”
“Those ‘secrets’ don’t say anything about us, and you can’t even prove them,” replied Xerica, looking slightly annoyed yet relieved.
“Oh, I’m not done. Excuse me for saving the best for last, but I just so happen to have a flair for the dramatic. And finally, the juiciest of all, is that none of you are real!” Artyom concluded the statement with a wide, open smile. The sheer ignobility of his toothy grin caused the onlookers to shift in shock, and then in indignancy.
“What are you even talking about? We’re real enough to ruin your life and kill you right now if we wanted to!” shouted Daisy.
“That’s right!” added Lensa. “We all have homes, friends, and families. I even told you where we all grew up, and you can check there for yourself!”
“I did,” replied Artyom tersely. He closed his mouth and eyed each of the ladies carefully with a devilish smirk. “And I learned from my excursions that you all did a sloppy job setting up your backstories.”
The four women quickly shared a glance, but remained silent. Artyom continued.
“All that exists of you are memories, no paper trail, no physical imprints on the world and people, nothing. As if you just popped into existence one day and everyone just knew who you were, as if they always had.”
“We don’t believe you,” replied Ecole. “You’re just making this all up to scare us.”
“Alright, if you want to play that way, so be it. Lensa was raised by her church, but they don’t actually take in babies, they send them to the nearby orphanage. Xerica forgot to actually enroll in her magic school so there aren’t any records of her actually being a student. All of the scars Daisy supposedly inflicted aren’t there, and Ecole? I’m not even going to say. You’ll know when you start looking.”
The four ladies’ eyes widened like a deer in a car’s headlights. Except it would be more apt to describe them as a nest of rats being exposed to an exterminator’s flashlight. And this wasn’t even the first time Artyom played such a role in this World.
“Best of all, even if you do go fixing everything I’ve pointed out, I can guarantee I’ll find more. Everything I just listed was discovered over the course of a single day, so finding more inconsistencies should be a cakewalk! All I need to do is point out even a single massive inconsistency to Tommy and he’d realize the truth. And I bet he won’t be of much use to the Goddess if he knows it’s all for show.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” interrupted Daisy.
“Hey, as long as you don’t reveal my secret! Until then, it would seem we have reached an impasse. You don’t out me, and I won’t out you.”
“Wait, you don’t actually know what our plan is, do you?” asked Xerica with an inquisitive glare.
“Do I need to?” replied Artyom smugly. “All I need to know is that you can’t afford Tommy finding out.”
He stared at the four sirens as they silently exchanged a series of looks. Artyom was certain they had some kind of telepathy or secret language based entirely on facial expressions, and they were currently using it to find some kind of solution to their predicament. Artyom, in the meantime, pridefully basked in his ingenuity for leveraging the dirt he’d dug up into prolonging their cold war. He’d just need to wait a bit longer before Gus could organize a raid on this World and any fears about facing those four alone would be long gone.
Speaking of the four, they’d finished their silent discussion with a series of smirks, as they opened the cathedral door and walked in.
“So be it,” said Xerica, as she made her way inside. “It’s a stalemate. For now.”
Artyom gulped upon realizing that they could’ve come to the same conclusion as him about using proxies. That was essentially what the assassins he’d fought so far were. It was a cold war, after all. Artyom just hoped that his allies showed up before theirs became too strong.
Artyom shook off his fears and made his way inside on their coattails. The cathedral was beautifully decorated, marble paneling making up the inside of the walls, with the ceiling featuring a magnificent painted relief covering the entirety of the domed ceiling depicting various deeds of the Goddess that Artyom remembered from the textbook that he still had in his backpack. The very same one he’d stolen from the library. The floor of the cathedral wasn’t as dramatic, but still incredibly substantial. Polished hardwood pews were evenly lined in rows on top of diorite tiles that gave off an aesthetic that matched the Goddess’ color scheme of mostly white with gray motes. Across the building, several members of the clergy milled about wearing the church’s signature “white with a blue stripe” robes. One of them, whose own robes hosted a fancy gold trim, was talking to the others. As Artyom approached them, he was reaching the conclusion of his miniature sermon.
“And thus, I must thank you Great Hero for allowing us to serve the Goddess. Her holy sword is in fact located within this very church, and we have been looking after it dutifully for centuries. The relic you seek is located in our crypt, whose entrance is in the back and can only be opened by the Goddess’ Key! But beware, o hero, for many terrible undead roam those halls and only the Goddess’ chosen can hope to fight them!”
“Thank you sir, we should be able to handle whatever’s in our way,” replied Tommy politely. “Alright team, let’s get going!”
Artyom walked up to the others and they all began heading towards the entrance.
“Wait!” shouted the head priest. “Only the Goddess’ chosen may enter the crypt!”
“Yeah, that’s us,” responded Tommy, his brow slightly furrowed in confusion.
“I’m afraid, not quite. For you see, according to the Goddess’ prophecy, her hero’s prophesied companions are those four ladies there,” said the head priest, pointing to Tommy’s harem. “I’m afraid the other two will have to wait out here, for their presence could ruin your ability to… draw the sword out of its resting place.”
Artyom was sure the priest made up the excuse about pulling out the sword on the spot. This definitely screamed being a trap, but none of the others in the cathedral looked like much of a threat.
“Sorry about that, guys,” said Tommy, apologetically. “I guess you two can talk about stuff in the meantime, I guess. I promise I’ll bring you along for the next adventure and the next zombie we find is all yours!”
The Great Hero and his entourage inserted the key into the decrepit wooden door at the back and opened it to a musty cave. As they entered, Tommy looked back at the two stragglers, an awkward smile on his face, but a twinge of regret clear in his eyes. Soon, they were deep enough that they could no longer be seen.
“Well then,” said Artyom, surveying the room for potential quick exit points. “What kind of stuff do you want to talk about?”
“Well, if I may make a suggestion,” interrupted the head priest. “Perhaps a sermon? You are in our humble church after all, and you happened to miss most of my previous one with your tardiness.”
Artyom was about to point out that the four ladies were equally late, but let it go and decided to humor him instead. “Sure, that sounds fun. Go ahead,” he said with an artificial smile. Besides, a secondhand account of how the locals interact with the Goddess’ religion could prove helpful for the trick-or-treaters who would show up soon.
“Ahem,” the head priest began. “The Goddess is responsible for the many blessings of mankind, raising us to our high stature. You’ve seen those who behold her blessing of knowledge for instance, such as the Great Hero. But she actively blesses each and every one of us through the Leveling System that flows through all living and thinking beings.”
Artyom nodded politely, intrigued by the information. He supposed that explained to an extent why he was unable to level up. But he’d only made an enemy of the Goddess recently, yet he was unable to gain any levels since the day he arrived in this World. Unable to determine a fulfilling answer, Artyom’s attention went back to the priest.
“Her magnanimity is only surpassed by her humility, in that she doesn’t even wish to be referred to by her true name, simply her title as the supreme Goddess.”
Artyom thought that such a desire was more of a reflection of her arrogance than anything else. Still, he was curious about what her “true name” really was, and decided to ask.
“I do not blame you for your ignorance, child,” replied the head priest, much to Artyom’s chagrin. He was in his late twenties, thank you very much. “Not many state the Goddess’ true name openly out of respect, but for you, I shall elucidate this knowledge for you. She is known as the Goddess Allivaine, and you are blessed to have come across this knowledge.”
“I see, thank you sir,” replied Artyom. The name he mentioned, Allivaine, sounded incredibly familiar. He was sure he’d heard it somewhere before, and possibly not even from this World itself.
Sadly, he didn’t get the chance to consider the matter any further. Just then, the cathedral’s front door slammed open and in walked another quartet of adventurers. They had the makeup of a stereotypical party, featuring an armored warrior, robed spellcaster, bow-equipped ranger, and supporting cleric. What stood out to Artyom was the same insignia stamped into each of their clothes; the same one worn by the assassins he’d faced.
“Servants of the Dark Lord,” whispered Neitra. “Wait… I recognize them!” Her eyes turned wide in panic.
“Hm? Who are they?” asked Artyom warily.
“The Dark Lord’s personal elite kill team!” she squeaked in distress. “They’re the highest leveled adventurers at his disposal that he sends to go after his biggest threats! They’re at least level 50, while the assassins we fought were in their 30s. Even I’m just level 37!”
“So you must be Artyom, then!” jeered the man in a shining full mithril plate as he lifted up a gargantuan battleaxe. “The Dark Lord’s got a price on your head, he does. And he’s sent us to collect!”
“And after that, we’ll bring him the hero’s head as a bonus!” cackled the enemy spellcaster as she produced a small ball of white-hot incandescent flame.
The clergy had all run away at the sight of the assailants, each priest and priestess occupying a corner of the cathedral and chanting prayers in a tense, hushed tone. Several funny thoughts occurred to Artyom as he looked upon this new threat. It was quite interesting that they’d decided to come after the Great Hero now of all times instead of when he was just getting started, and even more so that they called Artyom out first and only mentioned Tommy as an afterthought.
But even with the obvious factored in, why had they bothered to mention Tommy at all? Were they actually part of the game at play here and saying it just for show, or were they really planning to go after him too? If Neitra’s fears were to be believed, the hero wasn’t ready for this kind of a fight. Artyom couldn’t take that risk and would have to take them on in his place. Conveniently for him, the makeup of this new team was incredibly similar to that of the four sirens constantly wrapped around Tommy. He’d dismissed his dream from the night before as inaccurate and unrealistically too quick-to-the-punch, but as he thought about it more, it curiously seemed to match up with the challengers in front of him now. It was time to find out how that dream was supposed to end.