Chapter 112: Doom Phase

It wasn’t until Kalana began gently stroking his hair that Zach opened his eyes and realized they’d landed. “Did I seriously just sleep through that?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. You sure did.” She kissed him on his cheek.

Zach wiped his eyes and leaned forward in the leather seat towards the rear of the private jet that had taken him and Kal to the city of Varda’s Lair. He was kind of amazed, really. This had been the first time he’d ever been on an airplane—let alone such a fancy plane that was more like a flying resort—and yet, despite this, he’d basically fainted a quarter of the way through the three-and-a-half-hour flight. Then again, it was completely dark outside, so it wasn’t like there’d been a whole lot to see beyond the window, anyway. Unclipping his seatbelt, he stretched his arms and yawned while the jet was slowly taxied to the gate that would take them into the airport. Turning on the light above him, he glanced down at his hands and arms to convince himself they were really clean. They certainly didn’t feel clean.

Why did this have to happen? he wondered, the thought painful and growing more so.

He was steadily becoming less numb, and he found that he actually preferred it better the way he’d been earlier when for some reason—likely shock—he’d been unable to feel or care about anything. Really, up until about twenty-five minutes into the flight, Zach had continued to remain in that detached, somewhat foggy-headed state. But it was only after the plane had climbed to above 18,000 feet in altitude that he’d started to feel an ache in his chest over the events that had occurred tonight.

It had begun after Abram Gespon had told him that it was safe for him to take a shower. For whatever reason, Zach was asked not to move around until the plane had climbed to a high-enough “cruising altitude.” Before then, he’d been instructed to keep his seatbelt on at all times. Yet as though finally breaking free of his level-1 pattern of thinking, Zach realized that these rules were silly to someone like him or Kal. Even if the airplane exploded, the two of them would just fall all the way to the ground and land unharmed. Zach supposed there would always be a part of him that would find that unbelievable.

At any rate, once the plane had gone above 18,000 feet, he’d stepped into an unexpectedly luxurious and spacious bathroom. Once there, he’d gotten into the shower, stood directly under the nozzle, and had then begun to breathe heavily and fearfully as he watched the water turn from clear to red as it ran down his body and into the drain. Disgusted, he’d begun scrubbing himself furiously. In some spots, he scrubbed hard enough to break the skin and draw blood of his own. But he wasn’t concerned about hurting himself, though, because he knew that after he got dressed and his constitution went back over 50, passive HP regeneration would heal him in less than a few seconds given he was only inflicting shallow cuts to his skin. At the time, he’d cared only for getting every last trace of other people’s blood off his body.

“Are you feeling okay, Zach?” Kalana asked him, unfastening her own seatbelt and then standing up to stretch.

He forced a smile onto his lips that he didn’t really feel. “I’m actually doing pretty good.”

She frowned at him in a way that came across as both sad and skeptical. “Things are gonna get so much better real soon.”

He nodded. “I know they will.”

“They really will,” she said. “I…I know that you um…that you had to do some things tonight that—”

“Kal,” he interrupted. “I’m fine.”

She paused a moment, then smiled, and Zach wondered if hers was forced as well. “You’re gonna love my island once we get there.”

“If we ever get there,” he grumbled. He removed his phone and checked the time. It was already well after midnight. “I can’t believe we had to fly almost four hours north just to have to fly the same way back south all over again.”

Kalana released a soft, brief chuckle. “It’s okay. You can sleep on the plane. The next one, I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Together with Kalana, the two of them made their way down the narrow aisle and towards the front of the jet to join Abram Gespon; the man was making small talk with a flight attendant that appeared to work for The People of Virtue. The woman told them that they were connecting the door to the airbridge now, and that they’d be able to depart in just a minute or two. Even while standing upright on his feet, Zach came close to nodding off while he waited.

Fuck, I’m so damned tired, he thought with another yawn. I can’t believe tonight ended with me jogging half naked for miles in the dark.

Although they’d all managed to get to Whispery Woods in one piece, the armored convoy had ended up taking longer to arrive than expected, and what was more, for security reasons, they’d had to travel farther than originally planned as well. Thus, in near-total darkness, the five-hundred-thirty-four members of the raid that had slain Ziragoth, as well as some additional visitors from Archian Prime, had moved—once more as a team—northward and through the grasslands.

At first, they’d at least had the light provided by the Elvish torch ability which, come to think of it, was the first ability Zach had ever seen another living being use back when he’d plunged into the depths beneath Whispery Woods with Kalana. It had been incredibly useful in making it easy for them all to see their surroundings. But after they’d gotten about ten miles away from the city, Donovan had called for them to go dark, as their path had unexpectedly taken them within five miles of a Guild of Gentleman outpost. Also, having moved well out of sight, Donovan had thought it would be better to proceed stealthily from that point on.

Fearful of a potential ambush, they’d been required to move at a brisk, hurried pace, and because of this, Zach had eventually been asked to let two exhausted adventurers with very few points into speed ride on his war-mount; though he himself was exhausted as well, his was more emotional than physical, so he’d obliged. Also, he’d been too drained to spare the energy required to argue. It had actually been easier for him to just hop off the side of the Kralzek’s Beast and proceed on foot than it would’ve been to disagree.

Despite the sun having gone down, the night’s humidity had caused Zach to sweat and pant as he proceeded with the others through the grasslands. And though Donovan had claimed he’d wanted everyone to move stealthily, that did not, apparently, mean quietly. All throughout their so-called “retreat,” the adventurers had jabbered on excitedly, and it was all about one and exclusively one topic. In fact, other than this one topic, Zach could not recall a single other thing being discussed. And that topic was the Great One known as Olandrin, who Fylwen had claimed to know a few things about.

Zach had not—and still did not—really understand what was so special about this particular Great One. He’d only ever heard the name spoken once before, and that was at Angelica’s, where Donovan and Mr. Oren had told him that every adventurer loved him, including Fluffles, and that if Zach continued to adventure, it was inevitable that he himself would understand why. Mr. Oren claimed every adventurer eventually became familiar with that name. From what he observed, it appeared to be the truth.

Focusing on keeping his legs moving, Zach had let his mind drift off as he jogged his way with the others through the uncomfortably warm night with no breaks or pauses to rest. They’d simply powered straight through, stopping only a single time around an hour later when everyone’s Bank and Storage was off cooldown. Understandably, everyone—Zach included—had wanted to get back into their fighting equipment just in case. It was also here that Zach learned the Elvish also had the Bank and Storage ability despite it being a human racial passive. As it turned out, theirs had a slightly different name and was earned at level 30, but it was functionally identical.

Once re-equipped, everyone had continued onwards, and along with them, Zach had trekked his way through an increasingly rocky and uneven terrain that it was too dark to see until, finally, at long last, the appearance of numerous bright lights in the distance had signaled the arrival of the armored caravan. Given the awful shit everyone had just gone through, nobody wanted to linger around for long, and everyone had hurried into whatever vehicle was either nearest or had space, and with that, they’d quickly headed off, riding at full DEHV speed together to Whispery Woods. Two hours later, they were crossing the Leviathan Bridge.

Zach had felt nothing upon returning to the city he had called home for nearly every day of his life. He’d still been too numb: too shocked. He hadn’t even bothered to say his goodbyes to anyone, either. He, Kalana, and Abram Gespon—and anyone else needing to catch an immediate flight—had separated from the others, and then they’d separated even further, as only the three of them were heading to Varda’s lair.

Now, having arrived, Zach watched as the jet’s door was opened and the three of them were waved through. Holding Kalana’s hand, they followed Abram onto the airbridge, which took them through a blue, hallway-like tunnel and let out into an incredibly upscale airport that was nothing at all like the rundown, musty-smelling one they’d departed a few hours ago.

Everywhere Zach looked, there were fine-dining establishments, leather lounge chairs, people sitting at marble tables sipping wine, men in business suits typing away on portable computers while drinking coffee, and of course, a fair number of Galterrans hurrying back and forth across the wide, open center of the airport—even at this time—moving towards dozens of gates to board one flight or another along the clean, polished floor.

“I can’t believe we’re actually in Varda’s lair,” Kalana said somewhat excitedly.

Zach had to agree. This was the farthest he’d even been away from home, and he was about to go a whole lot farther, too. “How long did you say our next flight was, Kal?”

She squeezed his hand. “About ten hours from here, I think. Then it’s another hour-and-a-half helicopter ride, since we gotta land in the Shores of Wrath first.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Kalana snickered. “Aww, Zach,” she said sweetly, “you didn’t really think the flight was gonna land on my island, did you, baby? We don’t have a runway, you dork. At least not yet. We gotta touch down in South Bastia first.”

Zach released a slow, defeated sigh. “I’m just so tired and want to lie down.”

Kalana tapped her chin then raised her eyebrows. “Well, umm, we can still spend a few days here in the city if you don’t wanna catch another flight right away.”

Zach pursed his lips as he thought again on the offer Abram had made to them. Abram had said that Kal and him could relax a few days in the city and that they’d be treated “exceptionally” well for however long they stayed. This was, truthfully, a very tempting offer. Varda’s Lair was one of the places Zach had always wanted to visit. Actually, he wanted to visit all the major cities of humanity. But this one, in particular, had stood out to him due to it being the most expensive, richest city in all of humanity.

Unlike Tomb of Fire, which was known for its extravagant display of color and its myriad of bright, shiny entertainment spots, Varda’s Lair was not really a place that attracted all that much tourist attention. Though the city was certainly beautiful with tall, sleek buildings, several world-renowned museums, and the largest bank in North Bastia, it was far more commercially oriented in nature than Tomb of Fire was. In fact, Zach recalled once reading online that the vast majority of people to be found in Varda’s Lair on any given day didn’t even live there: they were simply workers who entered the city during the day and went home at night.

Even the smallest apartment here costs more a month than most families make in a year, he thought, having once gawked at the price of real-estate after curiously searching it up online.

More so than anywhere else in North or South Bastia, only the extremely wealthy or lucky could live in Varda’s Lair. Due to the lack of tourism, the only hotels to be found were of the absurdly expensive kind, with rooms bigger than some people’s houses, if not larger; clearly, they were lavish suites intended for those here on business. Outside of hotels, there were only a few districts that were residential in nature. Most properties served as corporate headquarters for various businesses. Even still, it was a city Zach would’ve loved to tour. Yet it was the People of Virtue’s own stupid laws that made him reject the idea.

Unlike the other guilds, the People of Virtue stood alone as the only human guild that enforced a dress code for anyone over the age of thirteen while located within its primary city. Modesty was not a choice but a law, and there didn’t appear to be exceptions to this rule: not even for people who knew Abram Gespon personally, it seemed. Actually, Abram stressed that it was especially important for “people in positions of power” to be seen obeying the law. Thus, unless Zach wanted to get out of his equipment and back into a suit, he’d been asked, politely, not to leave the airport, where the rules were suspended for people mid travel or simply transferring through Varda’s Lair as a hub before heading on towards their next destination.

So dumb that they make people dress a certain way, he thought as he ventured further into the airport with Kalana. He had to step quickly to the side to avoid walking headfirst into an oblivious couple that were both looking down at their phones.

Having only just been caught and attacked with his gear off, he wasn’t comfortable removing it yet and probably wouldn’t be until he got to Kalana’s island. Thus, with a sigh, he said, “Let’s just get there. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can finally relax.”

She smiled, and then with a genuine-sounding squeak, she said, “I’m so excited! You’re finally gonna see it. I haven’t lived there long, but I already made it feel like home.”

Abram, as though first catching wind of their conversation, slowed down somewhat and partially turned his neck to look back at them. “So, I take it you guys aren’t staying?”

“Nope,” Kalana said. “We just wanna go home.”

He nodded. “All right. Well, unfortunately, I can’t get you a private jet right now. First class will have to do.”

At this, Zach laughed. “In my whole life, I’ve never been able to afford to be in any airplane seat, let alone first class. That’s fine.”

“You’re welcome, then.”

Kalana nudged him in the ribs. “You didn’t say thank you,” she whispered.

“He put a bounty hunter on my ass,” Zach whispered back. “Guy owes me.”

“Okay, but still, that was rude.”

Zach ignored her. He instead followed Abram all the way across the stunningly large airport and onto an automated walkway, which ran for what looked like an entire mile. At the end of the walkway, there was an entirely separate, albeit slightly smaller section of the airport, this one for cross-continental flights to South Bastia. Through the wide glass windows that served in place of walls to both his left and his right, Zach was able to get a full view of the city in the distance.

Though nowhere near as flashy as Tomb of Fire, it really did have a very modern, crisp feel to it. Varda’s Lair was known for, among other things, being the cleanest human city. It was commonly said that someone could walk up and down a city block with a magnifying glass and not find a single piece of litter. That would’ve been hard to believe if not for the fact that the same was true right here in the airport. The People of Virtue were apparently barbarically harsh when it came to punishing people who littered. For them, it was prison time as well as a cane lashing, as corporal punishment was a value to which their guild adhered.

“Head to terminal 51 just ahead,” Abram told them once they’d reached the end of the walkway. “It’s just straight that way.” He pointed. “Actually, you know what? Wait a second.” He snapped his fingers, and as though the gesture were magic, a woman Zach didn’t even see until just now practically popped into existence in front of them.

“Sir Gespon the Virtuous!” she exclaimed, bowing her head. Then she took in Zach and Kalana and he honestly thought she’d faint. “H-how may I help you?”

“I need you to get these two kids on a first-class flight to Shores of Wrath. When’s the next plane go out?”

She removed a tablet from inside her uniform and began tapping on it. Then she swallowed as though nervous. “I’m afraid not for another few hours, Sir Gespon the Virtuous. You only just missed a flight.”

Zach swore—then apologized immediately for the gesture, as Abram glared at him. Despite being warned in advance, he’d forgotten that these fucking people didn’t allow cursing in their city, either. It was like a city of Mr. Orens. It was bullshit, too, because before falling asleep on the flight over here, he’d listened to Abram Gespon make numerous phone calls, and his language was foul and awful. He frequently called people “assholes” or “dumb shits” as he made angry demands of them. Hypocrites, seriously.

“How long ago was the flight?” Abram asked.

“Well, flight SOW-21 just finished final boarding and is already moving towards the runway.”

For some reason, this made Abram sigh with relief. “Oh, great. It’s still here.”

“Well, yes, Sir Gespon the Virtuous, but—”

“Good, halt it immediately and have it come back to the gate. Then put these two in first class and have it bumped to the front of the runway line.” The woman stared at him as though unsure if he was being serious or not. When he turned over his palm as though impatient, she again swallowed nervously and continued to type into her tablet.

“I’m…I’m afraid there are no available seats,” she said.

Abram shrugged. “Throw two people off the flight then.”

“But, Sir Gespon, that’s—”

“Do it.”

“Yes, Sir Gespon the Virtuous.”

Upon hearing this conversation, it was physically impossible for Zach’s reaction to be any more different from Kalana’s. Whereas Kalana placed her hand over her mouth, mouthed the word “no” over and over, and began assuring Abram that they could wait for tomorrow with guilt coming across in each of her words, Zach crossed his arms smugly and nodded his head, absolutely loving what just happened. Now that was being rich. Gods, this was cool.

“Stop loving this,” Kalana said, frowning at him.

“Let me enjoy this, Kal. This is VIP treatment. Finally!”

“Nah-uh. It’s mean. I don’t wanna steal their seats.”

“It’s even better because we’re stealing their seats,” Zach said with an intentionally evil laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Abram said. “I’m going to pay for inconveniencing them. They’ll each be given fifty-thousand gold.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Wait, what?” Zach blurted out. “Let’s back up a second. They’re each going to be getting how much? Kal, stop,” he said as she began shoving him away towards their gate.

“Nah-uh. All those people already waited long enough. If we’re gonna go, then we’re not gonna hold them up even longer.”

Even as Kalana began pushing him away towards the gate. He actually tried to drag his feet as he found himself getting farther and farther away from Abram. “Maybe we can wait until tomorrow after all!” he shouted. “That gold would be so much better in our hands. We’re dragon slayers!”

“What?” Abram called back, now out of earshot.

Zach sighed. “Stop pushing me, Kal. I can walk.”

And walk, they did—right onto a plane filled with angry, inconvenienced passengers, whose attitudes changed immediately from annoyance to excitement when they realized why—or specifically, who—their plane had been turned around for. “I’m so sorry, everyone!” Kalana said, sounding all bubbly and cheerful. “I’ll sign autographs for you all. Me and Zach will come through the whole plane, we promise.”

Fuck.

******

With a grunt of self-disgust, Francis Calador killed the rifle-wielding soldier guarding the sole entrance to a city street in northern Shadow Fall Coast. He’d had no choice. The armed man had spotted him as he’d been attempting to covertly pass by. Using his four fingers like the point of a blade, he jabbed his arm forward and stabbed the soldier—a member of the Royal Roses from the look of his uniform—straight through the chest. Gurgling, the man dropped his rifle and clutched his heart, blood pouring out of the gaping hole, and then he fell onto his back, his eyes opened wide in confusion. This caused an attention-drawing shout from his four nearby companions, and Francis was forced to deal with them, too. And fast. He could see that one had crooked their neck as if to speak into a Comm attached to the left breast pocket of his uniform.

I have to stop him. Quickly!

Francis dashed forward at the man, who reacted with a confused sort of clumsiness. As though unsure of what to do, he swung his gun at Francis’ face rather than fire it—as if he were acting off nerves, fear, and reflex as opposed to logical thought. Lifting both his hands, Francis stopped the horizontally oriented weapon by grabbing it on both ends. Then he delivered a front-kick into the chest of the soldier who’d swung it, sending the man careening backwards while he simultaneously yanked the weapon away, prying it free of the man’s fingers. Upon this, Francis dismissively tossed the rifle away and off to the side.

“Shh,” he said, placing his finger to his nose.

He should’ve known that wouldn’t work. Another of the men opened his mouth as if to scream, as then so too did both of the other soldiers. Francis extended his arm and pointed his finger at the three of them. “Here, look,” he said, calmly. Even mid cry, they all turned their eyes to look at his index finger. With that, he activated Vow of Secrecy, causing a brief, almost imperceptible flash of dull light to emit from the point of his finger, but only for a fraction of a second. Thankfully, during that brief moment in time, all three were looking right at it and now they were silenced, unable to speak. The fourth man—the one he’d kicked—managed to avoid looking, but it did not matter, because he appeared to have died from internal injuries only a second or two ago.

Now, as they made the physical motions of screaming: heaving, mouths opened widely, heads shaking—nothing at all came out. “I’m so sorry for this,” he said to the three of them. And he really did mean it. He thrust his hand, palm open, into the forehead of the soldier nearest to him, hitting hard enough that the impact and shock to the man’s brain killed him instantly. The other two spun around to retreat, but Francis got them both as well. He made sure it was quick.

“Forgive me,” he apologized again. “I’m truly sorry.”

In the background, the sounds of gunshots, explosions, and screaming settled over the northern part of the city in Shadowfall Coast as a permanent melody of pain and death that played out all around him. Francis did not want to be here. He would get in and get out. The fact that this was where he needed to be was purely a coincidence and unrelated to the war that had sprouted up in what was typically among the quietest, most peaceful regions in North Bastia.

“You didn’t have to do that, Francis.”

I did.

“You’re being too paranoid.”

You’re not being paranoid enough, Eilea.

Though there existed not a single Galterran born this century who could recognize him, there were those out there—the servants of Adamus—who most certainly would. For this reason, Francis chose to wear his serpentine mask to conceal his face. But even that would not be good enough. He had no choice but to eliminate anyone who spotted him, as if word of his appearance spread, then even without being able to describe his face, there was still a fair chance that Adamus would put two and two together.

That was why, at the end of a somewhat narrow pedestrian street with blood covering the homely, stone-tiled pavement, Francis gritted his teeth as a man in another squad of infantry—this one belonging to the Guild of Gentlemen—unluckily happened to spin around such that the flashlight on his rifle briefly illuminated Francis before passing over him. Francis froze, hoping he hadn’t been seen amid the dark of night. Gunfire had taken out most of the streetlights around him, and it was possible he’d been overlooked. Sadly, he had no such luck, as the light immediately swung back around, settling upon him.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, stop right there, buddy!” he shouted at Franics. He was a young man with blond-colored hair who raised his rifle threateningly. This caused those around him to also turn and look. “Show me your hands! I said show me your fucking hands!” He began to approach, cautiously, his arms quivering. “Turn around slowly and then get on the ground—now, Gods dammit! Or I will open fire!”

Francis showed them his hands—or hand, rather. He lifted it, then made a waving motion, and simultaneously, the heads of all eleven men began to glow from a bright white light that shined through their eyes that Francis hoped wouldn’t attract even more attention. Their mouths popped open as if to scream in pain, but no sound escaped them. Quickly, Francis squeezed his hand into a fist, and following that gesture, their heads exploded, sending blood, brain matter, teeth, and eyeballs scattering as their bodies plopped over lifelessly. Once more, the small, residential street became dark. Now, praying to God for forgiveness, he walked over their corpses and into a much wider and far more trafficked avenue. Still, he hoped he could use the darkness to get by without any further bloodshed.

“Francis, please! There will be more than enough death when we are forced to turn to conquest. We need not spill a drop more blood than is absolutely necessary.”

Do you think I wanted to do that? he asked her, somewhat offended that she would react as though his attitude towards murder was somehow cavalier. If Adamus knows I was here, he will come for you. Even the two of us together cannot match him if it comes to a physical confrontation.

“For the man who allowed Moldark to kill him rather than fight back and perpetuate the violence, I cannot understand your sudden turn towards such an all-or-nothing approach.”

Franics didn’t bother to reply despite knowing perfectly well the reason why. He, like his father before him, had inherited the same weakness that seemed to affect all Calador men. Although he’d never intended his cooperation with Eilea to be anything more than an impersonal, mutual way of advancing both of their goals, he had now fallen in love with the woman, and because of this, he would not allow harm to come to her.

“I can feel that,” she said, somewhat softly.

Don’t pry.

“I still wish you’d not do this. Certainly not for my sake.”

I’m trying my best.

From the looks of things, he might not have much of a choice. For starters, the fighting here was intense, and from one end of the street to the other, bullets were ripping apart street signs, trashcans, dumpsters, and shattering the windows of parked DEHVs. Francis did have the benefit, however, of the fact that the two sides were far more focused on each other right now than on one bizarrely dressed man—assuming they could even see him. In addition to the night, visibility was also very poor, as a five-story building two blocks north of here was completely on fire, generating so much smoke it was difficult to breathe. It also overpowered the ever-present smell of the ocean.

So much bloodshed, he thought, sadly.

A bang came from nearby as a grenade was thrown and exploded. Soldiers shouted at one another. People were hit, and they screamed for aid as medics risked leaving cover to drag their dying comrades to safety. God, Francis hated war. He hated all war, but in particular, he was sad to see that Galterra had resorted to fighting this manner of battle again. At least the open-field combat established by Peter I was sensible, sane, and fair. And if someone was shot, the guns had smart chips that would prevent them from firing on someone already hit. Furthermore, leveled participants were forbidden from attacking level 1s. That much was clearly not being obeyed any longer.

Three blocks down, a man wearing the insignia of crossed swords was summoning vicious, tornado-like winds that were ripping apart gun-wielding infantry while causing their severed body parts to join a collection of swirling, spinning limbs. This continued until a woman wearing the officer’s outfit of the Royal Roses twirled her staff and then released a beam of orange-colored energy that punched a hole directly through the other mage’s stomach, killing him and two Ones behind him. Then she, in turn, was taken out by what appeared to be an armor-piercing round fired by a level-1 sniper, which struck her in the middle of her forehead, causing her to wobble away until her back hit the side of a building before sliding down into a sitting position as she died.

Francis shook his head at all of it. He’d always known the ugly face of true war would one day return. The fact that the era of open-field combat had lasted as long as it had was nothing short of a miracle. He had observed from the shadows as it was born roughly a century ago, and at the time, he had never imagined it would have taken off the way it had or lasted as long as it did. Truly, it was all because of the integrity of Peter I. His actions solidified it in a way that nothing else could have.

Not long after conquering all of North and South Bastia, Peter I had forced every human guild to sign what he’d called the SOHLA: The Sanctity of Human Life Accords. In this, he’d outlined a new method of warfare. It was a system of rules and laws that radically changed what was permissible and how war was to be conducted. He had, in essence, gamified the very nature of war.

At the time, the very idea of it had seemed outrageous: laughable, even. By all accounts, it truly should not have succeeded. It was one thing to force the guilds to use it against each other—as even with all of humanity ostensibly united under the Brayspark monarchy, it was inevitable that factional struggles within guilds would lead to guild-on-on guild warring—but it was another thing to replace traditional warfare entirely, which it had. And what truly solidified its place was a war that soon followed, which was unlike any in known human history to have come before it.

After an economic downturn caused a build-up of frustration with the monarchy, every guild had simultaneously declared war on King Peter I, testing the limits of the king’s honesty and sincerity. At this point in history, Peter I had the infrastructure, military equipment, resources, and men necessary to defend each and every territory under his control, and not even their combined efforts would have stood a chance of regaining control of even a single region. But, in what came as a shock to the entire world, Peter I had abided by his own rules, and his guild met each and every contest on the open-field in fair, moderated contests with neutral observers that could act as referees and even call a stop to the fighting if death tolls rose too high.

As a result of this, the war, which took place across two continents and should have resulted in casualties in the millions along with untold destruction, resulted instead in the deaths of fewer than eight-hundred combatants albeit with thousands more injured. Zero civilians had been killed during the war, zero cities had been destroyed, and not a single man, woman, or child had been forced to participate against their will. Child soldiers, in fact, had been outlawed entirely.

Not only did Peter I adhere strictly to the rules of battle, but he also accepted his defeats, as well. By the war’s conclusion, he’d ended up losing control of every region in South Bastia; even despite each region having been reinforced with everything needed to withstand a siege, Peter had ordered his guild to pack up and leave wherever he lost in accordance with his own rules. His willingness to stand by his principles cemented him into legend and established his way as the new way; before long, the rest of the world would adopt this method as well—all except the Orcs, who had outright abolished war altogether.

For a hundred years, humanity was spared the brutality of war. And now, this week, it had finally returned. And it was looking like this could be a terrible one, too. Just from the smoldering remains of several toppled buildings and the countless corpses strewn along the streets, Francis could tell that, already, in just the first day of this war, several-thousand lives had been lost, maybe even tens of thousands: a number far greater than the combined loss of everyone who had fought in a war spanning two continents a century ago. Many of the dead were likely innocent people, too, making it all worse.

“When Zach is made emperor, I truly believe he’ll reestablish the SOHLA,” Eilea said to him. Francis had willingly allowed her into his mind, as he felt her presence comforting and reassuring. He missed her, and she missed him. “Even I’m not naïve enough to believe in a Galterra with no war. But the SOHLA worked well, and we will bring it back.”

I hope so.

Eager to be gone from this place as quickly as possible, Francis proceeded onwards, heading in the direction of a four-story apartment complex two blocks west that had only just been set aflame. He needed to get inside of it before it was completely burned to the ground. Assuming Eilea’s spies had provided accurate information, then on the third floor, in room 307, there was a thumb drive located somewhere under the floorboards. And this thumb drive, it was believed, contained the single-most comprehensive list of details regarding the last known location of The Book of Elementals.

Although there had been numerous times in his life he'd been forced to take lives, under many other circumstances, Francis would willingly—and had once willingly—allowed himself to be killed to prevent taking the life of another. Murder was something that Francis despised more than just about anything even as he'd been forced to deal in it, particularly in his youth. But for this? For this, Francis was willing to both die and kill for. They needed to locate the Book of Elementals before Adamus or any of his malicious “trackers” got to it first. They needed to acquire it at any cost—no matter how steep.

God, I sound like some of the worst people in history, he thought.

Incidentally, Francis was painfully well aware that this was an attitude that’d been adopted by a great many other powerful men over many thousands of years. He wondered if any singular thing in existence had ever caused the level of bloodshed that The Book of Elementals had brought about. Had it not been for this accursed book, Peter IV’s Elvish genocide might never have occurred. And for sure, the war and subsequent genocide against the Lizardmen had been driven behind the scenes by the Goddammed book as well, even as so few knew of its role in propagating the violence.

Really, the fact that it existed at all was, in Francis’s opinion, proof that Adamus was a thoroughly sick, twisted, and evil being whose intentions were far more nefarious than even Eilea understood. There was no excuse for the book’s creation. None. Yet even still, they would need to use it if they wanted to stand any chance of saving Galterra. After that, it would be destroyed once and for all, something Moldark and him should have done a very long time ago. But first, he’d need to find it, and God willing, the path to it lay ahead.

Ducking behind a large dumpster at the end of the block to stay out of sight, Francis looked ahead to see if he could find a path that would avoid more bloodshed. But he was quickly running out of time. The flames were spreading from floor to floor, and Francis knew he needed to hurry or the data could be destroyed. With a sad and also fearful sigh, he realized that things were about to get incredibly ugly.

If not for the fact that the building was on fire, Francis would not have minded hiding in the shadows for a few hours and waiting for things to quiet down. But with the flames beginning to thicken along with the rising smoke, he knew he had to make a decision right now as to how to proceed, and he knew that this was not going to be a decision he would be happy to have made. But the situation, as it currently stood, was not one he could change by simply wishing it weren’t so.

Right now, the street-level fighting had intensified on both the sidewalk and the road immediately outside of the apartment. A greater and greater number of rifle-bearing infantry were taking cover behind DEHVs, many with their alarms going off as bullets slammed into them. Fire hydrants had also been smashed, and water was beginning to flood onto the street. Shouts and commands from sergeants could be heard in the air, as two quickly growing groups engaged in close-quarters combat. Leveled fighters were also beginning to emerge. This had all the signs of an ugly, drawn-out slog of a battle, in which many would die. Now, however, because of Francis, it looked like all were going to have to die instead of just many.

“Why do you feel so afraid?” Eilea asked.

Because I have to become strong.

“Aren’t you already strong?”

No, he said. Not enough so that I can clear myself a path, anyway.

“What are you going to do?”

Hurt myself, he told her. Badly. Very, very badly.

Francis hated this. God, he hated this so much. Even after all this time, it had never become easier to do what he was about to do. Whether for a good cause or a regrettable one, such as now, there was never a point in time when he enjoyed or looked forward to this. Though he was no expert on the nature of pain, he was reasonably sure that the pain he experienced from this was equivalent to a man being flayed alive over a period of weeks by a rusted knife. Every neuron in his brain was about to transmit pain signals to every part of his body. Normally, he needed to psyche himself up before he could bring himself to use this. But there was no time. He needed to jump right into it.

Eilea, you should get out of my head now.

“I can endure it.”

No, you can’t.

“I can only feel a fraction of what you feel.”

A fraction is too much, Eilea.

“I can endure it!”

Francis knew he shouldn’t listen to her, but he couldn’t afford the time needed to argue his point. And so, with a sense of dread in his heart, he gathered his courage and activated Doom Phase.

And then it began to hurt.

A sensation similar to pulling a calf muscle multiplied by a factor of a million felt like it was coming from every part of his body, stretching and pulling him apart. Along with this came a burning of his very skin that felt akin to being set on fire, as well as a cutting, tearing pain that made him wonder if someone was slicing him open. An intense pressure behind his eyes caused his vision to briefly blur from the force of the headache that was pounding in his skull. He knew that this was purely mental and not physical, but the feeling of it was indistinguishable from any physical reality. Distantly, amid all the agony, he heard a shriek in his head, and he immediately felt Eilea withdraw her presence, fleeing his mind. He was glad. He did not want her to experience any more of this: even a fraction of it.

Along with the pain came the other effects. His hands, arms, legs, and body began to give off a black, smoke-like mist, while at the same time, his skin and all his clothing began to switch between various states of transparency as though going in and out of existence. Veins began to pop up all over his skin, razor-sharp thorns sprouted up and down his arms and back, and his body hardened like steel. Now, any melee or ranged weapon he could think of in his mind—no matter what they may be—he could summon or dismiss at a whim. The serpentine mask on his face also fell off, but the disguise was no longer needed, as he now had the face of a true serpent. He flicked his forked tongue and hissed as acid dripped down his mouth and burned a hole on the street, sizzling through the concrete.

Hurts so bad, he thought, hissing aloud. Need to kill now so I can end the suffering!

DOOM PHASE

DOOM LEVEL 1

SUFFERING INTENSITY

50

MOB KILL

REDUCE SUFFERING BY 2

PERSON KILL

REDUCE SUFFERING BY 5

BOSS KILL

REDUCE SUFFERING BY 30

Francis called forth a black-and-red longsword into his right hand and a shortsword to his left. It hurt. God, it hurt. He needed it to end. Only killing would make the pain go away. He activated Doom Flash, increasing his suffering by 1 and causing him to hiss in pain as he mentally targeted a spot on the ground halfway across the street in front of the burning apartment complex. In particular, he chose the spot near a DEHV, behind which five uniformed soldiers were taking cover. The moment he activated his ability, there was a gigantic, disorienting flash, which ignited the air around the five infantry and caused at least three of them to suffer third-degree burns and one to die outright. A moment after the flash, the world briefly faded—and so did he—until eventually he reappeared in the location of the flash, already swinging his blade to slice the head off another man, then spinning around and disemboweling a third. The last two, he killed by bringing his arms around and slashing at them both simultaneously.

Upon those five kills, his suffering was now cut in half. He’d have to use more Doom abilities to raise it, lest he become deactivated before dealing with the vast number of people on both sides of the war who were all turning in the direction of the flash as though curious to see what had caused it.

A woman saw his face, and she howled in fear. She, and her two fellow soldiers, raised their guns and began opening fire on him. Naturally, he couldn’t even feel it. Releasing another hiss, he dropped both his weapons, and they vanished before even hitting the ground. At the same time, he spun around, raised his hands, and then began pulling the trigger even before the two magi-pistols he’d summoned appeared in his hands, blasting to pieces the three uniformed soldiers taking shots at him from across the street.

Each time he fired one of his guns, it made a bang far louder than that of a normal firearm. It also detonated upon impact, which in this case had the effect of blowing up not just the woman and her two male companions, but also the DEHV they were taking cover behind. All three died in a massive electrical inferno that caused the power to go out in the building behind them.

“What the fuck is that?” someone screamed. “WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THAT?”

Down to a suffering of just 10, Francis’ pain had dulled considerably. He was now only hurting roughly as much as someone being operated on without anesthesia. He needed more pain or he would be forced out of his Doom Phase. And so, he activated Doom Soul, which increased his suffering by 25, making him cry out in misery as about fifteen shadows formed beneath the feet of fifteen different men and women around him at random.

Many looked down in confusion, but a few others did not even see it coming. Their screams were loud and intense as ghostly hands emerged from the shadows and pulled them down into it as though it were a hole in the ground; then, along with whoever had been taken, the shadow vanished entirely. Francis did not know where they went, and he did not know what happened to them when they got there, but from the overwhelming reduction in his suffering, he had always assumed they were at the very least dead. No bodies were ever recovered and he doubted he would ever know what became of the souls of those he’d been forced to take. He doubted he wanted to know, either. Adamus had once told him they were sent to a realm of never-ending suffering that he himself had created unconsciously. He had chosen not to believe this.

Knowing that this use of Doom Soul would reduce his suffering by 50, just a moment before the shadows dragged his targets to hell, he activated Doom Whip, Doom Fire, and Doom Crush in order to prevent himself from going into the negatives and ending his Doom Phase.

Suffice to say, this was a fight he was clearly going to win: as long as he could endure how much it would hurt to do so. One thing was for certain, though: the quicker he acted, the quicker Francis reduced everyone's suffering, including his own.