Chapter 14: Revenge Killing

All things considered, it was only natural for conflict to happen from time to time. It was basically bound to happen; even still, it was never pleasant to deal with. Once again, a member of an adventuring guild had maimed a high-ranking lieutenant of a respected political guild, only this time, they’d also killed five of its members, including an officer. This was now going to be a nightmare to clean up. This was not what Abram Gespon wanted to deal with first thing in the morning.

Beginning just before sunrise yesterday, Abram’s phone had been flooded with texts and calls from some of the most powerful members of the human race. Word of the attack on the Royal Roses by a member of the GSG spread like an uncontrolled fire from one guild to the next, and now the Royal Roses was demanding retribution. Hell, they probably would’ve looked the other way if not for the embarrassment this was causing them. Once it’d circulated among their peers, however, it had become a crisis.

I can’t let this spiral into another conflict.

As a beautiful woman massaged his back and a scandalously dressed cherry-blonde stood at attention to the right of his office desk, Abram realized that today was one of those days where he’d have to earn his gold. Even still, words could not describe how badly he wanted to hop into his own personal bathing pool on the 90th floor of his guild’s beautiful skyscraper. He bathed in that damn thing almost every day, sometimes twice. Ornately crafted windows made of curved glass surrounded the tub and provided a three-sixty-degree view of the stunning, upscale metropolis known as Varda’s Lair. He enjoyed falling asleep in his bath while watching the colorful, gigantic displays built into many of the windows of the other tall buildings, which showed off advertisements, movie clips, and sometimes just funny facts or trivia.

Only the worthy got to live in a city like Varda’s Lair, which was why most of the throngs of people hurrying up and down the streets were merely workers from one of the hundreds of nearby suburban communities or towns. Varda’s Lair was also one of the few cities with a dress code. The city demanded that tourists and residents dress modestly and that workers dress professionally. Violation of the dress code was a serious offense punishable with imprisonment or hefty fines—or both.

There were exceptions, of course, for powerful men like himself who had certain needs that required fulfilling for the greater good, but even then, it was purely for the benefit of others. How could he steer humanity in the right direction if he was stressed? He required certain pleasures to focus: pleasures he was respectful enough to keep in the privacy of his office. For the good of society, however, the public needed to maintain certain standards. It was just too important.

I doubt my guest cares, he thought with a displeased grunt. He just loves to flaunt his disregard for our laws.

Regarding the cherry blonde to his right, he asked, “Is the man here yet?”

“He’s making his way up now, Gespon the Virtuous.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Gespon the Virtuous.”

“Gods-dammit, woman. Tell me sooner next time!”

Abram sat up straighter in his comfortable leather chair, then snapped his fingers at the two women, causing them to bow their heads and leave his office. Then, ensuring his appearance was up to snuff, Abram checked that his tie was aligned properly with the rest of his dark blue suit; from a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a brush and mirror and gave his short brown wavy hair a quick comb over. As a well-respected mediator and fair, upstanding member of the People of Virtue, he would not be caught dead looking unprofessional or sloppy.

With his back perfectly straight, his expression neutral, and his demeanor calm, he folded his hands across his desk and waited in silence for the arrival of his “guest.” Abram could actually hear him coming from the other end of the office, as his boots were loud and made intimidating thumps on the delicate, expensive Elvish carpets that decorated the entire 79th floor. Those couldn’t exactly be replaced. He hoped the man wasn’t wearing anything that could damage it. But even if he had been, Abram would likely not say anything about it.

As the third-ranking member of the People of Virtue and a senior guild lieutenant, he, like most of his colleagues, valued human stability over all else, which was why he could not allow an escalating conflict between the adventuring guilds and the political guilds—the latter of which were the more sophisticated types who gave their heart and soul to bring law and order to the masses. In order for guilds like his to bring happiness and prosperity into the lives of the Ones under their care, he and other high-ranking guild officials often had to maintain a delicate peace with those who would otherwise be rightfully discarded.

The loathsome adventuring guilds were a bunch of wild, out-of-control, uncultured swine who were always loud, poorly attired, and behaved more like beasts than civilized people. But even despite this, it was regrettably the case that such an unsavory group still needed to be tolerated—at least for now.

Without the adventuring guilds handling boss spawns, artifact recovery, and rare item acquisition, the entire political order would collapse. The adventure guilds had become the primary—if not basically the sole—source of the coveted rejuvenation stones. If you were someone with an aggressive, untreatable cancer, it was either a purple rejuvenation stone or a grave. There was no other option. The adventure guilds were still, unfortunately, too important to dispose of.

And we can’t underestimate their strength, either.

More and more these days, arrogant political guilds failed to realize that their intimidation tactics would not and did not work on the adventuring guilds. Even though Abram truly believed in the value and character of the political guilds—or at least those aligned with the People of Virtue—he had to admit that some criticisms against their kind were valid, such as the claim that political guilds had become too soft due to a lack of genuine combat experience.

This was because adventuring guilds were still, through Gods knew what means, finding spawns and dungeons in the wild and facing off against all manner of dangerous creatures. How? Nobody knew. Well, nobody other than the adventuring guilds themselves, whose members seemed to relish in leveling up the “old fashioned” way, scouring the land for whatever remained of the old-world spawn points and risking actual death in their encounters with them.

On the other hand, Abram—like any respectable member of a polite society—did not go frolicking around in the woods at night looking for a Minotaur to kill. No, like his father before him, he had leveled on his private estate by killing carefully cultivated mobs that maximized experience gain while minimizing personal risk, all under the supervision of a high-leveled instructor ready to step in on a moment’s notice. Safety was everything, after all. But with that came certain drawbacks.

Not four months ago, Abram had been forced to settle a dispute after a well-respected business magnate—and level-65 member of the Lords of Justice—decided to pick a fight with a twenty-year-old, level-52 adventurer from the Explorers Brigade who, from what Abram recalled, had actually been a waitress working at Shakes and Cakes until two year prior. On paper, the fine gentleman from the Lords of Justice should have prevailed. He was thirteen levels higher for the love of the Gods, and he was fighting a former waitress.

Then he died—brutally. And rather than assess how it was possible for a respected business mogul—who even had the respect of some foreign races—to wind up on the losing end of a duel with a young woman who had only first picked up a dagger after putting down her butter knife, the guilds chose to be more outraged by the “disrespect” than show any concern for their own shortcomings. Thus, Abram knew the criticism was warranted.

The adventuring guilds frequently battled against things that could actually kill them, and so they knew how to fight far more ferociously. That was why, in a combat situation, they could deftly avoid, block, or counter a lot of what was thrown at them, and if their enemy’s constitution and resistances weren’t high enough to negate one-hundred-percent of their damage, they would win even against impossible odds. Put simply, if it was even possible for them to lay down some damage, they would unceasingly strike out again and again and again until they got the job done.

Unfortunately, for the fine, upstanding soul of the Lords of Justice, though he may have had a massive, 13-level advantage over his opponent, it was still not enough to completely negate all the power of the level-52 woman’s attacks. It also didn’t help that she’d been wearing gods-be-damned boss gear! But that was a whole separate issue: the fact that the adventurer guilds had special equipment that only came from bosses. That might even be a bigger problem in the long haul.

“You look pissed today,” a powerful, confident voice said from the door leading to his personal office.

Abram snapped himself out of his thoughts, then chided himself for his lack of decorum. He was still sitting with his back perfectly straight and his hands folded, but a scowl had managed to pop up on his face. This was a mistake he would never let happen again. It could weaken his hand in any negotiation. One must never show emotion during a negotiation with hostile people.

“Not at all. Please, Donovan, come in.”

With powerful, stomping footsteps, Donovan Iseldar, the leader of the God Slayers Guild and only known human to ever slay a fire drake one-on-one, strode into his office and then grinned slyly at Abram. He was a tall, built man whose very appearance served as a potent reminder of why that young, former waitress had so easily felled her higher-level counterpart.

Unlike Abram, the man did not wear a suit and a tie. No, in plain violation of the dress code, he wore a midnight black breastplate with spiked shoulder pauldrons that seemed to emit a steady puff of black, quickly fading smoke. A matching pair of spikes ran down along the armor on both of his forearms, and he cradled a helm under his right arm emblazed with the image of two crossed swords threatening a God. From the neck to toe, he’d come bedecked in full plate armor—all except for a necklace he displayed openly. It looked like a tooth of some kind.

“Sorry to come looking like this,” he said with a playful laugh. “I was out killing a T2 Manticore. Ah, do you mind?” He pointed to a box of tissues on Abram’s desk.

“No, of course not.” Abram gestured with a wave of his hand. The sound of plate boots stomping on a gentle surface once again filled the sound of his office as Donovan stepped forward, grabbed a few out of the box, and began to wipe the spot below his right eye, where a steady trickle of blood had been pouring out of a gash. “Please…have a seat.”

“Sure thing, bud.”

Donovan pulled out the leather chair across from Abram’s desk, then sat down and regarded him with an amused smirk. Was he enjoying this? Abram hoped not. This was as serious a matter as he had dealt with in years. It deserved a little bit more respect than to come barging in here bleeding on his irreplaceable carpet.

Once more folding his hands on his desk, Abram forced a smile onto his face and said, “I’m sure you must have some idea why you’re here.”

“Some,” the man said in agreement, his tone becoming less playful. “Alex got into a little squabble with some of your allies, right?”

“Straight to the point, good.” Abram leaned forward. “Look, you and I have a good relationship. I appreciate you taking care of that boss spawn in my town, and I don’t want this little bit of awkwardness to hinder that relationship. Especially with how pleased the People of Virtue were with your guild’s performance.”

“Everyone died, though,” Donovan said with a grunt. Though he was in his early thirties, the battle scars on his face made him appear older.

“Well, true, but…but at least now new people can move in and rebuild. We already have plans to fund a total reconstruction of the town. We’re even going to let in some Orcish refugees. We plan to have Raven’s Claw rebuilt and our tax revenue restored within the next five years.”

“Taxes. Right.” The man placed his helmet on the floor near his chair then removed one of his black, armored gauntlets and dropped it with a loud smack on Abram’s desk. Then he did the same with his other. Now this upset Abram, though he did not allow it to show. This idiot might well have cracked the wood, which came from a forest that no longer existed. This one desk was probably worth more than Donovan’s entire life! To make matters even worse, he only seemed to do it so that he could pick his fingernails clean. What a disgusting, uncultured animal!

Be calm, he told himself. You’re dealing with a savage. It doesn’t know any better.

Straining against the desire to frown, Abram exhaled slowly, then said, “The Royal Roses are beside themselves with fury. Your officer, Alex Oren, maimed one of their lieutenants, a highly, highly respected man by the name of Varsh Gellor.”

“Varsh is well-respected?” Donovan asked, his right eyebrow rising. “I know that guy. A real prick. He’s respected? Seriously?”

“Yes, of course,” Abram said, somewhat baffled. He detected no trace of mockery or insincerity in the GSG leader’s eyes, so did that mean he’d asked a serious question? Was the man mentally deficient? Did he really not understand why someone like Varsh Gellor would be considered highly respected? Amazed that he needed to explain this at all, he said, “Varsh Gellor is a lieutenant in the Royal Roses.”

“Uh, okay, so?” Donovan asked with a shrug. “That’s not even a real guild. Neither is yours, no offense.”

For the first time in years, Abram at last lost his temper during a negotiation. He lifted his palms and then slapped them down onto his priceless Lir-wood desk, smashing off a chunk on each side and causing it to fall to his feet. “Do not disrespect my guild!”

Donovan laughed at him—laughed in his face. Did this moronic piece of shit know what Abram could do to his guild if he wanted? Forget killing them all, he could have them brought up on charges—any charges, whatever he pleased—and then hauled off to a dungeon where they would be beaten and sodomized and never see the light of day ever again. Was that what they wanted? Maybe that was what they deserved. Stupid mother—

You’re losing control, he told himself. You’re a professional. Don’t let him goad you.

Gritting his teeth, he took long, slow breaths, and he calmed himself as the savage continued to laugh at him. “Take it easy, Abe,” Donovan taunted. “You’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

“Are you…” Abram stopped mid-sentence and realized he was still so angry he needed to take another moment before he spoke. Then he tried again. “Are you…ready to talk or not? Because I’m close to doing things even I will regret.”

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“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Abram paused a moment before continuing. “Look,” he said, pointing his finger at Donovan. “One of your guild-members attacked a public official and murdered a mid-ranking officer—a lovely woman from a good family named Seraphina—in the process. Not to mention the five low-ranking, but still valued members of the Royal Roses.”

At this, Donovan scratched his chin and hummed to himself a moment. “No, that’s not true, I don’t think. Alex said he only killed the woman and Varsh got away. So, that’s what he said, and I believe it.”

“Well, that’s not what I hear from the Royal Roses.”

“That right? Eh, and what are they saying happened?”

“They say they sent Varsh off on a morally sound and ethical equipment reacquisition mission to prevent further acts of violence by the guild of Gentlemen. Upon reaching their destination, it was determined that the equipment had been relocated to Whispery Woods. Unfortunately, upon entering the city, your guild decided to launch an unprovoked act of aggression that resulted in many lives being lost, including a civilian named Jonatan Calador and several patrol guardsmen.”

Donovan snorted. “Okay, well that’s a load of crap. Varsh probably killed every single one of those people you mentioned. In fact, you probably think so too, don’t you?”

Abram intended to reply immediately, but hesitated, because he had to admit in all honesty and fairness that what Donovan said was probably correct. Though it pained Abram to admit this to himself, even he could not deny that there were some members of the guilds with self-control issues and violent temperaments unbefitting their status as moral arbiters of the civilized world.

Varsh Gellor happened to be one of those individuals, and knowing the man’s character, it was certainly possible—if not more than likely—that he’d killed everyone but the guild officer. Donovan also tended not to lie. The adventure guild savages were often too stupid or crude to know how to lie effectively, so it wasn’t difficult to believe that what they said was true.

“Okay,” Abram relented, holding out his palm in a calm gesture of peace. “I believe you. In fact, I’d put money on it. But it doesn’t really matter. The Royal Roses says this is what happened, and they’re going to behave like it’s what happened. They’re ready for war. They’re furious. You’ve shown them great disrespect.”

Donovan sighed. “Well, that sucks. I don’t really like to get into person vs. person conflict. I think PVP is a shame, to be honest, but if they come at my guild, we’re going to defend ourselves if that’s what it—”

“Must you use such an antiquated term?” Abram snapped.

The term “PVP” was highly offensive to respectable members of the ruling order. It had been a historical term used to describe the ritualistic battles between members of various guilds for sport, and it carried with it a connotation of “choice.” As if anyone “chose” to engage in such bloodthirsty tactics to resolve their differences. To the adventurer guilds and the Ones they pitied and protected, they might have viewed many of today’s struggles as “optional” and being about land and property, but that was totally false. The change of property ownership was only incidental.

Typically, wars were fought to free the inhabitants of these lands from their cruel former masters, such as the Guild of Gentlemen, who had once been led by a tyrant that had caused an economic depression through all of humanity thanks to his insensitive remarks about other races, especially the Dwarves. For generations, the Gentlemen had been so powerful that they were able to raise a lineage of four kings to rule over humanity. People would not soon forget the humiliation and cruelty the fourth in particular had subjected them to, and that was why many of the guilds, even former guilds at war, had decided to ally themselves together to strip the Guild of Gentlemen of all their lands and erase that vile man’s legacy from Galterra.

“Look,” Donovan said, extending his arms in Abram’s direction, “I’m just calling it what it is, okay? Here’s the real truth if you want to know what actually happened. This man, Varsh, beat one of Alex’s students and kidnapped another. He initiated the PVP, not Alex.”

He’s going to keep using that term, isn’t he? Absolutely no class at all. None.

Exhaling sharply, Abram replied, “That’s actually another matter altogether. Every guild knows now about the girl and her father. I’ve already spoken to the Royal Roses. It was a simple misunderstanding.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Both the leader of the Royal Roses and the commanders of the entire alliance assure me that not a single member of the Royal Roses or any guild in the alliance supports the practice of slavery, nor do we condone any mistreatment of the Elvish royal family. We extend our apologies for any suffering we might have inflicted on those two, especially in light of the way Peter IV treated their kind. That’s why we’re prepared to offer Kalana Vayra and her father, Prince Eldora Vayra, a generous sum of eighty-thousand gold to compensate them for—”

“Cut the shit,” Donovan snapped. The glare in his eyes was enough to make Abram recoil in his chair. The man could be so terrifying when upset. It wasn’t cowardly to fear him—it was intelligent. Abram had an excellent survival instinct, and right now his was telling him to keep his mouth shut.

“The girl and her dad don’t want your Gods-damned money. Do you understand? They want you to leave them alone. You can talk all the garbage you want, but that sad excuse of a man, Varsh, tried to kidnap and sell her. And you know it’s true, and I know it’s true, so you can spout whatever rehearsed lines you want, but save it for the mirror. I’m not listening.”

“I hear you,” Abram said softly, trying to bring down the temperature a bit.

“Do you? Because we’re not going to agree on anything, it seems. So why not just tell me what you want so I can get out of here?”

“Fine, I’ll just cut straight to the chase, then. The Royal Roses wants payment for their losses. Five-million gold and eight pieces of gear crafted by Alixa, and also an additional two-million gold for Varsh’s regrowth treatment.”

At this, Donovan released a bout of scornful, mocking laughter. “Oh? They’re so sad about the lives that were lost, are they? So sad that some gold and gear will make them all forget?” In a hideous display of disrespect, he turned his head and spat—actually spat—on Abram’s priceless carpet. “You make me sick. If someone from my guild was killed, you’d pay in blood.”

“Well, Donovan, that won’t be necessary this time. It’s either that or war. Plus, you get to keep the girl, so it’s not a bad deal. They’re not demanding her or anything.”

“She’s not property, Abe. This is why me and you could never be friends. The way you look at the world, I swear…but fine.” He angrily waved his hand. “You’ll have your gold. And your gear. Just keep away from the kid and her father. Are we done here?”

“There is…one more thing.”

“What now?”

A nervous agitation quickly rose in Abram. This was the part of the conversation he’d most been dreading. Were it up to him, he’d not even bring it up. Regrettably, he had no choice but to voice the will of his alliance in this matter. He really, really didn’t want to. Donovan Iseldar was a man who was extremely protective not just of his people, but of the people those people cared about. Even still, this last bit was a requirement. There would be no room for negotiation or discussion.

“The son of that man who was killed—Zachys Calador,” Abram said cautiously.

Donovan lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward in a way that made Abram reflexively wheel himself back a few inches in his seat. “Okay, Donovan, before…just before I say anything, you have to remember that this isn’t from me. I’m not the one who wants to say this.”

“Say what?” he demanded to know.

“I’ll tell you after you agree not to hold me personally responsible.”

“Fine. Say it.”

“It’s one thing for us to settle a blood-dispute between guilds with gold and equipment, but a guild-less boy who attacks a lieutenant is a sign of disrespect that no amount of coin can compensate. Now, officially, for the sake of Varsh Gellor’s dignity, your officer, Alex, is the one who everyone is publicly blaming for the uh…the amputation. But privately? Sadly, there was a witness across the hall who saw it happen as she was fleeing for her life, and her story made its way to us, and it…it has spread far and wide. So, basically, everyone in pretty much every guild knows that the boy, at a mere level 3, is the one who cut the Royal Roses’ lieutenant’s hand off. Even if no one would dare speak it out loud to sully his dignity. Varsh is never going to forgive him.”

“And?” Donovan growled.

“And…he’s going to have to be dealt with. He’s not one of yours, so you can’t—”

Donovan stood up out of his seat, and with a swiping motion of one of his hands, he knocked his two gauntlets onto the floor. Then, Abram watched in stunned silence as Donovan picked up his entire desk in his massive, plate-armor-covered arms, still with its computer, monitor, office supplies, and personal items stuffed inside drawers. With a low grunt, he whirled his body around in a half-circle, launching the entire thing out of the window with a tremendous crash of shattered glass. Abram stared in horror as his expensive office furniture plunged down over 78 stories to where it would almost certainly be smashed into hundreds of pieces. He just desperately hoped it didn’t land on anyone, as most salvaging and repairing spells acted wonky when the object was covered in blood.

“Donovan!” he shouted. “You cannot disrespect me this way.”

“That so, huh? And what are you going to do about it, Abram?”

Abram backed away fearfully, getting out of his seat and taking several steps backwards until he was nearly pressed against the wall. Donovan followed him and pushed his index finger into his chest. It hurt as though he were level-1 and it was the bladed end of a dagger.

“Leave. Him. Alone.”

“I am not doing anything,” Abram said. It was the truth, too. “This isn’t about me. Gods, you think I wouldn’t just let him go if I could? And why do you even care? Have you ever even met the kid?”

“No, but Alex swears he’s going to be one of my mine someday, so until I can judge him for myself, an attack on him is an attack on me.”

“I literally can’t stop it even if I wanted to. This is just something that’s happening. They’re going to kill him whether you like it or not. He disrespected a lieutenant of the Royal R—”

“Of a fake bullshit guild!” Donovan roared. For a moment, it looked like the furious guild-leader was going to strike him, but he appeared to settle for sending his fist crashing through the wall next to Abram’s face. “If you hurt him, I’ll come back here and rip one of your arms off. And by that, I mean it literally. I mean I’m literally going to actually grab your hand, just like this”—with his free hand, he squeezed Abram’s—“and then I’m going to yank it off, tearing it like meat off a bone.”

“Please, stop,” Abram begged. “I literally have no control over what happens to him. I can promise you I won’t do a gods-damned thing. If anything happens, it won’t be because of what I did. Don, please. I’m telling you the truth.”

The man released a loud, drawn-out growl, before spinning around, marching over to where Abram’s desk used to be, retrieved his gauntlets and helmet, and then barged out of the room, slamming the door shut with such force that two posters and a picture of Abram’s family fell off the wall above it, shattering the picture frame. It also caused a potted plant to tip over off a cabinet on the complete opposite corner of the office room, spilling filthy soil onto his Gods-damned Elvish carpets.

“Animal!” Abram screamed at him furiously about five minutes later when he was nowhere in range to hear it. “That’s right, run away like a bitch!”

Fuming, embarrassed, and literally thirsting for blood, Abram signaled one of his secretaries to get her gods-damned ass in here immediately. “Zachys Calador!” he shrieked, as his mind flooded with the images of his ruined furniture, the mud, the actual fucking mud on his carpets…he seethed uncontrollably.

“Ah…yes, Gespon the Virtuous?” the woman asked nervously, clearly frightened of him. Why, though? He wasn’t going to hurt her. He wasn’t a maniac. Sure, he was a little unhinged for the moment, but it wasn’t like he was a threat to his own people. Didn’t this idiot know that?

Abram licked his lips. “I want him dead immediately. And I want it to be one of us who does it. But you don’t speak a word of this to anyone. The GSG can’t be allowed to trace it back to me. I want revenge, Gods-dammit! Make it painful, too. I don’t care how long it takes. Hunt him to the end of days!”

The woman stared at him in stunned silence. “As you command, Gespon the Virtuous.”

His dignity soiled, his honor tarnished, and his precious furniture ruined—of course Abram would seek whatever revenge he could safely get away with. Now he was pissed off. He was really, really pissed off. So you know what? Fuck the God Slayers Guild and fuck Zachys Calador, whoever the hell that even was. No one—no one—got to just come in here, in his office, and do this to him. With that, he stormed out of the room and headed up to his bathing pool. He needed to warm up in order to cool off.

******

“It’s going to be all right,” Mr. Oren said to her. “Trust me. I know the heart of an adventurer.”

Kalana didn’t mean to be so skeptical. It was just that she missed Zach, and the guilt of getting to come all the way out here to this literal paradise island was starting to eat her up inside. Also, she worried about him, because the stuff she liked best about the jerk was also the stuff that made her most worried about him. He didn’t always make the best choices, and Mr. Oren was saying that he was going to be going off on his own with that cute little kitty who, let’s be honest, also seemed like kind of an enabler.

“This is quite beautiful,” she heard her father say. She sat next to him in the carriage, and Mr. Oren was to her left. There were no DEHVs allowed on these lands or electric vehicles of any kind. There was only a single, vast, winding road in what was otherwise an endless ocean of green, grassy hills and fields of flowers. The only method of travel was either by walking or via horse-drawn carriage. It was kind of enjoyable after the exhaustive pace of travel she’d endured to get here.

First, she’d been hurried aboard a six-hour flight. Then, before she could even stretch her legs, she’d found herself whisked through an airport and into a DEHV, which had only served the purpose of driving her to a fancy-looking speedboat. Only now did she come to find out that they’d taken her all the way to an island off the north-western coast of South Bastia. She’d never been to the southern continent before. It, along with North Bastia, formed what other races referred to as “the empire of humanity,” but what was in actuality a bunch of autonomous regions controlled by the guilds.

And so, here she was, making her way along a narrow road that winded off and about in seemingly bizarre directions. There were also mobs here, too: tons, and tons, and tons, and tons, and TONS of mobs. Some were stationary, others roamed in packs, and a few were even flying in the sky above her. Everywhere she looked there were mobs. In fact, if either the horse—or a person—were to steer off the path just a few feet in any direction, Mr. Oren had claimed it might draw their aggression and cause them to attack.

One in particular caught Kalana’s notice: it was a giant feathery bird with the shape of a muscular human’s body. The creature walked upright, and it carried a katana in each one of its hands. Its face was also distinctly avian, though it also somehow rocked a human-looking six pack of abs. Above its head were the unmistakable words: Level 27.

“Frrragh!” it cried, walking back and forth in more or less a straight line. “Frrragh!”

It was amazing, but it also made her sort of sad, because Zach would’ve lost his mind if he’d seen this place. She wished he could. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t get to come here with her. But Mr. Oren still seemed insistent that everything was going to work out all right.

“Those are called Avislicers,” Mr. Oren said, as if noticing her watching the creature. “You’ll be killing them soon enough.”

Kalana widened her eyes. “It looks so dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as you,” he assured her.

“Is this how…how your guild levels up? Do you guys come here and kill these things?”

“No. We do things the way we’re making Zach do them.”

Now that, she found to be confusing. But before she could speak a word, she heard a grunt—no, a whimper from her father. He was in tears. Had something happened? “Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He wiped his eyes. “I know this place.”

“You do?”

Mr. Oren smiled. “You finally remembered, Your Majesty? So, the rumors I heard were true.”

“Remembered what? What rumors? What’s going on?”

Her father, still wiping his eyes, said, “I was only two or three when I saw the paintings. It was so long ago, but I thought I…I thought this place looked familiar. This island, this was one of ours, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“How…how did you come to possess it?”

“It was given to us as a gift for saving a certain guild-leader’s life from certain death. It was an act of generosity rarely seen from the so-called ‘guilds’ that rule over Galterra. The man was a genuinely kind soul who himself had inherited it through similar means. At any rate, it’s no surprise his guild was wiped out. He was too kind for politics.”

“That’s amazing,” her father whispered. “Elvish hunting grounds. I can’t believe with my own eyes…to see this!”

“It’s yours now,” Mr. Oren said.

At this, both she and her father gasped. “What?” Kalana asked, more loudly than she intended.

“It belongs to you two. We’re returning it. This is where you’re meant to grow stronger. All we ask is that when the world needs you, you be there. Your bloodline has power beyond what any human is capable of. That’s probably why we’ve hunted your kind for so long. Consider this gift a sign of goodwill.”

Kalana shuddered at the sheer amount of land and life and spawn points all around her. And this was only a tiny part of it! The other half of the island, as she’d heard on the way here, was covered in a giant forest. She was willing to bet there’d be plenty of monsters to hunt in there as well.

“I wanna show this to Zach! He would be screaming at me right now. He’d be saying, ‘Kal! We’re gonna get so powerful!’ I don’t see why…why we couldn’t take him.”

“Because he’s not you,” Mr. Oren said. “His needs are different than your needs.”

Kalana sighed. “I know, but…but what if that man comes back for him?”

“Who, Varsh?”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Oren patted her knee. “Don’t worry, Kalana. Zach won’t even be in Whispery Woods anymore, so they’d have to actually be looking for him to find him. And why would they? To them, he’s a nobody. They don’t want anything from him. In fact, they probably don’t even know he—ah, excuse me one second, I have a call.”

Mr. Oren reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Hello? Ah, boss,” he said happily. “Yes, she’s here with me. And her father. Huh? Wait, who?” His eyes narrowed. “No, of course he’s not. I sent him on…wait, what about him? Him? Why, what did he do wrong? Wait, so it’s just to spite us?” Mr. Oren rubbed his forehead as if stressed. “Oh, shit.”