The wraiths within the Bridge of Shadows seemed tepid today. Theo’s appearance—the appearance of a weak mortal—had given them pause. Fenian enjoyed his moments of peace, riding atop his black carriage. The enchanted Karatan seemed happy enough to gallop on without a direction, but the Elf wondered if he was content to do the same. He knew where they were going, but hesitated.
“Give a man a minor realm and he thinks he owns the heavens,” Uz’Xulven said, appearing on the carriage from a boil of shadows.
Fenian winced. The form she took was hauntingly familiar. A simple yellow dress embroidered with golden thread. And a face that haunted every sleepless night of his life. But he wouldn’t rise to the bait. Not this far into his journey. Instead, he flicked her Elven ears.
“Do you even remember your mortal form?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said, reclining on the driver’s bench. “Well, that’s a lie. I just don’t think about it. So, why do you even need that thing?”
“Because none of our plans work without it,” Fenian said, tightening his grip on the reins.
“Is it our plan now?” she asked, laughing. “Aren’t you so generous.”
But the generous one here was the Demonic god. She brought herself into this scheme when he asked for her power. All she needed to do was to lend him the power of the Bridge, but she went beyond that. Claiming him as her champion. With the full power of Parantheir and Uz’Xulven, there wasn’t a mortal alive who could withstand his fury. But that drew attention. Displays like he just performed were dangerous. But perhaps it was time to do away with caution.
“Can you see how the central cities are faring against the undead?” Fenian asked.
“Not well,” she responded, not sitting up from her comfortable position. “You’re certain they’ll seek the [Town Seed Cores]?”
“If the madness of their master is anything to go by, then yes,” Fenian said. “If Khahar kept up his end of the bargain, it won’t matter either way.”
Uz’Xulven hummed.
The shadows formed a gap ahead and the Karatan chittered excitedly, then nervously. Harsh light stung Fenian’s eyes as they burst through the veil of reality, the carriage shaking ominously as they transitioned. The smoothe shadow brickwork of the bridge, to a ravaged landscape. Galflower pushed through the first row of undead skeletons, sending their bones clattering along the rocky ground. The Elf reined her in, withdrawing a potion from his inventory and cocking his arm back.
“Steady, my sweet Galflower,” Fenian said, tossing a [Aerosolize] modified [Hallow Ground Potion] at her feet.
A cloud of white rushed out, and the skeletons screamed. Blue magic leaked from their eyes, collecting in a miasma over the ground and lingering there. Bones fell to the ground, unbound by Balkor’s necromancy. Those outside of the fifty-pace circle didn’t dare to cross it. They leered from a distance with eyeless sockets.
“Phase one completed,” Fenian said, clapping his hands together.
The area outside of the circle was thick with undead. There were remnants of a city in the distance, but the stonework was crumbling to dust. Even the air was filled with the fetid miasma of the Demon God’s curse, filling Fenian’s lungs and stinging them with every breath. He dropped another potion at his feet, and the air seemed to clear. Not enough to draw a lungful of clean air, but enough to give him room.
“Now,” Fenian said, withdrawing an ancient map from his inventory. “Where is that toe?”
It was fortunate the alchemist created so many potions for this trip. Landmarks were scarce in Gardreth, even though Fenian had already scouted it out. It was once attached to the continent before being split off. A surgical cut by Glantheir to save the rest, but in doing so he’d obscured the topology. If that god were watching what he was doing, he wouldn’t be happy. Not in the least. Two days and two nights without sleep, tossing potions and fording ahead through the endless undead.
“This must be the right place,” Fenian said, falling in a slump on the stained ground. “Some skeletons still have some meat. That’s a good sign, right Galflower?”
The Karatan chittered, a sign he took to mean agreement.
Fenian dug into the crater as the twin moons rose. He could see the edge of the dark one, and the full orange one. It was a sight, but the digging was brutal. Rocks, fallen trees that were covered with rubble, and…
“Ah!” Fenian said, tossing another potion at his feet. The ground rumbled in response and the trader cheered. The surrounding undead joined with him. A chorus of ghostly screeches.
Excavating the rotting bone was a chore, but he didn’t falter. Digging out the sides, he finally got a good look at it. About the size of his torso, with seams of blue running through it. Fenian dropped another [Hallow Ground] potion at his feet before hoisting the thing above him.
“Damn, that’s heavy!” he said, stumbling and dropping it behind him.
Fenian tightened the rope around the fragment, climbing up the pit and tying it off on the carriage. Another potion on the ground, and a few more spread for good measure, and he ordered his team to drive forward. Slowly, the last fragment of the Demonic God Balkor rose to the surface. For the first time since his demise, the full power of the necromantic god was released onto the world. But the blue seams—those points of the dead god’s power—were subdued under Theo’s potion.
“We might need more, Galflower!” Fenian shouted, dragging the bone to insert it to the rear carriage. “And a few more points into [Strength].”
The carriage buckled under the weight, groaning as though responding to the weight of its importance.
“Let’s really mess things up in the capital. Shall we?” Fenian asked.
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“I’d rather you not bring something like that in my domain,” Uz’Xulven said. “The Bridge is under attack. Thanks to you.”
Fenian waved her off. He focused on the road ahead. That long road, stretching off into infinity. “Did you want to see it?” he asked. “Bet you’ve never seen the bone of a dead god.”
“Because we’re not meant to cross into the mortal realm,” she said, sitting on the bench and looking stern.
“Is this going to be another lecture?” Fenian asked. “You agreed to the plan.”
“And what happens when Karasan catches you near the capital?”
“You used to be fun, Uz,” Fenian said, snapping the reins.
“I’m still fun,” she said.
But she wasn’t. The Bridge rocked under them, sending the carriage train skittering for only a moment. The powerful team driving it righted its course in a moment. That would have been the other gods. Angry about what she allowed him to do. Well, they’d be busy enough in moments. Busy with the phase two of their plan.
“The old bastard needs to ascend,” Fenian said, gritting his teeth. “It all hinges on his distraction.”
“Well, where is he? The Morning Star, as you said. The Arbiter, you claimed,” Uz’Xulven said. “Arbitration of what, exactly? Sitting in a temple and performing ancient rituals? Just ascend, you fool!”
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“For once, we agree,” Fenian said, almost tumbling out of the cart when the ground shook again. “We’re here. I may call upon your power.”
“Don’t. I won’t have enough to spare.”
“Then we’ll hope Parantheir is paying attention… Did the Bridge just grow silent, or is that me?” Fenian asked.
“Hah! He’s doing it,” Uz’Xulven said, clapping excitedly. “Oh? What? No, I will not consent to a new set of rules… Hey! Fenian! Don’t—”
But Fenian had already found a seam in the shadows. Galflower plunged through, the cart clattering against a well-worn dirt path. Strewn with rocks and fallen undead alike at the northernmost town between Qavell and the Southlands. Drybrook, the second to last failed defense of the Kingdom of Qavell.
“And a perfect spot to bury the bone of a dead god,” Fenian said, whooping excitedly. “Oh, calm yourself Galflower. There’s a good girl. It’s only temporary.”
More potions flew, clearing the way over the infested road. Night lingered overhead, but by the light of the orange moon—shifting toward red—Fenian steered the carriage toward the walled town. He spotted the defenders on the wall and pushed down the guilt he felt. They would never survive the siege anyway, right? There weren’t undead rising from the bodies of the defenders yet, but they’d fall in time.
Galflower barreled through another line of undead, Fenian pulling the reins tight to lead her to a burnt-out farmhouse. Close enough to the walls to inflict damage, but not close enough to be discovered. He tossed more potions out, clearing a path for him to drag the damned bone and bury it again.
“We’re going to need a long break after this one,” Fenian said, groaning as he jumped from the carriage. “Don’t move, my sweet. Allow me to do my work.”
The Karatan were happy to live within their cloud of undead-repelling mist. Fenian dug at the hard-packed earth, cursing as he hit rocks and roots. Nothing his enhanced strength couldn’t handle, but annoying. He took breaks to study the battle outside the ring of purification, applying more potions as required. Where the undead went, a taint followed closely behind. The befouled earth where the potion touched seemed purified, sent from a sickly shade of brown back to vibrant greens where the grass grew. It was as though time itself was going back, reverting to its normal state.
Two man-heights underground seemed good enough for the burial, and the Elf worked on dragging the bone to the hole. Skeletons and the freshly dead crowded near the edge of the ring, not daring to cross but watching. Fenian knew they were without a master, just feeding on the latent energy of Balkor. And still the regret lingered. The sins of a leader fell to his people in times like this. It was true that the undead were marching even before he intervened. Something had stirred them up, sending them toward the capital, but the help they received in crossing the ocean was immense.
Everything led back to King Karasan’s betrayal. Fenian scooped the last shovel-full of dirt over the hole, patting it down, before withdrawing a silver bracelet from his inventory. How long had it been since he’d looked at it? There was little he needed to fuel that rage in his chest. It burned daily. For centuries now, and showed no signs of subsiding. If he could drive only the smallest of thorns in the side of Qavell it would be worth it. But if Khahar did as he promised, it would become a spear instead of a splinter. A death-blow to the damned pretender.
Ascending the carriage and tugging on the reins, Fenian found that the Bridge was reluctant to have him. He expected an attack from the defenders of the town, but they were far too busy. Uz’Xulven should have had enough energy to allow him passage. The Elf let out a heavy sigh, removed a wineskin from his inventory and unstoppered it. Reclining on the carriage, he looked up at the edge of that dark moon. A smile spread across his face, thinking of the Burning Eye’s minions stuck up there. Wandering around in that monster-infested place, fighting for survival every day.
“I’d wager they’re eating fetid moon-monster meat,” Fenian said, chuckling to himself. “Did you see this coming, my old friend?”
“I did,” a voice from behind answered. That familiar voice.
“Oh, you positively love pretending you won’t get your hands dirty,” Fenian said, not daring to look back. It was best to keep his eyes on the moon. “I wonder if you can still feel anything. How long has it been since you could have been called a mortal?”
“I cannot say,” the voice responded. “I’m content with this experiment, though.”
“Are you?” Fenian asked. “Even after I put one foot on my path?”
“Your path is the true path. The way things were meant to be.”
“But you could have fixed it. With a blink. Or a wiggle of your eyebrows.” Fenian let out a heavy sigh. It wasn’t as though he hated godly figures. They were just so pompous. As though they could lord their power over the mortals and get away with it. Well, they could. But that wasn’t the point.
“I don’t lord my power over anyone,” the voice said.
“But you’re happy to read my mind. How about a favor for fixing your broken system? Allow me to see Khahar’s ascension.”
“It was brutal. And swift. The system wasn’t ready for him. Changes were necessary.”
“As planned.”
“Fine. The Bridge will become stable after you’re done… Viewing the event. So long.”
Fenian cracked his knuckles. Fluttering feathers sounded from behind him, and the presence of the being was gone. The Elf’s mind tumbled through realities.
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The ritual for Khahar’s ascension was tedious. His mind was unraveling by the moment, splitting his consciousness and sending fissures through his psyche. Yet those Khahari still chanted, begging for him to rise and fix the world. That was a dream too far, he knew well, but his followers didn’t need to know. Maybe they did. His concentration faltered for a moment and he watched the western coastline of his continent, spotting crab scuttling across the beach. It snapped again, down into the caves beneath a city to the mushroom grow-caves. Again, to the sky high above his domain.
“Enough,” Khahar growled. His focus faded by the moment. Moments that crawled by in his high-level vision.
The Khahari leader’s attention snapped to the ziggurat, desert stretching into the distance. A million Khahari were assembled there, only a portion of his people prepared to take the journey with him. He wouldn’t reveal his knowledge to them. The fact that they might not make it. That this promised land was nothing but another form of existence. An ill-fated plan prone to failure.
“We are ready,” the high-priest said, bowing on the flattened top of the structure.
Khahar sat on his throne, pressing clawed fingers into his head. The system prompt he’d seen for uncounted eons popped up again.
[Ascension]
You’ve collected enough power, and expanded a realm far enough to ascend to godhood! Declining this prompt will have consequences. The higher your attributes get, the more difficulty you’ll have dealing with the real world. Once your mind passes a point, you will no longer control yourself.
(It is recommended that you accept this prompt the moment you get it. Leaving it will result in permanent damage to your mind that can only be reversed by accepting this prompt.)
[Y/N]
That taunting window. A promise for release from this torment. Resistance brought by the strongest of wills and faith in his cause. Khahar mentally accepted the prompt and the world around him melted. A ripple of power issued from the temple, reducing it to a city-sized crater in a moment. People in the far reaches of the world would feel the effects—the sudden ascension of an overly-powerful god.
Darkness crowded Khahar’s vision, but the pain in his mind was gone. The heavy weight of cores in his chest diminished to nothing. And he was finally free. Even the darkness was inviting, rolling over him like a comforting blanket. Relief. Ease from the pain he’d suffered. He could see it clearly now. 50,000 years of torment. Was it worth it? Why did he try to do this in the first place? Then the system messages came rolling in. Thousands of them.
All cores removed…
Personal level at ascension (rounded): 10,000
ERROR: Unable to calculate [God Core] level. Overflow.
SOLUTION: Recalculating theoretical power maximum.
Completed…
Assigning [God Core] at level 100.
Personal realm strength at ascension (rounded): ERROR
ERROR: Strength of realm is too powerful. Overflow.
SOLUTION: Recalculating theoretical power maximum.
ERROR: Overflow… Recalculating…
SOLUTION: Theoretical power maximum raised.
Assigning [Ascendant God Core] at level 100.
Core count and level at ascension (rounded): ERROR
…
…
…
Assigning [Arbiter’s Core] at level 100.
…
…
…
Approaching The Arbiter’s Citadel. Please ascend the throne to name your realm.
Khahar skimmed for the most interesting messages, but all those were expected. He’d overflowed the system’s maximum count for stats and created a new realm. Something outside the normal flow of the gods. The plan worked. That feature, nestled somewhere in the code that ran their world was forced to revert to the way it was. Reversing the inane rules placed on it by the previous gods. Those restraints were lifted.
More than that, Khahar’s mind was clear. The pain was gone and his thoughts came in ordered patterns. One thing after the other, not a jumbled mass of potential futures and events. His eyes were in his head, although he stood in darkness. They didn’t flit over the entire world at once, forcing him into a state of constant agony. He was free.
In a blink, he appeared in his new realm.
“Kahak,” he said, finding himself standing on endless dunes of sand. Before him stood a citadel, impossibly high and constructed of gray stone. Behind him, those one million souls kneeled. He turned. Without a word, he ordered them to begin building as he ascended to the Throne of the Arbiter.