Ama sat in her bed, hugging her little devil friend and being hugged in return, as she waited for her papa to sit down and find a comfortable position to read her favorite goodnight story.

“So, dear, shall we continue from where we left off?” he asked, putting The Book on his lap and opening it a quarter through.

Both she and her devil friend nodded very fast, so fast in fact that Ama’s neck made a little crick sound that caused her daddy to look up at her with a raised eyebrow. Then he just smiled and settled down better.

“Alright then. Last time we stopped at Ilya and our English friend arriving in our world, right?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm, so now I should tell you how –”

Papa was interrupted as, in the distance, she heard an explosion, followed by the sound of something extremely heavy and made of wood dropping to the floor, the echo resounding in their whole home.

She hadn’t seen it but her papa was already on his feet and moving towards the door, checking outside.

Sounds of a distant commotion came through the now open door and she started to feel fear, although her friend managed to calm her down by holding her hand.

Then papa spoke: “Ama, go to your brothers and get out of our home. Now.”

Ama froze in place and stared at him with wide, scared, eyes.

“What’s happening papa?”

He looked back at her from the door, a bitter smile on his face. She’d only ever seen a smile like that whenever someone brought up his old job. Papa liked to smile a lot, so much that she’d long since learned to understand what he was feeling just by the way his lips were curved. Right now, for example, there was an edge to them as only one corner of his mouth rose while his eyes looked more relaxed than usual, as if he was about to fall asleep.

“Ah, don’t worry Ama,” he said, although the bitterness didn’t leave his face, only increasing, “Everything’s gonna be fine. You’re going to be fine. That is what was promised.”

He stepped closer to her, bending down and kissing first her left cheek, then the right, her forehead, her nose, then finally giving her a peck on the lips. He did the same for her devil sister, who was looking at him with big, round eyes. Ama saw a tear going down her cheek and wondered why.

“Remember, your papa, mama and poppy love you from the bottom of their heart.”

Then, with a gentle hand, he combed her hair back, behind her ear, before turning towards her nightstand, where she kept her bag of holding, and putting The Book in it.

“Keep it safe, dear. Never let anyone get their hands on it. If necessary, burn it. You remember the lessons I taught you, right?”

She nodded.

“Good girl. Now go. Find your brothers and follow them, they know their way.”

He began walking towards the door, stopping one last time in front of it, turning his head around to say one last thing: “Goodnight Ama. We love you. Make this world better than we ever could.”

And with that, he left, his devil companion, appearing from his shadow and falling into step with him, weapons she’d never once seen before appearing in his hands as they began muttering among themselves.

Ama got up from her comfy bed and ran to the door, one hand holding her bag, the other her devil friend’s. When she looked out of her room papa was already gone.

That vision of him standing in the door and those words he said before leaving would be her last of him.

----------------------------------------

They called him Forzius.

His son called him that. His son’s wife did. His grandkids did. His devil did.

Everyone called him Forzius. So he believed his name was that.

But most of the time he couldn’t remember it. Just as he couldn’t remember his son’s, his son’s wife’s and his grandkids’ names. Although he did remember his companion devil’s name. How could he ever forget it? They’d been together since the day he’d been born, a scrap of Airmish power brought in this world to keep him company until his last day, a scrap that would grow and mature together with him, just like any other child would, with the only difference being that he would have some special powers.

His devil’s name was Arkanusiel. A strange name, but he’d always liked it.

He was sitting on his wheelchair, looking into the calming flames in the fireplace, thinking about nothing at all, his mind empty of everything, just a blank void. He’d learned to do that a long time ago from his father, a practice to calm the mind and keep it ready for the time when he would need it most. These days it was extremely easy on account of him having forgotten so much. He couldn’t even remember his parents’ faces.

Arkanusiel, whose nicknames were ‘Arcane’ or simply ‘Ark’, sat beside him together with two cups of tea, one for himself and one for his oldest friend.

They didn’t speak: there was no need to. Even without the link between their minds, which was the only thing keeping Forzius from forgetting everything (even, he sometimes thought, how to breathe), they understood each other perfectly.

In the end, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, coming out of his meditative trance, feeling reinvigorated and as if he had a better grip of himself. Suddenly his name didn’t feel so distant, so… not his.

“Ark, would you please wheel me to my bedroom,” he asked in a whisper. These days he rarely spoke loudly.

“Certainly, old friend.”

He got up, putting down his cup of tea, and walked behind him, gripping the handles of his wheelchair and moving him towards the door.

That was when they heard the explosion.

It rocked the room around them and made a bit of plaster fall off the walls and ceiling.

“[Fireball],” instantly said Forzius, recognizing the Spell from the sound it made as it exploded and the distinct smell of ash that flooded his nostrils a few seconds later, telling him that the front door had been outright incinerated.

“Enemies,” added Ark with a nod of the head.

The old man looked around at the room, noticing the way the painted plaster from the ceiling had fallen, damaging the precious fresco that had been there for centuries now, made by a Level 40 [Wondrous Painter]. The fresco represented a woman carrying a knife in one hand and a lit pipe in the other, her neck bleeding from a clearly self-inflicted cut if the blood on the blade was anything to go by. From her blood and all around her though grew new life, little plants that clung to everything they could, plants covered in nasty looking curved spines. Devil’s Claw. An extremely useful medicinal plant that hurt anyone that dared touch it the wrong way. It was also his family’s symbol.

Now, though, the woman’s face was missing, together with a lot of the plants around her. The light from the fire, though, played a strange trick on his eyes, for he thought that the blood flowing out of her neck was nearly… real.

That was when he remembered the words. Words that he could never forget, no matter how much of his mind became slowly crippled. Words he had clung to for decades upon decades.

Words… that spoke of his death.

“Ark… I believe… my time has come,” he said, sitting straighter in his chair, his muscled arms bulging underneath his comfortable wool sweater.

His devil nodded: “I believe it too. So be it.”

Forzius cracked his neck, feeling more than hearing the many pops, then doing the same with his hands and elbows.

“Contact the Gardener. Tell him that our family is about to be eradicated,” he added as an afterthought. His son had already done it, but it was always good to be redundant. Redundancies had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

For a moment he allowed himself to be surprised at how lucid he felt, but then he shrugged it off. Death came with many advantages, among which the best ones were peace and clarity. He was getting both.

Ark scribbled something on a scroll he’d taken out of thin air and, when he was done, he snapped his fingers and incinerated it.

Meanwhile Forzius moved his hand underneath his wheelchair and took out an extremely modified crossbow with an extendable blade underneath it. He checked that the mechanisms were still oiled and in perfect working order, nodding in satisfaction when he realized that, even in its fogged up state, his mind had still remembered to execute the usual maintenance routines.

Then he spoke the Skill he had known all his life he would be speaking one day: “[The Predestined Day: Before My Death I Was In My Prime].”

Immediately he felt himself relax, his limbs more limber, his legs regaining the strength they’d lost all those years ago, his eyes seeing the world clearly once again as his other senses went back to their glory days. When the process was done he rose from the wheelchair, feeling like he was twenty five again, and performed a few stretches, although he could clearly feel that there was no need for them.

“Ark, you ready to die?”

The devil smirked, showing off his many sharp teeth: “Always, if I’m by your side.”

The old-man-no-more nodded: “Then let us go. For a dream of hope, for our grandchildren and in the name of the Lady in Black, may her sacrifices not be forgotten.”

With that he opened the door that led to the main entrance hall, seeing that it was swarming with people in heavy enchanted armor and carrying weapons that could probably cut through a tree with one sweep. They wore nothing to identify them, as Forzius had been told would happen, but sadly, for that dream of hope, they couldn’t tell the Gardener who these people were. She would need to find out on her own for the future to turn out right.

As the door opened the men’s heads turned and looked at him and Ark.

He started chanting Skills: “[The Predestined Day: Skills – No Cooldown]. [Devilish Reflexes]. [Armor Piercing Shots]. [Enchantment Breaking Bolts]. [Volley of the Red Baron].”

And with that the [Predestined Sharpshooter Assassin] began to die.

----------------------------------------

They called her the Gardener, for that was how she’d started her life once upon a time, centuries prior.

The elven woman sat in her cozy office filled with beautiful plants, staring with absolute disinterest and resentment at a small pile of documents sitting on her desk and wondering if she should do it now and be done with it (which would’ve been the best choice) or leave it there for tomorrow, when she’d spend a good hour asking herself the same question. At the moment she was leaning towards the latter option. She hated paperwork with a passion. Who would’ve thought that becoming the leader of the Assassin’s Guild and uniting all the other Guilds from all over the world under her banner would’ve ended up with her having to do so much of it?

She could still remember her younger days, when she’d been barely over two hundred years old, a young adult by elven standards, spending her time merrily killing poachers who trespassed in areas they shouldn’t deep in the Elven Forests (yes, not the most imaginative name, but she hadn’t been around when it had been chosen) and working on her beautiful gardens.

She still remembered like yesterday, when their local Assassin’s Guild had come to recruit her, taking her in and training her, keeping her away from the [Killer] Class and honing the pleasure she felt in killing into something usable.

A century later she was one of the best [Assassins] to ever live in her Era. A few decades after that she’d managed to turn her teacher’s dream of a unified guild into reality. How? Why naturally by killing the various guild leaders and claiming their ‘thrones’.

Then she’d made a lot of changes around, changes that had first brought grumbling and made a lot of people leave, but also ones that had made them more powerful.

Then, finally, she’d managed to complete what everyone nowadays called her Garden: a collection of families of [Assassins] and many individuals who lived for the sole reason of being her little gardeners to keep the world, her Garden, a relatively good place by killing the parasites that appeared now and then and trimming the plants.

Recently though (or rather,recently by elven standards, which meant around four hundred years ago), some of her best Gardeners had left the Guild, traditionally burying a cut finger in the earth of her actual garden together with some seeds taken at random from her collection.

The seed had sprouted, turning into a beautiful exemplar of a Devil’s Claw. A great addition to her garden, one that she had vowed to protect.

She sighed and pushed the pile of documents away: she’d do them tomorrow. Or find someone to compile them for her… if her dwarven [Secretary] didn’t have her way. The woman already managed to reduce the amount of paperwork reaching her by a great margin, leaving her with only the strictly most important documents to check over.

How much did she pay her?

“[Check Sum].”

A number appeared in her head and she nodded. Yes, she was paid more than enough. Actually, maybe a tiny bit overpaid, but it never hurt to do that with long lived races. They could hold a grudge. Or rather, elves could and did. She’d yet to meet dwarves that held grudges in all her life. Granted, even with her incredible age of one thousand, four hundred and seventy six years, she’d never met many of them to begin with, but you got the gist of it.

A knock sounded on her door, a specific pattern only her [Secretary] and a few, very, very trusted individuals knew, one that allowed her to know it was someone trusted who didn’t need to fear she would kill them. Of course that was an old measure she’d put up back when her homicidal instincts had been much harder to keep in check. Nowadays it was more of an inside joke that brought back fond memories of better times.

“Come in,” she said as she slumped in her chair, putting her legs up on the desk, dainty and uncovered feet up in the air, legs hugged by form fitting trousers that showed off her muscled calves.

A dwarven woman opened the door and stepped in.

The Gardener immediately understood that something was off from the look on her face.

“What’s up Gorizia?” she asked, suddenly serious as she put her feet down and sat straighter.

Gorizia, her [Secretary], was a short dwarven woman with black eyes and a small nose. Her cheeks were marked by laugh lines and the Gardener had come to think that she never stopped smiling. Rarely had she seen it disappear. Now was one of those times.

“We received a message,” she started, walking towards the desk, eyeing for a moment the unfinished paperwork on it before settling her eyes back on the elf. The lack of a remark or snarky joke about her laziness was one more sign of how serious this was.

She sat down on a cushioned chair that allowed her to stand with her head over the desk and put down a scroll, unrolling it. At the very top was a simple drawing of a plant she’d come to love in all these years: Devil’s Claw. The symbol of the family that had officially left her services and changed from gardener to plant in her Garden. A family that still, sometimes, worked for her, for, they always said, the hope of a better future.

She would’ve moved mountains and burned cities for them, for she had never seen so much loyalty in anyone.

Her eyes then moved to the text below, where a single line was written: Our family line is about to be eradicated. Send help for the children.

Then the paper turned black.

The original Communication Scroll had been burned.

Immediately, as those words registered in her mind, she rose and began walking towards the door.

“Alert the Belladonna and Hemlock families. We’re moving towards Devil’s Rest in ten.”

She wondered how in Airm whoever was attacking the Devil’s Claws had found their ancestral home: it was warded and enchanted enough to keep even dragons away, or so one of them had told her when she’d last been invited to the place. It should’ve been impossible.

And yet…

Moving faster, she hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

----------------------------------------

Ama and her brothers walked down the secret passage in their room. Everywhere in the house there was one, a way to escape without being noticed, warded from [Detect Life] Spells more and less powerful but, sadly, not against Skills.

As they’d reached the ground floor she’d heard someone shout ‘They’re inside the walls, get them!’ before hearing a strangled cry and a scream like an enraged banshee’s, her mother’s attacks.

“Faster Ama, we have to go faster,” said the oldest brother, Harius.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She nodded, her hand gripping his more as their steps got faster.

And all the while she tried not to think about what was happening: they were under attack. Her parents and, probably, poppy, were fighting them all off.But how? From the sounds coming from the other side of the wall there must’ve been dozens of people, and there were only three of them.

The answer to that lay in their Death Skills.

[The Predestined Day].

They had known this day would come. They’d known for generations now and had accepted it a long time ago, all for the hope of a better future. It was thanks to that acceptance that they’d gained these Skills, ones to be used on the day they would die to even the grounds a little.

That was how the three [Assassins] were keeping up with the dozens of heavily armored and enchanted fighters.

Ama didn’t know any of that, just like her brothers.

All she knew was that the situation was dire and she didn’t want to think about it.

So, closing her eyes, and allowing her brother to guide her through the secret corridors and tunnels, she remembered the stories her papa had told her so many times.

----------------------------------------

Alexander Smithsons woke up with a gasp.

He tried to sit up in bed and look around.

His last memories were of an explosion, of fire and screaming and pain, then of a voice, and finally nothing.

His hands flew towards his chest and he realized he still had both hands to do that. Looking down he also saw he had two legs again.

“Did I end up in Heaven?” he wondered.

A knock from the door made him look up, away from his body and at the room he was in.

Where am I? This isn’t London, he thought.

The room would’ve fit more in a medieval village from the history books he’d read than… anywhere in the city. Sure, there were places that could, if you were feeling particularly inclement, be called ‘slums’ that were in bad shape, but this was beyond that. The walls were made of wood, just like the floor and the slanted ceiling; there was a window near his bed and he could see that it had shutters but no glass. The bed itself, while comfortable, looked extremely simple.

“Are you awake?” asked a voice from the other side of the door.

Alexander froze, his head snapping around towards the familiar words coming from an unfamiliar voice. At least whoever was on the other side was english, an ally, and not one of the nazis.

Hesitantly, he answered: “Yes.”

A moment later the door creaked open, a man walking in. He wore medical garbs that seemed both modern and ancient, in that they were white, pristinely so, and covered his entire body, a white cloth mask around his mouth and glasses over his eyes. Yet the clothes were made from leather of all things (how the man had managed to get the color changed to white was a mystery to him).

“Where am I?” he asked, hesitation in every word for he didn’t understand how he could still be alive after the bomb.

“You’re in a room of my clinic in Dusklark, on Eva. You appeared out of thin air in the middle of the street, nearly got yourself killed by a passing carriage and then everyone realized you were screaming not out of fear but because half your body had been a step away from being charred.”

The man, a doctor apparently, stepped closer and gave him an once over.

Then he said: “[Check Parameters].”

Alexander frowned. Why had he said those words as if they meant… something?

“Ok, I’ve got good news and bad news. Which one do you want to hear first?” said the man.

Well, at least some things never changed it seemed.

“Good news first.”

“Well, you’re alive and will stay that way. I managed to get you in time and the High Grade Health Potion I had got you back on your feet, albeit after a week.”

Health potion? What the hell was that?

“Bad news is, I had to use an Accelerant Class on you; it was all I had on me. And, apparently, there was something wrong with your lungs. Some kind of disease, I am not sure. But… there’s no simple way to say this, but you’ve got Bloody Lungs.”

Alexander looked at the supposed doctor as he wondered what in tarnation he was hearing. Accelerant Class? Bloody Lungs? What kind of disease was called Bloody Lungs? Who the hell gave it that name? What the –

He took a deep breath, feeling, for some reason, his throat hitch up.

A small cough escaped his lips.

“Yes, that’s what I was talking about.”

“It’s just a – cough cough – little cough. You said that I was… charred? However impossible that sounds, since I’m here. I’d guess that would have some effects.”

“I assure you, the healing potion I used on you may have been a mere accelerant but it was of high quality. It healed your body completely and helped regenerate your limbs, although I wouldn’t start walking around for a while still: your muscles are going to be weak.”

He finally managed to stop coughing and looked up with a raised eyebrow: “Please, stop shitting me: what in hell is a healing potion?”

The man looked baffled for a moment, his eyes widening slightly.

Ha, so he’d been right and this was some kind of fucked up joke.

Then the man said something he hadn’t expected: “So you’re one of them…”

A moment later he took out a knife, no, a scalpel, from a bag at his side, and used it to cut his hand. It was a deep cut and it bled profusely.

“Why did you –” started Alexander, but he was stopped by the man showing him his bleeding hand while, with the other, he took out a vial of some kind from the same bag. It contained some sort of red liquid which seemed to shimmer slightly as it passed through a ray of light that managed to pass through the shutters.

He uncapped it, the wet popping sound resounding in the silent room, then proceeded to drink just a sip.

And then Alexander watched in fascination as the wound in the doctor’s hand started to close, flesh knitting back in place in real time, until not even a scar remained.

Silence fell on the room as the doctor put everything back in place, except for the knife, which he put on an iron tray he took out from that same bag, even though it was too small to contain it.

“That was a healing potion. Although, I think, those don’t exist where you’re from, am I right?”

Alexander just kept on staring at the man as if he’d just sprouted horns and wings.

“What sort of black magic is this? Did I die and end up in hell?” he asked, trying to move away as fear entangled his heart, but he realized only then just how weak his arms were, so much so that he couldn’t move away.

“Not magic. Alchemy. Although some may argue that they can be the same thing. I’m not a [Philosopher] though, just a [Doctor].

“But, to answer your question, you did die. In your original world, you died. And then you were brought here. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but you were. You were brought in as you were the moment you died though, which shouldn’t happen as far as I know.”

Alexander stared at the man as horror dawned on him.

Swiftly followed by confusion.

“But… I’m not dead. I don’t feel dead.”

“Because you aren’t. Again, I don’t know why it happened, or why this is a thing at all, but sometimes people are brought to this world. It’s… not common knowledge, but anyone who can read and likes to go to libraries eventually finds out.”

O̵̞̩̩̼̣̓̓̄h̷͖̙͐́́̈́̉,̶̘͌́͝͝ ̸͉̏͊ḩ̴̗̮̏͑o̸̳̐w̵̧̗̝̤̃̓ ̴̢͊͌t̷̡͇̠̳̅h̷͇̍̄i̶̲̝͕̎̇͆̀n̴͔̘̒̍͊g̵͕̤͊͌̚͝͠s̷̹̋͐͗ ̷̪̗̿͑͆͑͂h̷̙̙̭̑͜ä̴̩̳̗̭́͊̽v̵̰́̿e̵̢̥̖͚͈̓̈̃̓͛ ̷̺̖͓͔̠́̌͊̆ç̴̲̯̞̏͌̀͗h̷̯́̆͒̈a̵̳͇͌͑̒̈̚n̷̫͈̘͕͋̈́g̶͕̏ḛ̷̥̩̓̽̓̈́̕d̵͇̯̰̊̑ ̴̻̮̖͗̐̐͊͠s̸̗̭͒͘i̶͔̬̣̥̒̈́n̷̗̥̹̦̄͝c̵̭̓̈́̓e̸̩̩̺͌̚ ̴̺̠͘t̷̡̧̥̤̗̀̀̓h̵̯͖̘̬̓e̷͉̺̔̌̈́n̵̙̜̥̔̔.

“So… I’m not in Hell?”

“...What is Hell?”

The conversation had become so crazy that he didn’t even stop to wonder how someone couldn’t know what ‘Hell’ was and he explained.

In the end the doctor just shook his head: “What you’re describing is similar to what we here call Airm. Anyways, the important part is, you’re not there. You’re in Creation, the world of the living. Although, for how long, I’m not sure.”

Alexander hesitated: “You talked about a Bloody Lung. What… what is that?”

“It’s a disease where the person’s lungs slowly collapse. It starts with coughing, tiredness and general weakness and slowly develops into bloody coughs. Eventually you’ll probably die. The good thing about my involuntary mistake is, well, that we know for certain what your disease is. The bad thing is, there’s no known cure.

“The only thing capable of keeping it at bay are small doses of Purifying Class Healing Potions, and they’ll only manage to give you time, not cure you.”

It took a while for the man to explain the difference between the two potions and even longer for Alexander to understand the gravity of his situation.

Seeing the desperation beginning to build up in him the doctor rummaged around in his bag and took out, after a moment, a pipe, offering it to him first, then thinking better and just putting it in his mouth, beginning to stuff it with tobacco… or something else. The color was wrong to the boy.

“So, what did you get?” asked the man.

“...What?”

“You’re one of the Wishers. You all get one wish when you’re brought here, a wish that translates into a Class or useful Skills. What did you get?”

For a moment Alexander wanted to say that he didn’t know what the man was talking about, that he hadn’t gotten anything, but then, in the back of his mind, he felt… a presence, a weight that could not be removed (not easily at least). The weight told him this:

[Writer Level 1]

[Read All Languages]

“I… am a [Writer].”

He batted his eyes: he could feel the square brackets.

“And I’ve got this thing that says I can… [Read All Languages].”

The [Doctor]... why did he suddenly think of the man’s job in square brackets!?

Anyways… the man seemed rather nonplussed: “Well, your wish was really unlucky. [Writers] aren’t liked that much by governments in this world. Although, that other Skill, because that’s what it is, is quite good. You can read any language in this world it would seem.”

Alexander frowned: “Why would that be useful? We’re speaking in english.”

The man chuckled: “English? Ah no, my boy, we aren’t speaking that language. We’re talking in Evarion right now, one of the four languages of this world.”

And that led to another rather lengthy explanation on the four continents, their languages and some of their most recent history.

“So, you’re telling me I’m fucked.”

“We’re all fucked boy. It’s all a matter of finding a way to fuck the world back. Your path will most probably be much more difficult, but I want to believe that, since you’re from another world, you’ll be quite good at that.

“Now, why don’t you tell me about your world? I’d like to hear a first hand account.”

He was clearly trying to distract him, that much was clear, but Alexander was more than grateful for it.

Before he could start, though, the [Doctor] slapped his forehead: “Oh, how improper of me. I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you my name. I’m Urso Grabini. A pleasure to meet you. I’ll help you settle down in this world, consider me your first friend and ally.”

“Ah, right. My name is Alexander Smithsons. And… thank you, for everything.”

They shook hands.

And he began telling him of Earth and the war they were fighting.

----------------------------------------

Forzius and his devil lay dead on the ground, surrounded by a dozen corpses, both their heads cut off by what he guessed had been a [Rogue].

Barius, better known as ‘papa’, stood over the corpse of the man who’d killed his father, taking his dagger out.

He looked around at the men surrounding him, hearing his wife in another room shrieking and, probably, rupturing a few ears and organs. He wanted to join her but between them there were far too many people.

So he stood there, examining the situation.

[The Predestined Day: The Planner’s Minute]

The world stood still, sounds muting, and he thought. He had one minute to do just that, to think up a good strategy.

The problem was, strategy only worked so far when you were one man fighting against a small army of heavily armored and enchanted people.

He already knew, though, that he would lose. Now it was only a matter of how many people he could bring down with him.

So he thought and thought, various tactics going through his head, most of them discarded for being too inefficient. Murdering was all about that: efficiency. You lost any of it, you were killed, or worse, caught.

The minute passed.

And the [Predestined Planner of Death], together with his devil companion, moved, smiling at death.

----------------------------------------

Her name was Ilaria, although, just like her husband, she liked it more when her sons and daughter called her ‘mama’.

The circumstances of her becoming part of the Devil Claw family were strange and lengthy to explain, but one could say this: it had been the best choice she’d ever made. Sure, she’d found out that she would die in a matter of years, but she’d gotten out of it the best marriage a woman could ever imagine, an inseparable companion that had been summoned and bound to her through means she had never quite understood, and a family that was… lovely didn’t even begin to describe it.

She would’ve turned a mountain to dust with her bare hands for them though.

Or, more simply put, died for it.

She was dying.

But so were the people around her.

For all that she’d been a [Poisoner] when she’d first joined the family, a Class that would’ve clearly been at a great disadvantage in this fight, she’d gained many Levels and Skills in the years she’d spent with her husband.

Skills that had rendered her especially useful in this fight.

[Banshee’s Scream]. [Enhance Vibration].

And just like that three men in front of her fell to the ground as her scream resonated with their armors, the vibrations passing into their bodies, and with their organs inside, creating harmonic waves that caused their insides to rupture and turn into gory scraps.

Still, there were many of them, too many, and every time she used her Skill her throat got bloodier and bloodier.

But it didn’t matter: she knew she was going to die. Now all that mattered was that she’d gain enough time for her children to escape.

[The Predestined Day: My Pain Enhanced My Songs]

With that she sang again the songs of the banshee’s, songs that hadn’t been heard for millenia now, for they had disappeared together with the Fae, although she didn’t know that.

And the [Predestined Bringer of Death’s Song] sang for herself as much as her enemies.

----------------------------------------

And all the while, as they died, they remembered that story.

----------------------------------------

It had taken Ilya a while to understand what was happening and where he was.

The bullet that should’ve killed him was gone, together with the battlefield, the tanks, the screaming nazis approaching them through the morning fog and their bullets, together with his own rifle.

Now, naturally that hadn’t been enough to stop him from screaming when he’d opened his eyes and found himself in a jungle.

Nor had he stopped screaming when some snake people had appeared out of the trees and started talking.

He’d tried to attack them but had failed miserably and, as they tried to calm him down, he’d just blacked out.

When he’d woken back up again he’d found himself in a hut, another one of those lizard people staring right at him.

This one, though, looked… older. The scales were gray in many places, flaking off completely in others, and one of its eyes was distinctly rheumy.

“You calmed down, Wisher?”

He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, shook his head, then asked: “Have I gone insane?”

The snake person shook its head: “No, you haven’t. We checked. Luckily, I’d also say. You clearly were a soldier fighting somewhere… bad.”

Ilya shivered, nodding.

“Well, you’re safe here, Wisher. I imagine you have a lot of questions, I’ll try to answer them.”

Ilya wanted to know a lot of things, but the first question he managed to get out was: “Why can a snake talk?”

That… caused the thing to burst out into laughter.

“I’m not a snake, Stars above I’m not. I never managed to evolve into a lamia, sadly, and at this old age of mine I certainly won’t.

“Still, I’m a lizardkin, one of the many races of Eva. Ah, but you wouldn’t know that. Let me start from the beginning, young man.”

She stopped, then added: “And by the way, my name is Vagrasifiza, even though most of the people in the village just call me Elder.”

“My name is Ilyiushin Kustov, but everyone calls me Ilya.”

He stopped, before adding: “ I… I died, right?”

The Elder nodded: “You did. But you were given a second chance. If you want to hear an old woman’s tip, don’t waste it.”

A very long conversation and a few days later he was in the local [Woodcarver]’s home, trying his hand at creating a violin.

After all, he’d received the [Musician] Class.

He would need something to play.

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Ama and her brothers ran outside their home, deep in the woods surrounding it.

She was crying, although she couldn’t tell why.

Their demons, too, were crying.

Her brothers were the only ones who were strong enough to keep going without tearing up. That, or they were hiding it well.

Suddenly they heard the sound of a branch cracking and they whipped their heads towards that direction.

A figure stepped into view.

A slight but well muscled one with pointy ears and a face obscured by a tricorn hat.

“You’re Barius’ kids. Stars, you’ve grown.”

The figure stepped closer and took off its hat.

“Come on, I’ll get you out of here,” she motioned them close hurriedly, looking around, as if expecting someone to appear out of nowhere. It wouldn’t happen: they hadn’t been followed.

“Who are you?” asked her brother.

“I’m the Gardener, one of your father’s friends. The leader of the Assassin’s Guild. He… he asked me to get you out of here safely.”

That was when Ama piped up: “There won’t be any need for that, miss Gardener.”

She still remembered meeting the old elf a few years ago, when she’d come to visit them. She’d brought her a stuffed toy!

“Papa, mama and poppy will take care of the baddies. We just have to stay here very quietly and wait.”

Why couldn’t she stop crying?

The Gardener cautiously stepped closer, looking towards her brothers, her eyes asking a question, which they answered with a nod. They remembered her too.

So she stepped closer to her and kneeled on the leave-and-snow covered ground, looking her right in the eyes.

Then… she hugged her.

“I’m sorry, Ama. Your parents… are dead.”

…

Her tears streamed more and she cried out in desperation. She’d known, deep down, but hearing it was so much worse.

Gone.

Her mama, papa and even poppy, together with their devils, all gone.

She didn’t know when it happened, but she blacked out, falling asleep in the old elf’s grasp.

When she opened her eyes again she saw an unfamiliar roof over her head and felt an unfamiliar bed and cushion underneath her.

Still, her devil was with her, so she hugged her and began crying again.

The Gardener stood outside her room.

Then she turned and left.

Time.

She would need some time.

Then… she could make her proposal.

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The gears of Fate… didn’t turn.

Fate had died together with Luck a long time ago, the two killed together.

Something else stood among the gears now.

Something much more powerful and, in a way, predictable.

A shadow with white eyes looked at That-Which-Had-Taken-Fate’s-Place.

It nodded.

And the world changed.

End of Book 2.