“So you agree?” Ori asked.
“We are in agreement.”
Ori exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He searched his thoughts as his mind ran over the deal, looking for any deleterious clauses or loopholes. “Right, so this conduit? It will last only for the duration of this… divination, yeah?”
“Yes.” The construct agreed.
“And whatever we make, I get to take with me?”
The voice laughed. “Oh yes. Whatever we discover will be burnt onto the very skein of your soul, even shall you die a thousand mortal deaths, this imprint shall be everlasting.”
Ori suppressed the urge to grimace. “Oh, okay then.”
“So have we come to an agreement?”
After the briefest of hesitations, Ori nodded.
The light of the dreamscape faded away until there was darkness and Ori found himself floating in a sea of stars.
He could keenly sense the construct's attention, a presence as weighty as it was cold and dispassionate. Its focus seemed to be on a spot behind him. However, while weightless and untethered, Ori was unable to see just what the presence was looking at. After several breaths of time, the stars shifted as if he was rapidly reorientated, and the attention of the construct seemed to flicker, noting objects in orbit over a bright blue world with keen interest; satellites, spacecraft, aircraft and every craft that could slip the gravitational bonds of the world Ori called home.
“Excellent.” The cold, ancient voice spoke with increasing fever.
Flashes of conflict throughout the world; soldiers fighting in the European cold, dusty conflicts in East Africa or the Middle East. These were not dreams or memories of the past, this was his world, its conflict and violence in real-time.
High fidelity, full sensory scenes skipped by inhumanly fast. The dream constructs attention by switching between objects of interest, its desire to learn and be inspired, paramount. His heart rattled with the shattering sounds of gunshots and shrapnel, explosions that shook his chest as much as the ground beneath his feet. Cries of pain from wounded men he was thankful to skip from before truly soaking in any details, and the cries of command, fury, and alarm. He felt the cold steel, the weight of a modern rifle in his grip, the smell of cordite and gun lubricant, different types of blood, and the stink of released bowels and unwashed bodies, each flickered with increasing rapidity until every moment lasted a blink.
Had he been in his real body, Ori would have retched. As it was, a growing nausea threatened to shut down rational thought from the disorientation and sensory overload alone. Just before his mind tapped out, Ori gasped, his perception returned to the chapel, his vision spinning from the ordeal. Blinking rapidly, the gleaming racks of weapons ceased their tilting before the display began to shift.
Twisted, half-remembered facsimiles of handguns, rifles, magazines and their assorted ammunition formed from liquid steel, as if melting in reverse and with it, Earthly knowledge of the weapons model, manufacturing and uses burned into his mind.
First were melee weapons such as the KA-BAR Fighting Knife and the Gerber MK II, their black oxide-coated surfaces a stark contrast from the glittering pieces of medieval steel beside them.
Antipersonnel hand-grenades, Claymore mines, shaped charges, C4 sticks with their detonators manifested while mushy apparitions resolved themselves into increasingly detailed weapons; .22 caliber pistols such as the Ruger Mark IV and Walther P22. High-calibre handguns like the Magnum Research’s Desert Eagle and the Glock 19 flanked them as new shelves rose from the floor.
Larger weapons, Kalashnikov AK-74s and Colt’s M4 Carbine formed new racks of rifles with enough variants to supply a platoon of modern infantry.
A pain like searing heartburn deep within his skull bloomed as information poured into his soul. Ori could feel the construct's exacting expectations of whom it would channel its divination of every major weapons manufacturer of Earth, for in the construct's mind, if Ori were from Earth, he would have an affinity for Earthly weapons, and so it found his ignorance, anathema.
Correcting for this oversight saw the construct force-fed the knowledge of the weapons as such a conduit of its divination should have, from the technical specifications, metallurgy and manufacturing processes, ballistic physics, and pyrotechnics chemistry, to the magically divined information of their usages, handling and lethality.
Ori screamed.
Meanwhile, the largest hand-held weapon archetypes and their magazines appeared: the Heckler and Koch 416 assault rifle, Accuracy International’s AS50 sniper rifle, Barret’s M82 antimaterial rifle, light and heavy machine guns such as the M2A1 and Browning M2, Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers and Stinger and Javelin missile systems that flanked the newly formed racks of munitions.
As the weapons from Earth materialised, the dreamscape flexed before solidifying in acceptance of Ori’s otherworldly offering.
Ori stood breathing heavily, knowing that if he had been in his real body he’d be covered in sweat or worse after being implanted with so much knowledge so quickly, knowledge that now flowed out of his skull like sand through splade fingers. Compared to all the weapons ever invented by man, at least on Earth, what the construct had divined was just a glimpse of the true weapons of war from his world, with the construct either having no interest in heavier weapons or with what it had scryed already being enough payment for what would come next.
Despite this, as the overflow of knowledge poured out of his brainpan, Ori could still name every weapon that had appeared along with the associated munitions, and weapon maintenance procedures including one-handed and blindfolded dismantling and reassembly. Meanwhile, random concepts like the Munroe Effect or enfilade verses defilade fire invaded his thoughts in between eye blinks.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“It’s like I know kung fu, but with guns, so Gun fu?” Ori shook his head at his errant thoughts before looking up, as if searching for the constructs will, “That was… massively nasty, man.” Ori whined failing to keep the hint of accusation from his voice.
“Oh? If just a minor Affinity was too much, then perhaps we should end things here?” The amused, voice challenged.
“Fuck’sake.” Ori sighed to himself before addressing the construct's will. “No, give us what we agreed.”
“Then, prepare yourself.” The voice replied, his voice suddenly solemn, the remnants of its words echoing through the dreamscape.
Ori could feel the construct's presence once again as the dream faded to black.
Its attention seemed to be focused inside him as if it was burrowing inside his skin, a ceaseless, restless curiosity that cared not for its level of invasiveness.
As its presence seemed to sink deeper, personal memories from Ori’s past emerged. One is a half-forgotten memory of a strip of flash paper exploding from a plastic tube as a skinny black kid chanted “hocus pocus” and “abracadabra” on Christmas day. Years later, an adolescent made the accompanying swooshing sounds as he and a friend who had been really into Star Wars battled with toy lightsabers in a bedroom.
Ori had never held a sword before, but was intimately familiar with knives, as memories of the kid who thought they were being clever by flashing theirs in the playground, to being threatened by them on the street, on the bus, or the lift in the tower blocks.
He forcefully remembered an unfortunate, but predictable encounter in his teens, keenly remembered a doctor explaining how his ‘major laceration to the fatty tissue of the omentum’ was, in fact, very lucky. This drove Ori to understand the human body better during his six-month recovery. Since then, he’d always wanted to carry a weapon. The comforting weight of something that satisfied that instinctive need to grasp something when alone and threatened. But he had known that in his world, knives tended to attract more trouble than they were worth and most alternatives were either as incriminating, or impractical.
And so, he had carried a torch. An old, large Maglite to be exact, one that could dazzle an assailant in the dark, one that could parry a knife and be used to brain someone if he was quick and lucky.
It wasn’t until A-level Physics that Ori gained a better appreciation for all forms of weapons when forces and energies could be defined with numbers and manipulated with equations. The nature of the visible and invisible forces of the world, light, gravity, magnetism. The simplicity of how an edge magnifies force, to the surprising complexity of lasers.
His torch collection grew through early adulthood, as did his interest in light, circuits and electronics. Memories of the true complexity of electrical engineering brought a wonder and desire to learn that broke through his world-weary shell.
Ori could feel the attention of the construct drift, as if seeing recent experiences such as Freya’s and Sera’s experiences, his propensity for soul bonds, and Ori’s interest and talent in magic, before travelling through or towards something Ori’s perception could no longer follow. Before long, he could feel an increasingly uncomfortable sensation, as if something had become taught or was stretching far beyond its natural limit. Ori wanted to shout, to stop whatever the construct was doing as he instinctively knew it to be dangerous. However, he also felt that this was precisely what he asked for. And so he endured.
Darkness was replaced by brief glimpses of blurry reflections, flashes from a kaleidoscope of impossible-to-decipher images. His soul blinked, his will sought clarity, and the dream flexed.
“Mortals are such predictable creatures, predictable in their habits, in their wants and needs. Even their contradictions are predictable.” The voice of the construct said as Ori found solid ground beneath his feet once more. Blurry light resolved itself into a dusty old carpenter's workshop, with workbenches, wood turning machines and tools lined up against every inch of wall. In front of him stood a white-haired, barrel-chested man no taller than five and a half feet. He was bronze skinned in the way only a freshly polished sculpture was, with a foot-long, wispy beard and hair that revealed an obvious bold spot that seemed polished to a mirror sheen.
And yet even though Ori was taller by a hand, the craftsman’s presence seemed to be that of a mountain, one that would force you to stop and look up, while appreciating the distance that separated you from it. “And you, are no less. You seek freedom, independence and space, yet you yearn for affection, validation and companionship.
“You care little about what others think but still wish to leave a lasting impact on the world you leave behind. You like to create and improve just as much as you seek the power to destroy. You value life but would see it ended to protect your own. You want power but cringe at the thought of holding such power over others. Contradictions, yes, but predictable ones nonetheless. No, what makes you unique is the strength of your Will.” The crafter spoke as it shuffled around the workshop, wearing an apron and thick, hardy gloves.
“Your irregular will empowers your soul, your dreamings, your bonds, your comprehension, your affinities, your magic. It is the nexus of all that you are and ever can be. If we are to settle accounts today, we must forge something that scales off this power,” A white fire beyond a small porthole lit, the contruct's steely gaze fixed on his own.
“Lad, how do you turn Iron into Steel?”
“You… errr, add carbon?” Ori said.
“Is that an answer or a question? Yes, you can add Coke and Limestone to Iron in the blast furnace, a simple crucible won’t do.” The man replied, its gaze was knowing. “You asked me to create something beyond the limits of your fate, well, instead of a tool or weapon, what I offer is a way of turning Iron into Steel, a medium stronger, tougher, more malleable and ductile, resistant to wear and corrosion, and easier to re-shape and spring back into shape after duress.
“Except that this isn’t mere Iron we’ll be steelworking, lad. No, this time, it’ll be your soul.”
Ori groaned. “I… don’t understand. I mean, isn’t messing with souls, dangerous?”
“It is a gamble and it will hurt, hurt like you won’t believe.” The crafter smirked, his cold amusement back in full force as the construct's presence ambled towards him. “You have a greedy soul. With a familiar bond, a soul-bound focus, and the Lich bonded to both it and you. You’re stretched, ripe for bursting, and yet you seek more. With the soulcrafting, your soul will be able to evolve and grow. Along with this, your comprehension to Soulcrafting will improve, which I must add, is no minor thing.”
Ori’s thoughts spun, in some ways it was far more than he expected as he started to see his accomplishments and bonds in a new light. So his soul was full? Would this mean he could form more bonds with people or things afterwards? That was probably useful in the context of these trials as whatever he found could come with him… but, it was also much less than he immediately needed: Something practical, tangible, specific. To him, all this talk about the soul sounded wishy-washy, nebulous and frustrating.
However, if Ori was honest, something about the idea of him having a greedy soul, despite the negative connotations, really resonated with him.
“Okay, let's soul-craft my soul, I guess.”
“I’d ask you to prepare yourself, but to be frank, nothing will prepare you for the pain of a soul furnace.” The construct said, before it jammed its grasping hand into Ori’s solar plexus, and pulled.
Ori doubled over. He felt grey, hollow and cold. The sights and sounds of the workshop dimmed and desaturated as he had the terrifying feeling he had been tricked and robbed. He saw the crafter turn away, a bright… something clasped between gloved hands.
“While I do this, I suggest you focus on something… practical, perhaps fate might bestow you with another gift as it does so often for those on the Path. This next bit will sting.”
His last thoughts were of Seraphine and Freya as the world went white with pain.