Harald draped a heavy cloak of finest wool over his shoulders and headed out into the afternoon. The cloak was of sufficient quality, dyed a charcoal gray and trimmed in cobalt blue, that he’d not be bothered by the guards despite his otherwise plain training gear.
He left Sam behind to contemplate her life as he set out to think on his.
Change.
He’d embraced it, had made big decisions and spoken even grander words. That moment of heartfelt unity with Sam had easily been the best thing that had happened to him in the longest time—if you discounted the blessings of a demon—but it left him with a singular question: now what?
So he set off down Baldric Avenue, no destination in mind, determined to find the answer.
For an hour or so he just walked. Stepped out onto the Eternal Circuit and followed its grand spiral tighter and tighter into the heart of the city. Lost himself in the crowds, taking comfort in the bustle and sound of Flutic, the greatest metropolis on the Known Continent.
But despite the wonders that presented themselves, he didn’t really see them. He ignored the cries of costermongers, skirted around crowds that gathered in the squares to observe performers, ignored the long dead overhead scale-carriage-line, and allowed his feet to guide them where they would.
His thoughts were loose and inchoate. He ruminated on recent events. Derrick introducing him to Yeoric at the Burnished Goose, their firm handshake, Yeoric’s measured nod. It had been the other man’s reticence that had so assured Harald; Derrick’s effusive promises were as nothing compared to the other warrior’s solemn appraisal.
He thought on Vic, on Evernessa and the others. The nights of debauchery, the time they were all arrested for freeing a dancing bear and leading it into the Kitty Kat Club. The wild nights, when he’d felt feverish and eternal, as if he’d be young forever, as if Vic’s near supernatural charisma could compensate for his own lack.
The dungeon portal, ever shifting.
His father’s portrait.
That frisson of wonder and delight when he’d taken his new blade to the orchard at the back of his estate and set to slicing falling leaves like Gustav, the warrior-king from legend.
His astonishment when he’d actually razored one in twain.
Sam’s faith. His father’s disdain. Vic’s endless amusement. Yeoric’s cruel rejection. Lucine’s tinkling laugh. Evernessa’s lips at his ear.
And in the center of it all, lost and desperately searching, Harald Darrowdelve.
He passed his hand self-consciously over his short hair. Resolutions didn’t change who he was. Actions did.
So what came next?
Finally he fetched up in the Academy Square. Surprised, he glanced around himself, not realizing this had been his destination all along. All around him raced students, the young scions and hopefuls of the noble houses. Dressed in the sober black and silver of the Academy uniform, they looked dashing and dangerous. Most wore blades at their hips, and all had a slash of color at the shoulder signifying their House allegiance.
Harald found a bench and sat. Rested his elbows on his knees, and considered the Academy proper.
Hidden behind high walls, it was an august building and an essential part of Flutic’s history and success. Over four centuries old, it had trained and graduated some of the greatest legends. Barillo the Bold had come from its halls, Yvette Queencutter. The infamous Skull Harvester had studied there for a semester, along with the doomed identical twins Raveena and Gliselle who’d both descended into madness and killed each other on the 53rd Level.
The names went on, and Harald knew most of them. He’d grown up on the adventure stories written for Flutic’s youths that detailed the legends and their exploits. All of them members of or sponsored by the noble houses.
His father had laughed scornfully at his request to attend.
“You? Attend the Academy? You’re joking. First, you’d never get accepted. Unless you were planning to apply to join the kitchen staff? Second, why bother? The Academy’s nothing but a playground for the idle rich these days. Nobody of note has graduated from there in decades.” His father had leaned in, eyes narrowing, all mirth leaving his face. “You want to become a true dungeon raider, Harry? You do the work yourself. You train yourself. You prove to me you’ve got fire in your gut and the gravel in your eye, and I’ll find you a proper tutor. Until then? Don’t waste my time.”
The gilded domes of the Main Arena could just be seen over the top of the walls, emerging from the thick canopy of the quads. That was where the greatest duels were fought, where the Angel Tournament was fought each year, where the deadliest students were invested with scales so as to continue their path in Ascending to their Thrones.
Harald frowned.
You do the work yourself.
The Academy wasn’t the answer. Technically his ‘lineage’ was sufficient to warrant his putting in an application, but he’d not the wealth to pay the tuition. And scholarships were merit based; he could already envision how poorly the testing would go given his complete lack of skills.
You train yourself.
His father had been a brute and a bully and a sadist, but there was no denying how he’d pulled himself up from the slums to achieve his successes. Few men had been as feared and respected in his time as Darius Darrowdelve. Even now the name could open doors.
But was this what Harald wanted?
For awhile longer he watched students rushing across the square, intent on reaching their classes or who knew what. Purposeful, innocent in their dedication, in their knowledge that everything was being taken care of for them.
The Academy. The dungeon. Scales. Power. Raiding.
Was that what he wanted?
Harald grimaced and rubbed at his eyes. It’s what he’d always said he desired. But why? Once he’d have laughed and gone on about restoring Darrowdelve Manor.
Now?
Harald inhaled deeply.
What did he want?
He saw the dire rats swarming up his body, his blood everywhere, his sword falling to the floor.
Saw Yeoric pinning him to the ground, holding him down effortlessly, his face cold and inscrutable.
Saw himself swinging his blade in the orchard, grunting and cursing till at last that leaf had floated apart in two halves.
And a realization seized him by the throat: he did want power. Strength. Skill. More than that, he wanted to Ascend his Thrones, he wanted more Endowments, to acquire Artifacts, Servitors, all of it.
Just like the heroes from his childhood books.
He wanted to plumb the dungeon. Down past the initial twelve Iron levels, down into the real depths, down where the nightmares slithered and the demon princes held court.
Harald stared at this soft palms. Felt his gut resting against his upper thighs. He wanted to become more.
Why?
A fierce emotion arose within him. It was akin to a hawk’s hunting cry. He studied that emotion. Tried to put it into words.
He wanted to become strong because… because he no longer wanted to be weak. He no longer wanted to make excuses. To live in dreams. To tell himself that one day he would ascend.
But more than that.
He wanted… did he want to best Yeoric? To hack apart the rats? Yes, but that wasn’t the reason why. It wasn’t to prove anything to his father, to others.
Then?
Harald scowled and pushed his thumbs into his eyes. Red stars danced upon the depthless field of night.
In mastery there was… grace. Exaltation.
In finding the limits of what he could become there was… truth. About whom he was.
He wanted to be great because…
“Huh.”
Harald sat up.
A memory had come to him. Sitting in the arbor, back when it had been twined with roses and the pond clear and filled with fish. He’d been… six? In his memory, his arm was in a cast, so a week or two after his confrontation with Max. He’d been reading about Gustav the Just, the leper king of Flutic who’d laid down his life to seal the 83rd level of the dungeon from a demon incursion.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“What are you reading?” his mother had asked, sitting down next to him on the bench swing.
He’d told her, his tone enthusiastic, his voice shining with admiration.
“And that’s what you want to be?” she’d asked, smiling indulgently, her hair shining gold in the sun. “The king of Flutic?”
“No!” How amazed he’d been at her lack of understanding. “I want to be great like him!” He’d leaped up and swung an imaginary sword.
She’d watched him, still smiling. “What made him great?”
He’d paused, frowned. “He saved everyone from the demons.”
“So saving people makes you great?”
“Of course! That makes you a hero.” He’d swung his imaginary blade through Silenthros the demon prince. “The stronger you are, the bigger the demon you can kill, and the more people you can save.”
“So heroes have to be strong?”
“The strongest!” He’d turned to her, eyes wide. “Mom! That’s what I want to be. The strongest hero that ever lived. So when the biggest danger in the world shows up, I’ll be the only one who can stop it.”
“My darling boy,” she’d said. “And you’ll sacrifice yourself for everyone?”
“If I have to.” He’d considered. “Gustav the Just was the only one who could stop Silenthros. If he hadn’t been strong enough, then the demon would have destroyed all of Flutic.”
“We are all greatly indebted to him,” agreed his mother placidly.
“That’s the reason to be strong,” Harald had said.
“Strong people get to be wealthy, too.” Her mother had considered him. “They get to be respected, admired, and make decisions about how everyone should live.”
“But those aren’t the reasons to be strong.” He’d waved away her words. “No. I want to be stronger than Gustav. Stronger even than the Queencutter. I want to be so strong that one day, if the world needs it, I’ll be there, ready to save it. I’ll…” He’d stared off into the middle distance, trying to envision a demon so massive it made even Silenthros seem insignificant. “I’ll say, ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m here.’ And then I’ll… I’ll do whatever I need to do to protect everyone.”
“Oh Harry.” She’d pulled him in and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best, most noble, most wonderful boy a mother could ever dream of having.”
He’d laughed, squirmed free, and run off across the lawn, waving his imaginary sword as he chased demon princes back into the dungeon.
Harald blinked.
He’d not thought of that moment in forever. Sam’s words must have brought the memory back to him.
“That’s the reason to be strong,” he whispered, testing the words he’d not spoken in fourteen years.
They felt right.
They felt true.
Harald scowled at his hands and slowly clenched them.
His father had laughed when he’d explained his ambition at the dinner table that night, and he’d grown ashamed of his naivete.
But he was past shame now.
And that reason, childlike and true, called to his soul like nothing else ever hand.
“Strength,” he whispered. “So that one day, when I’m needed, I’m ready.”
He shivered as goosebumps broke out across his arms.
Then he sighed and looked up at the Academy once more. Within were instructors, specialists, classes and lectures on everything related to the dungeon and its denizens. But he’d have to learn without all that.
He’d have to train by himself.
Harald stood with a laugh. And before he could even think about real training, he had to get in shape. He slapped his gut. He couldn’t even run more than six blocks at the moment, much less defeat the demon prince Silenthros.
There was a lot of work to be done.
And sitting around here wouldn’t get him started.
Gathering his cloak about himself, he turned his back on the Academy and began walking home.
Where to begin?
He summoned his window, and studied his stats:
Strength: 6
Dexterity: 6
Constitution: 5
Ego: 18
Presence: 8
His Strength, Dexterity, and Stamina were abysmal. A 10 was considered respectable for your average adult, but actual dungeon raiders like Yeoric would have those stats up in the low teens. Yeoric’s Strength was probably around 14. That allowed him to not only pin Harald effortlessly, but move around in all that plate armor without growing exhausted.
Harald dismissed his window.
When he’d decided to hire a raiding team in a last ditch effort to save Darrowdelve Manor, he’d sworn that he’d get his Strength and Constitution to 7 before even making inquiries. At the time he’d thought that a respectable goal, and had trained hard to accomplish it within two months.
Now, divorced of all desire to lie to himself, he knew his training had been mediocre at best.
He’d run a mile each day around mid-morning, and then rested and napped till late afternoon, when he’d done a half bell of lifting weights in his father’s old training gym. He’d discovered some manuals in the library, and fashioned a workout plan from them, and, to his delight, had achieved results.
But all told? He’d trained and exercised for less than two bells each day. The rest of the time he’d lolled around reading, spent time with Vic and the others, or wasted the hours researching the dungeon and reviewing everything he’d already known.
Harald grimaced.
Two hours a day? That would never get him where he wanted to go.
Nor would waking mid-morning.
Rubbing at his shorn hair, he considered how he might alter his approach.
He couldn’t afford to hire a real trainer, so instead he’d simply… well. Go all out till he couldn’t train any more. Then keep going.
Harald blinked.
As far as plans went, it was pretty rudimentary. He knew that the Academy had finely tailored plans for each student, with goals set according to their objectives and ambitions. But Harald was starting from so far behind that he didn’t need nuance, didn’t need careful calibration.
He simply needed to grow stronger, faster, and more resilient.
Even this walk up the Eternal Circuit had worn him out.
He thought on the bright boy he’d once been, energetically cutting apart imaginary demons with his blade, and then looked down at himself. He’d already sweated through his tunic, and that was just by walking for a bell or so.
“You’ve a long way to go,” he whispered to himself, but instead of dampening his enthusiasm, it seemed to only add fuel to his resolve.
Curious, he summoned his window again, and summoned the description for his Soul Nature, Insatiable Void:
Insatiable Void: You are the aching heart of ambition, the howling hunger that yearns to consume the world. A child of darkness, you will always seek the light, but will destroy all that you pursue.
The aching heart of ambition? Hardly. He’d merely resolved to grow stronger. Anyone could do that. The demon’s gift was overblown.
He turned to his Soul Ability:
Condemnation of Success Description: Every success can be outdone. There is no end for you, for every end is but a beginning, and always will your eye be drawn to the horizon. Every peak shall prove false, and every victory bitter. Nothing shall suffice, and this shall be your goad, your lash, your blessing, your torment.
Again he frowned. On some level that was in accord with his childhood wishes, to grow to be the strongest that had ever lived, but for every victory to be bitter?
Harald shook his head. Grandiloquent nonsense. He wasn’t about to become some demon’s plaything, a hollowed out monster of ambition and torment.
Harald snorted. “Nice try, Vorakhar.”
He’d awaken at dawn the next day to go for his first run. His legs were already sore from all the walking yesterday, and today’s trip around the Eternal Circuit had worn him out.
Best to start fresh. To put on clean training clothes and go for a healthy morning jog. A dawn jog, even. He’d ask Sam to awaken him at the Seventh Bell. Maybe the Sixth? He’d go for a good run, up nice and early, and then come back to shower and have a healthy breakfast.
That sounded good.
Harald started walking quicker.
A healthy run.
A reasonable run, first thing.
Tomorrow.
Today he’d rest.
The words kept playing over and over in his mind.
Today he’d rest.
He’d take it easy.
Tomorrow he’d run.
Tomorrow he’d try.
Today, rest.
Today, nothing.
Today he’d just lie around like a fucking animal and dream about tomorrow’s successes.
Today he’d be nothing. Today he’d be the same as ever, making promises.
He was breathing hard, he realized, arms pumping as he strode forcefully through the crowd. People stared at him in annoyance as he barged past them.
Tomorrow he’d become strong.
Or maybe the day after.
Sure, why rush it? He could just lie around for a week, really make sure he was recovered from the dungeon, absolutely leave nothing to chance. In fact, he could eat nothing but bacon and drink nothing but grease till he was well and truly obese, and then he’d start training, because that would be more admirable, right? In fact, he should just never train, just lie around all the time telling the world that he would begin any day now -
He was running.
His heart was pounding, and his fury was a terrible thing, a storm cloud wracked by lightning, dark and fulminous.
Fine. He’d run today. But he should go easy now. He was still miles from home. He should walk the rest of the way, then fold his cloak just within the gate and go for his run.
Running now was stupid.
He should wait till he could run his old path down Baldric and around Season Park.
Instead he found himself running faster. The pain in his legs grew, and sweat coated his brow. A stitch was growing in his side, sharp and piercing.
The more he reasoned with himself the angrier he got.
Unable to keep dodging people, he dropped off the sidewalk and ran down the shoulder of the Circuit itself, his cloak flapping against his calves.
But his fury couldn’t fuel him for long.
The pain in his calves grew agonizing, his breathing labored, the stitch a mortal wound. Gasping, he drew up. He was wheezing, panting for breath like a dog.
It was unreasonable to think he could just start running as if he’d been training for months. It hurt. It felt uncomfortable. He probably looked a fool.
Harald came to a complete stop, hands on his hips, head hanging. Sweat ran down to the tip of his nose. He was breathing so hard he was scowling. Thick spit coated the back of his throat.
Damn it. All that big talk and he couldn’t run for more than five minutes.
But it wasn’t his fault.
His legs hurt.
He was out of breath.
Nothing shall suffice, and this shall be your goad, your lash, your blessing, your torment.
“Damn it,” he hissed, and began running again.
Carriages rolled by, the drivers staring curiously at him. The pedestrians watched him jog past, then glanced behind him to see if he was being chased by the world’s slowest dog.
The pain was immediate.
It shot up his shins, stabbed him in his gut.
Gasping, looking an idiot, he ran. His cloak was choking him, so he tore it off and wrapped it around his arm.
One more step. Just till that lamp. Just around this next curve. One more step. Just… just a little more.
Harald forced himself to keep going. The slight, gentle downward slope of the Circuit helped. And then, to his surprise, the pain in his side began to recede. The pain in his legs. It didn’t make the running easier, exactly, but he no longer felt like he was about to collapse.
Panting, dripping, he ran on, marveling at himself.
Where had the pain gone?
On he ran. When he drew close to Baldric Avenue the pain returned, but it felt different now, more of an ache in his ankles and knees than in his muscles. He could barely breathe. But sheer momentum kept him moving.
His legs felt like blocks of wood by the time he reached his gate. His jog was only marginally faster than a walk, and but when he broke its gait he staggered and nearly reeled off to the side.
Gasping, nauseous, he reached his gate and grabbed hold of the bars. Held on so that he’d not fall over, and pressed his brow to the cold metal.
He’d done it.
The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind:
The Demon Seed Has Stirred
Your Constitution has risen from 5 to 6
Blinking away stars, he at first grinned, then frowned.
A raise already? After just one bleeding run?
But wait. What? The Demon Seed had… ‘Stirred’?
Wiping sweat from his face, he felt a fierce elation out of all proportion to what he’d just done. Even his pang of concern couldn’t prevent him from feeling as if he’d conquered the world.
He knew it didn’t take much to raise such a ridiculously low stamina as his own, but to do so after one run… Were they connected, the two statements? Had his raising his Constitution caused his Demon Seed to stir, or had they both happened independently of each other due to his burst of will?
Or—and he shuddered to think this—had his Demon Seed caused his Constitution to rise so quickly?
Exhaustion and delirium made it hard to care. Regardless, this had been his effort, his desire, his victory.
Fuck tomorrow.
Fuck getting a proper rest.
“Nothing will suffice,” he gasped, then pulled the gate open so that its damned hinges screeched like dire rats. “Nothing.”