“Good question actually; I choose to live in Solwick because this city is a dumpster fire even for the Kratocracy. It’s got the whole damn checklist: an economy fueled by the exploitation of the hellish tunnel network its built over, grand scale order enforced by an anonymous archmage, and a bustling assassins guild to keep me sharp! Speaking of assassins, if you’d excuse me for a moment…” - Interview with Arick the Skinless, warlord of the red light district shortly before their showdown with master assassin Kosech.
Solwick, 4 days before the Deepvein Academy of Delving opens for the year.
My blade is barely a millimeter from the wizards left eyeball when the world stops. Reflexively I tear my soul away from my frozen neurons, electrochemical signals held firmly in place by intricate threads of mana. Pushing out of my body like an intangible, invisible cloud, I take a fraction of a second to assess the situation.
The cobblestone street is rapidly clearing as people flee from the surge of mana emitted by my target. The target themselves has taken a step back; the orcish spellcaster’s thick green skin, obvious muscles and luxurious robes are a stark contrast to my own pallid skin, emaciated frame and rat leather armour.
“…assassins are one thing, that’s just business, but a kid? For Abyss’s sake, they don’t even look old enough to drink! Fast though, if it weren’t for my enchantments…” the wizard is muttering to themselves, seemingly somewhere between amused and frustrated.
Leaving them to monologue, I move my focus to looking for a way out. I’ve been trying to move to no avail; it feels like some kind of temporal effect. To most beings it would seem that the world leaps forward around them, but most beings keep their body and soul firmly intertwined. Even given my advantages, the wizard’s control over their mana is astounding; trying to disrupt the effect will only reveal my abilities, and it seems like the wizard is preparing to release me anyway. Presumably to strip me of what little protection being temporally locked in time gives me. I sense them preparing offensive spells for efficient termination of a proven threat; with my body frozen like this, there is little I can do to stop them. However, I am not at all prepared for my target to engage me verbally.
“Stay put kid, don’t make me crisp you. Got enough on my conscience already.”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
I don’t see the trick, and that unsettles me because negotiating with me is a waste of energy- I attacked, they defeated me, and thus I am to be killed. Such is the Way of Things.
They’ve backed up a few steps (long strides, they are out of reach) and are holding a ball of fire (unnecessary, inefficient, intimidation tactic?) containing a readied spellform. Even if I’m no longer frozen, I can’t cross that distance before they can unleash a readied spell, and there’s no cover I can get to in time; the nearest option is a wooden market stall.
“Can you speak? We’ll start simple: what’s your name?”
A question? Ah, so that’s it- they have sufficient energy stores, and value information more than nutrition. Fortunately, I have plenty of information to trade, and though I fail to see what advantage they gain from this it is not the place of the defeated to judge their better. In any case, a question has been given, so an answer must be received. Opening my mouth to speak, I’m glad that this body’s previous occupant left generous stores of memory to learn from.
“I am Vreem. What knowledge do you seek?”
My voice feels wrong. It is entirely too childish, entirely too innocent; it matches my body, but not my mind. For the first time since I tried to stab them in the eye, the wizard stops talking for a moment; presumably to consider what questions to ask. Even if I am at their mercy, there is a limit to how much knowledge I can provide. Such is the Way of Things.
“Alright Vreem, how about you drop the shiv and tell me why you tried to stab me?”
Their tone is irritating, very calm and reassuring. It’s the tone I use to lure rats. Despite that, I drop the oversized splinter. The bloody groove it carved on my hand contrasts pleasantly with my pallid skin, and its slightly saddening to see the wound pull itself shut.
“I planned to defeat you, earning myself a place at the Deepvein Academy of Delving. I underestimated you, and thus was defeated. If I am spared, I shall find a weaker target and try again, until either I am killed or I earn a place in Deepvein.”
The wizard seems to be somewhere between suppressing laughter and frowning concernedly. I suppose that given my current pathetic form such ambitions would seem ludicrous, even if I was a seventh of a second from their prefrontal cortex.
“Yeah, that’s not quite how it works. If you want to join Deepvein, you just need to pass the entrance test. Hell, I’ll take you there myself- you’ve earned yourself that much by getting closer than most guild assassins.”
Generosity is enormously suspicious, but I have little choice. No matter what, I must reach the Underneath; and the first step to that is getting a license from Deepvein. Besides, how poorly could a test go?