CHAPTER 3
Far above, flying high in the sky, was a mass of darkness.
It had great cyan eyes, a massive but lightly glowing beak, and a wingspan half as wide as Morza itself.
Neverend
Endbringer [???]
Not just Azzimus, but the militiamen and even the Neverend below froze when the Endbringer flapped its wings, blocked the moon, and roared.
His newly acquired Fearless I put up minimal resistance before it was brushed aside. Azzimus fell to his knees in terror, scraping them against the wooden palisade unbeknownst to him amongst his fear.
Thump.
Others too fell to their knees, until no one was standing. Even the Neverend that littered the makeshift battlefield fell to their haunches and bowed their heads.
As quickly as the Endbringer had come, so too had something else.
Light dispelled the darkness.
It appeared from nowhere, and swiftly became the focus of anyone that could see it. The Neverend below burned in its presence, howling pitifully before evaporating into nothing.
The Endbringer howled with its anger and suppression on full display, but Azzimus no longer felt the crushing fear that had paralysed him and others.
Within the sphere of light that appeared betwixt Morza and the Endbringer, thirteen figures stood.
“The Archmage of Frostfall!”
Gasps arose from the militiamen, and Azzimus found his shock redoubled.
The Archmage and the twelve great sages of Frostfall were practically a myth, inspiring legends that anyone that grew up in Morza were accustomed to hearing.
If not for the Paladin of Northlight, Azzimus wouldn’t have sought to be a knight. Likewise, a significant number of emerging adults were disappointed every year when they discovered they wouldn’t be able to follow the Archmage of Frostfall.
After all, Morza hadn’t born a sage for more than sixty years.
The Endbringer roared and dashed toward the light. Bright teal fire exploded from its beak, and great swathes of wind threatened to tear all beneath to fragments.
Azzimus couldn’t hear the chanting of the figures within the light, but he saw with his own eyes the elements that exploded from their bodies.
Great fireballs, spirals of water, spears of light, columns of earth, metal pikes and even a great lance of ice that overshadowed them all. Magic of all types burst forth from the light and collided with the Endbringer.
The ice lance swept forth the quickest. It pierced the Endbringer’s fire, dispersed the flames in its wake, and stabbed straight through its upper beak.
The oversized bird screeched and wallowed in pain. Then, the rest of the magics struck the beast and its glowing cyan blood dyed the skies.
The fireballs exploded, the water pierced, the light disintegrated, the earth bruised, and the metal sliced the Endbringer apart.
Amongst the high-tier Neverend, the Endbringer was powerful. But it was only on the same tier as an extraordinarily high-level sage or knight. The magic that would have burned Morza to the ground fizzled out against the Archmage, and the feathers that would have been impenetrable to the militiamen were still ordinary to the sages.
Inevitably, the Endbringer was felled. The magicians arrayed against it were simply too powerful, and Morza once again found peace.
…
Whack!
“Argh, stop that!”
“What possessed you to run into the Neverend?!”
“Mother, please-”
Whack!
“I-it was something I had to-”
Whack!
“O-ow…”
Azzimus nursed a bump on his head for the rest of the night. His mother, still shaking from the suddenness of it all, had eventually let him go after many stern warnings.
But Azzimus still felt justified in his actions.
…
The next day, Azzimus attended the mass funeral.
The casualties weren’t as bad as they could have been. However, three dozen coffins were still lowered into the earth by the end of the day, all under the purview of some of the sages that remained behind. To Morza, this was an extremely significant number.
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He understood why his mother had worried for his life. The dead included warriors much stronger than he, but…
The blacksmith who owned his sword was amongst the deceased. Nobody asked for it back, and now, it hung from his waist. Azzimus’ hand drifted across the grip. The memories of using it the night prior filled his mind.
Azzimus was more driven than ever to fight these things.
…
After the whirlwind of events that followed Azzimus gaining his class, the next week passed by depressingly slowly. The nightly Neverend attacks continued, but to a much lesser extent almost reminiscent of the norm.
After a week, the last sage departed. It was apparent that Morza’s near-destruction was a one off. Paradoxically, this both assuaged and heightened Azzimus’ fears.
But it wasn’t all waiting and twiddling his thumbs. Azzimus had, with his mother’s permission and after a slew of promises, joined the militiamen in the nightly defence.
Instead of the higher-level cunning, the typical enemy that Morza faced were smaller wolves and monstrous rabbits. Sometimes there would be monstrous bears or, far worse, great dark lions with manes of cyan flame.
But these larger monsters didn’t attack in packs, and their very presence often scared away the smaller Neverend that otherwise would have attacked. Thus, it was all very manageable.
In fact, despite working tirelessly for seven nights, Azzimus didn’t even reach level three. The attack of the seemingly endless amounts of Neverend on his class day had heightened his expectations erroneously.
One night, he was visiting the priest to have a discussion. He’d already asked around and knew that it wasn’t anybody’s class day today, so it was one of the rare opportunities to speak to the old man.
When Azzimus entered the cathedral, the priest warmly invited him to the back room. With some hesitation, he had followed.
It was small. There was another room off to the side, but here, only a short table and a cupboard stood. Two chairs were placed by the table, and upon it steaming bread buns lay atop a plate.
Invited to sit, Azzimus did so. It wasn’t comfortable, being a simple hardwood chair, but it was typical furnishings in Morza.
“What did you want to talk about?”
The elderly man was kind and fatherly. Perhaps, that was why Azzimus had sought him out.
That, and his authority – second only to the village mayor and much more accessible.
“There is something very strange about my class.”
The priest nodded slowly and motioned for him to continue.
“I get too many attribute points.” The priest smiled and made to speak, but Azzimus pushed onward. “And I- I already have four skills. I was given two for each level…”
At that, the priest’s smile flipped and his complexion drained.
“So the attack…” the priest tested his tongue. “You think it was because of you?”
Azzimus cringed inwardly. To have his fears picked out so quickly was unexpected, but then again, the priest had been the one to awaken his class that very day.
“I think so.”
“What skills did you get?”
“I’m pretty sure I got a knight skill and a warrior skill each time. And I think I get both classes’ worth of attributes when I level up.”
The implications were staggering, and the priest leapt to his feet.
“Are you certain young man?”
The priest’s bony hands gripped Azzimus’ shoulders tightly, and his wizened eyes stared into the younger man’s own point-blank.
“Describe to me exactly what you gained from your levels.”
So Azzimus did. The priest nodded along as he spoke, as he recounted and quantified the changes to his attributes, and in the end, the two fell quiet and the priest collapsed to his seat.
“I had already taken the liberty of passing on your class to the closest academies on the day that you awoke. But now…”
Concern leaked from the old man’s eyes, but Azzimus didn’t think it was held for him.
The warm bread buns, which had seemed so appetizing when he entered the simple room, were left untouched.
“My boy, if what you say is true, the Neverend attack on your birthday was only a charade of what is to come.”
Azzimus didn’t realize his hands were clenched, even when his nails bled the flesh of his palms.
“I will expedite the academies. For now, take care of yourself and lay low. Don’t tell another soul about this. Not even your family. If I were a weaker man, I wouldn’t let you leave this room.”
The blood drained from Azzimus’ face at the seriousness that far outstripped his original concerns.
…
If roads were safe for someone of his level, Azzimus may very well have fled Morza after his discussion with priest. But they weren’t. Instead, he returned to the village wall that very night and slaughtered to his heart’s content.
[Level 3 Reached!]
Attributes Increased!
STR: 21 » 27
AGI: 19 » 25
END: 19 » 24
INT: 10 » 12
WIS: 8 » 10
CHA: 21 » 26
[Skill Generated!]
Active: Swiftness I
[Skill Generated!]
Passive: Iron skin I
It was fun speeding around at the cost of his stamina, but it was with a heavy heart that he retired to his bed that night. He was quiet during dinner, and his family – especially Teldesi, who he’d been spending less time with lately – were concerned.
Azzimus brushed them off kindly.
He was still waiting for something terrible to happen.
That morning when he’d gone to see the priest, it was with the hopes that his worries could be assuaged. Instead, the opposite had happened, and now he didn’t even know what to do with himself.
Wasn’t a class meant to narrow his path, so that he wouldn’t feel lost like this? So that he knew what to do in these situations?
Perhaps not.
Abound with nightmares, Azzimus barely caught a wink of sleep that night.
…
When they arrived, it had been exceptionally obvious.
Instead of privately finding Azzimus and bringing him away, as he might now expect given that he found his presence equivalent to some kind of disaster, the recruiters were a bit more… public.
“Not just anyone can join Northlight Academy!”
“Who are they here for?”
“Aren’t they too gaudy?”
“Why are they riding horses? Isn’t it faster to run at their level?”
“Hey, he’s right. Horses cap out at level ten, tops…”
“Are you stupid? Can’t you see how much those saddles are worth? How much do you think they spent on these horses? There’s no way those are ordinary…”
Likely, the Northlight Academy, or at least the faction behind it, had at the minimum one top-level Breeder in their retinue.
The crowds that would ordinarily trickle through Morza had tripled in size. Everyone, their parents and their children were crowding the streets and watching the strangers’ approach with mixed responses. Some were weary, but most were excited.
It wasn’t every day that such a famous force would visit their little town. It wasn’t as impressive as the archmage’s showing the week before, but those were extenuating circumstances, and only a handful of the sages came down to visit them afterward.
In a prominent position at the front of the approaching party, an elderly woman wearing extravagant robes, gold and glowing, rode upon a great warhorse. It didn’t take a genius to understand that the woman led the party, nor that she was a high-ranking elite.
Behind her, knights in fully enclosed armour rode atop less decorated, but nonetheless impressive horses of special breeding.
Few would recognize the Great Sage of the North and her retinue. Fewer still would understand why those of such high status would come looking for a newborn knight.
And nobody understood the gravity of the situation. The chaos that might yet unfold if they lingered.