“It now quadruples my Armor? With the effects of the two Curses, each point of Attack Power would give me—Damn, I don’t want to do math. I’ll just check”
Elian Ward | Human | Level:3
Health: 210/210
Energy: 55/55
ATTRIBUTES:
Attack Power: 0
Magic Power: 0
Armor: 3,912
Magic Resilience: 0
DIVINE BESTOWAL:
Greater Curse of the Berserking Abyssal Eye III
Greater Curse of the Powerless Physical Immortal II
Elian had an accountancy degree and worked on hundreds of mind-numbing spreadsheets in the office. That was also fifteen years ago, not including time travel shenanigans. Math had mostly taken a long vacation from his mind.
With this much Armor, he could throw himself down the mountainside to descend faster and survive with only minor injuries. Probably. He might also break his neck or get impaled on some jagged rocks.
File away this idea for next time. It wasn’t stupid—he just wasn’t hard enough yet.
A small part of his Armor should be from Attack Power gained as his body strengthened from all the climbing and hiking. His Health and Energy also increased a tiny bit. If he had Health points displayed on Earth, he would’ve cared more for his body. Instead of consuming ultra-processed fast food, he was one with nature on Fellenyr, eating tough and salty jerky, sour unripe fruits because animals had already picked the ripe ones, and bland mushrooms around the roots of trees.
I miss fast food so much. Opening a restaurant near the Temples of Tribulation would be a grand business idea seeing all the pilgrims going there.
Elian exited the woods and nonchalantly joined their march. He stuck out like a sore thumb because the pilgrims wore clothes of bright blue and gold, displaying a design of concentric circles with layered triangles in the middle. Even their wagons and some groffs were painted with this symbol.
Didn’t the group he saw from up the cliff earlier wear red? Could be pilgrims following a different deity.
“Greetings on this fine day, brother.” An aging man with a silvery braided beard flowing down his chest approached Elian. He spoke somewhat understandable Angloise, but the clipped accent gave away his Tellerin origin. “I, Borlen Bluebeard, welcome you to—”
“But your beard isn’t blue,” Elian blurted. He raised his hands. “I apologize if that was insensitive. The hunger is getting to me. It’s been days…”
“We will share our food with you,” said Borlen, chuckling like gentle coughs. “For no one is allowed to be hungry in the company of the followers of the Penitent Tharguras. Come, brother. Sit with us and I will tell you the story of my beard and much more. We were about to pause our journey to cook lunch.”
Talk about timing. And just like that, Elian had a free meal and new friends.
He had employed this tactic of being endearingly obnoxious many times before. Sometimes people would get angry. But more often than not, people would be understanding, appreciate the apology, and accept his made-up justification. It was a high-level maneuver from the holy manual of office politics, several steps above becoming the office clown, keeping some initiative while lessening self-deprecation.
The pilgrims of blue and gold set about making fires for their large pots. Every one of them, both young and old, helped prepare the ingredients, peeling and slicing the vegetables and meat, and throwing those into the pots. Each wagon carried one family and several families shared one pot of stew. Chatters and songs filled the air just like the rich scent of food.
Elian felt a tug at his heart. Absorbed in the rat race of capitalism, he hadn’t visited his mother and father for years. If only he met them one last time before being whisked away to another world.
“A happy group you have here.” He took a spot in the circle of pilgrims that Borlen had pointed to. “My name is Elian Ward of Gilders and I’m traveling to Frothlake.” That city was on the other side of the Sabyn Mountains, if he remembered correctly. He’d rather avoid talking about the Sabyn Mountains with this many people listening.
“Once again, I’m Borlen Bluebeard, formerly Borlen Lha’ar Sarkhan of Tellerin. Our group’s destination is the Temples of Tribulation. I took on the name Bluebeard when I started following Penitent Tharguras eight years ago. If you’re wondering about this—” he stroked his beard “—I’ll dye it blue on the day our Champion Penitent receives his Tribulation.”
Borlen introduced the other people in the circle. They were from his tribe in Tellerin that he converted into his belief. All took second or third names with the word ‘blue’ or ‘gold’ in them to show their support for this Penitent Tharguras that Elian was yet to meet.
“I apologize in advance if I get things wrong,” Elian said, “but isn’t this Tribulation you speak of caused by a Boon?”
“That is so, brother.” Borlen loosened his robes and let them fall off his shoulders to show his chest. Swirls of faded black sparkled as if the starry night sky formed patterns that looked like scales. In the middle of his chest, the swirls straightened into jagged strokes of thin triangles, arranging themselves into familiar patterns.
“Twenty-four,” Elian said.
Borlen’s eyes widened. “Oho! You can read Kymorathi script?”
The Kymorathi were an ancient civilization of magic far older than the Giants. They forged the Covenant with the Gods, receiving Boons and Curses. Expectedly, they used that power for war and wiped themselves out. Tale as old as time. Quite literally, in their case.
“Only their numbers,” Elian replied. “If I could read their words, I’ll have a job at the Imperial Library of Solvi instead of getting lost in the forest. Learned it from the Runebreaker living in our town.”
“How blessed to have such an opportunity. I’m incapable of reading Kymorathi numbers but know this is the symbol for twenty-four because that is how many Tribulations I have survived. Those with the Boon granted by the Hundred-Armed Magistrate can present themselves to face the Tribulation once a day.”
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“This Tribulation is a strike coming down from the sky, isn’t it?” Elian asked, repeating the information from the shopkeeper of Ambervale or Amberwynd. He also heard rumors in his past life about this bizarre Boon. “And if you survive this strike, you’ll get stronger?”
“That is so, brother,” Borlen said. “Prove to the Magistrate your resilience and you will be rewarded accordingly—an increase in the attribute of your choosing. Each Tribulation will be stronger than the last, the rewards greater… if one survives.”
“So… you never know if the next Tribulation will be your last.” Elian couched his incredulity at the craziness of the Boon as respectfully as he could.
There were plenty of Boons and Curses that boosted attributes with no risk of grave injuries or even death. Why pick the Hundred-Armed Magistrate’s Boon? Should be categorized as a Curse. Even then, most Curses Elian knew of didn’t include the possibility of getting killed by your deity.
Elian pointed at Borlen’s chest. “You’ve survived twenty-four Tribulations. Are you preparing to take on the twenty-fifth?”
“I’m afraid not. This is my limit.” Borlen cast a forlorn gaze at the fire. “We are taught not to have regrets… but I cannot overcome the regret of coming into the Hundred-Armed Magistrate’s embrace too late in my years. If only I was younger. If only I was stronger. If only I wasn’t injured in the war. If only I had more resources. These regrets I openly share so that I may overcome them.”
Elian knew too well about regrets even before he left Earth. Avoiding the topic was his tried and tested strategy. “What was that about resources? Did you mean money for top-tier Enchanted armor and shield for the Tribulation?”
“And hiring barrier mages, constructing protection wards, transference golems, and much more. A hefty amount of investment to meet higher Tribulations.”
“Those are allowed?” Elian asked in genuine surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to go through a Tribulation yourself? Uh, I’m just assuming that’s how it works. Having the help of others dilutes the point of taking on a Tribulation, doesn’t it?”
“You misunderstand, brother.” Borlen gestured to the other pilgrims. “We are not meant to walk this world alone. The forest is not a single tree. A house is not a single brick. If I was on my own, I wouldn’t have reached far. Wherever you are in life, you are there because of the help of others.”
“You’re right…” Elian could see his comrades’ faces flash before him. How long could he have lasted on Fellenyr without them? If he had slept on the streets instead of in Wendell’s barn, the wandering Myrclaw could’ve killed him.
“The same principle applies to Tribulations. Alone, I am weak… only twenty-four Tribulations. But if I help others, perhaps they’ll travel farther in their journey. My hopes and dreams and penance, I offer to them to carry in return for supporting them.”
Elian nodded, understanding the practices of these pilgrims. “Everyone here supports this… uh, Penitent Tharguras.”
“He is our Champion Penitent, blessed be his journey,” Borlen said.
“Blessed be his journey,” the rest of the pilgrims repeated.
Borlen drew signs in the air with his hands. Circles and triangles. “Penitent Tharguras has reached two hundred and seventy-eight Tribulations, presently at the third tier of the Lesser Boon of the Hundred-Armed Magistrate’s Judgment. Twenty-two more and he’ll reach the Greater Boon. In three days, he will present himself to receive his two hundred and seventy-ninth Tribulation. I invite you, brother, to witness it.”
“Three days? I’ll be in the Sabyn Mountains by then, on my way to Frothlake. That’s opposite where you’re going.”
“Unlike me, you’re still young,” said Borlen. “You have many days in front of you. Spare a few to behold a miracle.”
Should I go? Their food did smell nice.
Elian was also interested in the pilgrims’ preparation for the Tribulation. Might learn something useful since he’d essentially build himself as a tank. The days he saved from his shortcut through the mountains would cancel this little side trip.
“Okay, I’ll witness it… brother.”
----------------------------------------
It took Elian three days to realize the morbid ridiculousness of the situation—the Champion Penitents were competing for the high score in Tribulations with the penalty of death if they failed.
Sure, the Penitents had the support of their followers. And they were formidable people, from what Elian heard of them. But no one could accurately gauge how hard the next Tribulation would hit.
They might see Penitent Tharguras get obliterated later. How could people be okay with this?
“You’ve dyed your beard blue,” Elian said as Borlen emerged from his wagon.
“To support Penitent Tharguras,” Borlen said. “It shows I symbolically share his pain.”
They were at a clearing as wide as three football fields, waiting for the arrival of Penitent Tharguras. A sea of blue and gold wagons and tents surrounded a deep bowl-shaped hole in the middle about twenty feet across.
Borlen had earlier explained that Penitent Tharguras would stand in the hole for the Tribulation. The higher level of the earth around him was added protection. All sorts of constructions, both physical and ethereal, ringed the dug bowl. Towers carried enchantments and wards. Shards of magical domes were pieced together. If Elian didn’t know what was going on, he’d think they were in the middle of war.
From here, the hills where the Temples of Tribulation stood were about an hour of travel away. Elian could spot some of their gleaming domes in the distance, catching the rays of the early morning sun.
This clearing, Borlen had told him, was used for one last Tribulation test before the Champion Penitent returned to the Hundred-Armed Magistrate and presented their high score. Borlen didn’t really call it a ‘high score’, instead saying that it was the proof of unity among the devoted.
“I see people in red.” Elian nudged his head in their direction. “Those are the followers of Faridar, aren’t they?”
“Correct,” Borlen replied, contempt dripping from his voice. “Penitent Faridar stands at two hundred and seventy-eight Tribulations, equal to Penitent Tharguras. After today, our Champion Penitent will be the most accomplished bearer of the Magistrate’s Lesser Boon.
Despite all their talk of cooperation and unity, Elian found the pilgrims very competitive. Yesterday, he witnessed a scuffle when Borlen’s group met pilgrims that supported Faridar. The groups were like different denominations of a religion. Amusing that humans of Fellenyr weren’t too far away from those of Earth.
“You talk of the Lesser Boon,” Elian said, “Are there any survivors—erm, I mean, are there any Champion Penitents still around who have reached the Greater Boon?”
“Enlightened Penitents. Seven that I know of. But these seven are what we call… Stagnant.” There was disdain in the way Borlen said the last word. “The seven stay as priests at the Temples of Tribulation to share their knowledge and guide others on their journey, as they had ceased their own years ago.”
“Did they stop undergoing Tribulations because it had gotten too strong?” The burdens of Boons and Curses usually lessened when they reached a Greater status. It sounded like the Magistrate’s Boon did the opposite—the Tribulations of its Greater counterpart were even more dangerous.
“Exactly. Stagnant.” There was that tone again.
Elian held back from pointing out that Borlen also stopped his journey, and it was hypocritical of him to judge the seven priests. Though he could sort of understand where Borlen was coming from. Borlen was a mere follower. Who cared how many Tribulations he passed?
The seven priests were heroes, and could even be thought of as prophets. For someone so accomplished to give up… it would’ve been a huge blow to the morale of the pilgrims looking up to them.
“Does that mean no one is taking on Greater Tribulations nowadays?” Elian asked.
Borlen shook his head. “If we support Penitent Tharguras to the fullest, he might become the next one to be Enlightened. The journey is long. We have plenty of work to be done, brother.”