Somewhat earlier, in the Dread Lands:

  The man on the comfy pillow chair looked at Roland and smiled.

  “Greetings, Roland Webb, friend of Ghurab.”

  Roland offered a deep bow, deeper than any he’d performed at the Chapel. Although the man on the cushioned dais was retracting his aura to the point it was nearly invisible, there was a power there that he had only glimpsed during the ritual that summoned Raven – or Ghurab, as the Old Man called the bird.

  It felt like looking down from the Grand Canyon. A sense that he was in the presence of something so much greater than himself that it was hard not to feel insignificant. And this was a Shade. The living version must have been even more impressive.

  Outwardly, Rashid ad-Din Sinan looked like a man of middle stature and weathered face, his closely cropped beard tinged with gray. He wore simple white robes and a red turban. His eyes were a brown so dark as to appear black.

  Roland didn’t spot any jewelry on Rashid; even the cushions the man sat on looked simple and practical. It was an almost ostentatious display of austerity. The guy didn’t like showing off any bling, that much was clear.

  Rashid didn’t need it. His aura was blingy enough.

  The Hashashin leader didn’t receive his guests alone. Several men in simple robes stood on the edges of the reception hall, armed with nothing but short daggers. Roland could tell they were all cultivators, and of a higher rank than anybody he’d encountered.

  Without the System display helping out, he could only sense they were somewhere in the Noble Ranks, at least two notches above Yang, the a-hole Chapel instructor, who had been peak Copper. Seeing them serving as guards was a humbling experience.

  “It has been a while, old friend,” Rashid told Raven. “I see you have found a new youngster to instruct. And to lead to no end of trouble, I’m sure,” he added with a chuckle.

  “My young friend has found plenty of trouble on his own,” Raven said pleasantly. “As you can see.”

  The almost-black eyes focused on Roland and a cold sensation ran through his Dantians, Meridians, and his entire Pattern. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any pain when the coldness flowed through the broken Dantian.

  “A hateful act, to deny someone their cultivation,” Rashid said after his examination was over. “And you think I can make him whole?”

  “If you don’t, you know someone who will,” Raven said. “This is needful, my friend. Can’t you see the Bloodline he bears?”

  “I do. It is troubling, even here, in this sanctuary, away from the affairs of the living.”

  “Trouble spares no land,” Raven asserted.

  “I no longer involve myself in such matters,” Rashid said. “I abandoned the Paths of Ascension long ago. Here, I am content. I protect Petra and New Alamut. My days are spent studying the truths I forsook in life, and in seeking redemption. To ponder upon the Seven Pillars, and perhaps one day to find Tawhid, the Oneness of God.”

  The speech mostly went over Roland’s head, but he understood Rashid was a devout believer. Much like Father Takeda. The System preferred to avoid religious controversies, letting mortals work their personal salvation as they saw fit. And yet, people still found faith. He wasn’t sure what that said about humanity.

  Rashid was silent for some time before sighing and looking at Roland.

  “Once, I would have seen your potential and sought to make use of it, to shape you into a weapon against my enemies.

  “Those times are gone. My enemies are long dead. As is my world, swallowed by a Calamity. Your world will face many such events. It will need champions.”

  Roland inclined his head. He had accepted the System to protect his friends and family, but if he could do more, he would. He didn’t particularly want to be the champion Rashid suggested he become, but some jobs were too important to turn down.

  Rashid nodded. “Very well. We will see what I can do.”

  * * *

  “This is wonderful,” the slight Korean woman said with a giggle. “Something new!”

  “Something new indeed,” Rashid told her.

  Roland, lying on a metal table like some kind of morgue patient or weird science experiment, wanted to say something sarcastic, but Raven, perched right above him, gave him a warning shake of his head.

  Let the Diamond Rankers joke around, grasshopper. You wouldn’t like them when they are annoyed.

  Roland bit his tongue as the two demigods spoke about him like he was an interesting exhibit at some museum.

  “The hidden Pattern is a work of art,” the woman commented. “It must be preserved while we heal his body.”

  Her name was Baridegi and she was a neighbor and friend of Rashid, one with her own mountain manor overlooking Petra’s interior. Apparently, she was the most renowned healer of Petra, and her cultivation was the equal of Rashid’s.

  “But first, the Dantian,” she went on.

  She pointed a finger at Roland, and he felt something like an invisible beam that ran from her long nail enter his body. He imagined a laser cutting him into cubes and repressed a shudder.

  Instead, the beam sent the same coldness he had experienced during Rashid’s examination. It touched the area where the missing Dantian had once been.

  “The Bloodline is the key,” was her diagnosis.

  “Bold,” Rashid said. “Risky. But perhaps the best solution.”

  “Healing the injury is not enough,” Baridegi agreed. “He can be remade and become the Bringer of Death he was born to be.”

  “Without sacrificing his humanity, of course,” Rashid cautioned. “Otherwise, all this is for naught.”

  “Of course, my dear. A Bringer of Death who will protect all life. Such paradoxes are what gives meaning to the Universe. Even the Universe under the System.”

  “The result must be System-compliant,” the Old Man told her.

  Baridegi giggled again. “Of course! Unlike you, dearest, I do not hate the System. I merely withdrew from the Path for a little while, unlike you. I admire your commitment to your Allah without sharing it. One day, I will return to the lands of the living and Ascend.”

  Is this going somewhere? Roland wondered.

  It’s about to.

  “Very well.” Rashid turned to Roland. “We will begin by giving you a new Dantian. Unfortunately, to do so we will have to erase your Pattern in the process.”

  I expected something like this, Roland thought, fighting off a wave of depression.

  Even if he ended up getting the Pattern someone had hidden inside of him, the waste of all his hard work hit him like yet another gut punch.

  “The good news is that all your Daos and Techniques will remain at their current levels. So will your Art.”

  That was something. A lot, actually.

  “Thank you,” Roland said.

  Baridegi smiled at him. “And best of all, our procedure will ensure that any attempts at damaging your gut Dantian will fail. Fail rather spectacularly, as a matter of fact.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “That sounds great,” Roland said. Sensing that the Korean healer wanted to brag a little, he asked the question she wanted to hear. “How will that work?”

  “Well, my dear, we will transplant a Gold-ranked Core Shell to the damaged section. Not a Core – you will eventually form one yourself – but a Shell that will help us reform the Dantian within it.”

  “Okay.”

  The idea of a transplant didn’t thrill him, but if it repaired the damage, he would take it.

  “The process is expensive. You may need to find no fewer than twenty F-Grade Monster Cores to provide the raw Essence needed to fuel the ritual.”

  “Only twenty? Here, have thirty,” Roland said, sitting up and dropping his so far useless cores on the metal bed.

  “These will do,” Rashid said after a quick count. “You seem to have developed some enmity toward Vermin creatures.”

  “Yeah, sort of. It’s more that they keep attacking me. I even got a Title.”

  “Few love their kind.”

  “Before we continue, are there any side effects to having a Gold Shell core where my Dantian used to be?”

  “Next to none. Some residual memories may still linger, leading to a slight chance of experiencing flashbacks. But such events are almost always more informative than detrimental.”

  “Okay, I can live with that.”

  “Furthermore, there is a great benefit to having a Shell, beyond using it as a frame for rebuilding your Dantian. The Shell is mostly inert, but it has Gold-ranked defenses against attacks targeting the Dantian contained within it.”

  Okay, now this is sounding a lot better.

  Baridegi added to Rashid’s statement. “Anyone below Gold Rank who strikes your new Dantian will not only fail, but will suffer a fatal or near-fatal backlash. Peak Silvers might withstand the attack, but even they will not like the results, I can tell you that much.”

  Roland’s eyes widened. “Holy crap.”

  “And best of all, nobody below Gold Rank will be able to detect the Shell,” Rashid finished. “An elegant precaution to any further attempts on your cultivation, don’t you think?”

  For the first time since he’d lain on the table. Roland grinned.

  That’s a nice surprise to hold in reserve.

  * * *

  First, however, came pain and a fake life, well lived.

  “We must put you under. If you resist the procedure, there is a high likelihood of failure,” Rashid explained. “The prognosis of failure is death.”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ve been under anesthesia before.”

  “It is not as simple as inducing unconsciousness, I’m afraid. We must create a state that fully removes your awareness from your body and soul. A Dantian transplant is not only very difficult to perform, but it is an extremely intrusive procedure. We will be adding a foreign element to your core identity. When we succeed, you will subsume that element and make it yours, but until then you will instinctively fight the process with every shred of you power.”

  “So not anesthesia,” Roland cut in before the esoteric talk put him to sleep without anesthesia. “Whatever it is, shoot me with it and let’s get it done.”

  The long and the short of it was that they fed him an alchemical concoction made with some kind of super-weed and assorted lotus extracts. The powerful edible sent him on a full out-of-body vacation.

  Roland’s consciousness and maybe his soul were sent to a fantasy world that wasn’t a simple illusion, but a pocket dimension drawn from his mind.

  There, he reunited with his friends, or rather imaginary versions of them. The ‘fakes’ were solid and alive in most senses of the word. There was a brief episode where he almost woke up and nearly ruined the whole thing. But the rest of the time he lived in that reality.

  He had adventures. Saved Mandy and Elle and became Baron of Litchfield County after Uncle Gorman tried to betray him and he had to take drastic steps.

  From there, he conquered Connecticut and Rhode Island. A brutal war over New York followed before he took over Manhattan. Hundreds of thousands died during Integration, but he saved millions through a combination of strategic thinking and sheer power.

  Phase One ended with his armies preparing to confront the neighboring kingdoms.

  He lived over a year in that world, but every few nights he woke up in a cold sweat.

  Not real. None of this is real. Fortunately, he quickly dismissed his fears and went back to sleep.

  On one of those nights, he woke up to the faces of Baridegi, Rashid, and Raven leaning over him.

  Raven. He was never there and I forgot all about him.

  The months-long memories came crashing down.

  Not real.

  His nightmares had come true.

  The loss hurt him almost as badly as losing his parents.

  Fortunately, he began to forget that world almost immediately, days vanishing in seconds, months in minutes. By the time he was ready to proceed with replacing the Pattern that the procedure had erased, he barely remembered what he had done, who he had been.

  Only some vague memories stayed in his mind, but it was as if he had read about them on a wiki page rather than lived them.

  That was a mercy – until it came back to bite him in the ass, sometime later.

  * * *

  Tryxannatollassna had barely gotten back to the Threshold after her meeting with Satori when she received a System notification.

  Your Ward has left System Space. All Exemplar Guide privileges have been suspended until his death or return.

  “Wait. What?” was all Tryxanna had time to say before the windows to Earth XXI-993 closed with a sudden finality.

  “That miserable pixie turd,” she growled. “What did he do?”

  She blamed Roland for whatever had happened. Blamed the System, for not allowing her to join her ward inside Dungeons. She could have kept Roland from messing up his cultivation if she had been there.

  She blamed those accursed time differentials, which in this case had let Roland get into all kinds of trouble during the brief minutes he had been out of her sight.

  She was so upset she nearly blamed herself, but sanity reasserted itself before she could stoop so low.

  Why must Roland be such a trial? What did I do to deserve this?

  Tryxanna enjoyed politics. Almost every single Fae did; it was as much a part of their nature as the ability to work Glamours. But just as human fans of the sport of boxing rarely wished to get in the ring with a heavyweight champion, she preferred her involvement to be mainly observational.

  Partaking in Crossworld politics was a sport for B-Grades and higher players. Tryxanna, within her personal Sanctum and in her full Fae Mantle, would be ranked by the System as a mere mid-tier C-Grade. While acting as a Guide, her status was greatly diminished: early D-Grade, with heavy restrictions on any actions not related to her Contract.

  Small fish like her jumped into big ponds at their peril.

  Unfortunately, her choice in the matter had been taken from her.

  From being a simple contractor serving the System and, in a lesser capacity, the Satori Zaibatsu, she was now in the crosshairs of at least two more Factions.

  The Danse Macabre would no doubt come looking for the Exemplar who had somehow acquired their prized martial art.

  And then there was the Eye of Ptah Corporation.

  Founded by the god of the same name, with exclusive distribution rights to six Hive worlds, EPC was a force to be reckoned with. Each Hive planet held between twenty and fifty billion mostly fat and indolent humans. EPC farmed them for their Essence like so many milch cows.

  That represented enough Essence to empower tens of thousands of elites and fuel their path toward Ascension. That kind of power had to be respected.

  The question remains. Why? Why devote any attention to a second level, early Tin Exemplar, Dual-Path or not? DPs are rare but not that rare. Bloodlines are more common than DPs, but not all Bloodlines are the same.

  Since she was currently cut off from XXI-993 and had nothing better to do, she took some time to think things over. Starting with the damned corvid that had been hovering around her ward since before his induction into the System.

  Raven Spirits tended to attach themselves to agents of change or death. Dozens of the annoying scavengers were no doubt on their way to XXI-993, in search of a worthy killer to profit from.

  What Tryxanna had seen during the summoning ritual was no simple spirit, however. Great or otherwise. Even a Greater Spirit wouldn’t have made her flee in terror when she took a good look at it.

  She had downplayed the description in her reports; not lied, mind you, merely omitted some of the details and used the most dull, inoffensive language possible.

  She wanted Raven out of the way, but first she needed to know what a Divine or even Primal entity saw in Roland. And if she blabbed about it too soon, they might take Roland away from her care.

  Could my ward be a demigod? That might explain his Bloodline, but it doesn’t fit his bio. If his mother had shagged a deity, I would have found something. Primal? Far-fetched, but it would explain a lot.

  Before she could follow that line of thought, she got another call. Grumbling – getting one call in a day was already one more than she liked – and froze when she sensed the aura behind it.

  The caller was hiding their identity, but their aura resonance belonged to someone high up in one the Fae Courts.

  It could be any of them, and there were plenty of likely candidates. The Fae loved belonging to (or forming) a Court. Just off the top of her head, Tryxanna could name the Summer and Winter Courts, Seelie and Unseelie, the Sylvan Court and the Kitsune Kuge. Those were the major ones. There were dozens of lesser Courts, some little more than provincial social clubs, others ruling over entire worlds.

  Hearing from any Court was bad news.

  In theory, Tryxanna didn’t have to take the call. She owed no fealty to any Court. As a Free Commoner, no one had a claim to her time, let alone loyalty.

  She took the call, of course. Saying no to the Courts was not conducive to longevity.

  “Tryxannatollassna,” a disembodied voice said when she accepted the connection. “This call will not be recorded, for We have willed it so. Listen carefully.”

  Tryxanna didn’t say anything, but her mind was racing. The caller was either from the Unseelie Court or was pretending to be. Little clues a learned Fae would recognize pointed in that direction, such as a faint accent in the speaker’s High Fae Tongue that betrayed their world of origin. But trying to frame the Unseelie for unseemly behavior had been a tradition as old as the Unseelie Court itself. Accents could be faked.

  “We would not dare ask you to betray your Oaths,” the voice went on. “Especially those made with the System that rules us all.”

  Two lies. They would absolutely do so, and most of the rulers of the High Courts had remained outside the purview of the System.

  “Know only one thing: we are watching events in XXI-993 very closely. Two Courts have purchased some minor access to this world. Should you encounter their agents, you would do well to remember where your true loyalties lie. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Very well.”

  As the call ended, Tryxanna considered the cryptic message, wishing she could have refused the call.

  None of the Fae had bought a full Sponsorship to XXI-993, so their access would be limited to sending an F-Grade agent or two. Or, instead, raising a few local humans to Ascendant status to serve as their agents. With as many as one in four humans having at least traces of a Fae Bloodline, there would be candidates aplenty.

  Two of Roland’s party had more than traces. The Seer in particular. Her brother had a very minor Bloodline too. And the nerd everyone belittled had a shadow of a trace, but it might be enough.

  The Court – Courts – have either recruited one of them or are about to.

  She had been dragged into a dangerous game, and she knew perhaps half of its rules.

  Why do these things keep happening to me?