Nom wasn’t enjoying himself, not in the least. He was surrounded by cowards and fools, to think that his old guild – he was furious. He didn’t want to think about it, but now he had no choice.

  He wasn’t about to leave Garzha Trailfinder alone. True, she was with the Shamanic Council, but that wouldn’t be enough – not for Karn.

  Nom hadn’t completely given up on his old life, class consolidations being what they were – he still had a few old tricks up his sleeve. Most importantly, he had levels. War did that to an orc, conflict and death, gave those victorious in battle the shortest path to power.

  It’s one of the reasons he was suspicious of the System – anything that rewarded wanton destruction – couldn’t be trusted.

  He’d tried to instill that message with those two gruntlings, demonstrating the depths of his knowledge and abilities, through his skillet work – but of course, none appreciated it; they only saw a cooking instrument, and an old fool.

  The Assassin Guild was a perfect example of all that had gone wrong in the Mire. Where were the fools now? Had they forgotten their responsibilities? Did they even know them? They’d grown soft without the Monarchy.

  There had been wealth, prosperity, and growth for all in the wake of the war. And as such, people hadn’t needed to steal, there weren’t hoards of wealth to lust after, and no Monarchy to pay in coin and experience when their loot was stolen.

  Instead, the Assassins guild became spies and gossipers. Trading in secrets and information, artisan espionage they called it – muck and rot, as far as Nom was concerned.

  Assassins were meant to be force, applied directly and liberally to problems that couldn’t be dealt with any other way.

  That's what Nom had been taught, his first lesson as a gruntling – force begets force. Which is why the Assassins' guild had always been needed. They were a constant reminder to all would-be warlords – you’re not invincible, we can come for you at any time.

  It was a good lesson, and it had kept even the Monarchy in line, which is why they’d been the guild hit hardest by the war. And Nom had to admit they’d never recovered. He shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

  Two things happened at once – a burst of aura from within the Spire, and the vatagand rampage calmed, a silence falling across the treetops.

  Nom’s eyes flicked between the Spire and the distant bulk of the vatagand – its attentions clearly shifted. Nom’s pace quickened as he looked away from the wreckage of the Shadow District – the vatagand had a new target.

  The reluctant noodle cook tucked in behind a garbage bin, the plas-crete cylinder, his only refuge, as the sound of chainmail rattled from around the street corner ahead.

  Wedging between a wall and a bin, he looked up into the face of a garbage gibbon – dangling overhead, as it collected its prize. Nom offered a toothy smile, holding a finger to his lips. The gibbon shrugged, resuming its duties.

  Nom chuckled to himself. Of course, the single-minded furball was collecting; it would take an apocalypse to keep them from their task. Boots clacked on the district's decking as the group of guards scurried past – Nom grew uneasy.

  After they passed, he eased himself from hiding, creeping on the balls of his feet -- peeking around the corner, he watched as the rats scurried back into the Keepers District.

  Hurrying in their wake, Nom froze as a weight rested on his shoulders. Was this the end -- it had been a long time since anyone could sneak up on him.

  His head followed his eyes to the side, and he came face-to-face with cuteness. A garbage gibbon – and its pink, squished face offered an inquisitive look – as if to say, Is there some problem here?

  Nom sighed through his nose before focusing back on the retreating guardsman. His eyes narrowed as the aether crackled with mana – running to the edge, he looked towards the Spire.

  “No, no, no – it can’t be, the fools!” Noms' knuckles whitened as he gripped the railing – Karn the fool!

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Power, why did it always corrupt? Were the Keepers not strong enough? Did they really need more? Nom blamed Eldrin, the old fool – wherever he was, he’d left a mess, the Keepers were children with toys that could break the world.

  The Spire was the center of a lightning storm, as plasma arced across Murkspire. Guards fell to their knees – bodies bulging like overstuffed bok sacks. Nom was out of time, he sprinted across the bridge, a wok and cleaver appearing in his fists -- his bare feet padding against the decking, swift and silent.

  The garbage gibbon chittered in excitement as Nom stepped through the air to prance along the guard rope. He flipped off – landing amongst the writhing guardsmen, like a fox in the henhouse.

  Nom moved was a chef in the kitchen, his cleaver working left and right, quick and clean – no wasted movement.

  The guards toppled, their blood splattering into the mist below.

  Nom’s tag-along leaped from his shoulder, rummaging through the pockets of the fallen – gibbons never missed a chance to scavenge.

  Murkspire’s meanest noodle cook only shook their head, avoiding the blood, as they moved to the far side.

  Not bothering to wander through the maze of Keeper's barracks, Nom ran at the nearest wall. His toes gripped crevices, and he floated up the wall.

  Pulling himself up and over, he hit the rooftop running – his eyes locked on the looming Spire, he leaped buildings, a living cloak of white fluff fluttering around his neck.

  The world shook, and Nom redoubled his efforts, his cat-like balance leaving him unfazed by the quaking. “Come on, damn you, move!” Nom knew what was coming; the beast's aura was like a rising tide – it was inevitable.

  Before he could jump down into the central courtyard, Nom froze, dropping down into a crouch. His eyes moved to the empty air at the platform's edge, and his vision was blocked out, replaced by soiled armored flesh, crawling with fingers gripping the empty air. The vatagand reared back its abysmal maw.

  Nom’s eyes darted between the Spire and the worm – his decision made, he leaped – racing towards the main gate. He wasn’t alone; a sea of guardsmen, or what remained of their twisted visages, streamed toward the Spire – like miremanders in defense of their knot.

  Nom didn’t bother going around or through the enemy; he jumped from shoulder to head, plucking his way as if crossing a stream. His danger sense rang in alarm, and Nom turned to see the vatagand’s body crash into the maze of barracks like a comet.

  Diving to the ground, curling into a ball, the gibbon nestled against his stomach, as chunks of plas and debris rained all around.

  Noms' ears rang, and debris sprayed him in the face, when half a barracks fell beside him, flattening a squadron.

  Nom peeked through squinted eyes, yep, I’m still alive.

  He pushed himself up into a three-point stance, gauging the way ahead, the gibbon already rummaging through the carnage.

  Nom bolted up the courtyard steps as the vatagand struck – burying its maw into Eldrin’s greatest achievement.

  Kythan backed into the far wall, his eyes moving around the room, desperate for an escape. Alyndra continued to tear into Karn, oblivious of her surroundings, as the Keeper struggled to gain his footing in cries of rage and pain.

  Marraka flipped across the dais before launching into a flying kick – aimed directly at Alyndra’s midsection, “[Soothing Touch].” A warm glow emanated from [Mistweaver]’s paw as she impacted the berzerking bearkin, sending the pair of them skittering to a halt at Kythan’s feet.

  Golden light rippled across Alyndra’s body as her muscles went slack -- and her head smacked the stone. Krogh swept his greatsword like a pendulum, keeping the onslaught at bay.

  Karn beat his fists against his chest, a swollen mass of muscle and gore, before he stomped his foot and let out a challenging roar.

  The vatagand struck, its bulk filling the hall, and Karn vanished like a spider trapped by a cup. The great worm reared back -- leaving a crater behind, as it thrashed above and below.

  General Gorthow’s eyes narrowed, “Hold!” His bombardment wasn’t having any effect; he may as well have vollied into the void. He was using a hammer; he needed a razor.

  “Number two – what do the thopter squads have to report?” Gorthow needed information, and his HUD wasn't making sense.

  “We aren't getting any penetration from above...our scanners' readings are erroneous at best, General.

  Static momentarily crackled over the comms.

  “Visuals are… scouts are indicating a possible illusion – there's nothing but forest in all directions -- over."

  “Nothing but – What are you -- is this the end of the world then? I need answers, not nonsense – or System help me–”

  This is a global message…

  Monarchy’s child has slipped its bonds and consumed the heart of innocence.

  The titan tamer has returned.

  An outworlder walks the old path and the new.

  Conditions met…Sinking God’s Mire unlocked.

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