His nose began to itch as they walked up and down hills, the desire to scratch at it progressing from mild to manic. The sensation of seeing, feeling, hearing, smelling, and knowing everything happening around him, but having no ability to act was maddening.
A few seconds later, his hand moved up and ran his fingernails across the itch, flooding him with relief.
Finally, he thought.
“You’re welcome,” the Elven woman sang.
She sauntered two paces ahead of him, slowly navigating around bends and through empty streets, clearly in no rush. Her hips swayed with each step, and Grant’s eyes stayed locked on her lower body. Did she know he was looking? Was she exaggerating her movement to tease him?
The fire raged behind them, but the screaming had mostly stopped, leaving only the deathly silent crackle of wood and occasional crash of another falling building. It was somehow worse than the cries. Goddess be merciful, the fire seemed to have been contained, at least. Iori had wide stone streets between its districts, so at most, a blaze would be contained in one. The Airet had seemingly come to a similar conclusion about city design.
Eventually, they reached the spacious town square, where six more tall, blonde, sharp-eared Elves loitered around a water fountain. One man was taller than Roland and wore plated armor. It only took one look for Grant to know he couldn’t dig through the weakest gap with Siphoning Fang in a month. One woman held a bow as long as she was tall, two men wielded shorter blades in their hands, and the last woman wore robes, leaning on a gnarled staff, looking as bored as a child in church.
They directed their attention to Grant and his escort. Blood thundered in his head in slew of rage, helplessness, guilt, and fear. He had sneaked up on the other two Elves. Underhanded tactics and exploiting their arrogance gave him the upper hand.
The ones who stood in front of him would crush him like an insect. Could even Emperor Genus stand against them?
An Elf with a short blade raised his eyebrows, looking Grant up and down slowly. The other male Elves all had long hair, but his was cut almost down to his scalp. It made him look even more hawkish than the others, and his nose completed the image as a large, hooked beak. Grant did not find any of the Elves but the Mind Mage attractive, but he was by far the ugliest he had seen.
“Allisa, I see you have found the source of our little problem,” he said, hopping forward from one foot to his other. His face inched towards Grant’s until he could smell his sickly-sweet cologne.
“A Human? My, I never expected one of those.”
“Varireth and Naexi are dead,” she replied, coiling a waist-length braid around her finger. There was a callous coolness to her words, as though she were talking about the odds of rain. She nodded toward Grant. “Killed by him. He took Varireth in a fight of blades and sank his dagger into Naexi’s thick skull.”
Grant’s dagger materialized in his hand, and his arm raised it for the male Elf, who gave it a good, close look. He tried to jerk his hand to slice the Elf’s throat, but again, it wouldn’t move.
The Elf whistled, paying no mind to the death of his compatriots. “To kill even Varireth, the boy would not be absent skill. To slay Naexi as well? And how could a Human attain a weapon of such quality?” His eyes ran up the hilt and to the point, appraising the weapon with lust, and his hands reached forward slowly.
“Given to him by a man he knew from a city called Iori. Edem Nerelot, a Blacksmith with a Rare Class. An Epic-rank Item. Admittedly high quality for a round-ears. A benefit of the Human Store, I would assume.”
The Elf’s eyes glinted and his eyes reached forward, inches from ripping it free.
Take it, urged Grant. Take it, you ugly fool. Just like the sailor in the bath. Mr. Nerelot made this for me, and it’ll—
“It’s Bound.”
He jerked his hand back.
Fuck. Her Mind Magic would have sent Grant’s jaw past his collar if she’d let him. She knew his home city, of Mr. Nerelot, his Class, and everything about the weapon. The woman dug through deep memories seemingly at a whim, like the glossary of a book.
“A Bound weapon?” The Elf scratched at his neck. “Make him transfer its ownership to me.”
Grant cursed internally as he couldn’t Dismiss it. Siphoning Fang was one of the most powerful tools he had. It could not be lost or stolen, so with it, he was never unarmed. If they took it away, he would be helpless.
“I cannot,” she replied, waving her hand. “Bound Items can only be transferred willingly. I cannot force him to swear an Oath, I cannot force him to buy anything from the Store, and I cannot force him to give you his dagger.”
The other Elves watched on, sneering at Grant. If they were upset about the two he had killed, they were not showing it. They simply stood, their attention bouncing between Grant and Allisa, as they listened. If anything, they were disinterested with their comrades’ death.
The Mind Mage smiled. “He’s wondering why we don’t seem to care about Varireth and Naexi. Seems to think we’re cold and uncivilized.”
He tried to put a stop to his thoughts, but the more he tried not to think, the more intruded. He tried to focus on anything in his field of vision, settling on a crease in a wooden beam.
She gave a singsong laugh that sent a shiver down Grant’s spine. “He also thinks you’re ugly, Toren.”
The hawkish man scowled, and before Grant could see his hand move, he was twirling his dagger and gliding forward. “How do you think he’ll feel with a knife in his belly? Perhaps I should gut him like he gutted Varireth?”
She laughed melodically again. Grant’s body flushed with pleasure at the sound. “He’s quite infatuated with me, though. Aren’t you?” she asked, stroking under his chin. Every scratch of her nails flooded him with joy.
“Yeah, that’s just your Mind Magic.” He scoffed. “Seems kind of unfair.”
Her Mind Magic? She can control my feelings too?
Took another step forward and pressed his blade against Grant’s stomach, a soft prick at first. “So, where’d you cut them? Here?” He slowly pulled the dagger up to Grant’s face, scraping it against his neck on the way. Grant stared at the tip, which hovered inches from his eye. “Maybe here?”
Allisa pulled his knife back gently. “It’s not your decision how he dies. If you beg really nice, maybe our King will let you play with him a bit.” Her gaze landed on Grant. “Would you like that?” she asked, stroking his hair.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Grant would love that. And he would have nodded to show it if it weren’t for the fact that he physically couldn’t. He felt physically ill at the idea of Toren carving him like an apple, but if it’s what Allisa wanted—
He stopped, forcing himself to address the reality. Two halves warred within him; the first, more dominant one, would do anything to make Allisa happy, while the second, slowly dwindling one, was disgusted at his other half. The more control she took over his mind, the more it was drowned out by the first. She must have been an incredibly powerful Mind Mage to turn him into a puppet so quickly. It only made her more beautiful.
Stop.
“If you’re quite finished,” said the woman with the staff, “I would like to return to the keep. Our King will be demanding answers.” Grant could only see her out of the corner of his vision now.
“Yes, yes, let’s go,” said Allisa. Before Grant could think, he was plodding toward the drawbridge, still a stride behind her.
If the city was empty before, it was entirely deserted now. Wooden homes sat in brown lines, without a flicker of movement from any window. Horses stood in pens, watching the passersby with interest, but even they seemed quiet, fearful of the Elves’ wrath. Grant watched them sadly. He could have traded Store-bought goods for one of them, and maybe a saddle.
“So, I’m sure you’re curious what will happen,” Allisa said, still looking away. “And normally, I would not share details like this with a slave, but the entourage they sent to escort me back is full of the worst conversationalists you will ever meet. All he,” she said, pointing at Toren, “wants to discuss is blade fighting and carousing. The others aren’t much better.”
What do you want from me?
“We will be having an audience with our King, Emmyth Kelro. In normal circumstances, he would execute you for your Points, but there is a Spell you have which is not available on the Elven Store. It is one I believe he will find very useful.” Grant’s feet stopped, and she rounded him from the front, leaning in close. He felt her breath on his ear when she whispered in it. “You do want to help our King, do you not?”
I do.
She gave him a toothy smile, flashing her fangs. “Excellent!”
They continued treading toward the keep, crossing the drawbridge minutes later.
What Spell could I have that would possibly be of interest to them? Grant wondered. These Elves are among the most powerful beings I have met in this world, and the average of them may even rival Emperor Genus.
The answer evaded him no matter how much thought he gave it. He first assumed it was Perfect Invisibility, but how would they want him to use it? Perhaps to assassinate a political opponent? With some time, he could build up five applications of Curse of Fragility. He imagined even their most powerful opponent would be killed in a single strike with that many applications.
Of course, it would be a suicide mission, but he found himself not minding much. If the target were in a castle, he could easily scale the wall with his Agility, which was now 36. Beforehand, some preparation would be required, where he’d take the time to Store enough applications of his Curse to immediately stack onto the Elves’ enemy. And of course, he may be able to sneak in and complete the mission, but any opponent thirty-three Elves couldn’t deal with themselves must have enough reinforcements to capture or kill him on the spot. They’d probably torture him for information, too.
Allisa would be happy, though, and that’s all that really mattered.
“That’s nice of you to think,” she said, rewarding Grant with a toothy smile as she looked over her shoulder at him. “But you’ll have your answer soon enough, so don’t worry so much about it.”
Dammit, I’m doing it again.
Whenever his mind wandered, he found her influence intoxicating him. Every smile was like a cool gust of wind breaking the mugginess in his mind, but then when he caught himself having those thoughts, he remembered Lira’s face. Guilt and sorrow pulled him down, then, like a riptide. He had to survive this to see her again.
Allisa glanced back again. “You think about that girl a lot. She’s cute. Comely, even. But she’s not as beautiful as I am, is she?”
Grant frantically bounced his head internally. Of course not.
“Good!” Allisa paused for a second, gazing off into the distance. “You do realize that she’s dead though, right? She was put into a sacrifice group, was she not? A tragic tale!” she wailed. The other Elves exchanged a glance at the one-sided conversation.
Grant rampaged, thrashing mentally, with threats of violence and death, but it was all little more than a whimper at this point.
“Fine,” Allisa said with a roll of her eyes. “She might be alive. But I must say, sending your high-Point commoners through with your nobles, so the nobles can murder them?” She clicked her tongue. “Your accusations of barbarism among my kind are misplaced, are they not?”
The moment stretched out. She had him there.
Despite their long legs, the Elves ambled on, often taking breaks to talk. Perhaps living thousands of years made everything less urgent in their society. As they neared the keep, the stone houses increased in number until there was not a plank of wood in sight. They were cubes like the wooden ones, but seemed far sturdier and more expensive. Grant tried to take in every detail for hints of his location.
Eventually, Grant heard the drawbridge groaning as it rose behind him, cutting off his escape route. He and the seven Elves marched directly into the stone castle down a marble path lined with well-kept trees and shrubs. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see colorful tapestries hanging on the stone walls—decorations obviously set by the invaders. The hand-stitched creations of Bay’kol’s conquests he had seen in the cultists’ den were breathtaking, but they were little more than a palette of browns and grays compared to their colors. It felt wrong to call them art. They were too lifelike.
They entered an enormous hall, where a spiral staircase dominated the center. Stone-faced Airet stood along the gray walls holding halberds, looking along without breaking their forward gaze, and several more Elves lounged, speaking amongst themselves. All conversation stopped as they watched Grant and his escorts enter. Their eyes narrowed and they smiled, their long fangs fully visible, excitement obvious in their expressions, twisting Grant’s throat like a wrung washcloth.
At the top of the stairs stood two massive wooden doors, guarded by more Elves. On approach, they pressed their full weight into them, opening them to reveal a vaulted chambers.
A long crimson carpet led to a three-step dais in a deeply recessed enclave. Atop it sat a velvet-cushioned chair against the furthest back wall. The top of its back nearly scraped the ceiling, and on it sat an Elf Grant did not expect to be so young. In Iori, he would barely pass as a child, but a dazzling golden jeweled crown far too great for his head pressed his neck into his shoulders. His boyish face was fuller than most Elves’, with narrow eyes curved up in the corners, and his robes were white with a pale-blue sheen.
Grant did not get to look long. Barely beyond the entrance, he abruptly crashed to his knees, and his forehead hit the carpet with a force that seemed mean-spirited, like Allisa was trying to injure him. She would have likely succeeded if it weren’t for the thicket rug beneath his feet. His head throbbed hotly as a bruise rapidly formed in the spot.
“Allisa,” said the boy, in a bored, childish voice. “Explain why you have brought a sweating, bleeding, wretched-smelling Human into my chambers.”
Grant felt the carpet depress to his side. Allisa’s gown pooled beneath her as she fell to her knees beside him. He nearly rushed the boy at that moment himself, but forced the thought from his head as she mentally chastised him for even considering raising a hand at her King.
“King Kelro,” she began, her voice softer and higher than usual. “I bring you a gift. This repugnant Human is sweating, bleeding, and wretched smelling indeed. But he is more than he seems.”
Grant heard a yawn from the King. “Yes, yes. Tell me how so.”
“He is worth hundreds of thousands of Points. The Human has been extremely fortunate during the Campaign. He is the one who destroyed the Phylactery of the Tomb Fiend, which alone gave him 200,000.”
The King went silent. Suddenly, the Airet and other Elves cried out in pain as the air nearly froze. Demonic Regalia did nearly nothing to blunt the frost that sank into his skin like thousands of needles. It was somehow colder than being plunged deeply into the snow, and fire filled Grant’s lungs on every breath. An icicle formed in front of his eye and inched forward.
“My King, there is something else,” Allisa choked out.
The icicle stopped.
“Yes?”
“He has a Greater Cure Spell.” She fell to her hands and heaved, desperation thick in her voice. “He can Cure up to an Epic Disease.”
The cold disappeared as quickly as its onset had been, and the icicle fell to the floor, shattering and melting, its water sinking into the velvet. Grant could hear the King’s feet shuffling and his robes dragging behind.
“A Greater Cure Spell?”
“Yes, my King. Ixi could—”
“Send word to my sister’s party. They are to turn around and return her to the city within the week.”
“I already have, my King.” She paused for a moment. Grant sensed a hiccup of fear through their link briefly before she cut him off. “What shall we do with him in the meantime? The Airet conspirators are still at large, and he murdered two of ours.”
The King paused, the only sounds in the chamber his light footsteps and Allisa’s soft breaths. At the top edge of Grant’s vision, he saw the toes of two polished black boots step on the wet spot on the carpet, sinking in with a soft squelch.
“What else?” he said. “Executions.”
[Cultivation] [Progression] [Fantasy] [Action] [Anti-Hero]
Synopsis (Click to Expand)
Two paths define the world: The Arcane and the Auric. Damon walks a third: The mind.
But a unique power is not a gift. It is a curse.
“Pain is the chisel. Will is the hammer. Mind is the stone.”