Jarel Craith watched the battle on his map screen.

  The first wave of Sicari didn’t fare well. Then the second wave deployed. One by one he watched all the names on his target list wink out. Including the most important name on the list: Redmane.

  His problems were over.

  Or were they.

  He sat in the chair which recently belonged to Mecia Porsena, staring down at the glowing map with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He kept his breathing slow. His nail tapped on the polished hardwood, possessed of an anxious volition of its own.

  Reports told him this Zone was the site of an Abyssal Well. It was possible that they escaped into Depth Zero of the Abyss. But if that were so, they wouldn’t last long. The more time they spent down there, the easier they would come apart. Body and soul. It would be difficult for such a large group to even find each other in the darkness, not to mention stay together.

  The Praetor, who had promoted himself to Provisional Governor a few minutes ago, reviewed the list of names again.

  It included the name Lar Tathvaal.

  That backstabbing degenerate.

  He knew the Dicentis would do anything to advance his station, but this was surprising. Further proof the empire moved into a period of moral decay. Lar Tathvaal was the product of a good patrician family. He’d received a fine education. He was born in a Numantian home and attended Numantian schools.

  This is what the system produced now.

  An empire of little gods serving only themselves.

  Jarel caught himself before his thoughts spiraled out. He found he had to do this often, of late. The state of Numantia troubled him, and there were no simple solutions to the problem.

  He could only solve the problems in front of him.

  No sooner did this thought cross his mind, did notifications light up the atlas of Volos. All the Zone tags that hadn’t turned blue were in a state of flux. The “Monster Type” category and associated level ranges underwent frequent and rapid changes.

  Jarel Craith had seen this happen once already. When the ‘Beastman’ type branched into ‘Mongrel’ and ‘Chimera.’

  Now it branched again.

  More ‘Mongrel’ types became ‘Chimera.’ And A few of both types branched into a third, ‘Beast Lord.’

  With a growing sense of alarm, he watched the level range of every Zone climb a second time.

  The timing was too convenient to ignore. Was Redmane responsible for these evolutions of the Blight? Did this coincide with his disappearance into the Abyss? Did it have something to do with his little adventure in the icy north?

  He didn’t know. And the absence of information invited fear into his body, like a fist closing in his guts.

  Thou hast naught to fear, Jarel Craith.

  We are with thee.

  Take up thy swords, go out into the world and slay monsters.

  Wield us. Together, we are invincible.

  Show these folk your true quality, Jarel Craith. Thou art their hero. Their champion.

  Jarel closed his eyes. He stopped tapping his nail on the desk, and his hand closed into a fist. Answering their voices would only make their pull on his mind stronger. He did his best to put aside a sudden swell of mental images — he slashed monsters into quivering chunks, Lifedrinker and Soulstealer in his hands, and when it was done he stood atop their carcasses while the smallfolk cheered.

  With an effort of will, he closed the door in his mind. It would stay closed for a time. Until the next temptation arose.

  Time enough to attend to the new slate of problems at hand.

  Another glance at the changing map told him this was a problem Sicari alone could not solve. Soon he would receive desperate calls from Gull’s Glut and Port luck, the only two Sanctuaries left belonging to legitimate Factions. They were doing their best to level up before, to keep pace with the first evolution of the Blight. This would be too much.

  Outside help was called for now.

  He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. And then he placed his first Pharos call, to Legatus Scipio Draconis of the Venturian Legions.

  His next call went to all the Imbued of the Venturian Domain of level 200 and above. Declaring a state of emergency in the world of Volos, and an open hunt on all Monsters therein. He recalled Lar Tathvaal wanting to do this when the Blight first appeared. The traitor would get his wish, too bad he wouldn’t survive to see it done.

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  The last to be notified was his own Artifex, Arnth Turan. “Drop what you’re doing and open the Astral Bridge.”

  - - - -

  Redmane examined the Castigator’s Lorica.

  It was light in his hands, simple but well crafted, and the leather felt freshly oiled despite having lived in that hidden compartment for who knew how long. It didn’t look like it would provide any real protection to its wearer, despite being fashioned to look like armor. But the ability to move without the System detecting you would be more than an equal trade under certain circumstances.

  Precisely the circumstances he faced at the moment.

  “It’s customary to say thank you when you’re given a gift, in most places,” said Lar Tathvaal.

  Redmane’s eyes shifted to the smirking Numantian. “You expect repayment, however.”

  “I am merely attempting to embark upon a mutually fruitful relationship.”

  He stared at Lar Tathvaal a few moments longer. The man was so transparent in his self interest that Redmane felt a sort of respect for him. Even so, he felt stirrings of wariness in the back of his mind.

  Sencis Karalis knew people of this sort. They had surrounded him. Dissemblers. Deceivers. They were the same across all times and worlds, anxious to avoid injury and covetous of gain. So long as you promised them what they desired, they were entirely yours. But when an opportunity for greater gain arose, out came the scales to weigh the risk versus benefit.

  Redmane would be a fool to trust Lar completely. What he could do instead was trust the man’s selfishness.

  This would be simpler to predict.

  “My thanks,” said Redmane.

  And then he ate it.

  - - - -

  When they returned from the ruins of Novium, Redmane gathered everyone near the grave of Alma to have a conference.

  “I will return to Volos first, to check on the state of things. When it’s safe I will come back to retrieve you. Until then, I ask that you shelter here and await my return.”

  “You better make it quick,” said Valtr, with a frown. “As you can see the region’s a little light on good hunting.”

  “Aye, and the crops this year left somethin to be desired,” said Vengarl.

  Redmane considered the problem.

  Perhaps he could send a spawn back through the Abyss with provisions for them.

  For a moment he considered asking Flora if she could furnish food for them in the interim, but a glance at the small, sickly tree growing from Alma’s grave suggested the answer to that question.

  So he spawned Dobrogost the Warlock, and endowed him Naturalborn of the Abyss and Castigator’s Lorica. He had little Gnosis to spare, but he gave him what he could.

  Corpus: 5000

  Gnosis: 31

  “If I don’t return, or send back provisions for a longer stay, I need you to bring them home,” he instructed.

  The old man didn’t seem to hear him at first. He was busy looking around the barren landscape with wide eyes. “By the gods, what fate is this…”

  Redmane rapped him on the shoulder. Dobrogost blinked and turned around to face him.

  “If I don’t return soon, you bring them back to Volos through this Well. Understood?”

  “Ah, yes, understood.”

  Redmane took a moment to explain to Dobrogost how his new Skills worked. Then he promised he’d either return or send word soon, excused himself from the group, and made for the Abyssal Well.

  Flora chased after him, caught his wrist, and flashed him a smile.

  “Don’t tarry, my lord,” she said, and she kissed him on the jawline.

  He smiled back. “I won’t.”

  Then he stepped up to the ledge of the Well and dove into the dark.

  To his dismay, he found he had little Gnosis left. Barely enough to call another Envoy.

  Gnosis: 6

  With luck, he could make it to Flora on the other side and replenish his stores.

  If Sicari hadn’t torched his entire domain yet.

  There was no telling how bad it would be. According to Lar Tathvaal, the new self-appointed Governor of Taracon would stop at nothing to destroy him and what he’d built.

  An Envoy of the Abyss emerged from the infinite plain of black Redmane stood upon.

  “Bring me to an Abyssal Well on Volos I haven’t been to before,” he said.

  Then the Envoy swallowed him.

  It didn’t matter where he landed. He could travel quickly.

  What mattered was his ability to see and not be seen.

  He would have to take a different approach now. Move straightaway to the sites of the three remaining Seals. Gruu burrows would also be worthwhile places to locate.

  Pietr.

  My lord?

  We make for the remaining Seals straightaway. Tell me where they are.

  Redmane could feel the swell of giddy anticipation in the priest of Kraal as if he were feeling it himself.

  Which he was, in truth. That was still a strange thought.

  All three lie to the west of Castle Redmane, my lord.

  The Seal of the Gryphon hides in the heart of Erdu Forest, to the west of the domain of the Kiszkas.

  The Seal of the Kirin dwells in the highest of high places, up among the clouds in Skyrend Peaks.

  The Seal of the Dragon can be found in the heart of the scorching Aridorn Wastes, within the ruins of an ancient city.

  Skyrend.

  Erdu Forest.

  The Aridorn Wastes.

  He would travel to the nearest one, wherever he surfaced.

  He would grow to such a size that no one could contain him again.

  He would snuff out this Numantian who dared to challenge him, to claim his own world.

  There was a sense of decompression as the Envoy released him. As before, it placed him in front of a familiar node of power, a column reaching up to the material plane. An Abyssal Well. This one would be new, if the Envoy had followed his instructions.

  He ascended.

  And when he surfaced, he found himself again surrounded by walls of black stone. Whoever had built these Abyssal Wells seemed to favor it. This one was in much better condition than the one he’d left on the world of Astia. It was a small, round structure encircling the Well itself, with no windows and a single arched doorway.

  Redmane pushed the heavy stone doors open, and when he stepped out into the world of Volos, a shocking sight was there to greet him.

  He was looking out over a lightly forested valley with the ocean beyond it. In the distance, on the coast, he saw a city which resembled the city of Novium, except this one did not lie in ruins, its splendor not yet eroded by the passage of time.

  Or the death of the world it surveyed.

  This had to be Taracon.

  But the sight of the city wasn’t what shocked him.

  Beyond the outer walls of Taracon there were soldiers. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. A massive military encampment composed of row after row of tents, training areas, staging areas for siege weaponry, summoning circles. There were ranks of Numantian Legionnaires drilling next to the encampment, an uncountable number of blue cloaks marching in perfect synchronicity.

  It gave him a chill.

  The weight of this challenge settled onto his shoulders.

  But it also kindled a fire in his belly.

  Redmane would show these fools whose world this truly was.

  PATREON