ã€ŠA Force of Bladesã€‹


 Chapter 0

    -Joshua at home-

    Joshua had only purchased Limitless Futures as a concession to Brandon. He would never admit that, but in truth Life''s grassroots-only ad campaign hadn''t hooked him. However, playing games with the same friends for a long time caused him to start playing games he might otherwise have skipped. Joshua would have passed on Life but for Brandon.

    He chose the fantasy genre more than any other, it didn''t matter whether it was action, strategy, or role-playing. The world settings were always his preference. The problem he had with Life was that nothing about it stood out to him. The details were sparse, the press had been blacked out, and the devs had never made their own game before. But what was available didn¡¯t distinguish itself to him.

    Tumbling Towers, the developers of Limitless Futures, were well known for their robust AI toolsets. Other developers even used those toolsets as selling points for their own games. But developing a tool isn¡¯t the same thing as crafting a compelling and complete game. There is more to a game than just the parts, a certain necessary experiential cohesion was required to be satisfying and immersive. Lacking that cohesion, a game just wouldn''t hold his attention. The press'' skeptical commentary had all but sold Joshua that it was a glorified tech demo, but Brandon had insisted it would be an entirely new experience. Joshua doubted that very much.

    Tumbling Towers had hinted at things while carefully promising nothing. Every new game claimed to be revolutionary, yet TT blocked the press and just floated insinuations. Possibilities didn''t sell copies to a jaded market. It left the developers virtually unaccountable, and the only leverage a gamer had was their wallet.

    All of which brought him to his present state.

    A glance at the time told him he''d missed the official launch time by three hours, but that was expected. He didn¡¯t take time off for those few hours, even though Brandon had. Once it had been his habit, but now he endured some nostalgic emptiness carved out of him from continual disenchantment. Vestigial urges to take the day off and celebrate the launch still itched in the back of his mind. But he had willed himself more numb these last few launches.

    Once home, he wolfed down a rather disappointing burrito, the product of an impulse buy on the way home after work. He wasn''t anxious to login, but Brandon was surely waiting for him. He didn''t want to leave him waiting further. Yet, everything new had been done, there was no magic left for the experienced. The loss of flavor happened ever more rapidly as of late. He paused in the little kitchen, debating an undefined struggle.

    Loyalty pitted against apathy.

    Relaxing into his gaming recliner brought familiar sensations. The feel of the chair''s synthetic skin against his, how it surrendered to the shape of him, triggered a passivity in his conscious mind. Joshua loved the fade. A moment of separation from the self. Total tranquility. Inside that drift the initialized merger achieved lock as his ports synchronized to the ISR. Registering the synchronicity, the ISR roused his mind once more into sync.

    Fully conscious again, he made his way through the virtual deluge of start-up logos. In the background the system murmured boot status updates at the edges of his perception. A shaped breath formed words on the peripheral of his awareness that were heard without ears. On reaching the other side of the logo-splashes he floated in the system booter, drifting in a virtual starscape above an unknown planet. ISR¡¯s default theme.

    No new messages.

    Brandon must be deep in it if he hadn''t sent instructions on how to meet. They''d figure it out eventually, there was a bout of chaos with the start of every new game. This was nothing new. By his will he sought Limitless Futures and called it forth to load.

    Life answered with utter darkness.

    -Life loaded-

    He came into being, wholly formed but without sensation. As an awareness lacking input. Sound came first into his new nothingness, internal bodily functions pulsating for a few beats before being drowned out by the onrush of the external world. An aural wash of wind and grass gating the competing choirs of insects. In the distance a single bird stopped and started its lonely arpeggios.

    Smell and taste arrived next with a sudden pop. There was no subtlety to it, just a crashing wave of flavors. The taste of summer, full of grasses and other pollen, flooded his mouth and nose. Light poured in next as his eyes began to function. It started as a patchwork of inchoate luminosities, but the shapes and shades quickly melded into a unified field. He found himself in a rolling expanse of thigh-high grasses bespeckled with wild flowers. The mounds seemed to stretch endlessly, like swells in an open ocean.

    Ahead of him, upon the crest of an otherwise unremarkable hill, stood a single tree. It was as grand in scale as it was solitary in number. Its branches swayed and creaked with the stronger gusts of unfelt breezes, the susurration of its thick mass of green leaves apathetic to his digital birth.

    Beneath the tree, with his back to the trunk, sat a man wrapped in thin robes of neon yellow. The robes were worn tightly pulled across him and bound at the waist. The man himself appeared to be in his fifties and thin, not malnourished just slight in build.

    Lacking directive, he walked forward.

    He realized that somewhere along the walk he had started to feel. Unlike everything else so far, this change had been a subtle development. As he moved the sensations grew until everything felt uncomfortably natural. The movement seemed to cause mild irritation, though he thought it likely just unfamiliarity. Possibly chafing. He had never moved in this body before, it was as alien as the landscape.

    The place was simultaneously real and surreal.

    Once he was at the base of the tree''s mound, he called out, "Hello?" He had meant it to be a greeting but it sounded like a question. He winced. Bad habits follow you into other worlds, a truism he knew well but always hoped to evade.

    The old man nodded back and smiled, but made no other response.

    He climbed the rise until he was within a couple yards of the man. The moment he stopped moving, the old man spoke before he could repeat himself. "Hello Harding, I hope this day finds you well."

    He wondered if he had somehow missed the character creation.

    As if reading his mind, the man added, "Here you are known, where and to whom you are known, as Harding Hill. As for me, I am your intrepid host Lon Kioski. A monk of the System."

    "Intrepid?"

    Joshua had questions already, but the snarky response was as reflexive in action as it was dubious in tone.

    "You wouldn''t believe the things I''ve seen this day alone," was the man''s faintly traumatized reply. The man, Lon, stared off into the distance dramatically for several seconds, before looking back to him with a soft sigh. ¡°And yet, here I am once more, in this spot and ready to be of service.¡±

    "Are you the tutorial?"

    The monk ran a collecting hand over and down his black and silver beard, which matched his hair color though not in its thinning. "I am a tutor, tutoring is my trade," confirmed Kioski with smiling eyes.

    Before he could respond, the monk continued. "I am allowed to answer three questions about the System before my time here closes. Make your questions count, for knowledge comes easy but understanding is rare."

    The guy seemed a bit dramatic, but that fit within his expectations of a tutorial NPC. In a way, the conformity to expectation offered a comfortingly familiar disappointment.

    "How do I change my name?"

    "You don''t," answered Lon. "You have been assigned a name at birth. Just as you were in your world, and like there it falls upon you to make it mean something here."

    "That seems¡­ restrictive."

    Lon made a flourish with his hands before he held them palms up. A video began to play as though it were a physical object in space and being held up by him. Small, sparkling motes of light fell from its edges for an exaggeratedly dramatic effect.

    Within the magic display was a scene from some kind of butcher shop. The portly butcher behind the shop counter turned to the purchaser, white paper wrap in hand and said, "That''ll be three eighths, Mister Ex-Ex-Sniper God Elite Four-Twenty Ex-Ex."

    A man in line behind the customer snorted in derision which subsequently caused him to start to choke. The hologram scene ended with a closeup on the choking player''s watering eyes, before fading to black and winking out of existence.

    "That was just once, and it was just a joke," he protested defensively.

    Kioski smiled knowingly and nodded. "Also, the game uses your name as a part of its security screen. You haven''t used it elsewhere. Your name, bodies and Fate are generated only after analysis of your online profile."

    "My fate?"Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    He consciously chose to skip over the idea of his online profiles having been scanned by the game to make determinations about him. The thought was too uncomfortably invasive for him to deal with right now.

    "Are you now asking me about Fate," inquired Kioski with the same ambiguity as a flashing confirmation prompt.

    He reasoned that was fair. If questions were limited then an inquisitive mind might burn through them before realizing it. Fate, apparently a game mechanic, seemed too impactful to ignore. How could he make good long term choices with something like that hanging over him?

    "What is Fate?"

    Kioski''s delayed answer seemed contemplative instead of pre-determined, "Fate is not what you must do, but rather the direction of that which is what you are becoming. It is the ever-changing thread of your most probable outcomes. Predicative, not productive."

    Joshua was still chewing on that idea when Kioski added, "Mind you, external entities can intentionally bend that path¡­ push a little here or change a variable there." The old man shrugged as though the concept was self-evident and hardly needed uttering.

    They were silent together for a while.

    Jousha digested the implications of Fate while Kioski sought the remnants of something stuck in his teeth. If he understood it correctly they were basically altering the game around him by what he was doing. Perhaps, he considered, it was like a dynamic questing system. Instead of artificial goals and success, he wondered if it might be an effort at a more dynamic and organic version of storytelling and questing.

    "Fate seems to be a system where the game will bend rules or chance to get me to walk the path it wants," Joshua clarified his thoughts as a statement to avoid asking a question while watching Kioski''s reaction for any clues.

    The monk stared back without reaction.

    Perhaps seeking or trusting facial cues in a game was a foolish notion, but real world habits are terribly pernicious. NPCs wouldn''t respond with such tells unless programmed to do so. Just because a few other games, and TT''s own tools, had previously done that didn''t mean it was true here. Joshua sighed and caught a quirk of a smile from the monk. It irritated him as he now had to consider the possibility he was being played.

    "I have one question left?"

    Kioski smiled and stated, "That is not your third question." The old man paused, looked up and then rolled his eyes. He was seemingly distracted by something else before sighing wearily. "I have been instructed to prolong this encounter as, remarkably, your ante is still in question."

    He wittingly replied, "Uhm, ante? As in gambling?"

    Kioski curled his lower lip and looked up again. The monk oozed exasperation. Whether it was at him or whatever communication he was having though was unclear. Through the silent pause, his sense was that the question wasn''t allowed. Doubt ended when the monk finally spoke. "Not gambling, no. Ante as in bidding. They haggle for your Soul.¡± He paused, ¡°The Auction of Souls would be a worthy third question."

    Perhaps it was just him stalling, but Kioski looked him dead in the eyes and arched an expectant eyebrow. "Do you want your third question to be on the Auction of Souls," asked the monk.

    "No."

    Joshua did, in fact, want to know. He wanted to know everything. But he was not remotely sure it should be his last question. Auctioning the souls of the players during the tutorial seemed far too juicy to just ignore. And the monk had seemingly needed permission to even explain that much, suggesting it was rare or restricted information. Which made it feel like a trap.

    Information generally grants advantages, but the rarity wasn''t always indicative of usefulness. Truthfully, he was just inquisitive by nature. Most games provided in-depth documentation while these devs were artificially limiting questions. With only one question left, he needed to focus on something that would impact his actual play and not just satisfy his curiosity.

    A multitude of possible questions popped into his head, such as how combat worked, how classes were structured, and how to contact his friends. Also, while character creation seemed non-existent from the dubiously named monk¡¯s previous statements, the mechanics and requirements of leveling were still open to discovery.

    He took a moment to carefully construct his question.

    "How do stats interact with me?"

    The old man responded with a flat affect, "Automatically."

    He rolled his eyes. "I didn''t mean how to engage them, I meant¡­"

    He tried to linguistically construct a refined structure to his question. "How do they affect me?"

    The monk smiled with a disturbing display of all of his teeth. The grin was the first thing in Life that felt inhuman, or perhaps too predatorily human. If it was intentional, and not part of the classic tradition of launch-day animation errors, it hinted at unexpressed and disturbing depths to a seemingly simple tutorial character.

    Kioski stood without effort and brushed dirt and grass off his backside furiously. He looked up to him and complained, "This yellow really shows dirt, terrible color choice don¡¯t you think?"

    Attempting to endure the man''s antics, he huffed.

    Why limit questions when the answers were of limited use? Despite his irritation, he couldn''t help but notice that the monk was small. Or maybe he was big. Scale being relative he wasn''t sure which was true yet. It was off putting to realize the ambiguity of something so seemingly concrete. In this encounter the human habit of gauging one¡¯s surroundings from the scale of self was being thwarted.

    He questioned if it was by design.

    The monk turned up his stiff face and they inadvertently looked into each other''s eyes. It was oddly personal considering the eyes looking back were just art assets assigned to a data construct. But as their direct gaze held, the monk''s countenance softened. "Upon review of your clarification, the answer is dependent on what you consider to be yourself," Lon allowed. Holding out one hand he asked, "Are you the flesh on the other end of the connection?" Then extending the other hand, he continued, "Or are you the avatar before me?"

    Joshua hesitated.

    Most likely, as the tutorial, the monk meant the distinction of self to direct his question on stats. Game stats governed game characters, meaning the answer was that he was the avatar. But if it was so simple, he wondered why the two were being differentiated. The machine was hooked up to him after all, could the game have stats that related to, and affected, him and not the avatar?

    "I think I''m both?"

    Once more it had been meant to be a statement, but it still came out sounding like a question. He wasn''t overly cocky, but it irritated him that it seemed as though he was always indecisive. Kioski''s bright mirth at his response just piqued his irritation further.

    "The totality of you is not a singular entity," Kioski agreed. "The self-narrative is indeed a work of fiction. Instead, you are represented by a collection of selves bound loosely together and guided by a subroutine that uses delusion to round the jagged edges."

    He wondered if the system was truly speaking about his in-game self.

    While Joshua attempted to unpack the explanation, Kioski continued to expound as though the topic was of great personal interest, "Each self has rules, roles, and methods of exchange. And yes, each has stats but some stats, like selves, are determined whereas others are determinant."

    Joshua¡¯s eyes blinked rapidly as he continued to decompress Kioski''s exposition. His previous irritation was abandoned in the struggle to keep up.

    "Your intelligence, knowledge, focus and such is determined from who you are in your world and are not constructs within this world," explained Kioski with creeping excitement in his voice.

    Waving away imagined concerns with his hand, the monk admitted, "While there is some minor smoothing for a better interface, there is in no way a substitution of your intrinsic limitations. The stats in those instances are just a quick check for the system to use on certain occasions to speed non-critical processes. They do not serve as limiting equations."

    He suspected that the monk did not need to breathe.

    "So, you can''t be smarter in game than you are in real life?"

    ¡°Mostly correct. However, commonly, people are dumber."

    "Than me?"

    "Than themselves."

    He chuckled until he realized Kioski wasn''t joking. Nor was he being excluded. It wasn''t anything he didn''t truthfully know but the reminder was always sombering when taken seriously. He rarely acted as smart as he knew he was capable of being.

    Kioski continued in yet more animated fashion than he had yet been, "What point is there to pretending a player becomes smarter when they play an RPG? Of all the attributes the mind is the most determinant. Players bring their own strengths and weaknesses, just as they bring their own fears and neuroses. We cannot make them what they are not, only provide the structure for them to become what they will. The System just needs to know, from time to time, the general limits of their limitations."

    Joshua nodded out of habit.

    He thought he had mostly followed the monk''s argument, but he wasn''t currently in any position to make intelligent commentary. And while it was an interesting view into the Devs'' thoughts, or perhaps just this AI''s, it wasn''t furthering his immediate goal of helping his future game play.

    "What about the other layers of me?"

    "I''ll skip over the more esoteric ones," a much calmer Kioski commented after a pause, dismissing them with another wave of his bony hand. "They''re mostly there for interfacing with the various systems whose existence you have no knowledge of. The other end of the spectrum is, afterall, what you''re really asking about. The physical body."

    From his emphasis, the term "physical" seemed official.

    The old monk vaguely gestured at him, "It''s what collides with the boundaries of this world, is acted upon by forces, and limits your ability to generate force. Within it are stats that determine how much you can push, how fast you can sprint, and the results of chemicals being introduced into you."

    Outside of the multiple layers structure, it seemed a fairly normal RPG system. The lack of artificial boosts to knowledge or intelligence was more of an action game approach than that of an RPG, but he didn''t expect it to be a big deal beyond the early game. People who actually knew how to fight would definitely stand out until others learned.

    "How do I see these stats?"

    "That''s a different question, Mister Hill," Kioski answered politely before stretching. "Your question was how the System numbers affect you," Kioski replied through that all-teeth smile again.

    "Shit."

    ¡°You need to already?"

    "No... Wait. We have to do that in the game too?"

    "I''m sure you can work it out."

    He rolled his eyes.

    "That concludes your introduction. We hope you have an enjoyable time in our world. If you have further questions, find me in the game."

    "How do I find you?"

    Laughing, the monk pulled wide the sides of his robes. "I''m hard to miss." Putting his hand on the tree, he continued, "Touch the tree to exit this loader."

    And then the monk was gone.

    He looked around, checking to see if he had missed any opportunities for other interactions or loot. The world was serene, just a warm summer day without cause for concern. Safe.

    He didn''t trust it.

    Who knew what lurked in the grass. The game seemed too keen on being challenging to just have this space as an empty render. Belatedly, he realized asking if there was anything hidden here he could take with him would have been a better question than how to change his name. He picked up a couple small rocks and tossed them casually into the grass. Nothing happened, but it provided good physical feedback as he continued to acclimate to his new body. His aim was terrible, just as it was in real life.

    Realism, he realized, kind of sucked.

    "No point in delaying," he said out loud to himself and anything that might possibly be watching. He turned and with a couple steps, placed his hand on the tree.

    Everything left. Or, maybe, it was that darkness that had come again. All in a blink of the mind''s eye. A mental flinch. An intermission in the theater of consciousness. A dream like transition.

    Reality was an artificial construct and it had just dropped a few frames.

 Chapter 1

    His new reality was overwhelming. Where the tutorial had gradually resolved into being, the game just was. The ocean¡¯s breeze heavily carried the stench of salt and rot. The screeching of gulls blared in the blazing sun. Humidity and rope, algae and urine. All of it was overwhelming, and yet all of it was overwhelmed. Omnipresent was the acrid stench of bile accompanied by discordant retching surrounding him. He looked down to find the dock awash with a veritable pool of vomit.

    Sympathetic, Harding lost it himself.

    He was still puking as new players spawned next to him. Eyes watering and breathless he heard them become ill themselves. It was a vicious chain reaction fed with an unending stream of unsuspecting new victims. The vast accumulation indicated it was not a recent development.

    A man, a sailor perhaps, who was carrying a chest over one shoulder laughed at Harding as he passed him and slapped his back hard. "You''ll get used to it, kid," he chuckled.

    Harding glared, half bent over while he spit out the remnant bile, the taste of it still stubbornly burning in his nasal passages. The man made it about four strides further before he slipped in the vomit and fell flat on his back with an audible splash. The chest he had been carrying crashed to the dock and broke open. From it spilled a collection of fancy clothes into the mess, soaking it in.

    Schadenfreude in less than six seconds.

    Laughter rose from the ship behind Harding as the laid out man groaned. Another player spawned right next to Harding and was bent over instantly. The sailors laughed harder as the splatter hit Harding''s shoes.

    Launch day bugs are always fun.

    With great effort, aided by a now-empty stomach, he stood and began to walk forward. Carefully. One squishing step at a time. Spectators howled and jeered at the afflicted, but he just kept going. Harding walked down to the end of the dock and joined the edges of the gathering crowd. It was no small mercy that he had managed to not overly soil his own clothing escaping. Plenty of others found themselves wearing their misfortune. Theirs, or their neighbors. Hems of heave.

    Harding looked about and determined he was on some kind of secured pier at the end of a long port district. There was an obvious checkpoint, its metal fence rotting slowly beneath chipping paint. A group of uniformed men stood at the gate and he did not see many getting through. Beyond that gate stretched a bustling harbor full of ships, those piers full of industry.

    The crowd was gathered along a brick wall near a different gate, an archway through which held the only other obvious exit from the newbie pier. Though slowly, the sea of people visibly drained that way. A glance again at the security gate solidified that it was closed to new players. Not needing further introduction to the stomach contents of his fellow noobs, Harding joined the press. Closer inspection of the gap showed it was wide enough for the crowd, however there was a commotion causing people to loiter and clog.

    As he got closer, he saw that there were three men in uniform; blackened ring mail covered in some official livery. One held a pole from which hung a vertical banner. The banner a black field occupied by a giant, golden exclamation mark. Beneath it, a chest. Another of the men stood beside it, engaging the crowd while a third watched carefully a few steps away.

    "You look like a strapping young lad," the talkative guard judged while indicating a slight young man near him. "Your quest is to kill five pigeons in the plaza and return to Chedwick there with their heads."

    Apparently the watchful one was Chedwick.

    "Cool. Do I get a weapon," the young man asked eagerly.

    "For pigeons? Nah. Show the city your mettle. Go on now, we''ve got quite the crowd today you know," proclaimed the quest giver in unrestrained exuberance.

    The mousy guy nodded enthusiastically and hurried through the onlookers towards the crowded archway.

    "Next," cried the quest giver before searching the crowd. "You''re a handsome lass. Your quest shall be¡­" He dug around in the chest sitting at the bannerman''s feet and presented her with a very crude dress. "Put on this flower girl uniform and collect one flower of each kind from the plaza."

    "Ok" she responded automatically as she took the flowered dress. After a moment she realized she couldn''t just swap inventory slots. "Uhm, I''ll do it later¡­"

    The guards laughed.

    Harding rolled his eyes and edged past the crowd of noobs who hadn''t read online that there were no quests in the game. He passed under the archway like the rest of the press, with a shuffle instead of a stride.

    Beyond the arch was a long, regular plaza surrounded by high walls. A matching archway stood in the distance at the opposite end. The whole thing looked to him as though they''d torn down an existing warehouse and made the once-interior an open air plaza. Along the edges were a mass of low budget vendors working out of trunks, recruitment drives for player groups, and hawkers of highly suspect street food. In the middle was a large, shallow fountain around a larger-than-life statue of an imposing armored man. It appeared to be bronze, but it was hard to tell as it was almost entirely encrusted in bird shit.

    He walked up to the fountain and read the plaque.

    <blockquote>

    A gift of His Highness

    King Tressmere of Reimmes

    </blockquote>

    If this guy was that respected he wouldn''t be corroding under avian excrement.

    The eddies and currents of the impatient plaza crowd threatened to wash the unwary out the other gate. But there was opportunity here, something to experience instead of just experience to gain, and Harding didn''t want to miss out.

    Nearly everyone was young. Undoubtedly there were NPCs this age, but the game was obviously spawning new players at roughly the same age. It made it easy to tell who the players were, they all looked like a rampaging crowd of college students just discovering freedom and alcohol. Freshly drunk freshmen rowdily demanding recognition. This was their world now. Their belief was their right. None of them fit the world, but it didn''t matter because they didn''t notice.

    Of all the vendors hawking baubles and unidentifiable bits-on-sticks, what caught Harding''s attention the most was an old woman sitting at a table. Next to her was a simple sign that read, "See your FATE."

    It resonated.

    The old woman was small and gray but unbent by her advanced age. She wore a plain purple dress and was laden with a questionable buildup of wooden bead necklaces. Next to her stood a burly man, decades younger than her but still older than almost everyone else in the plaza. He bulged with muscle and scowled with chafe. His eclectic collection of cloth, leather and mail looked more an ensemble of experience rather than fashion. His beard was long and black, his hair pulled back just like his permanent scowl. Every bit of him promised easy violence.

    While Harding inherently questioned any claim at fortune telling, the presence of such a dour and dangerous looking guard lent her some credibility as did her age. But neither did as much as Kioski''s partial explanation of fate. Fate was real.

    Here. Only here. But what direction could anyone have if they had not yet done anything? The Auction of Souls, of course.

    He found himself pulled towards it in curiosity, a hook set firmly into the meat of his mind. As Harding approached he saw she was laying a field of picture cards on the table in front of an obviously new player. He was bulky, brawny and fresh off the spawn in the same type of clothes as the other new players. Not that they were all exactly the same, just close enough in quality, quantity and style to leave little doubt.

    There were five cards laid in a sideways "t" shape, three down and one to the right. No names on them, just painted images on thick stock.

    "... and your sinister is," the old woman announced dramatically, then pulled the top card from the deck in her hand and laid it out to the left making the field turn into a plus sign.

    Not a plus sign, it¡¯s a cross¡­

    The card lay upside down to the noob. On it was a painted picture of a darkened mine entrance. A mountain goat stood atop it, its white coat stark against the grays of the surrounding crag. "... The Black Mine. Beware lawlessness, for it shall cost you your potential¡­ or lead you through great pain to it."

    "You mean like getting robbed or doing the robbing," the newbie rumbled, confused.

    "You shall know. Now, good luck to you and let the next sit," she said, brushing him off verbally. It felt like the typical vagaries of a scam to Harding, but he was no less intrigued. The newbie stayed still, expecting more. But when it was clear no more answers were forthcoming and the guard started to shift on his feet, he got up and left.

    "Remember to throw a coin in the fountain," uttered a voice from behind Harding. With adroit command of language and wit, Harding turned and uttered, "Huh?"

    Always a shining beacon of eloquence.

    There was a guy behind him, well dressed in something like a fine cotton shirt and heavy woven pants. Harding had no interest in textiles, no cleverness of fashion. None of it meant anything to him. His awareness was instead focused on the knife in the man¡¯s belt and the rapier on his hip. He didn''t look new, but here he was in the starter area and he was otherwise unremarkable.

    "When you get a chance," the guy continued, then speaking lower, "take out the smallest coin you have in your purse and throw it into the fountain. It sets your bindpoint to the city fountains."

    "Sit down child," crowned the old fortune teller from the other side. Harding looked back to make sure it wasn''t him. There was a tiny female in front of him, so frail and plain that he had overlooked her in every way. Seeing that he wasn''t next he turned back to the guy behind him.

    "Uh, the docks are like a minute away¡­" Harding elucidated. The man¡¯s stare reminded Harding that the guy knew such things. Every player did.

    The crone crooned behind Harding, "Alright my dear, cut the deck¡­ no, lift up a portion and set it to the si¡­ yes, that''s right, good, good¡­"

    The guy promised, "This sets you to the city fountains system. Whichever is the closest fountain. Trust me, it''s worth it."

    "Your Claimant is¡­ the Void," the old woman proclaimed.

    "You a beta," asked Harding, trying to figure out the veracity of the guy''s knowledge.

    "We are done here," pronounced the crone. "Next!"

    "Yup," affirmed the guy. "Name''s Bart Bronson. You''re up man," he encouraged.

    "What does that mean," whispered the confused girl, still huddled in the seat. She was fidgeting when Harding turned to look, struggling physically with her own hesitation.

    "You''ve no Claimant, girl. No force invested in your Fate. You''re a blank slate. I cannot tell you more or why, go and be well." The crone flipped a bony hand at her, shooing her off. The girl slumped out of the chair, on the verge of tears, and stumbled into the crowd.

    Harding felt bad sitting down, empathy for the girl no one had picked. There was nothing to be done about it though. The crone eyed him. "My, you''re a handsome one. You should come to my temple later¡­"

    "What," Harding stammered.

    The chatter of the crowd ceased, the girl forgotten as they watched him get hit on by a geriatric witch. The crone smiled at him, showing her mostly full set of yellowed teeth, then laughed uproariously. "Sometimes, you just need to clear the air after a reading,¡± she smiled while shuffling the deck.

    Harding felt relief.

    ¡°And sometimes you need to take a chance," she whispered with a wink.

    She suddenly slapped the deck on the table. "Cut it my boy and let us see what''s in store for you."

    Harding cut the deck and watched.

    The system can do whatever it wants, the deck is just a blind.

    "And you''re claimant is¡­" she nearly yelled, dramatically playing to the crowd to attract more visitors and all but ignoring him. She didn''t even look at him. She picked up the deck and played the first card. It was a small pond with three large fish beneath the surface. "Okkor''s Three, very interesting. Good good, now who is your Suitor?"

    She flipped over the next card. It depicted a child huddled under a black blanket without any background. The card was inverted. "Death wants you boy, you better be careful. He''s a real bastard," she cackled.

    Harding saw her eyes dart over to the crowd.

    "And your Foundation¡­" she called, flipping the next card. "Ha. The Moon. Okkor''s really excited about you, no wonder Death''s pissed."

    "I don''t know what that means," Harding softly objected, unsure if he was supposed to ask questions or just sit there and nod like this made sense.

    She chuckled and sat back, stretching her back until she winced. "Death wanted you, but Okkor had deeper pockets. Maybe because of you, maybe just to irk Okkor. You were stolen from Death and Death doesn''t like to be robbed. Those boys, they''re like brothers. They''re often hand in hand, sometimes to wrestle each other and other times to conspire against the world. You''re stuck hard in the middle of a divine family rivalry," she mused, then looked up at the sky lost in thought. A smirk appeared on her creased lips after a moment and she leaned forward with the cards again.

    "Oof," cried out a thin voice from off to the side of him. He looked over and saw the pigeon-questee laying on the stone pavers, stretched out prone. Several pigeons landed a few places away cooing at him with annoyance. Harding just shook his head.

    "Your Dexter," the crone sighed, giving up on whatever contemplation she had been entertaining. She looked tired to Harding, her verve an affectation.

    If she was actually reading divine energy, it must take its toll eventually.

    Her quick draw came with an audible snap. Placing the card to the right of his column, she muttered to herself. "Hmm, odd."

    It was the same card as that big guy had, the outlaw card with the goat. "Black Mine?" he asked.

    "Look at you, such a clever boy too. But no. It''s ''Rich Earth''. ''Black Mine'' is the inverted form. Phiris'' secondary, opposing Okkor. It''s a weird play. But Ghamitor is like that, the tricky old ram, full of secrets, lies and subtext. I think he wants you to learn anti-knowledge. I''d say you''re bound for a temple tonight, just not mine sadly."

    Anti-knowledge?

    "A shame," she tutted teasingly.

    The witch continued on and played the next card. Harding watched as she played his last card, a fully armored knight atop a rearing white steed, lance held straight up. Except the card was upside down. "You''re Sinister is the Charging Templar. Honestly," she chuckled, "Ghamitor might just be insulting those two boys at this point. Remember this reading boy, this one has secrets. Or, your fate is the punchline to a joke only the Prism can hear. It should be interesting either way. Thank you for an extremely intriguing read in a day otherwise full of heedless edges destined to be swung bluntly."

    "Next," she crankily screamed, like he wasn''t and had never been there. Harding got up, making room for Bart and started to search his pockets.

    I never even checked my inventory. I''m an idiot.

    "Let''s see, oh, you know what to do," the crone was saying behind him. He found a small, palm-sized journal wrapped in leather in his right pocket and a small leather pouch in the other. Choosing the pouch, he opened it up to see a handful of strange coins.

    Harding fished out the one of the largest diameter coins he had and was about to tip the crone when a strong hand engulfed his wrist. He looked up to see that it was the guard that had a hold of him. This close to the man he noticed the blades tucked away all over the man''s body, subtle handles laying flat and ready. He could almost hear them cheering for blood. Menace.

    "You would insult her. She does the work, that is her purpose,¡± he hissed, quiet and harsh. ¡°That coin will put Mesaphia on her table and poison all the readings."

    "What about a little coin in the fountain," Harding asked, feeling a bit lost. The guard just nodded and let go of him.

    The crone''s voice rose up behind them. "Foolish boy, you can''t just try and reset Fate through a reading. You''ve made your circumstances and you must ride them! Get," shrilled the fortune teller.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Did she say ''ride'' or ''right''?

    Bart grabbed Harding by the arm as he escaped, laughing, "Shit, let''s get out of here."

    Harding held up his coin for Bart to see. "Yeah, yeah, don''t forget that," he chuckled.

    Bart went with him to the fountain and Harding threw the coin in, waiting to see if he felt something. Instead of feeling some magical effect, he heard choking and gagging. He looked over to see the pigeon-boy crouched over a dead bird, spitting out a mouth full of feathers and flesh. Presumably, lacking tools, he''d tried to bite the head off.

    Geek.

    "What is wrong with people," he asked Bart.

    "You don''t get it yet, but you will," Bart replied with a manic grin. "So will they, eventually. Everyone comes here, thinking this is just another sandbox to build up their castles and knock down each others''. They don''t see the other hand coming."

    Harding glanced again at the fountain, disappointed with the lack of affirmation of his action.

    Bart continued, "If one hand offers, the other punishes. That''s the thing that makes this place different. Punishment, not just consequence."

    Bart led Harding through the crowd, head slightly turned to yell back at him. "Most games just offer you what you want. Here you get that but you also see the child starve, the whore cry, your friend trying to push his guts back in while wailing in bloody panic. Here you gotta think about the consequences."

    "That¡­ doesn''t sound fun," Harding worried.

    "It isn''t, but it is. It''s what you need. It''s what makes this place real. You can be a dick here, but it will catch up to you and the longer it takes you to pay for it the worse it will be."

    "Yeah, I''m not sold on that," replied Harding.

    "Think what you want, your opinions will change back and forth over time. But every day you''ll think ''why am I here'' and the next day you''ll be logged in again. Except the real raging assholes. Those guys quit pretty fast. They can''t handle the truth."

    They exited through the far archway of the plaza into the active street beyond. Buildings loomed over the street, crowded. The streets crawled with life instead of the bland plaza.

    "Hmm," offered Harding, noncommittally. "So I guess I gotta find this Okra Temple, you know where that is?"

    Bart snorted. "Okkor is a god, okra is a vegetable. And I do. But we are going shopping first. You look like a noob."

    "I am a noob."

    "Not if you''re hanging out with me. And you''re hanging out with me. We are going to the bar later," Bart informed him with finality.

    "I don''t drink," Harding responded automatically, which he thought was mostly true.

    I didn''t drink, but this isn''t me.

    "Here you do. In the city, without a pure source of water, you¡¯ve got no idea what you''re drinking. Unless you want to play ''Intestinal Parasite Simulator'', you do drink," Bart laughed. He had been acting nearly manic after being run off by the crone to a level which Harding found slightly concerning.

    "Besides, it''s launch night. The most common cause of death tonight will be alcohol poisoning," Bart prophesied. "And I guarantee you at least a thousand players will earn themselves a Resistant Syphilis curse."

    "That''s¡­ lovely."

    Bart snorted again.

    "I''ve enough money for this. Nowhere near ''rich'' money mind you, but I can''t take it with me to hell and you are putting up with me. So think of it as me paying you for listening to me," Bart suggested. Harding wasn''t going to argue with being the subject of Bart''s largesse.

    "Does that make me a therapist or a whore?"

    "Don''t know," admitted Bart, "but congratulations on your first in-game career."

    They laughed and wandered the streets. The city was divided into distinct districts by gated walls. The districts didn''t seem to be themed, though each certainly each had their own feel. They walked along the main roads only, not venturing down the smaller side roads. Despite this Harding was quickly lost, guided only by Bart pulling him along. Bart bought him a reasonable set of clothes, a supremely utilitarian belt knife and a small wineskin. The most extravagant purchase though was well fitting boots.

    "Wait until these ''wizards'' try to do a campaign in their slippers," he explained. "Doesn''t matter what you can do in a lab, you''re worthless if you can''t get there and stay standing."

    After all that they settled in a corner booth of a low end bar. Harding didn''t catch the name and it was the kind of low place that didn''t even have a big sign. Or a sign at all. Or standards. Harding had real concerns.

    As the night, and rounds of ale, passed by they merrily spent it laughing at the awkwardness, depravity and rank lack of awareness of the playerbase. If all the world was a stage, tonight''s production was a low brow comedy. "It''ll all be different in a month," Bart told Harding.

    They''d both seen it before.

    They talked about the game, about what the beta was like, and pretty much everything else except their real lives. Eventually the conversation got around to what bothered Harding the most.

    "They limited my tutorial to three questions. What''s the deal with that?"

    "Beta didn''t even have a tutorial."

    "So you just started by puking on the dock?"

    "What? Nah, we just woke up in a district hospital and wandered off."

    "Then how''d you learn the mechanics?"

    Bart smiled crookedly, "Who said we did?"

    Harding voiced his doubts, "Players really don''t know what''s going on? I find that hard to believe, there''s always a couple guys doing experiments. A community of theorycrafters."

    "Some mighta figured out bits, others ¡®ve got their theories. Some of those ideas are public¡­ but most are held in secret,¡± Bart informed. That behavior puzzled Harding.

    "Because information is an advantage?¡±

    Bart nodded, ¡°So they hoard it."

    Bart attempted to wave down a tavern maid for another round. She just scowled at him and headed off to the other way. As far as Harding could tell, that was the peak of customer service for the place.

    Bart sighed, "You just do stuff."

    "And then?"

    "You get better at it? There aren''t levels. No skill points or progress bars, nothing like that."

    Bart leaned forward planting his elbows on the grimy tabletop. With the hallmark seriousness of the inebriation he declared, "Look. You go out and you¡­ you do you. Then you end up getting better at¡­ being you. Best advice there is."

    Bart belched to punctuate his enlightenment and leaned back. Harding watched as Bart¡¯s sleeves cling momentarily to the table.

    He reiterated, "Be you."

    "I get it."

    "Best leveling there is."

    "Ok."

    "Be free."

    "You''re drunk."

    "Not enough¡­"

    As the evening passed the rowdy and joyous crowd felt somehow separate from their table. They were out there and Bart and he were in their own world. Bart told stories, mostly embarrassing things other people had done. Sometimes he shared his own triumphs and follies, but every tale was outrageous. Harding just nursed his ale and listened.

    Sometime late into the evening a man and woman walked up to their table. The quality of their clothing clearly stated that they were not the tavern''s clientele. While still utilitarian, Harding suspected what they wore cost more than what the usuals here made in a year. Harding was pretty clueless about living a hard life, but their dress and confidence here made Harding want to hide in the corner. You don¡¯t look like that in a place like this without a reputation.

    "Good evening, Mister Bronson," said the nearly foppish man who pointedly ignored Harding. The woman, though, scanned over Harding first before turning to Bart. She was pretty enough, in that kind of average but comely way, dressed in an assortment of fine blue clothes beneath a dark brown leather corset with some vaguely armor-like accessories. Her stare, though, had made Harding squirm. And his unease had made her smile.

    "Hey, Ricasso. Bluejay. I was going to come see you after tonight," stammered Bart. Whatever this was about, Bart''s demeanor had changed. He was palpably afraid.

    The man smiled and nodded absently, like he expected as much. "Yes, I''m sure Mister Bronson. I''m sure. You had until today to get things arranged. The day is over. You know how the Society feels about punctuality."

    "Yeah, I know. I had it arranged but¡­" Bart paused before shaking his head slightly. His shoulders slumped, paused, then raised again. After a deep breath he affirmed, "It does not matter because it did not happen. I know. It''s on me, I accept that."

    The man continued to nod along, though didn''t appear to really be listening. He looked over at Harding and it seemed like his eyes glowed amber in the soft lantern light. "Who is your companion, Mister Bronson," the man asked with the welcoming smile of a shark.

    "Oh he''s just a new refugee, hasn''t even been here a day. Doesn''t have a clue about anything." Bart looked over at Harding. "Why don''t you run along now, go find your new life. You''ll be fine, you''ve got a head on you."

    "Uh, yeah, look at the time¡­ gotta go, see you around Bart," Harding stammered. He slid out of the booth and wandered through the common room. He didn''t know where to go, just that he shouldn''t be there. It all had the rancid taste of cowardice to him.

    Whatever Bart is caught up in though, it isn''t my business.

    He pushed through the crowd, worming more than driving, to find an escape.

    Not like I know him, and he obviously has done some bad stuff.

    Harding pushed on through the stale sweat and spilt spirits.

    If I don''t stand up to things here, then what''s the point?

    He felt off. Odd. A feeling both familiar and foreign at the same time. Suddenly, Harding understood what he had to do. He changed directions and struggled through to the bar before waving down the bartender and yelled, "Where''s the bathroom?"

    It took a few tries before the portly man, who looked entirely too much like a hippo, heard him. "No baths here, we don''t rent rooms."

    "Yeah, no. I gotta take a piss," Harding clarified.

    The man looked at him like he was an annoying child, turned away from him and went back to yelling into the backroom at an unseen employee.

    Why does an NPC reaction make me feel foolish?

    Harding walked out into the night feeling a familiar desperation. From the smell of the street, everyone else had already pissed there. Clinging to some shred of prescribed decency, and more than a slight fear he was breaking the law, Harding followed the long front of the building to the alleyway. There it was dark. Light from the street lanterns seemed to be forcibly rejected by the solidified darkness. He followed the alley in a distance, a warring tension between the desire for privacy and anxiety from the enveloping dark. The narrow alley felt closed in, the buildings'' looming height making it feel even more constricting.

    It was then that Harding discovered a horror of the age.

    No zipper''s, shit.

    Though awkward and fumbled, Harding successfully withdrew himself and began to unburden his bladder.

    A door crashed open down the alley, somewhere deeper into the darkness. Startled, he listened to it reverberating on poor hinges from the impact. Then the sound of the shuffle of people. Muffled arguments. A few grunts. A groan. A strange, wet sound. Over and over and over that strange, wet sound.

    Harding had run dry and knew he should run too, but he didn''t do what he should. Instead he crept closer to the sounds, deeper down the alley.

    "I''m sorry," coughed a quiet wet voice.

    Bart?

    "She knows, Mister Bronson, she knows."

    That Risotto guy?

    Another shuffle and another muted cry of pain. Harding crept closer and found that a back alley crossed his way. He peaked around the corner. Bart sat against the wall, more propped up than anything. There was someone crouched over him, low and compact, making short upper body movements. A gleam, weak light flashing darkly on steel.

    It''s gotta be her, right?

    Harding watched her punch the knife into Bart a few more times, demonstrating the source of the strange, wet sound. Despite himself and absent of thought, he crept quietly closer.

    Bart gurgled.

    The woman purred and leaned in close. It looked like she was kissing Bart, but the idea of that made no sense in his head. Harding wondered what kind of messed up history they had between them. She turned her head, a little light trickling from the moon above softly illuminating her blood-smeared face. Harding watched as she chewed a mouthful of something.

    There were no thoughts in his head, only fear and revulsion.

    As if she felt his reaction, she adjusted her head to focus directly on him in his dark hiding. Red eyes blinked. They weren''t glowing, they gave no light in that place and neither did they reflect. And yet he could see two solid wells of red staring at him. She kept chewing as she watched him, unconcerned.

    "Yes, quite right. Our clumsy interloper has finally arrived. I am just as surprised as you to find it to be none other than Mister Bronson''s young entertainment. Amazing how he just turns up again, isn''t it? An reportedly innocent and unknowing youth. Do you think Mister Bronson fibbed," asked Ricasso curiously from the dark.

    Harding held his hands up. "Not my problem. Have a good night," he proclaimed heroically.

    She swallowed whatever she had been chewing.

    Harding turned and began to walk away casually. As soon as he cleared the corner he dropped into a sprint. With eyes locked on the glowing outline of the alley exit, he pushed his body forward with all his might.

    He hadn''t made five strides when his feet were kicked out from under him. While still flying head first he was grabbed in midair and spun by his clothing so that he landed hard on his back. His head cracked viciously on the brick pavers and the world of inky shadows above him swam. Two red orbs peered down at him and blinked. He wasn''t sure if she was swaying like a snake or if it was the world, but he really wished she would stop moving like that.

    Harding''s ears rang and the sounds of the night were distorted. He laid gasping for the breath he had lost. He was lucky he had just emptied his bladder, but his stomach was threatening to revolt in its own fashion. Groaning, he tried to roll but found there was no give in Bluejay¡¯s pin.

    Named after a bird she was nonetheless made of iron.

    "I do agree with you," Ricasso languidly replied to nothing as he strolled towards them in the dark. "That was rude. Certainly he did not show a lady such as yourself the proper respect."

    Silence; except Harding¡¯s thundering heart.

    "Well, I''m not sure what you''d feed a pet like that," the man replied thoughtfully to a question Harding was glad he hadn''t heard.

    Her hand tightened on his mouth, thumb and finger pressing between his teeth in an attempt to force his mouth open. The world was spinning and clamoring in Harding¡¯s mind. Red eyes still blazing without light. Colored darkness full of wicked intent. She held up a blade, a funny little thing that was just a finger length of steel bound full of malice and wet with Bart.

    Against his will his mouth was forced open by the inhuman power of her dainty hand and she pressed the thin steel flat to the top of his tongue.

    "Stop," commanded a new male voice.

    Bluejay looked up and Ricasso sighed, "And yet more uncouth interlopers, this city is indeed uncivilized."

    Another new, male voice, "This is not your territory, leave rogue."

    "Neither is it yours, Deathless," spit Ricasso with heated emotion Harding had not yet heard from him. "It is no one''s, which means it is everyone''s. At least, until it is someone''s."

    "Are you starting that contest now," was the response, cold and calm by another new voice.

    Whatever the drama, Harding was currently being ignored which he appreciated. Without lowering her gaze from the newcomers, Bluejay backed down over him on all fours and came up crouching at his feet with a different knife drawn. This one was long with a solid handguard, but mostly Harding was focused on it being long. While an entirely different blade, it was no less malicious. The sight of it made him nauseous. Or, maybe, it was a concussion.

    Bluejay stood and backed up slowly until she was beside Ricasso who had his hand on the hilt of his own rapier. Freed, Harding rolled over and crawled to the edge of the narrow alley. He hazarded being caught between the two forces would be hazardous.

    Once sure Bluejay wasn''t paying attention to him, he looked at the new party. Bathed in the light of paper lanterns that some of them held up on poles stood a small crowd dressed in what he would call samurai clothing. They looked so out of place to him in this eurocentric fantasy city, but they also looked to him to be authentic. Black, pleated skirt-pants with crimson tops. Several wore white robes over it, only the edges decorated with color. Repeated on it all was a symbol of a black bound white circle with two evenly spaced horizontal black lines within.

    Whoever and whatever they were, they were at odds with Bluejay and Ricasso and had enough weight to give those two pause. A thought which brought relief and greater fear of those two simultaneously. Harding slipped along the wall towards the lantern¡¯s warm light. As he approached, a retainer shifted slightly to let him through. Moving along the edge of them, Harding estimated there to be nearly a dozen of them. They were armed differently from one another, wrapped handles and tall spears. None had drawn weapons and none wore armor.

    "Get out of here, kid," one urged him in a very American accent. "The kashira will handle them."

    Harding didn''t need more urging. He ran into the night until his body failed him and forced him to stop. Gasping for air, he found it sobering to realize how little distance he''d actually covered.

    Weakness is dangerous.

    He was safe for the moment though, relatively, despite being lost in a foreign city at night. Saved by the intervention of a rival group who were seemingly out of place and out of time with the rest of the world.

    Deus ex Machina? Whatever, never look a gift weeb in the mouth.

    All that was left to him was the temple, out there somewhere in the hostile night. There was no way he would sleep on the streets with Bluejay out there. He didn''t want to imagine there was even worse. Harding found navigation a bit more difficult than during the day. The anxiety of thinking who, or what, might be in the darkness between the streetlamps did not help. Eventually Harding made his way through the streets until he found the district gatehouse.

    The guards at the gate house were impressive. Being this close to them eliminated any doubt he had that those guys on the docks were just beta players being assholes. These guards looked like they''d seen real combat and were ready for more despite it just being an inner-city gate. They exuded danger while seeming completely relaxed. Surprisingly, Harding found that they were pretty cool about things. He was given clear enough instructions, despite the guard having a troublesomely thick accent, to a district called Tuberents.

    Why can I understand the shopkeepers perfectly, but the guards all have heavy accents?

    Following their directions led Harding to a gatehouse sporting a sign that read, "Two Brents". The guards there were just as helpful though still burdened with the same accents. Harding dutifully followed the road past the first hill and turned up the road of the second hill. The road was so steep he questioned the safety of it, especially where a cart or wagon might be concerned.

    At its peak the hill flattened out and on the left side of the street was a long wall. Walking its length was easy enough and at the gates hung cyan lanterns, as the guards had said. Somewhat sheepishly, Harding entered the open double gates to find himself on a path through moonlit gardens. Frosted lanterns hung at intervals, softly illuminating the grounds with pale blue light. Either the city''s smell had completely gone away or Harding had finally acclimated to it, the greenery the only detectable scent.

    "Greetings young man," called out a soft voice from the dark. A figure emerged from the shadow dressed in a hooded robe which was similar to Kioski''s in cut, though light blue in shade. "I see the Lord of Potential has brought you here."

    "Who?"

    Harding immediately regretted his reflexive response. The guy was obviously some kind of priest and Harding was in a temple. The priest didn''t know that Harding was here by a combination of lack of options and potentially cannibalistic murderers. And, perhaps, a bit too much to drink. Harding let him believe what he wanted, he just needed to ride out the night and find the right direction.

    "I''m Brother Raymond. Let''s get you a bath, a change and a room," the priest sympathetically suggested.

    Harding was all for that. After a half hour, he''d been allowed a short bath and given a pair of blessedly clean light brown robes. A new priest, Brother Roberts showed up after that and led him to a dark and unmanned kitchen. There he put together a wooden bowl of raw vegetables and a hefty chunk of bread. It was simple, but it was also wonderful after a day of dirt and grease. It was the first time he''d felt clean and safe in this life.

    "You''ll be in my class tomorrow," Brother Richards informed him as they walked down the dimly lit halls afterwards. "We will cover the most basic exercise of the Order."

    "When is that? How many hours from now?"

    "Early evening, before dinner," Brother Roberts informed him. "Here we are, your cell."

    Harding''s cell turned out to be a room slightly larger than a closet. There was a cot on one side and a tall, narrow cabinet beside it with what appeared to be a fold down desk top. There was no chair though. "Thank you, looks great," breathed Harding.

    "Sleep well," said the Brother and turned to go.

    "Ah, Brother Roberts, does studying here mean I''m going to be a priest," Harding tentatively inquired. He didn''t really want to be a healer or pretend to follow some hokey religion.

    "No, son. Temples are for monks. Churches are for priests. We study magic here," the monk patiently explained.

    "Wait, I''m a mage," Harding asked in surprise.

    Brother Roberts shook his head and began to close his door, smiling in genuine humor. Just before the door closed, Brother Roberts corrected him, "You are not a wizard, Harding."

 Chapter 2

    -Joshua-

    Joshua was drowning in the beigeness of his cubicle. Even the overhead lights rained down boredom and drudgery in equal measure to their diffused lumenosity. His inbox was so engorged the icon itself was swollen. Everyone was mad today, upset over things he couldn''t fix. He wasn''t responsible for it and didn''t have authority over the others which made him safe for them to vent on. He did his best to ignore it, but eventually he employed his long proven coping mechanism.

    He spun in his chair.

    After a half dozen rotations the drudgery remained. It waited; unimpressed. He resorted to rearranging the printed papers on his desk. They were just static captures of dynamic data destined to be stored in drawers and never referenced again because that was the process. They were pointless. Everything was about the process and not the result. The process was worthless.

    The weight upon him remained uneased.

    He was only allowed to follow the standardized script that dictated how his cog functioned. It had been written by people who had never done his job and whom he had never met. It was done long ago, before the software updates and changes in business. Yet it remained. He could update the process but not change the process. He didn''t understand how anyone could be fulfilled by the process. Yet there he sat.

    His vitality traded for a salary.

    When Joshua had logged off Life last night there had been several messages on his ISR account from Brandon. He hadn¡¯t read them until this morning. He had felt some guilt for getting lost in the game, but he had been exhausted when he logged. From Brandon''s messages he learned that there were no known comms in the game and the standard ISR account notifications settings were blocked in-game to prevent cheating. Only external local area emergency broadcasts were allowed for the sake of user safety. Brandon''s ISR messages also contained an apology for not contacting Joshua in order to meet up as he had been caught up in things. Brandon¡¯s failure assuaged some of his own guilt. Or maybe it was just relief at not having to explain his own failure.

    The wireless messages he got later that morning though were hilarious to him. Brandon had met a girl in game and only after a long night with her had he realized her attentions were a paid for service and not actual interest. He was now in debt to an establishment and was being required to work it off the next night or two. Their joint adventuring would have to wait unless Joshua wanted to come help. Or, if he had the coin to aid.

    Joshua passed.

    In Joshua''s estimation, Brandon was exactly the kind of guy to not realize the attention he was getting was a sales job. He had this carefree naivete that was as relaxing as it could be aggravating, but his life experiences outside of corporate accounting were woefully lacking. It was humorous to him as long as he didn¡¯t think too much about the underlying issues there. The exploitation, the sale of attention, the intentional scam. Brandon hadn''t said if it was part of the game, but after last night he wouldn''t be surprised.

    Brandon was arguably Joshua''s best friend despite them having never met. They''d played game after game together, each driven to find the perfect experience. Neither could fully articulate what that was, but both were sure they understood it. A void unfulfilled and highlighted by nostalgia of shared experiences. For some reason the experience they sought was never the current attempt and the current attempt was always worse than the last thing. They always recalled the last thing fondly after, but would agree it was fundamentally flawed. Over and over they jointly experienced a cycle of virtual death and rebirth. They were fellow adventures in hopeful discontentment.

    When the time to leave work finally came, Joshua left with all haste. The tension of the office served to propel him. He stopped to pick up dinner once more and ate immediately at home. It was just a bland dinner of what he always got, unremarkable and unhealthy. Despite his standoffish attitude towards the game, he found himself anxious to return. The first night had been crazy, but every discomfort left a burning question of its own.

    Fed and emptied, he settled back into his recliner and slipped the fade. With the ISR locked and popped he waded into the stream of the system. Slipping through the logos flow he washed out into the dark aether. Floating in the nothingness of potential he called out to Life.

    -Loader-

    Life arrived in sensory waves, its layered awareness lapping on his nascent consciousness. Nothing waited for him in those serene, grassy hills. No monk of the system loitered. No new experience welcomed. Just himself and the solitary tree on the hill bathed in warm sunlight. He stared at the tree for a few moments; watching. It made no comment. But then, neither had he.

    Why is there only this lonely land with a singular tree?

    Unable to readily solve the mystery and eager to get going, he placed his hand on the tree. The bark was rough under his hand, but the sensation was transient. The false reality bled away in a transition that was much smoother than last time.

    -Harding-

    "I heard that seventeen refugee ships came in yesterday, and yet we only have two new classes," lamented Brother Roberts to the group of students.

    He sat with six other students in the grass of a small, walled garden. He had woken in his cell and dressed. Discovering the next class time was soon, Harding had explored the temple before coming to rest with the others. And now the old monk was grousing about his lack of students.

    Harding looked around the small garden again. Brother Roberts stood sipping from a mug beneath a tree which provided much appreciated shade to the group. The mid-afternoon sun was potent and the temple robes were not that thin. Next to the monk was an off-white stool, leaning slightly on its imperfect legs. It bore an old crate made of darkly oiled wooden slats.

    "People must not be interested in the practical foundations of magic," Brother Roberts surmised over the lip of his mug.

    "Wait, a Spiritualist isn''t a Cleric," asked a fleshy blonde girl who sat with the class.

    The monk paused, lowered his mug and affected an enduring smile before answering, "It is not. This is a temple, not a church. We won''t be teaching theology beyond what the subject requires."

    "Screw this," carpped the girl, who then got up and walked out.

    The monk passively watched her go for a moment, coolly taking another sip before he asked, "Anyone else?"

    No one moved.

    "Wonderful,¡± he stated flatly. "This course will cover the basics of Spiritualism. There is no commitment, fee or worship required for this course. Today''s lesson will focus on understanding the concept of Spiritualism. After, we will get into practical ex-¡± he stopped suddenly and stared at a lean boy who was waving his raised hand. ¡°Yes?¡±

    The boy burst out in a single breath, "Why''s it called spiritualism, are we working with the dead?"

    "No. You are not working with ''the dead''. Spirit is the divine energy which exists in all things. All magic uses spirit energy subjected to Will and Authority. That which is and isn¡¯t dead is an entirely different temple¡¯s perview."

    ¡°Which?¡±

    ¡°Witches?¡±

    ¡°Which temple is for necromancers?¡±

    The monk¡¯s eye twitched, ¡°No one said anything about necromancy. And no one will, this is a temple.¡±

    The boy nodded gravely. ¡°Because necromancy is evil.¡±

    The monk scowled. ¡°No. Because it is the pursuit of wizards. All tools given by the divine are inherently neutral. The fact that those scholars could animate their own pedantry, nevermind the dead, shouldn''t be held against the blessings of the divine.¡±

    No one dared respond.

    "As I was saying, today we will end with a practical exercise. This course will not be covering history, text or theory. There is a library full of writings that you may read if you are curious, but we won''t waste your time with¡­"

    The boy had his hand up again.

    "You have another question," questioned the monk. His pasted smile wavering.

    "Yeah, so- like if this temple teaches magic then what do they teach at the wizard''s college," the boy queried.

    Brother Richards'' mouth moved mutely for a second before he voiced, "What''s your name, student?"

    "Jas- oh, er, Arnold," the boy answered as he rocked in place slightly, his body as halting in motion as his answer.

    "The Wizard''s College focuses on the expression of spirit as spellcraft. When they deign to study other aspects of that effect chain it is only in relation to that goal," the monk soured. "They spend a great deal of time on approved history, accepted theories, and established practices. They are very, very academic about it."

    He doesn''t seem to like the wizards.

    Arnold raised his hand again, a few barely covert sighs escaping from the class. Brother Richards ignored both.

    "Okkor is the perfect patron to understand the potential of the spirit body as he represents the constant of change. All Okkor''s monks are Spiritualists. By the end of the day you will have started to exercise that divine body and by the end of this course you will have learned the fundamentals necessary to manifest that gift." Brother Roberts sighed.

    "You have another question,¡± the monk stated.

    The boy had indeed raised his hand up again during the explanation and been waving it urgently since. "But isn''t a temple for worship," he asked.

    Students shifted and grumbled with irritation while Arnold remained oblivious. Brother Roberts tried a new tactic, "Does anyone know the types and purposes of sites that are dedicated to divine activity?"

    No one responded, not even Arnold.

    "Hmm, yes well, youth and all that I suppose. Can''t be helped," acknowledged the monk. He took a long draft from his mug and set it on the grass.

    He moved the crate off the stool and set it down on the grass. The man leaned against the stool morphing the motion into a practiced mount. Perched upon his miniscule ivory tower, he continued, "There are shrines, churches, temples and sanctums. A shrine is a place of functional worship, like an altar. A church is a place for the community to worship whereas a temple is a community of worshipers. And finally a sanctum is a place for a god to reside, in any form."

    "The reason this is a temple," he continued pointedly, "is that all the instructors here are dedicated to Okkor and, as service, teach an understanding of his gifts to man. Being a follower of Okkor is not required of students, nor is it of any particular advantage in the practice of Spiritualism. As a part of our dedication to Okkor we become adept in Spiritualism and subsequently teach it. Other temples teach other disciplines per the dictates of their god. At the colleges, however, the instructors are dedicated to their own passions and teach for their own profit by requiring your payment."

    Brother Richards arched his brow and waited for questions. None came. "Can anyone explain for the class what the spirit body is," he asked, returning to the so-far successful tactic of reducing questions of him through questioning by him.

    Harding looked around, but the other students stared blankly, avoiding the older monk''s searching gaze. The monk eventually gave up. "Within each living being is a collection of bodies. The physical body, the spirit body and the soul. The spirit body naturally maintains Spirit within you, absorbing and releasing the energy much like how you breathe," he explained, before taking an exaggerated breath in and out as a demonstration.

    This fit with Kioski¡¯s brief overview, though Kioski had been more focused on the physical. However, the system monk hadn''t actually listed them all. Neither had he explicitly stated that the non-physical bodies lacked stats.

    Damned monk¡­

    "This energy body can be manipulated in many ways, both similar to and different from your physical body. Through these methods it can be strengthened, taught, and used to interact with the external world." Brother Richards glanced over at the crate and light suddenly poured out, growing ever more intense before it suddenly went dark again. He continued, "This practice of manipulating the spirit body, called Spiritualism, is the primary method of communing with the manifested divine."

    No one responded. Even Arnold raised not a single question. A furious scratching next to Harding caused him to look over at the girl next to him. She had out a leather-bound journal on her knee and was rapidly transcribing the lesson.

    I''ll have to remember her.

    The monk learned forward causing the stool to lurch onto its uneven leg. Brother Richards did not flinch, his shift an intentional act of physical punctuation. "Magic," he entoned dramatically with the first genuine smile creeping into the corners of his mouth. "All things are brought into being by the divine. The ability to affect them through the use of spirit energy is known as magic. The rock in your boot is the manifested divine, the ability to extract it without removing your boot is the most welcome expression of magic."

    Nods rippled across the seated class.

    The monk shrugged casually. "Knowledge is not necessary for magic, only understanding. If you want to know more on the matter, visit the temple library. My personal suggestion on the topic is Brother Renee''s treatise called "Digesting the Truth of Being", however there is a lifetime of other suppositions to clog your mind with if you so desire."

    There is that spark of animosity again.

    ¡°The spirit body houses junction points called gates, which interconnect the other bodies to tie the bodies together. The spirit body is vital to your existence here. If it is severed from the physical body, you die.¡±

    Divine gates between bodies.

    ¡°Gates serve two primary functions,¡± he continued. ¡°As well as bridging the spirit and physical realms, they serve as the foci of the spirit energy system. It is within these gates that many house what are typically called a ¡°godseed¡±, though your Wizard''s College compatriots will call them ¡®powerballs¡¯. No one else uses that term for obvious reasons." Brother Roberts'' pausing for breath allowed Arnold''s mind to catch up and he raised his hand.

    "Yes, Arnold," Brother Roberts asked with barely suppressed exasperation.

    "Why don''t people like calling them powerballs,¡± the boy asked.

    It''s not that he asks questions, it is that the questions he asks just aren''t important.

    "Besides the fact that it is technically wrong? Because no one wants to chat about each others¡¯ balls."

    The class chuckled.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The monk further illustrated the fundamental linguistic problems created by those wizards, "How would you refer to someone who, presumably like all of you, has no godseed? The common terms to differentiate people by godseed status are ''seeded'' and ''unseeded''. What do you think the terms would be if you used ¡®balls¡¯ instead of ¡®seeds¡¯?¡± Brother Richards paused, eyebrows raised, and waited a moment. ¡°Worse yet, the new generation of wizards have started referring to wizards who lose their powerballs as cast-trated..."

    Arnold was silent though there was plenty of snickering from the others.

    "Godseed, or ¡®seeds¡¯, are not our topic today. However, we will be working with voidseeds which are closely related. Whereas divine seeds contain divine Authority and color your spirits'' manifestations, voidseeds are the vacant structure of a potential godseed. Spiritualism itself does not require any seeds, but seeds do make practicing much easier."

    Brother Richards tapped the crate with his foot lighting it up again. "Which leads us to our first practical lesson. Manipulating your spirit. For that, we''ve got this box of voidseeds."

    He picked up the wooden crate and approached the nearest student, a pleasantly plump, mocha-skinned woman who seemed a bit older than the rest of the students. From within the crate he withdrew a glasslike sphere a little larger than an orange. Holding it up for the class to see that it was clear, he explained, "A voidseed."

    Turning to the woman, the monk asked with sincere politeness, "My dear Lady, may I have your name?"

    She grinned warmly at him, "I am Sabina."

    "A pleasure. This is for your use Sabina," the monk said as he handed her the voidseed.

    He moved to the next student. "Name," he asked, a new sphere extended.

    "Randal," was the terse reply. Randal was a thick, powerfully built young man with a slightly ruddy complexion and an unruly mop of brown hair. Randal reached forward and took the sphere before Brother Richard could press it into his hands.

    The monk continued distributing the spheres. To Harding, to the athletic and note-taking looking female next to him named "Alina", to the overweight and sable haired "Ed", and finally to the notorious Arnold.

    Brother Richard walked back to his original place under the tree and set the crate onto the stool. The monk explained, "The following exercise could be done with a godseed, but they have a market value about the same as my entire life''s work. These voidseeds are considerably less valuable, however we cannot afford to give them out. Please do not take them out of the temple and turn them in when the course is completed. Does everyone understand?"

    The class understood or at least didn''t want to admit otherwise.

    "Hold your voidseed in your hands near your heart," he instructed. "Contact with skin isn''t necessary, just proximity. Now breathe in and out, deep and slow. Imagine your body growing bigger as you inhale, and then as you exhale that you are bringing everything back together. Do not have expectations. Do not judge your results. Just allow yourself to expand and contract and bring your hands to your chest as you absorb everything."

    Harding closed his eyes and followed the instructions. The voidseed pressed hard to his chest, its round surface ungiving against his sternum. He focused on his breathing, slowly pulling the object against himself.

    He pressed his thoughts outward.

    Almost immediately a brightness burned through his eyelids. Harding opened his eyes, excited by his immediate success. Instead, he found that it was not his, but Sabina''s, seed burning away the shade under the tree.

    "Breathe Sabina, breathe. Don''t forget to keep breathing," warned Brother Richards. ¡°Relax, you have not changed, only your perception of what is part of you has been altered. All is as it already was.¡± The rest of the class spent a minute watching Sabina bring her seed under control. It dimmed from its overwhelming blaze to a warm brilliance as she learned to relax her anxious control.

    "Very good, Sabina," Brother Richards affirmed. "Now cease completely and start over. Your goal is to be able to initiate flow without a pause, but that normally takes months of practice. Have patience, all of you. This is not a sprint."

    It was a while before any other student''s voidseed lit up. This time it was Arnold who had succeeded. His seed was dim and flickering, the opposite of Sabina¡¯s advancement, but he had managed a response sooner than the rest.

    "That¡¯s good, Arnold. Release your worry. Neither entertain doubt nor exert force," the monk reassured with a calm voice. "Smooth and steady. Act without effort, Spirit resists command but delights in collaboration."

    "At the College, they''d have you put your finger to it and have you imagine pushing your demanding finger into it. Their average time to initial success is measured in weeks," snarked the monk. "Relax your belief in the boundary of your selves. You do not end at your skin, allow yourself to flow outward."

    Harding stopped pushing the glassy sphere against himself and just held it there instead.

    Try to¡­ not try.

    "Exit yourself to find yourself. The voidseed is already part of you, it will not resist you. Eventually you will be able to push, but if you don''t learn to let go first you''re essentially just creating spiritual constipation.¡±

    Harding choked at the comment and his voidseed lit up for a brief moment. He failed to get another response after, but Randal got his to light up about five minutes later. It was nearly another half-hour for Ed¡¯s steady success. He may not have been first, but his control and flow after was the greatest.

    Shortly after that, Sabina began shrieking in panic. She kept repeatedly screaming, "Get it out!"

    Brother Roberts rushed to her, mug discarded, and put a hand on her shaking shoulder. He placed his other hand gently to her chest, then slowly drew it straight back. Attached to his hand was the voidseed, lifting impossibly from out of Sabina¡¯s chest. He smoothly extracted the sphere and it hung secured to his fingertips as if glued.

    "You''re ok dear, you''re ok," he consoled.

    "That was¡­ it felt- ugh."

    "They all feel a bit strange at first, but the voidseeds have a uniquely empty sensation."

    "Will I be¡­ ?"

    Holding up the voidseed, Brother Richards put it to his forehead and sunk it smoothly into his skull.

    Harding shivered at the wrongness of the scene.

    "It is the normal function of all seeds," the monk explained calmly before extracting it again. "To be planted, buried in the fertile soil of the spirit body, in order to grow and manifest their potential."

    I don''t care, that looks wrong. Where does his brain go?

    The monk put it to his head and pushed it in again before pulling it out. The hard body of the seed pushing through the space of his flesh as if it wasn''t there. It was like an optical illusion with no actual collision. Two objects sharing the same space without complaint. A suspension of the expected rules regarding physical boundaries.

    "Sabina, you did not do anything wrong. In fact you skipped ahead of the class by several lessons," he comforted, hand softly on her shoulder. He handed back to her the voidseed.

    Sabina smiled, her hesitance buried under the weight of his praise.

    "Perhaps now is a good time to end class," he announced as she took it back. With the class ending it left both Harding and Alina as the only ones who couldn''t light up their voidseeds. "You two stay behind for a moment. The rest of you, I''ll see you tomorrow. Keep practicing when you have time, you will want to be able to do this without thought."

    Alina and Harding waited on the grass as the other students got up and walked back to the temple. Harding felt like a failure. His future as a Spiritualist already in doubt.

    If this is the most basic magic, I''m going to end up a fighter.

    "Don''t feel as if you have failed," counseled the monk. "Go have some fun, get some food, relax. The problem isn''t that you can''t, but rather that you aren''t letting yourself. Some of us grasp on tightly to our erroneous belief of self, others simply fail to construct the self at all. That brittle need for control is inhibiting too many things, but the presence of an obstacle does not in any way dictate lack of potential."

    Alina was silent, her pale eyes burning coldly. Harding smiled weakly, "Did it take you long to learn?"

    Brother Roberts chuckled as he leaned back against the tree. He was much more relaxed with class over, almost carefree. "Took me a week and even then I didn''t do it until I gave up. Went out and got piss-drunk. Damn near blinded myself with it while I was puking my guts out. Mind you, I would not suggest that method but it worked out ok in the end. "

    It can be done.

    Harding felt something brush against and through him, a rush of coolness, a slight but deep chill. A presence in his periphery. The tree the monk was leaning against suddenly lit up as if it was a voidseed. Light emanated throughout all of its bark and leaves, solidly glowing. Alina''s voidseed, along with his own, lit up in a seemingly sympathetic response a moment later. And then after a few seconds the lights winked out again with no perceivable cause.

    "Hmm, odd," Brother Richards muttered. He took a moment before returning his attention to his students just to dismiss them with instructions, "Go get some food and have fun. Practice later, but not until you have relaxed."

    Alina and Harding silently walked back to the temple in tandem. Alina did not acknowledge Harding, but she followed him. After a wrong turn led to backtracking, they found themselves in the dining hall. Supper was a simple beef stew with bread, which they gathered from a self-service and sat with their classmates.

    "We are going to go explore the city," Sabina told them. "You are coming along, aren''t you?"

    "Yeah, sure," Harding agreed, Sabina¡¯s tone having made it clear that there was but one acceptable answer. Though his words had been distorted with the bread he was still chewing, Sabrina looked satisfied that he had spoken for Alina as well. The food was not unpleasant, but it was relatively bland.

    The group swapped stories from their launch day experiences while they finished with their food. Afterwards, they walked out of the temple gates and turned south at the base of the hill. They found a cluster of shops there, still in the Two Brents district, which seemed to be of decent quality. From those shops Sabina bought a colorful dress in variegated yellows and a romance novel. When Sabina explained that she''d heard books were essentially interactive movies, mini games, or training guides, Randal bought three on "Combat". Harding wished him all the luck.

    Those seem like action novels, not training manuals.

    Alina bought a dagger that looked to be far more money than what Harding knew new players received. Its lines were clean and the craftsmanship apparent. Arnold bought a bag of assorted hard candies which he shared eagerly with the rest of them. Only Ed and Harding didn''t buy anything.

    I still need to figure out the monetary system.

    The group was laid back outside of class and were already bonding, even Arnold. He was far less annoying when he wasn''t overthinking and anxious. Only Alina was impersonal, but despite being outwardly reserved she followed the group intently. After a couple of hours and a handful of candies, the band of classmates found themselves back at the temple.

    Once back, their group began to disband.

    "I gotta log,¡± was Randal''s excuse.

    Sabina sent him off with, "See you tomorrow, don''t miss class." Then with a guilty smile Sabina announced, "I''m going to try this book, see y''all at the next class."

    It wasn''t until after those two were gone that Ed asked, "Uhm, how do we do friend requests?"

    "There isn''t any. Weird right? It''s intentional though," answered Arnold. "We can form a party though, and supposedly you stay in it even if you''re logged off. It won''t let you see who is on though and you don''t get any comms," Arnold added.

    "How do we do that," asked an interested Ed.

    "Super easy really. Get out your journals." Arnold waited until everyone had, even the reluctant Alina. "I go to the Social page tab, then select "form party" and it creates it. Then you guys don''t have to do anything but bump your journal against mine and then accept it on your alerts page."

    They all did so.

    "In your Society page you''ll now see that you''re in the group ¡®Classmates¡¯."

    This seemed too basic to Harding. He asked Arnold, "What does a group even do if we can''t chat or see anything about each other?"

    Harding flipped through the tabbed sections again with a more critical eye while Arnold answered slowly, "Uhm, supposedly the group can bind to an alternate group location without changing your individual bind. But- I don''t know how, they didn''t have instructions on the page I found. So I guess it is something we just have to play with?"

    Alerts, Calendar, Social, and Notes. And four blank tabs of nothing.

    "Oh,¡± he added, ¡°and it said we share some sort of xp but my tutorial guy said there wasn''t really xp so I don''t know what they mean by that." Arnold punctuated it with an exaggerated shrug.

    Flipping back through this journal, Harding stared again at the blank tabs that shortcut to nothing before asking, "Is this expandable?"

    "Yeah," confirmed Ed. "You can buy them at stores, we saw a few different ones in town tonight. Saw different maps and¡­ a ledger, I think?"

    Harding wrote down in his Journal Notes:

    Ask about Groups.

    Find Journal expansions.

    Tired, Harding politely excused himself, "Cool. Well, I need to go practice. See you tomorrow."

    And with that Harding went back to his cell. He undressed down to his undershorts, putting everything away carefully so that it would be ready for tomorrow. Then he laid down on the cot, clutching the voidseed in his hands and rested it on his chest. He relaxed and let himself breathe into it.

    Breathe through it.

    He adjusted.

    Inhale.

    He adjusted his attempt again.

    He had meant to practice this for a bit and then log off yet his mind wandered with thoughts of the day. He refused to let this early difficulty alter his course. He didn''t like quitting. The distaste of being beaten was greater than the desire to be a monk of whatever class-style this led to. As he kept trying unsuccessfully, time blurred away and with it so did his consciousness.

    He slowly realized that he was standing in the loader world of grass. It was dark, as if it was night, yet he could still see fairly well. Clouds he shouldn''t be able to see roiled in the black, moonless sky. Everything else was muted and hazy though, as if vision rapidly diminished over distance. A short ways off, a white horse had its head down eating grass. It was the first animal he had seen in this place. He had heard birds and insects, but not seen them. The air was so bitterly cold his skin felt brittle.

    A glance down revealed that he stood there in just his undershorts.

    He looked back up to the horse to find it watching him passively as it chewed. It took him a moment to realize that a strip of dead animal and white fur hung bloody from the side of its mouth. He could see now that the pale horse had been feeding not from the grass but a small mound of dead rabbits, all of them torn apart and their entails spilled out.

    [YOU WILL DIE.]

    "You better run, kid," called a familiar voice.

    He looked up to see Lon hanging upside from the tree, suspended by rope from a single ankle. "You''ve always got to pay the price, but I think he wants to make you his," Lon laughed, his voice edging on maniacal.

    He turned and ran.

    He could hear the thunder of hooves behind him as the horse gave chase. He ran harder. Up and down the hills. Panting. The thud of the hooves closing. The house snorting. Closer and closer and yet never quite catching him.

    I need shelter.

    And as suddenly as the thought surfaced he was standing in a river with no shores in sight. The water was slow moving and only up to his waist. A thick fog rested upon the surface.

    I escaped!

    The water rippled and a giant koi the size of a fishing boat surfaced. Its head out of the water, a single black eye larger than his head stared at him. The immense barbels jiggled as the fish moved its lips, the audible speech delayed a second behind the movement, clearly out of sync. "Horses can swim," it told him matter of factly.

    From behind him was a loud snort. He twisted his torso slowly to look behind himself. His vision was filled with bloody horse teeth. A snort blew the stench of raw meat into his face. From inside the horse''s mouth came a blinding white light, a growing funnel of light so intense the heat of it evaporated the water off his skin. The horse reared up and struck him in the chest with a hoof.

    He was knocked backwards into the turbid water. He instinctively gasped for breath, but only filled his lungs with water. Chest caved in and drowning, he slowly sank into the river as the silty water glowed white.

    He stared up at the unobtainable surface less than a foot away from his outstretched fingers.

    And died.

    He gasped awake. He was reclined in his chair, the ISR powered off just like his apartment lights.

    The system must have powered itself down¡­

    Reality popped.

    Harding awoke with a start on his cot.

    I''m still in the game? But that was my apartment. What¡­ Shit!

    He was back in the world and it was full of pain. Disorientating brightness stung his eyes and the scent of burning flesh filled his nose. His chest hurt where he had been kicked with a terrible pain. It felt like a branding iron was being forced against his chest.

    The light in the room was coming from his chest¡­ no, it was coming from the blazing voidseed sitting on his chest as it seared through his skin.

    Harding reached up to knock it off, but the moment his fingers touched it the thing exploded. The thick glass, shattered into jagged pieces, tore into his chest and face. Between the explosion and the glass, it opened him up. He tried to scream but he couldn''t. He tried to move but his body wouldn''t. Once blinded by the light, the sudden darkness was absolute. He was in complete darkness, eyes blinded by the change in light. Overwhelmed by the pain and nausea, he was unable to call for help. He felt himself suffocating. He felt the thick rivlets of blood pumping down over his skin.

    Reality burned with a terrible wrath.

    System: Force Exit

    -Joshua-

    Joshua found himself back at the Infinity System home screen. There were messages and alerts, but he ignored them.

    What the fuck kind of game is that?

    Desynced, he roused himself in the recliner. The lights were on but dim, as they were programmed to be when he was using the ISR. It was almost three am. He stumbled, feeling shaky and exhausted, through the mess of his apartment turning off the lights as he went. After taking a much needed piss he fell into bed, still subject to the faint psychosomatic echo of pain from Life.

    That night, Joshua dreamed only once. It was just the typical work-based anxiety dream. There was nothing unusual about dreaming of the very same cubicle that haunted his waking hours, it was a familiar hell. The dream was unremarkable in all aspects except one. Everyone, including him, had been wearing white rabbit suits.

 Chapter 3

    -Joshua-

    Work passed without incident. The backlog from yesterday was daunting, but the work itself went smoothly. The process was still oppressively dull but at least people were marginally happier today. One even apologized for their comments yesterday, almost as if he realized Joshua was an actual human being.

    Maybe.

    Earlier that morning he had messaged Brandon about the outcome of the night before. Brandon didn''t reply until the late afternoon. He said he now had debt and a record, on top of being ordered to perform community service. Which was, as far as Joshua could tell, the closest thing to a quest discovered so far.

    Joshua''s initial thoughts that morning was that he was done with Life. The game might be smooth and realistic, but the world was messed up. He had played for two days and hadn''t had any combat or other typical gameplay.

    His encounter with Bluejay was part of the problem. As was whatever that dreamlike sequence that he had experienced was, which had somehow included his actual apartment. Most of the game seemed great, if a little too slow, but the stuff on the edges was too weird and too painful.

    During lunch he read what he could of other people''s Life experiences. None of them were anything like his, but all of them were just as diverse from each other. Most of the people who had died respawned in the city, but a few said they ended up somewhere else. Something to remember. Joshua fully expected to be dead when he logged back in, but he wanted to see what happened. He wanted answers and once he got them he could log off. At least until he could play with Brandon.

    -Harding-

    Harding woke with a throbbing headache. He winced as any but the shallowest of breaths caused pain. A stinging ache hung persistently from his abdomen to his face. He was lying in a bed in some kind of infirmary, everything white sheets and white hanging screens. The floors though, dark in the sparse lamplight, were stained over time by things much more fluid than time. Light rain pattered on the roof.

    At the far end of the room sat a desk. The man behind it was backlit through a small window by the gray light of the stormy afternoon. Clean shaven and hair cut to stubble, his face showed the birth of his loss of youth. Entirely focused on reading a thick book, the man did not notice Harding¡¯s return to consciousness. Nausea suddenly pressed Harding, like an ocean pushing through a crumbling dam.

    He groaned.

    The man looked up from his book and smiled as he set it on the desk. Standing, he revealed himself dressed in a white apron over a white shirt. "Hello, there. How are you feeling?"

    "Lye shea," was the sound Harding made, but not the one he had intended.

    The man started opening drawers and pulling things out from one of the many cabinets that lined the room, "Ah, yes, here we are¡­"

    He poured something into a small cup and came to sit beside Harding''s bed. Setting the cup and what appeared to be pressed powder tablets on the small table beside the bed, the man helped him sit up.

    The nausea intensified.

    "Take these, they will help with the pain and nausea," the man suggested with an offered hand.

    Harding complied.

    While he did so, the man introduced himself, "I am Doctor Madison. You are probably wondering how you got here."

    Not really.

    "Late last night the Brothers brought you. You were in bad shape.¡± The doctor took Harding¡¯s wrist and continued, "You had shards of godglass in you that needed extracting and plenty to sew up."

    Harding just watched.

    The doctor grunted softly as he released Harding''s wrist, then spoke. "You needed to be monitored for the night, but you stayed with us. You should avoid strenuous work for awhile just to be safe. There are medicines to speed that up, but¡­ they''re more expensive than what the clinic can afford."

    Realism sucks again.

    "I did my best to minimize the scarring but you were cut up pretty badly. It should not be too disfiguring once the tissue settles," he comforted.

    Disfigured? I didn''t respawn? I''m still here when I''m offline?

    Harding opened his mouth to speak and winced again. This involuntary reaction to the pain resulted in a chain reaction of igniting a band of agony down to his chest.

    Doctor Madison patted his arm, "You''ll have some soreness for a while."

    Some soreness?

    Speaking slowly and trying to minimize facial movements, Harding tenderly asked, "How bad was it?"

    "Hmm, even with the Brother''s initial magical intervention and my chirurgery, you were close to dying." The doctor leaned over and added in humor, "The secret to staying alive is to not hug a magical grenade against your heart."

    Harding scowled and regretted it.

    They stopped me from respawning and now I have to suffer for it.

    Harding gingerly plodded his way through another question, "Do I just lay here?"

    The doctor leaned back and pointed at a couple books on the bedside table. "A Brother left those for you. You should expect some drowsiness and possibly dizziness as well. If you need anything, call out."

    "Thanks."

    With the doctor back at his desk, Harding gingerly reached for the books. He quickly discovered that anything involving chest or head movement came with notable pain.

    Real pain. And way more than most games.

    With careful movements he tested his limits and retrieved the books. The first was written by someone named M. DeViciddi and titled The Threefold Being. The second was by a wizard named Gerald Jass, GWz., called Powerball Matrix, Volume II. Only the real threat of pain stopped him from laughing at the title.

    Exactly the stuff Brother Roberts hates.

    The Threefold Being turned out to be a small cartoon in a really old, heavy-lined pen and ink style. The author was more animator than wordsmith, the book watchable instead of readable. The animation was a funny little man and his faithful dog walking through the forest. The man marched with exaggerated confidence, while the dog kept low and sniffed the ground comically. The scene suddenly froze and the man stretched across the paper surface like an accordion, leaving multiple images of himself in different colors hanging in the air behind him.

    Harding waited, but nothing happened. In exploration, he touched the first body and it rotated to face him directly as an outline with text beside it describing its functioning. He scrolled through all of the bodies.

    It was the same information as Brother Roberts had given, but with a few variations and more detail. Each body had gates, not just the spirit body, but they passed through at least two bodies. Each was also marked with symbols and terms that were not further explained. Also, the physical body was labeled as the somatic body and there were grayed out bodies between the three, suggesting some kind of transitory or intermixed space but without names or descriptions.

    Kioski had seemed to imply there was more to the bodies. Esoteric systems was his term.

    Harding was about done with the short book, but his experimentation of touching other spots revealed more data. The man''s dog split into three bodies with the same structure as the man, though with fewer gates. He found that the trees expanded into spirit and somatic bodies, lacking souls.

    With nothing else on the screen responding, Harding tapped the edge to see if it would advance but there was no response. He tried the other edges to no avail. He then put the side of his hand against the edge and pulled back on the corner as if he was turning the page and the animation started up again.

    The characters clomped into a clearing where a monster swooped down. It was humanoid with the head of a hyena and giant feathered wings. It ripped the man apart in graphic fashion, peeling flesh from bone with long fingers. The dog attempted to flee and the monster shot a stream of fluid from its mouth which grotesquely melted the dog. From the man and dog arose animated soul and spirit bodies, linked together, which floated away. Their somatic bodies bubbled and decayed into putrid pools of waste.

    The book didn''t respond when Harding repeated the page-turn command that had worked in the last scene. Harding closed the small book and set it aside.

    Almost the same, I''ll have to ask about the gates in the other bodies. Also, death seems to be of the somatic body only.

    He opened the next book to find a note scrawled with looping handwriting in black ink which read:

    Harding,

    This guy is a drunken lout. The only thing thicker than his prose is his skull. His presentations are considered torture to even the most hardened academic. This particular paper itself cures insomnia. However, he''s comprehensive to a fault and unexpectedly generates real questions. Read at your own risk.

    -Brother Roberts

    Harding smiled.

    After attempting the synopsis, Harding''s head hurt worse and the exhaustion had become omnipresent. He closed the book, this time being an actual book that consisted of rambling technical jargon interrupted with graphs and tables.

    Later.

    Harding looked around the room and found his eyes were heavy.

    I should probably log¡­

    The thought hung in his conscious, something about it odd and malformed.

    Has it really been that long?

    Reality, as loose of a concept as it is, washed away like a receding wave and left him behind on the beach of the dream realm. His consciousness had tumbled only so far with that wave, leaving him vaguely aware he was dreaming but without conscious cause of action towards it. He simply observed.

    He dreamed of a forest, dark and overgrown. He walked through it without objection or objective. A wall of noise heard through the underbrush heralded the discovery of a fast flowing stream nearby. When he found himself on the bank of the stream, a deep voice proclaimed, "BEHOLD."

    Harding looked and saw a fine buck with a majestic rack standing in the river. The buck''s head was up as it watched Harding. Its legs bent and swayed in unnatural shapes and directions yet its body did not move. In the water were turtles whose heads were knives. They thrust their neck outwards at the buck, again and again, but they always missed its legs. The buck stood regal and aloof, evading the attacks without effort or even notice.

    The buck met Harding''s gaze and held it with a distressing intensity. Without showing concern, the buck began to decay. Its hide began to slough off, slipping loosely from the flesh. Maggots erupted from meat to their gluttonous feast. The buck held steady, legs still bending without effort even as it''s eyes turned to jelly and dripped out of their sockets. The putrefaction continued until it was completely skeletal. Even its great antlers fell in with a splash. Hide and meat floated down the river, temporarily distracting the knife-turtles with the easier meal.

    Muscles reached up from the water like seeking tendrils of flesh, writhing in the air before wrapping and weaving around the skeleton. As it reshaped, Harding realized it was not returning as the buck but was now becoming a horse.

    Not this again.

    As the epidermis generated, he saw that it was indeed the white horse. It stared at him, black eyes locking his gaze, then lowered its head and bit a turtle in two. The turtle made a human-like tortured scream as its shell crunched. The knife head slit through the horse''s throat before plopping, severed, into the river as the horse bled out and decayed in layers like the buck.

    It reformed to be the buck once again.

    It lowered its head to the water and drank, then looked at Harding again. It spat a stream of water into Harding''s face. Though it was only a stream, Harding found himself underwater. Deep, cold and dark, still yet he could see. A nondescript fish swam up to him, stopping face to face with him. He was drowning but he just watched the fish. Its scales dully sparkled in the non-light of that deep water, then the fish darted at him suddenly and swam into his open mouth. Despite his efforts to get it out, it squirmed down his throat until it was firmly lodged.

    No more water entered him but neither did air. He began to choke and thrash in his watery grave. In the midst of his violent throes he spoke. He knew it was him that was speaking but it was not his voice. He simply said to the water, "Abide."

    Harding woke up choking hard, blood spraying from his mouth all over the white sheets of his bed. Doctor Madison was already there, trying to lift him up into a sitting position.

    "Relax Mister Hill, just let yourself cough it up."

    A few minutes later, Harding''s choking and subsequent tortured coughing had subsided. Though the spare bedpan on his lap was wet with richly splattered blood, the sheets were soiled nonetheless. Harding coughed lightly, sporadically, tasting of lingering blood.

    "You''ve just got a bit of leakage, must have pooled when you laid down again," the doctor told him as he started changing the sheets. With the sheets replaced, he instructed, "Just stay sitting up while I get some more pillows, then you can rest. In a few hours you can take another dose of medicine."

    The doctor was gone barely more than a minute, but by the time everything was cleaned and rearranged Harding felt exhausted again. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn''t handle another dream.

    This place is fucked up. How is this a game?

    Propped up in a reclined position in the bed, he reached over down to where the copy of Powerball Matrix, Volume II laid and opened it once more.

    It was, if not read but selectively scanned, fascinating to him. Described in rudimentary form, Jass had sorted balls into seven known categories and labeled them by color names. Each color held four distinct subtypes differentiated as precious metals. And finally an index of unknown balls which, according to the author, frustratingly violated his otherwise uniform sorting convention.

    Harding found the descriptions unsatisfactory, they were just single sentences of basic descriptions like "consumes with flame." The author, in spending pages on this catalog of discovered balls, did not show interest in describing their individual function. Instead the work went on to explain how the result of using them seemed to change based on the user.

    As a study case, Jass used a ball he called ¡°Burn¡±. The vast majority of test subjects produced fire effects via "emanation", though often with variations in minor details such as color, intensity, and shape. The author''s actual interest though we''re the outliers who, despite using not just the same type but the very same ball, had dramatically different results.

    Harding found it invigorating to delve into, despite the arduous language and aggravating uncertainties. Each teaching source he had been exposed to had been similar, but also held contradictory ideas. He was so wrapped up in it he hadn''t realized he had a visitor until she sat down next to him.

    Harding looked up to see Alina.

    "Hi Alina."

    Harding thought she smiled faintly.

    "I must look horrific."

    Alina shrugged ever so slightly.

    "Well, I''m grateful. It''s nice to see a friend."

    She was silent.

    After a long silence, she asked softly, "Does it hurt?"

    "Yeah, I mean¡­ it did a lot when it happened," he admitted. "Now they''ve got me on something and it isn''t so bad."

    Another pause.

    "Did you get your ball to light up?"

    She shook her head.

    "Me neither. Sort of. I accidentally blew mine up. Not sure that counts.¡±

    Alina''s lip quirked up slightly.

    "What was class about today?"

    "Spirit Sense."

    "What''s that?"

    She pulled out her journal, flipped through it, then showed him a blank page. Harding stared for a moment, trying to figure it out.

    "It''s blank."

    With consternation she looked at the page, then back at Harding. A frown trickled across her face before disappearing. She turned to glance at the doctor before recentering herself on Harding. Even though Harding''s gown didn''t have pockets, he hazarded a guess and reached for his journal as if he did. He felt it lightly brush his fingers and pulled it out of nowhere. Flipping it open to his notes, he showed them to Alina.

    "Blank?"

    She nodded.

    "Ok, people can''t read your journal. Maybe you can allow it, but we don''t know how."

    Her eyes widened before she gave a curt nod.

    I really can''t ask her to give the lecture¡­

    "Have you seen these books," offered Harding as he gestured to the two he''d been left. She shook her head and picked up The Threefold Being. The two sat in silence together, reading their books. Alina took notes.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Harding went back into Jass'' work which had proceeded to suggest that the spirit body functioned very differently from what was the accepted concept. Jass postulated that the spirit was not a pond of energy to be drawn on but more like a river flowing through the world. And, like a river, there could be things beneath the surface causing turbulence. He suggested the spirit body was more like a siphon dropped into this river. He argued that the localized disruptions were potentially the cause of the observed variations in effects from otherwise similar balls.

    Harding was finding the wizard''s argument against the singular system compelling when noisy voices filled the place. A moment later, Sabina led the rest of the class into his room. "Oof, look at you,¡± she exclaimed. Beneath the good-natured humor, her eyes showed slight concern. Harding hadn''t seen a mirror but he had felt the sutures up his neck and face. They had been ugly against his fingertips.

    Harding gave the culturally appropriate response, "Yeah, well you should see the other guy." Randal and Ed politely chuckled despite the flat joke.

    "How the hell did you turn a voidseed into a bomb? Brother Roberts said it woke the whole monastery," Randal inquired.

    Each of them went through different reactions to him, but in moments they were all around Harding and loudly telling him about things he''d missed. Arnold told how he had heard the explosion. Ed had searched the city and found a cartographers shop, something they were both interested in. Randal and Sabina recounted antics from the day''s lesson.

    Luckily, he was the only patient in the room, no one else besides the doctor was disturbed by their boisterous anecdotes. They buzzed around him for about a half an hour and then exited together, a social thunderstorm blowing over the clinic and moving on. The silence was notable afterwards. Harding realized that sometime during that chaos, Alina had left and he hadn''t noticed.

    Harding frowned, unsure of how he felt. But ultimately, other people had things to do too. He relaxed a bit more into the pillows for a while. The doctor helped him with a meal which was an introduction into all sorts of new pains. Chewing and swallowing felt like he was tearing his wounds open even with the painkillers. He feared that he wouldn''t be let out by tomorrow.

    How is recovering in bed a game?

    Harding launched himself into Jass'' work again. The wizard''s experiments showed unusual variations in a fundamental system of the world. Magic, even at its most basic and controlled form, was chaotic.

    In exhaustion, he drifted off.

    He came to at the gentle touch of Brother Roberts who sat next to his bed. The monk asked him about what led up to the accident. Harding told him he had dreamed, but kept the details to himself and focused more on when he woke up to the burning. Brother Roberts covered what happened after in minimal detail which he found himself thankful for. It can be traumatic to revisit such events, even through others'' eyes.

    Afterwards they talked about the spirit sense lesson but didn''t have Harding try the exercise. The spirit sense exercise was the same as the first exercise but without holding the voidseed. This removed the aid of contact and required the ability to reach out with the spirit body and explore the immediate area.

    Harding and the monk were discussing the readings he had left when a commotion interrupted them. A city guard led a woman with two small children in while he carried a young, crying boy. Though behind the screen, Harding heard the drama. Some refugees, which Harding took to be code for players, had struck the boy in the leg with something and broken it. The other children had summoned their mother who had found the guard, and this guard had brought the boy to the nearest clinic while others looked for the perpetrators.

    Harding listened to them and their circumstances. They demonstrated anger and visceral pain. Doctor Madison did the best he could for the boy and there was no discussion of money.

    It''s like they''re real.

    "Is this clinic free," Harding asked the monk in hushed tones.

    "No, but he does work for the poor too. One of the beds is dedicated to charity," was the quiet response.

    "Am I taking up that bed," asked a concerned Harding.

    "No. You are paid for."

    "The Brotherhood? Why?"

    "I am paying for it. Because I wish to. Because you are my student. And because I live a simple life lacking pressing needs."

    Silence.

    "And because I''ve never heard of a mortal exploding a seed. Either you''re a special case and it behooves us to treat you well¡­ or you''re extremely troublesome and it''s worth it to keep you out of the monastery," he joked.

    "Asshole," muttered Harding and smiled at the monk. An action he only half regretted from the resulting discomfort. The monk smiled back, his common curtness curbed in familiarity.

    After the boy had been attended to and the guard had led the family out, the monk learned back and sighed. "Tomorrow is a new day. Be better by then, class is at the usual time. We are meeting in the Entry Garden."

    With that Brother Roberts bid him a good night and left. While he still had some Powerball Matrix to read, he logged off to get some real rest.

    -Joshua-

    Joshua slept fitfully, when he slept at all. A tossing tangle, wrapped in sheets and sheen of sweat. He dreamed of the office. He dreamed of death. He dreamed of childhood. It was all the same. His mind was frantic in his sleep, resulting in it being exhausted the next day in the office.

    Work was torture.

    At least it was quiet. The day passed. He was less productive than he could have been, but still he was left to his work. It felt like the day before a holiday, how the hallways were thinner in traffic and the sounds that carried over the cubicles less steady. He buried his thoughts.

    He stopped for something vaguely categorized as Asian on the way home. Chicken and sauce, rice and veggies. It tasted better than it was for his health, but only slightly. His time savings though was turned into a short nap.

    He¡¯d set his alarm, so he woke up in time for Life.

    -Harding-

    The next day he was released from the clinic without hassle. He definitely noticed though that even walking aggravated his stitch-closed wounds. The walk back to the temple was not long, but he barely made it back in time to drop off his books and medication before class started.

    While glad to be back at the temple, what had Harding really excited was the day''s planned outing. He was going to leave the city walls for his first time and it felt momentous. The class had already moved past him in skill except Alina, but the idea of seeing the outside world dampened that disappointment.

    Per Brother Roberts¡¯ instruction, the class had gathered in the entry garden of the temple instead in their normal shade garden. They all loitered at the prominent water feature, chatting somewhat quietly while waiting for their instructor. When Brother Roberts appeared, he had a haversack slung and carried a wooden staff in one hand. After calling for their attention, he pointed at a cluster of plants along the garden path whose buds were closed. "These little plants are called Dandy Eyes for their blue colored flowers," he stated.

    "They grow all over but are particularly common along the banks of the Breas. What makes them part of our lesson today is that they are unusually sensitive to spirit. When the level of ambient spirit is increased, they will bloom." The flowers opened in a slow wave extending from him as he said it. "We will be going out to practice in the field. An excursion is always fun, but also we want to protect this garden. Too much spirit will cause them to shed their petals." The monk warned, "Brother Rodney is very protective of his gardens. If you kill Brother Rodney''s plants, nothing will help you. Always fear the man who runs the kitchen."

    Half the class chuckled, the other half, however,understood the gravity of the threat. Harding could only imagine the literal shitstorm a pissed off herbalist kitchen boss could inflict on the target of his rage.

    Both figurative and literal.

    "Leaning against the wall are staves. Pick one of comfortable height. You might be tempted to question the necessity, thinking that you''re much younger than me and don''t need help walking," the monk joked. "They''re not for walking. How are you going to check if there is a serpent under a bush? Or the depth of the mud along the banks? What do you do if you come across an overly friendly and unwanted animal?"

    Brother Roberts jostled his staff in a half-hearted, one-handed pantomime of a poke.

    Arnold raised his hand and Brother Roberts nodded to him. "Do we need anything else," he asked.

    Actually a good question.

    Brother Roberts gave a genuine smile at the question. "We will be relatively close to the city walls, but that doesn''t preclude other needs. It would be wise for all of you to start to form a traveling kit on your own time. If you have any questions, you can ask while we walk. It''s a bit of a hike and I don''t intend to miss dinner."

    They marched out the gates of the temple in an unruly little swarm, buzzing with chatter as they passed through the city streets. They were a little cluster of brown robes moving like a drab bubble through the chaotic garb of the ordinary citizenry. There was a line to get through the port gate, not much more than a heavy door, but it moved fairly quickly while the students chatted about making travel kits.

    "Good morning Fred, Al. Where''s Devin," Brother Roberts asked the guards at the gate.

    "Some young man was holding up the line, complaining that he couldn''t just freely come and go. Started ranting something about his rights. Devin took him off to clear up the line. I''ll tell him you asked," responded one of the guards, his smile sharing the unspoken.

    "Thank you, Al. I''ll see you gentlemen on the first then. If you''re not here when I return."

    And with that they passed through the guarded port, a man-sized passageway through the outer wall. It exited five feet off the ground, several long planks was all there was as a walkway down to the well worn path in the dirt. The land outside was not industrialized, nor was it stripped clean for farms.

    "Why doesn''t the city use this land," asked Harding.

    "They do in their own way," replied Brother Roberts. "This land will be claimed when they expand the city. It''s too much work to keep the land clear if you¡¯re not going to use it. It¡¯s too expensive to use it if you can¡¯t defend it if a tyrant or enemy attacks."

    "So, wouldn''t that make cleared land preferable for defense," asked a confused Harding.

    "Preferable, but not profitable," was the reply.

    Brother Roberts had led them for nearly two miles down the path when he veered off the trail and through the underbrush. The growth cleared out some as they approached the river and he stopped, looked up and down the river and then nodded. Brother Richards gathered them in front of him.

    ¡°As I spoke about, a Dandy will respond to spirit. Maintaining your spirit presence between too little and too much will hone your control. Please pair up and spread out enough to not affect each other''s practice. This control will be important for the next lesson,¡± assured the monk, ¡°Do not be satisfied with unsure success.¡±

    The students paired up and spread out. Randal went with Sabina, Ed with Arnold, and Alina with Harding. Brush growth and thickets along the riverbank broke up sight, but the noise of the groups carried well enough.

    Alina and Harding moved down along the river, until they were spaced enough from the nearest group. Picking a clump of flowers, Alina pointed to indicate that Harding should go first. Harding concentrated on letting down his boundaries and reached out for the flowers. After several moments the whole patch flared before losing their petals.

    "Shit."

    Alina looked intently at the few remaining at the edge for a minute but nothing happened. "You do it," she told him with frustration.

    Harding prepared to reach out when the flowers opened without him. He looked over at Alina who was watching the flowers. "Good job," she offered quietly, still staring at them.

    "Wasn''t me though," Harding told her.

    A spear flew through the air and slammed into Alina''s thigh, causing her to scream. She fell over slowly, her hand reaching out the ground to arrest her fall. Harding looked for the source just as a spear struck his staff and gouged it before angling off to embed in the dirt beside him.

    "Help," he screamed over Alina''s panicked gasping.

    A large fox head appeared in the bushes just over her shoulder. Short, but powerful human-like arms wrapped around her as the fox head leaned over her and bit down hard at her clavicle. Secured in its dual grip, Alina was pulled backwards into the bushes. Alina disappeared with a constant scream so raw her voice was audibly breaking. Harding rushed to her aid but two more fox heads raised up out of the shrubs. They lifted spears and stepped away from each other while advancing, preparing to flank Harding.

    Harding was forced to retreat slightly.

    The creatures were visible now. They had ruddy short fur, stocky little humanoid bodies and oversized fox-like heads. Their hands were wide but short and ended in curved claws. One barked at him repeatedly, the other growling low. As they got near the Dandies, the flowers would open and the petals fell. Harding fixated on that detail a moment, his brain trying to avoid the panic surging in him. He looked up at them and lifted his staff to be low and angled towards them.

    The barker lunged but came up short. Harding intimately swung his staff at the growler instead, somewhere between a baseball bat and a golf club swing. As it curved upwards it struck the monster in the elbow with a heavy thud. The thing had already been starting a thrust at him when he connected. It yipped loudly and its thrust veered off target, it having lost its ability to grip.

    Harding immediately stepped in close to Growler and tried to rotate to be outside of the pair. The movement was just enough to make Barker¡¯s thrust narrowly miss. Growler''s injured arm was hanging limp and it glared at him through its nearly pure black eyes.

    Harding thrust his staff at Barker in a straight jab past Growler. It surprised the thing and connected, but it had no weight to it. Harding put one foot forward and pivoted into Growler lifting his knee as he rotated up into Growler''s chin. Growler dropped unconscious.

    At least they¡¯re short.

    Harding''s triumph was abruptly ended when he felt a blooming pain in his ass.

    He looked down to see the tip of Barker¡¯s spear rip free of the meat in his right glute.

    "Fuck," yelled Harding.

    He raised his staff quickly and brought it down at Barker in an overhead chop. Barker stepped under it and advanced with vicious, snapping bites. With Harding having to back up, Barker started a series of quick straight jabs. The spearhead bobbing and thrusting at Harding like a striking snake.

    Harding had lost all advantage and was retreating awkwardly as he attempted a defense. He was outclassed by the creature and was overwhelmed by Barker¡¯s rapid advance. He took minor cuts on his hands and another to his thigh from a partially deflected attack. As Harding¡¯s defense flagged and faltered, a wooden staff struck Barker in the chest so hard it skewered him and pinned him to the ground at an angle. Harding looked backwards to see Brother Roberts standing just into the clearing, holding another staff in his left hand.

    Brother Roberts looked around, "Alina?"

    "They dragged her into the bush," Harding said and pointed in the direction she had been dragged away.

    "Get to the other students and go back to the path. Follow it to the city and tell the guards it was Rubahwogs," the monk commanded.

    Brother Richards ran off into the bushes after Alina. Harding looked at the little fox-man who was slumping, half upright, on the shaft of the staff. For a second the staff dimmed before dissolving in a muted flash of light. The dead creature fell to the ground leaking fluids into the already damp soil.

    Brother Richards is dangerous.

    Harding limped through the brush, using his staff as a crutch, towards the group.

    "Where''s Alina," Sabina asked when he caught up with them.

    Harding shook his head. "Weird fox-dwarf things took her. Brother Roberts went after her, but we are supposed to go get guards."

    "I don''t want to leave her, doesn''t feel right," worried Randal.

    "Yeah well, Brother Roberts says to go get the guards. So that¡¯s what we do.¡± Then Harding added, ¡°The worst case scenario is what, she has to respawn?"

    "I guess," allowed Randal.

    "Let''s get going guys," Sabina encouraged. "Sooner we get there, sooner help comes."

    Harding gasped in pain as he forced himself to try and keep up with the class as they pushed through the brush to the road. What they lacked in grace they made up for with brutish drive.

    "What''s wrong with your ass, Harding," Arnold asked.

    "Got speared in the ass," Harding informed them.

    Sabina snorted. Randal laughed. The wound stung badly and he had been limping, but he didn''t think it was that deep.

    "Uhm, that''s bleeding. Does anyone know how to do first aid," Randall asked with concern.

    "I don''t know but we need to get help for Alina," Harding insisted.

    To which Sabina replied, "And we need you not to die, almost, again¡­¡±

    "I''m going to be too slow, just go without me," insisted Harding, accidentally talking over Ed''s mumbling.

    "Nope," said Randal. "It''s two miles back to the city. By the time the guards get here Alina is either rescued or dead. Anyone running ahead will be vulnerable. We stick together.¡±

    "I do," said Ed loudly.

    "You what," asked Randal.

    "I know first aid. But we don''t have bandages, closures, a litter or anything else," explained Ed.

    While the group chaotically debated what to do, Arnold pulled off his robes revealing his scrawny body dressed in tight, white shorts and strapped sandals.

    "Use this," he told Ed, pushing the robes into Ed''s hands. "I''ll get the guards, you keep Harding from bleeding out."

    Arnold then turned and ran down the path. Sabina watched him a second before shouting, "Wrong way, Arnie!"

    Arnold turned around and ran the other way back towards town in his underwear and sandals.

    "Take your robes off Harding," Ed told him. Harding did, standing there in just his undershorts. "Ah, those too I guess," added Ed somewhat reluctantly.

    Harding hesitated and then pulled them down. Sabina snorted again. Harding looked at her, mortified. "I''m bleeding out here Sabina, a little respect,¡± he admonished.

    "You should be fine," corrected Ed.

    "Seen it before," snickered Sabina.

    "I''m dying here and you''re laughing at me¡­ and staring."

    "You''ll be fine¡­" muttered Ed again, soaking the blood away.

    "I''m dying," exclaimed Harding in comical exasperation.

    "No, you aren''t," murmured Ed.

    Sabina laughed and quickly covered her mouth. Hiding her grin behind her hand, she justified her reaction by claiming, "I''m a nervous laugher."

    "You''re not the one with your shorts around your ankles waiting for a Rhubarbarian to jump out of the bush and bite off your dick," complained Harding. Then he swore, ¡°Shit. I forgot to tell Arnold what they were.¡±

    "SHIT," he yelled again as Ed applied pressure to the wound.

    Just then a group of herbalists-in-training came down the path, their bags bulging with their collected plants. Harding covered himself with his hands as Ed pushed the bloody robes to his ass. Sabina turned red from being unable to breath as she was laughing too hard. Randal just clapped slowly.

    As the herbalist instructor passed, Harding told her, "Watch out, there are Rhubarbs in the bushes."

    Startled, the instructor cried, "Run class, run to town."

    It was all too surreal to fully register with him. Watching them go, Harding mumbled, "You feel like they know something we don''t?"

    "Yep, two of them had first-aid kits around their waist," deadpanned Ed.

    "You were just looking at that girl''s ass, Ed," joked Harding in a mock scandalized voice.

    "Better than your ass," Sabina choked out before losing control, unable to breath again as tears rolled down her face. After a long moment, she got control back and choked out giggles, "We are still going to die¡­"

    Randal started a new round of his slow applause.

    Ed was still trying to affix a piece of cut robe to Harding¡¯s wound when Brother Richards came into view without his staff. "What are you kids still going here," he asked in frustration.

    "Harding is bleeding and we don''t have a way to move him," explained Sabina, once again the serious group leader. "Arnold ran ahead to get the guard."

    "Where''s Alina," asked Harding.

    The monk shook his head. "I tracked them back to their den. But there was a large group of them out front. It wouldn''t help the poor girl if I just died there in vain.¡± A pause. ¡°We need to get Mister Hill moving and then get to town. If they raid again in numbers, we are all in trouble."

    The monk cut away Ed''s bloody efforts, then applied a fresh dressing from his haversack against the wound and yanked up Harding''s shorts over it. He then just picked Harding up and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman¡¯s carry.

    "This was my fault," lamented Brother Roberts, voice edged in anger, before he took off at a pace that made the class work to keep up with him.

    Harding''s unmentionables were crushed against the shoulder of the monk as he ran. Over and over. "This sucks," he groaned. He could even feel some of his stitches leaking.

    When the class finally arrived at the city walls though, there was already a commotion at the gate. The herbalist class had made a ring around one of the guards.

    "I don''t know, there were other people there mocking him," explained a smaller female in front.

    "And what was he doing," asked the surrounded guard.

    "He was just- you know, touching¡­ that''s him! That priest caught him," yelled a taller guy who was in the back of the group.

    "Heavy Rubahwog presence raiding out of River Briar Caves, visually confirmed," Brother Richards hurriedly reported to the guards. "We¡¯re headed to the ranger station now to report it."

    The guards body language changed and they started herding squawking civilians towards the gate. Brother Roberts was already on the run again.

    As they passed into the gateyard, Harding saw another class waiting to go through the portal. Their instructor was dressed in colorful clothes and was telling the students, "The key to being a successful Troubadour is the same as being a good journalist¡­" The teacher''s instruction trailed off as he, and then the whole class, watched Harding being carried past.

    "Can I get an interview," yelled a student.

    "Good job, Janice," the Troubadour reinforced.

    "I can tell you what happened," said the voice of a small Herbalist as she walked into the port ward.

    Harding watched helplessly as he was carried away.

    They rounded a corner, bounced hard up a couple steps before Harding''s head slammed into the door frame. "Sorry," grimaced Brother Roberts as he turned to get Harding through.

    Harding watched the class follow to the stairs and then stop. Sabina turned and started talking to the Troubadour students. Harding realized she wasn''t blocking their passage so much as giving an interview.

    "Rubahwogs in River Briar Caves. A lot of them," the monk announced soberly. "They took one of my students and injured this one. He needs healing."

    "We aren''t a free clinic, take him to the healer of your choice," replied the stolid clerk.

    "He was injured doing ranger''s work. He fought off an unreported infestation and killed one while trying to save the taken youth," the monk told the desk clerk firmly.

    "Fine,¡± the clerk conceded. ¡°Take him into the infirmary and then come back and report so we can issue an Extermination Order.¡±

    Brother Richards took him to the infirmary, turning this time as he passed through the door frame. Gratefully, Harding was laid face down on a table.

    "What''s the injury," asked a husky female voice.

    "Stab wound to the backside and possible head trauma," answered the monk.

    The doctor bent over and looked in Harding''s face. She was a very pretty middle aged woman. With a soft smile she asked gently, "What happened?"

    "Rhubarbs," he told her.

    "Definitely head trauma,¡± she pronounced. ¡°Ada, start cleaning the wound while I examine the head, then pour some Mend on it. Looks shallow enough," the doctor instructed her assistant.

    Nurse Ada responded, "Yes, Doctor Barbara."

    Harding didn''t see or hear Brother Roberts leave. Pride crushed, Harding gave into the horror of it all.

    This game is pure evil.

 Chapter 4

    -Harding-

    "I don''t get it," Harding admitted to Sabina later that evening. "When I blew up my seed I needed surgery, drugs, and a day of bed rest." He paused to take a drink. He had been very thirsty since the Ranger station, likely from something they gave him. "And after all that, I''m still not recovered from it." He vaguely indicated his still red wounds. "But, I get stabbed with a spear and they just wipe it off and pour some potion on it. And with just that most of the pain stopped right then and I was walking fine in an hour," he continued. "I don''t understand healing in this game."

    Arnold leaned forward, "It''s pretty simple really.¡±

    Harding looked incredulously at him.

    Nothing in this game is straight forward.

    Arnold held up his hands to ward Harding''s expression. "No, really. I read an article on it. You''ve got physical medicine like the clinic. Then alchemical medicine which it sounds like the Rangers used on you. And finally magical healing, but magical healing is all weird."

    Harding sighed dramatically, "Of course it is."

    Sabina giggled lightly, either at Harding''s genuine frustration or his exaggerated antics.

    "Well," Arnold started, "apparently they''ve yet to discover a direct heal spell. There is a big ongoing hunt for that. It would be a big deal with the guilds."

    Being the only one with big heals would be a huge advantage.

    "Then what is magic healing," asked Harding with a frown.

    "Mostly, it''s just different kinds of regeneration," Arnold answered with a shrug. "But there''s shields and curse removals and that kind of thing that act effectively as healing."

    "How does regeneration even work when there aren''t hit points," interjected Ed.

    "Who says there isn''t," retorted Arnold.

    "I can''t see any."

    "Doesn''t mean they don''t exist."

    "All this to hide a single hp counter?"

    "Eh, it could be that there are a whole bunch of little ones."

    "So my pinky has its own hp pool?"

    "Guys," interrupted Sabina. "It doesn''t matter how it works, only that it does."

    "It does matter though," insisted Arnold.

    Ed nodded his agreement with Arnold.

    Arnold attempted to explain, "There are different regens and they can''t tell which one is better. There is too much variation in people and weapons and magic and¡­" Arnold waved his hand vaguely, "Stuff."

    Ed supported him, "Any model would be garbage because there is too much noise in the data. Best you can do is try to determine the general quality of outcomes."

    Arnold added to the complaints, "You can''t even tell which weapon is better."

    Harding shook his head in amusement.

    Life being Life.

    Harding went back to eating his evening meal, but Sabina continued her line of questioning. "How do they do dungeons without heals?"

    "They use lots of consumables and mitigation magic, at least that''s what gets talked about publicly." Arnold quietly confided, "I still think they''re hiding something though."

    Randal had sat quietly through the discussion and finally interjected, "No one''s heard from Alina."

    The reminder of her absence dampening the group''s mood considerably. There were other classes and students, but the groups tended to stick to their own and players spent the majority of their time outside the temple. It effectively was free housing, food and a trainer in a starting zone. But Alina was one of them, no matter her social peculiarities, and as her absence lengthened their guilt at their initially cavalier response grew.

    Brother Roberts entered the hall and walked over to the table. His approach helped to diminish the sudden souring turn of the group. "How are you feeling, Harding," he asked.

    "Well enough. Any word on Alina," Harding inquired hopefully.

    "Not directly, no. But the Rivergate rangers'' station sent a runner. I am to return there and I think, perhaps, you might wish to accompany me," the monk stated, but with his eyebrows raised in question.

    "Yeah, I can manage that," affirmed Harding, his interest subdued by the lack of good news.

    Brother Richards stood there, leaning on his staff and making small talk with the students while Harding policed his dishes. It did not escape Harding¡¯s notice that the monk had kept his staff in hand since returning. Harding reported to his teacher and the two walked out of the temple together in silence. After descending the hill, the monk broke their silence. "Arnold has requested combat training."

    "I get that," replied Harding. The whole class had talked about the need since the attack. Everyone was feeling vulnerable.

    "Unfortunately it is not a competency we can teach," lamented the monk. "I found him a position in a night class with the Militia."

    "Good for him," offered Harding.

    Does that mean Arnold is leaving?

    Brother Richards continued on as they walked, "I was wondering if you wanted me to help you find something else too?"

    Harding was slow to respond as he mulled it over, "Does that mean I''d have to leave the temple?"

    The monk frowned slightly as he shrugged. The streets were as crowded as ever, the full prime hours in effect. It was beginning to be increasingly difficult to visually differentiate between players and NPCs as the young players ditched their starting clothes. Harding felt isolated and lonely in their midst. Between the others¡¯ debates and news of Arnold, the group felt like it was already dissolving.

    "You cut your own path. You cannot be of two locations, but you be of two minds," Brother Roberts reminded him. "To master a discipline you must first be a disciple. It will take much more effort than an introductory class to be truly competent in anything."

    Harding nodded, "And that''s what this class is isn''t it, just an introduction?"

    Brother Roberts laughed softly. "My dear pupil, this class is but a bard''s tale of a foreign land. Not only have you not gone there, you''re still sitting in the same reeking tavern listening to someone else''s half-truths."

    Harding tested him, "And how do I actually go there?"

    "You dedicate yourself to it until you discover that you were always there," the monk answered with a smile. "The brotherhood isn''t necessary, just extremely helpful. Their answers do not matter when you lack the questions. You have the ability but lack the readiness."

    They had arrived at the station and Harding held the door open for Brother Roberts. The cramped front office was little more than a hallway junction and its front desk was manned by the same person as before.

    "I am Brother Roberts. I was requested," the monk announced to the clerk.

    "Have a seat and they will get to you when they can," droned the man without looking up from what he was reading.

    The two looked around for seats and found none. The office was clearly not designed for visitors and they were reduced to repurposing delivery crates to avoid sitting on the floor. They sat there for some time, just listening to the chaos of soldiers and staff in the back rooms. There was quite a bit more activity in the station than last time.

    Better Richards broke the silence, "Of course, there never is just two options."

    "Hmm? Oh. You mean on the learning bit?"

    "Mmm. Yes, on that too."

    "So what''s the other options?"

    "Whatever you manage."

    "That''s rather vague."

    "So is happiness."

    Harding grunted, "That''s kinda dismal, old man."

    The monk smiled again and looked over the room for a moment. Without looking at Harding, he quipped, "The ignorant are ignorant of the blessings of their ignorance."

    Harding huffed in half-hearted humor.

    "You could try an apprenticeship," the monk suggested.

    "With you?"

    "Goodness, no. But a Wandering Monk? Maybe. That is a rare thing though and the number of those accepting an apprentice is rapidly dwindling."

    ¡°And I suck?¡±

    Brother Roberts gave him a disappointed look, ¡°It is not the quickness of success but the consistency of effort that determines the quality of outcome.¡±

    The two continued to sit there and chat lightly about pleasant things between Harding¡¯s occasionally probing for more help on his classwork. People who worked there came and went but no one engaged with them. "Some things don''t change," muttered Harding.

    "Hmm, what''s that," asked the monk.

    Harding just smiled tepidly in response.

    A moment later, a young man came through the infirmary door and stepped near the front desk. He was stripped to the waist, but still wore brigandine from the waist down. "Walt, when those River Briar people show up, send them in to Captain Milton," he requested crisply.

    "Sure," responded Walt the clerk, paying little attention to the man.

    Harding had enough of this already. "We are already here. We are the River Briar people," he exclaimed.

    Walt glared over the top of his desk.

    The soldier, however, simply smiled and nodded a slight bow. "Follow me, please. I''m Sergeant Bresburg, Captain Milton''s second. He''s been waiting for you."

    Bresburg was all business, but his idea of the captain waiting turned out to be the man being face down on an all too familiar operating table. Harding took in the scene and wondered if he simply misunderstood Bresburg''s humor. Nurse Ada was suturing wounds on the Captain''s bare back, her threadwork deft. Doctor Barbara was moving and probing his left arm as she tested its mechanical soundness. To the side of the room lay two more Rangers on tables rolled over to the walls, still recovering from their healing and requiring further supervision. Next to those two sat a blonde female soldier, still in her full armor sans her helmet, gloves and weapons.

    "Please, come around so I can see you fine folk," the Captain requested, voice warm and amused.

    Harding followed Brother Roberts around the table, careful not to slip in the blood splashed on the floor. Pieces of cloth sodden with blood lay amidst discarded armor where they hadn''t been cleaned away yet.

    "Honestly Henry, you''re a mess. You should have been healed first," complained the doctor.

    "Not in front of the guests, dear," admonished the Captain in a humored tone. Despite his injuries and state, he was clearly enjoying teasing her.

    They probably have him on something.

    Captain Milton rolled his head to the side and stared up at them. Though grimacing slightly on occasion when Doctor Barbara would press, he otherwise addressed them neutrally, "As you know, the River Briar Caves were stuffed full of Rubahwogs. We cleared that out. However, are you familiar with the ruins behind them," he asked.

    "No Sir, I''ve never seen ruins in the area of the caves," answered Brother Roberts.

    "The ruins are buried under and are only occasionally connected to the caves by tunnels. Anathacy I beli-¡±, the captain began before ending in a hiss.

    "Anothaci ruins that close," asked a surprised Brother Roberts.

    "What are Anna Thayzee," asked Harding, butchering the strange word even worse than the captain.

    The armored blonde in the stool spoke up, "A precursor civilization. They mysteriously disappeared long before the current record and all that stuff."

    "Isobel is correct," the captain confirmed, wincing as Doctor Barbara inserted a syringe deep into his arm. "That''s a place of power. If you''ve got an infestation this bad, there''s some entity that''s moved in and is using the place to summon unnatural horrors. If the entity isn¡¯t destroyed all the creatures will keep coming back."

    Harding asked, "What''s a place of power?"

    "A pop''s a dungeon, basically," clarified Isobel. ¡°Well, mostly I guess. More like a place a dungeon could be?¡±

    "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means," countered Captain Milton.

    The captain inhaled sharply as Doctor Barbara  began a series of intramuscular injections in his forearm. She shushed him as she worked, defeating his unspoken commentary.

    They must go through this often.

    After a moment, he continued, "That''s where things got weird. The furry bastards built a magically locked gate. We killed them all but it didn''t unlock, so I¡¯m not sure what it was tied to."

    "That''s how it usually works," Isobel told Harding, "the standard ¡®kill the boss to unlock the gate¡¯ style mechanics."

    "Was bloody work in those caves. A third of my force was fighting wounded and we were already down a man by the time we hit that gate," the captain recalled, voice hard. "If they had enough juice to put up a magically fortified gate, then there is much worse stuff beyond it. I''ve been to the bottom of that ruins before too, we had a long way yet to go. We just didn''t have enough..."

    Doctor Barbara rested a comforting hand on the captain''s head. His eyes closed momentarily at her comfort.

    Bresburg spoke up, calling attention to himself, "The infestation is a clear threat to the city. We thank you for your quick notice, it surely has saved lives."

    "What about Alina," asked Harding, though he knew the answer wouldn''t be good.

    "No sign," admitted Bresburg. "Even if they ate her there would have been bones. She was probably dragged through the gate."

    "You''re going back for her, right," implored Harding .

    "We won''t stop," came the captain''s solemn reply, eyes still closed.

    Bresburg added, "We needed to get reinforcements, healing, and supplies."

    "And grenades," grumbled the captain.

    Bresburg conceded, "And we need to figure out some way through that gate."

    "More grenades," suggested the captain.

    "What will it take to defeat the gate," asked Brother Richards, more towards Bresburg than the explosively infatuated captain.

    Bresburg theorized, "A highly skilled wizard would work. We sent a request to the Guard for Edwin Hammer.¡±

    The captain scoffed noisily.

    ¡°Queen¡¯s Own ain¡¯t gonna give us a goldie,¡± sneered Isobel with disdain.

    ¡°But the infestation is a threat to the city,¡± Bresburg insisted.

    ¡°Queen¡¯s Own,¡± Isobel repeated insistently, but with a softer edge.

    "A skilled spiritualist should be able to defeat the lock directly, but it''s no place for a scholar down there," admitted Bresburg.

    "There is currently a Convergence. Several skilled Brothers have already arrived. I could inquire since it was one of our students that was taken," offered Brother Roberts. "Perhaps Brother Rent?"

    "As in Toly Rent," asked a suddenly interested captain. "Since when is he in town?"

    "This afternoon."

    ¡°A War Monk would do it.¡±

    ¡°It is not a sure thing he would be willing.¡±

    "I have a whole other squad due back any minute. If you could get Rent to join us, we could be back out there in¡­ say two hours tops," he speculated.

    Doctor Barbara chimed, ¡°Four.¡±

    "Is there any way I could be of service in the meantime," asked Brother Roberts.

    "No," replied the captain.

    "Yes," retorted Isobel.

    "Scout, now is not the time," admonished her wounded leader.

    "But, Sir," she pushed with a more respectful tone, "We have no clue what''s through those gates. Why leave seeds unused?"

    "Have you trained with them? You don''t bring something into battle you don''t know well."

    "Hampton and I don''t need training for a passive and Rosen could use the extra boost for his Flameblast."

    Captain Milton sighed. "Isobel, you know very well that a change in your physical abilities will throw off your fighting. However, you''re not wrong about how effective Rosen and his fires are against those furry bastards."

    Isobel turned to Brother Richards, "Brother, would it be possible to do some seed seating and seals.¡±

    "Damn do they smell when they burn though," the captain muttered.

    Isobel¡¯s face opened, pleading, "I''m sure I can get standard costs covered by the¡­ Bresburg, what would be the time on the funding?"

    "It''s all that fur, you see," mumbled the captain.

    "Two weeks minimum, unfortunately. Main office is backed up with the influx of refugees," recited Bresburg, as crisp and hard as his armor.

    ¡°...they just burn and burn and burn¡­¡±

    Isobel held her breath while Doctor Barbara stroked the now sleeping captain''s hair.

    Harding watched her putting a syringe back on her tray. "Did you just¡­"

    "The missing girl, Alina, was my student and under my watch. I''ll get both squads taken care of as my part in her rescue," Brother Roberts solemnly stated.

    Meanwhile the doctor gave Harding a hard-eyed look, "If my husband is going out again so soon, he needs a little sleep."

    The monk turned to Harding and gave him instructions, "Run back to the temple and ask Brother Rent if he would aid the rescue."

    "Yeah, sure, on it," said Harding, already heading for the door. Once he was in the street he used the cart lane to have room to run. Dodging through the slow traffic was frowned on, dangerous, but not strictly enforced. It allowed most of the mess to be avoided, both the tangle of foot traffic and the mounds of animal waste. Buying good boots definitely had been a great piece of advice from Bart.

    Harding ran all the way back to the temple, except the hill. There was no way he could have run that hill. Just through the gate he encountered a Brother sweeping the path. Bent over huffing, he gasped, "Excuse me, Brother. Brother Roberts sent me for Brother Rent. How do I find¡­"

    "If he''s still in, he''s in the Moon garden. He is always in the Moon garden. No one else can use the Moon garden when Brother Rent is-," complained the Brother.

    "Thanks," interjected Harding, before running off. The cranky monk was still ranting when Harding entered the temple, running down the halls at a questionably safe speed and heedless of the mess he had tracked. His spear wound hurt, but not enough to stop him.

    Bursting through the entryway of the Moon garden, Harding slid to a stop on its fine pebble path. In front of him stood a great hart. Its head was lowered into a flower bed, antlers rocking as it took several bites of Brother Rodney''s beloved flowers. Absently, it raised its head and gazed about as it chewed. Seeing Harding, it looked him over slowly and then asked with a full mouth, "What?"

    Even as off balance as he was by a talking stag, in the back of Harding¡¯s mind was the horror of the damage being done to the flowers. It kept chewing them as it watched him. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "Uhm, I''m looking for Brother Rent," Harding informed the antlered beast.

    "Why," it inquired between concerted efforts to grind the tough stems in its teeth.

    "Brother Roberts sent me to find him. A student was taken by monsters and they need help rescuing her. It''s really most urgent I find him," implored Harding.

    "Bob''s a good guy," was its answer. Rolling its antlers back and forth as fur on its neck rose, it reared up onto its hind legs and melted into a somewhat short man. He was balding with the remaining black hair cropped tight. Dressed as he was in the cerulean robes of Okkor, Harding would have passed him without notice as any other monk. The man started walking towards him, "Ok, let''s go."

    Harding just stared. The monk passed him, turned and looked back, "Are you coming," he prodded.

    Harding jumped with a start, and ran to catch up. Brother Rent led him to the monk''s cell, which looked just like Harding''s, to grab his pack. It took no time as he was already packed, the room empty of any other traces of him. Just as they entered the hall to leave they ran into an angry Brother Rodney storming towards them. His face and bald head were already an angry red. "Excellent meal there Rod, thanks," exclaimed Rent.

    "Shove it," Rodney yelled back at him.

    "Choke on a spear," replied Rent.

    "I hope you get your head mounted on a wall."

    "Half the temple heard yours being mounted last night¡­"

    Harding went ahead, not wanting to be associated with whatever that was. He heard the sniping continue as he ran out the door. A minute later, Rent casually strolled out of the compound grinning. "Where are we going, son," asked a much happier Rent.

    "Rivergate ranger station, Sir," said Harding as he eyed the strange monk.

    They descended the hill in silence until Harding couldn''t take it anymore. "Sir, why did you eat Brother Rodney''s flowers," Harding asked, unsure if he actually wanted the answer.

    Rent laughed. "Because he can''t cook."

    Harding shook his head. "I don''t get it."

    "That bald knob serves crap food, but you won''t find a better garden in the city outside the palace itself. He loves his gardens and he endures his kitchen," clarified Rent as if it were obvious.

    Harding confessed, "I still don''t get why you would ruin the gardens."

    "Not that bright are you," chortled Rent. "The only way he''s going to save his precious gardens is if he starts making food the brothers would enjoy, food that he could make at any time if he wasn''t trying to avoid his duties." Rent paused as they overtook a slow walking group. "I''m incentivizing more effort towards his weakness in function by punishing his indulgences of interest."

    "Seems mean though," Harding observed, "like, why not just talk to him?"

    "You''ve met the man right? Go tell him his lawn is better eating than his cooking, see where that gets you," Rent laughed.

    They walked on.

    Harding had no idea what to make of this guy, other than he seemed like a weird jerk. He decided to try a less charged topic, "What''s a War Monk?"

    Rent scowled, "It''s what one idiot calls another idiot who, despite being about as close to a divine servant as a human can get, instead goes and beats a third idiot with a stick."

    "That''s a lot of idiots," concluded Harding.

    "Not as many as are coming to the temples for the Convergence," Rent sourly asserted.

    Harding gave up on the man, he was as grouchy as he was contrarian. As the Ranger station came into view, Rent remarked, "Being a spiritualist is great, but stay around here and you''ll end up a stunted specialist pet to some real power. Okkor doesn''t do static, son. He moves." Rent made a serpentining motion with both hands. Harding rolled his eyes in response and almost tripped. With Rent chuckling at him, they turned to go up the steps. Harding held the door open for Brother Rent.

    "What¡¯s a goldie," he probed, one last try at information.

    "More idiots," Rent answered, then added, "Liked you better when you used ''Sir'' a lot."

    Rent swept past.

    "State your business," drawled a disinterested Walt the clerk. Ignoring him, Rent went through a door labeled, "Staff Only".

    "Sir, you can¡¯t just- Sir," exclaimed Walt, still seated but his face mortified at the impropriety.

    "Good luck," quipped Harding and followed quickly after Rent.

    Rent navigated the place with purpose and without pause. Harding ended up in a large room full of armor wearing mannequins and a wall of weapons loaded onto pegs. In the middle of the room was a table with a map built into it. Rangers sat on benches, loading bags from piled supplies. A few sat in scattered chairs, chatting quietly while shoveling down the remains of a hasty meal. Brother Roberts stood with Captain Milton and Bresburg. It hadn¡¯t been more than a half-hour but the captain was up and looking alert.

    What the hell did she give him?

    "Bob," yelled Rent, over the conversations of the room, effectively ending them all. Heedless of all eyes being on him, Rent barked, "What''s this I hear about you losing a student?"

    Brother Roberts just smiled, friendly and familiar. "Hello Brother, good to see you too. Captain Milton, this is Brother Rent. Toly, this is the Commander of this station, Captain Milton."

    "Captain."

    "Hero."

    "Bah. Wasn''t anything like that¡­"

    Harding watched the men take measure of each other in silence. After a moment, Rent seemed satisfied. "Captain, I was told you could use an extra."

    "I could use a squad of extras and the budget to go with them," confided the captain as he absently rubbed his previously injured arm. "What I need is a specialist who can handle himself because this damned entity apparently likes magical lock puzzles."

    "I can manage that, I''m in," agreed Rent.

    "So am I," volunteered Harding.

    Brother Roberts objected, "Absolutely not!"

    "Excellent," agreed Rent.

    Captain Milton asked, "Can you even fight?"

    Isobel just rolled her eyes.

    ¡±I''m not afraid," Harding lied.

    "That''s awfully brave of you. You''ve got a good heart, but if you can''t fight then you''ll just endanger my men. I owe it to them to not allow that," Captain Milton gently explained.

    "You''d be fine," Rent deadpanned at Harding. "But this is the Captain''s mission. Sorry, kid."

    Harding glowered at Rent.

    "We will be ready to go soon, Brother Rent. Are you in need of anything," inquired Bresburg, though his attention was on watching the Rangers who were finishing repacking their bags.

    "Thank you, no," stated the monk confidently and gave a slight shrug of his pack to emphasize. As they started to file out of the room, he turned to Harding. Arching his eyes wide he whispered secretly to Harding, "I forgot my staff, let me use yours." Harding gave up the staff without comment. It wasn''t his anyway. Rent gave him a single coin in payment and winked. Harding watched them file out and shook his head in disbelief.

    After the Rangers and Rent had left, Brother Roberts turned to him, "You must alter your course if you wish that path."

    Harding nodded despite being unsure what that path was. They stood for a moment in silence, listening to the fading noise of the exiting troops. Harding looked around again at the room full of the implements of war and survival. Without looking at the monk, Harding wondered aloud, "Would I have died if I went with them?"

    Brother Roberts chuckled, "With your guts split open like an over-boiled sausage."

    "Thanks¡­"

    "You''ll get there eventually. The world is a dangerous place beyond these tall walls and dedicated men."

    "Yeah. I understand that, I just-," Harding sighed in frustration. "I feel responsible for Alina and I''m helpless. I''m here to live life and all I do is lay around and fail."

    "Alina is my responsibility," corrected the monk. "And your future is yours. That future is not now though, so let''s go back to the temple."

    "Can I stay here and wait," requested Harding.

    "It''ll be some time, maybe well into tomorrow, before they''re back. I''m returning to the temple but you may do as you wish," the monk informed him. "Just remember to be careful after dark. When the light dims the world changes."

    Harding thought about Bluejay and shuddered. "I know, but I want to wait for them. Thank you, Brother Roberts."

    The monk smiled and excused himself back to the temple. Harding looked over the arms and armor on display once more. Cleaned and oiled, they sat poised readily for violence. Sturdy and well built, they evidenced no flare or frill. Function was their artistry.

    These men are utilitarian.

    Harding walked out of the Ranger station and up to the gate, hoping to watch the expedition as they disappeared into the evening shadows. They were already gone. The guards were watching him idly as they processed regular gate traffic, though the monster infestation and time of night had greatly reduced the flow. Harding headed over to a couple of guards, unsure of who was in charge.

    "It''s it ok if I hang out here until they come back," he asked them.

    "Sure. As long as you don''t clog traffic, we don''t care," answered an overly tall, sandy haired guard.

    The hours would pass slowly and Harding decided to use the time. He found a shop and bought the largest wineskin he could find. Filling it with quality water proved more difficult and expensive, but he managed after asking the guards for suggestions.

    Afterwards, he set about practicing his spirit control. He lacked a voidseed or any other method of measurement. Instead, he sat near the gate and flexed that subtle body. Without means to determine success, he gave everything to affecting his intent.

    At first the guards would eye him as he sat there. They were wary by nature and the gateyard was for movement and not meditation. To them that which remained still was foreign and they were men trained to observe the out of place; professionally paranoid. Over the hours though he became accepted as being there. When he would get up to stretch or piss, the guards would playfully act surprised he was still alive. They would make jokes to each other about walking barrels, yard hauntings or the excitement of finally getting a company mascot.

    When stretching, beyond his anxious wishes for Alina''s return, his thoughts turned to his future. He didn''t want to be a non-combatant by way of incompetence. Which left Harding only two general paths, whatever Brother Roberts might think. He could either switch to a combat education or elect a hybrid education such as an apprenticeship with a wandering monk.

    It''s getting late.

    Harding kept practicing. He knew he was close and that he didn''t need the voidseed to flex his spirit, though he would have preferred having one. There was a feel to it, a sensation of otherness. He could feel the friction of the movement in boundaries of the two selves, the duality of their separation. They opened with a swinging yawn, like scissors. Something was off though, some little thing catching and restraining him. He was sure he had successes amidst the repeated failures, but he still lacked the keenness to reliably differentiate. All there was between him and success was that irritating snag that tenaciously tripped him up.

    I''ll have to call in sick tomorrow, but I¡¯m not giving up¡­

    He kept at it sure of the nearness of success. Frustration and hope battled within as he sat in a stack of hay against the wall. He made sure to keep getting up and giving himself breaks, for both his circulation and his sanity.

    Deep into the night a guard called out, "Lights approaching.¡±

    Harding nearly jumped. None of the guards seemed to react. After dark there had been little foot traffic, just the occasional straggler. The dangers of the dark combined with the current infestation having all but shut down the gate. It was a few minutes before another guard confirmed, ¡°It¡¯s the Rangers.¡±

    Everyone launched into action, donning their helmets and positioning to the sally port. They looked equally ready to fight as they were to greet. Harding was thinking about it as two guards opened the port door suddenly. Having slowly drifted close to the armed men, Harding could see the bodies and injured Rangers beyond along with a horse drawn cart from which hung two lanterns.

    "Ho the gate," called a weary Capitan Milton as he leaned against Sergeant Bresburg. Captain Milton was missing an arm, a tourniquet wrenched around the stump, and he moved with a severe limp.

    Harding looked for Alina, but didn''t see her. However, the Rangers were still sliding off the cart that he didn''t think they had left with. Rent stood out in his colored robes despite them being splashed in blood and worse. Captain Milton nodded to the cart and said, "Could I talk a few of your lads into helping with the bodies, I could really use a hand."

    Harding watched him reach into the cart and withdraw his own severed arm.

    The Rivergate rangers limped up the walkway in the lamplight. They leaned on each other to prevent the other from falling when needed, just as they had in the field. The entire guardhouse had turned out to see them home, many having even come down the ramp to assist with the cart. Captain Milton, severed arm in hand and the whole side of him ripped raw and exposed, was nearly carried in by Bresburg. Bresburg himself looked healthy enough save for some massive creases in what little remained of his armor.

    Those must be some powerful alchemies they¡¯re on¡­

    Isobel''s head and nearly half of her face was covered under a bloody wrap and she limped heavily on that same side. The man she was using to walk against was tall, broad and a little husky. Harding thought it might be Rosen as he was covered in burns.

    Harding hadn''t known the other Rangers, but of the nine that went out only five walked back in. It seemed a point of pride among them to cross that threshold upright. The guards would not touch them until they were through. The last Ranger came across on crutches with his entire leg immobilized. Rent stood behind him, just in case he needed help, but gave no assistance. The wounded man made it on his own.

    Rent returned to the cart and watched over the unloading and care of the covered bodies. Harding watched the man he thought of as angry and immature stand sentinel over the dead as their bodies were respectfully collected. With solemn faces the normally jovial guards brought the bodies in on litters. Three bodies were laid out next to each other outside the Ranger station. Each covered body left on their own litter for the Rangers to attend. A young Ranger, one of the injured ones from Milton''s first attempt, came out of the station and stood the watch.

    Brother Rent spoke quietly with some guardsmen before walking up the ramp alone. Behind him, the guardsmen were unloading the packs and other equipment. Seeing Harding waiting, Rent approached and muttered, "Some nasty business, that was." Rent waved Harding towards the Ranger station and kept walking. Harding looked at the gateway, but there was no one else coming. Just guards unloading equipment from the cart.

    Where''d they even get that cart?

    He jogged to catch up and asked, "What about Alina?"

    Rent nodded, "We found what''s left of her."

    "Oh. Good," Harding muttered, unsure what else he could say.

    How do you respond to something like that?

    "Come now, we administer to the wounded before mourning the dead," the monk told him.

    Together they walked into the Ranger station and past Walt into the infirmary. Their arrival coincided with Doctor Barbara striding down the hall in the long gait professional hurry. They entered together.

    Captain Milton held up his severed arm. "Look what I found, can I keep it," he asked in attempted humor though he sounded very tired.

    "Someone be a dear and take that arm from the child before he breaks something else, again," requested the doctor, moving past him.

    "Isobel is a priority I think," suggested Milton. "She''s lost an eye and possibly has brain trauma."

    "Henry Milton. I don''t tell you how to do your job, don''t you tell me how to do mine," the doctor snapped. Her voice was emotional but she was already attending Isobel.

    Milton just shrugged the harsh response off and smiled at the monk, "Rent! You''re an absolute monster. Not a shape shifting joke, I swear." He inhaled slowly, struggling against exhaustion, but with sincerity added, "Without you I would have lost more in there than I did. Thank you."

    "Not true," Rent deprecated. "Other than those pesky locks, I was just another body. That fire mage you have got saved us all more than once and that berserker is the real deal. All your men were great," deflected the monk, before adding, "Hampton was the true hero today."

    The room was quiet for a moment, except the sounds of the doctor and her staff using a variety of metal tools, alchemical and magical devices both, to affect recovery of the patients. Captain Milton gave a long drawn out sigh. "Bresburg, take care of the Brother''s cut. I want all this done before the City descends on us."

    "Yes, Sir," reliable Bresburg verbally saluted. "Six came back and under City rules as a private specialist-combatant that means you''re owed an eighth of the gains," the sergeant informed Rent.

    "We don''t need to do that now," protested Rent as he watched the bandages come off Isobel''s head.

    Bresburg shook his head. "Captain''s orders and the protocol is that everything gets checked in immediately. If we don''t get this done before city officials show up, they''ll try to take everything they can for redistribution. Do us a favor and help me avoid even more paperwork trying to get our cut back from them?"

    Rent acquiesced, "If it benefits your men."

    "Good. Thank you. Let''s replace your broken staff with that magic one we got off that chimeric caster. Is that acceptable," asked Bresburg.

    Rent put his hands out in refusal, "I can''t accept that, I lose everything. I''ll just forget it at some tavern."

    "We don''t stock staves as equipment," Bresburg admitted, rubbing the back of his head. Bresburg''s hair was a wild testament to the inescapable reality of helmet hair. "If you don''t take it the city will and it will probably end up in some closet at the Wizard''s college."

    Rent glanced at Harding and piqued, "Why aren''t you carrying a weapon, don''t you know it''s not safe outside the temple?" Harding''s objection was cut off by Rent, "Come to think of it, inside isn''t safe either if you''re hungry."

    Harding sighed, "Sir, you were using my staff."

    "That pathetic twig was yours," he exclaimed in shock. "Sergeant, can I pass it to the boy here? He''s homeless and destitute.¡±

    Harding blinked, "Sir, I live at the temple."

    They both ignored him.

    "Do what you want with it. Regulations won''t let us sell stuff for the fallen''s families, but private parties can sell their share for profit. It¡¯s why the City scavenging aggrieves us all so much, we know that stuff ends up on the market."

    Bresburg looked over at the big man holding Isobel¡¯s head still while the doctor was cleaning the wound around her missing eye. He turned back to Rent, ¡°We picked up seven godseeds. While technically not an eighth, let us send one with you too. Rangers can only earn one per tour. Either you take one or the City claims it.¡±

    "I¡¯m pretty sure I saw a duplicate duplicate pulled from that swamp troll. If that isn¡¯t blocking one of yours from a set, then I am obviously inclined towards a gift of Okkor," replied the monk.

    Bresburg looked over at Captain Milton who nodded assent while the trunk of his severed arm was smeared with a thick coat of a pungent grease-like substance along the exposed inside. The whole room quickly was engulfed in the smell. The big man murmured softly, "Any troll is a mean thing, but who crafts a weapon and armor for one?"

    "Seen it before. Nothing else we saw in there was a river monster though, perhaps it was living in the ruins before the infestation," speculated Rent.

    "It''s dead now, however it got there. Samuel, fish out that duplicate seed for the fine Brother here," instructed the Captain. Harding noticed that Bresburg had drifted over to the packs and was now rummaging through bundles of materials.

    "Yes sir, as soon as I can," he said, still holding the passed out Isobel''s head as the doctor inserted what looked a lot like a miniature chicken egg into the empty eye socket. Doctor Barbara meticulously set it, then focused for a moment. Harding sensed the smallest hint of spirit movement in the air. She then reached over and grabbed some gauze. "Lift up her head a little," she told Samuel. When he did, she placed a thin, wooden tray over the eye and then wrapped Isobel''s head with the gauze to hold it all in place.

    Once Samuel was excused by the doctor, he walked over to one of their packs. He reached in, rummaged around and pulled out a vividly blue godseed. It looked like Harding¡¯s practice voidseed, but there was a thin copper band around it and inside the glass swirled a dense cloud of bright blue gas. It emitted light making the whole sphere give off the faintest haze of blue light. Samuel handed the godseed to Bresburg who then returned to them with the staff and seed.

    "For you, Sir," he said as he presented the items to Brother Rent.

    "Thank you," Rent returned as he took the items. "You''ve a good future Bresburg. I''m no seer but I''ve been around enough to know a well run crew. Those are the kind that make something of themselves."

    Rent addressed the room, "I wish you an uneventful recovery, one and all.''''

    "You and your squire there are welcome anytime," Captain Milton informed them as his wife pressed his severed arm to the stump, holding it as the grease on one interacted with the grease on the other with a faint cloud of steam. "Ah, I think I''m going to pass out, good night folks. Bresburg, take the helm," woozed Milton.

    "Don''t you dare move until I''m done," warned Doctor Barbara.

    Rent laughed. "Goodnight," he offered again and shepherded Harding out of the station.

    Standing outside, in the lamplight, Harding inspected the staff. It was solid and smooth, sealed with some kind of charcoal colored finish that was neither slick nor tacky. Each end was shod in round iron caps that had crisp edges and subtle flanges. Despite looking like raw iron, there was no sign of oxidation in the caps. To Harding it looked well made, but in no way obviously magical. "Brother Rent, thank you. I didn''t want to interrupt inside, but I really appreciate you looking out for Alina."

    "No problem. You''ve been a good page so far. Question is, have you decided," he asked.

    "Decided what," Harding responded absently as he turned the staff over.

    "You''re debating what you are going to do in the future," explained Rent.

    Harding shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stared off at the gatehouse. "It''s that obvious," he asked.

    Rent chuckled, "Oh yeah." He put a hand on Harding''s shoulder and turned him up the street towards the temple. "You''ve spent more time here than you have at the temple in the last day. It''s pretty obvious. Then again, perhaps I recognize it because I went through this struggle too."

    Is that the sunrise starting to lighten the sky?

    They started walking up the street together at a slow pace as Rent counseled, "My advice, don''t rush the decision. Everyone''s out there right now, trying to be the next big thing. They''re defining themselves while they''re still ignorant of the possibilities."

    Harding nodded to himself. He wanted to fight, he would need to fight, but he''d seen stuff today that made him question what was right for him. Gathering more experience wouldn''t hurt, but neither would investigating his options. One thing was tugging at his mind though.

    "Brother Rent, thank you for the staff. I really appreciate it. They called it ''magic'', what does that mean," he asked.

    ¡°That it¡¯s magic.¡±

    ¡°But does it do something?¡±

    ¡°It magically acts as a staff.¡±

    Harding rolled his eyes.

    ¡°What does that mean though?¡±

    ¡°Wrong question. The right question is how to use it.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, fine, that.¡±

    Damn I¡¯m tired¡­

    Rent started over, ¡°Bob taught you how to key, correct?"

    "What do you mean key," asked a confused Harding.

    "Oh boy, you definitely should spend more time at the temple.¡±

    Harding glared.

    The monk warned, ¡°There''s thousands of swordsmen out there. Some of them have been training all their lives, they''re fully seeded and have the body of an ogre. You aren''t going to compete with them at their game.¡±

    If you''re not the best, all over again.

    Rent continued, ¡°If you¡¯re not on a good team, you¡¯ll be crushed. So what are you going to bring to a good team that they need? Leaving the temple ignorant and unskilled won''t help you any, just get you killed while being surrounded by fools."

    They''d reached the start of the hill up to the temple and Rent stopped and faced Harding. "Take the staff in your hand. Reach out with your spirit body and explore it. As with your body, do not assume the staff¡¯s physical surface is immutable.¡±

    Harding tried to reach inside it but accomplished nothing. As he did so, Rent guided him, ¡°Think of it like a voidseed. You¡¯re not trying to penetrate it. Instead merge with it and feel it as though it is part of you. Just flow wit-¡­ yes, there, you¡¯ve got it.¡±

    Harding could see nothing different.

    ¡°The interior borders should feel¡­ squishy,¡± Rent added. ¡°Solid, yet hollow. A thin sleeve of resistance wrapped around a racing core. It should be easier to flood the middle than to penetrate the edges."

    Harding looked at the monk in confusion. "I did it, but I don''t understand what that does or how that makes the staff magical."

    ¡°You¡¯re on the right track, but asking the wrong questions again. Magic items don¡¯t do magic, they¡¯re optimized for magic. They¡¯re inanimate objects and therefore cannot have their own magic.¡± He paused, lips pursed. ¡°Well, except when they do, but that¡¯s a whole other thing.¡±

    Harding rolled his eyes and tried again. He hadn¡¯t ever tried to have his spirit interact with a mundane item and lacked comparison, but the staff felt aggressively responsive. As he tried Rent chuckled while watching him and added, ¡°They essentially took a select type of wood and cored it hollow, then filled it with some spirit-affinity material. Some kind of soft metal most likely, so it doesn¡¯t break when flexed. The really nice ones have braided cores. Extra durable. The caps do improve it as a weapon, but they are just there to cover up the ends. It''s the core that allows it to affect the spirit realm.¡±

    ¡°Spirit realm? So they¡¯re good against ghosts,¡± Harding asked absently as he moved the staff back and forth while trying to feel how his spirit awareness shifted with it. He winced, realizing he had repeated Arnold¡®s day one question.

    ¡°No. Well, yes actually, but no,¡± Rent sighed. ¡°Have you done any studying? Next class, ask Roberts what Spirit means, just don''t tell him I said to ask."

    Harding smirked at the obvious trap.

    Rent continued his instruction, seemingly enjoying the change of pace. "Engulf the staff again and retract it, like you¡¯re pulling the staff inside of you. Will it to be insubstantial. Make its physical manifestation simply part of your spirit body. "

    Harding tried a few times, feeling like an idiot as he unconsciously wiggled the staff with his effort. It slipped a few times from his hands even, but there were few people on the early morning street to watch his failure.

    And then it just disappeared.

    "What, woah, where''d it go," asked Harding excitedly.

    "Where were you pulling it," was Rents response.

    "Inside me," Harding replied hesitantly. "Wait, no way, I put a giant staff inside me?"

    Rent choked. "None of my business what you do with it¡­"

    Harding''s facial response made Rent laugh harder. "Ok, concentrate on the staff appearing in your hand."

    Harding focused, but nothing happened. He tried again and again, becoming panicked at the lack of success. "What if it''s stuck in me," he worried.

    Rent laughed harder.

    "Your problem isn''t technique, it''s belief," he diagnosed.

    Frustrated, Harding retorted, "What''s religion got to do with it?¡±

    "Despite the fact you''re using divinely gifted magic in manipulating your spirit body''s manifestation to write over the laws of the physical world? Oh, absolutely nothing,¡± he chortled. ¡°You just fundamentally misunderstand faith. That seems to be your major hurdle, you think you know things and that limitation prevents you from exercising actual will. Don''t act like you want it to happen, assume absolutely that it already has."

    Harding tried a few more times, then looked at Rent with frustration. "It''s fine,¡± Rent assured him, ¡°You''ll get it eventually. You''ve got limited storage but it won''t hurt anything to be in there for a while. The ability to store and retract something from the spirit body is fundamental Spiritualism. Nothing major, mind you, just technically it''s a form of spirit manipulation. You''ll see it a lot with powerful shapeshifters. They store all kinds of nasty surprises inside their spirit gates. How do you think an animal-form shifter keeps his gear?"

    Harding glared. "So I swallowed this staff into my spirit and can''t get it out as an object lesson about a side-ability some people find useful?"

    "Yep," Rent grinned, the tip of his tongue in his teeth. "Don''t worry, it''ll shake out¡­ eventually."

    Rent waved them forward and started walking again. Harding followed trying to produce the staff as they went. When they arrived at the gates into the temple, Harding finally asked the question he dreaded the most, "Alina is dead. Is she gone forever?"

    Is the game that hardcore? Bart? Alina? Surely I would have heard if that were true.

    "She is dead, yes, but death is just a phase of existence."

 Chapter 5

    -Joshua-

    The morning light had already been seeping into his apartment when Joshua had finally crawled into bed last night. He''d been up far too late and felt a little ill. After writing an email to his boss explaining that he was taking a sick day he crashed hard.

    It wasn''t quite two when he gave up trying to sleep more. Joshua gave himself a thorough cleaning and then his place a cursory one. After a meal of the remaining leftovers, he messaged Brandon. Brandon replied right away and they shared their frustration at their in-game separation. Despite vowing to fix it, Brandon said he couldn''t play that night.

    Joshua was trying to schedule them meeting on Saturday when Brandon stopped replying. Joshua was left waiting for confirmation as to where and when, eventually deciding to no longer wait for a reply.

    Sliding into the recliner''s embrace, he powered up the ISR box. He hung there until it caught before slipping into phase with the waves. Joshua surfed the logos, carving with speed towards Life.

    -Loader-

    The awareness-loading phase was a pulsing stream of familiarity. Known sensations curling over the shore of consciousness rapidly. The same insects buzzed, the same bird sung, the same tree stood sentinel. As with every other time he loaded, he walked to the tree.

    He didn¡¯t see it. Not at first.

    Leaning against the tree was a dark gray staff. Iron shod and familiar, he started to reach for it but stopped himself. He did not know exactly what this place was, nor what the effect would be if he took it. It seemed safe here. Safe for him and safe for it. It bothered him though, this intrusion upon his world. It didn''t matter that it was his missing loot, it had got there somehow besides him. Which meant something else could access his place.

    The anxiety seemed foolish, he already knew the system monk had access. Surely it was fine and the mental itch was just paranoia. Not without a few hesitations, he put his hand to the tree and not the staff.

    Life let him in.

    -Harding-

    Harding¡¯s first action was to find Brother Richards. The emotional weight of the last day had lessened, leaving only a few crumbs of anxiety in the corners of his mind where time had yet to sweep. The lingering injuries had subsided too, though sudden facial movements still pulled skin against strangely. The wounds were still red and a bit puckered but they no longer leaked. Though now he had a migrating bruise.

    Quality of care mattered.

    After a lengthy search, Harding found Brother Roberts on the north side of the temple in the Solar garden. Tufts of tall grasses dotted the garden to add contrast to the display of the mineral diversity. Though the garden was predominantly made from stone, the main feature of the garden was a long and narrow pool in its middle. The water shimmered in the sun between the many large stones that broke the surface. The monk he sought sat in meditation on the flat top of one of these stones, the water flowing slow and silent beneath him. As Harding stood on the edge of the waterwork, he peered down into the water to see shadows slowly prowling in the chest-deep water.

    Not wanting to disturb Brother Roberts, Harding stepped across a few stones and mimicked the monk''s position in silence on his own stone. He turned his focus to the boundaries of his spirit body once more. Harding practiced pushing his spirit out, each time stretching the edge in an attempt to reach further. Over the many repetitions it developed into a pulse. His spirit slacked and strained rhythmically, shivering within its limitations.

    Harding started with a sudden panic.

    Something foreign had slid through his spirit, alive and seeking. He was still trying to work out the cause when another shadow passed through. Harding gasped quietly and retracted his spirit body.

    "Interesting methodology," smirked Brother Richards. Harding could hear his amusement. "But it''s cruel to tease them so."

    "Tease who?"

    "Whom."

    "What?"

    "Fish."

    "I''m lost¡­"

    The monk chuckled before explaining, "The fish. They sense the light spirit density and investigate in hopes of food."

    "Oh, Ok. Spirit density? You mean because I''m weak," he asked.

    "Not weak, diffused.¡± Brother Roberts paused to think before suggesting, ¡°Imagine pulling at the edge of fabric. The weave stretches, opening up space between the threads. You are doing something similar with your spirit body."

    "And you can see that?"

    "Something like that."

    "And if I push less it will be denser?"

    "Maybe,¡± the monk tentatively offered. ¡°It was a simplification. You''re pushing hard at the boundary, but not engaging through it with the deeper reserve of your spirit. You clutch tightly onto your core."

    "Let me guess," sighed Harding. "I need to loosen up."

    Brother Roberts smiled. "That is one aspect of life you have yet to learn. However, it is not the sole factor in this."

    "What else is wrong," groused Harding.

    "Not wrong, just different," the monk assured him. "You have changed your shaping intent."

    "My shaping intent?"

    "Mmm, just so. Why must you flex in a uniform sphere?"

    "What do you mean?"

    "You''re pushing a hard edge in all directions at once,¡± the monk explained, making an expanding sphere with both hands. ¡°But while you do this, you are tightly clutching most of your spirit at its core,¡± he closed one hand to a fist and hid it inside the expanded other hand.

    "How do I¡­"

    "Reach for a specific point," Brother Richards guided. "You did this instinctively when working with the voidseed. In practicing without the focus, you have resorted to uniform expansion."

    Harding grimaced. With intent he tried to reach down to the bottom of the pool specifically. It took a couple tries to break his developing habits, but he could feel success taking shape.

    "Good," his teacher acknowledged. "You''re still holding back though. To use the metaphor of the spirit body being magical lungs, you are holding your breath. This will be detrimental in time. Instead, breathe naturally. "

    Harding failed.

    Harding exhaled in exasperation, "With my lungs or my spirit body?"

    Brother Roberts shrugged, ¡±Control comes from experience. First, you must experience."

    Harding playfully sneered. Resetting himself, he tried again. With each exhale he reached out.

    "Mmm. Like that, but let yourself sink through the stone instead of combating the distance with your mind," he suggested.

    Again, Harding recentered himself and just tried to relax until he sank. It was nearly a minute before he realized he felt lower. He kept going, trying not to become too excited nor focused. The more focus given the exercise the worse the result would become. With each exhale he slipped lower until he felt the bottom of the pool.

    "Do not fight yourself," the monk counseled, "Accept."

    Harding opened his eyes, having no recollection of closing them. The exercise felt weird. "What is happening when I exhale?"

    "Magic."

    "I can do magic without a godseed?"

    The monk hesitated. "Yes, however, it is unlikely to be what you imagine. These skills are the same actions as what is used to operate a godseed, but without the godseed¡¯s divine authority you have little sway on reality."

    This has to be the most frustrating control system ever¡­

    Harding attempted to throw more spirit behind it while trying to not push. It seemed contradictory but he complied.

    Brother Roberts knows what he''s talking about, I just need to keep at it.

    He began repeating the effort. Over and over, just letting it all flow. The fish beneath scattered, their perceived prey having turned to a predator in their eyes as the level of spirit sharply increased.

    "You''re still holding back," Brother Richards observed.

    Harding argued, "But I¡¯ll die if all the spirit leaves me."

    The monk snorted. "For all the casters, in all their desperate needs, there has never been a known case of death by self-ejection of spirit. I think you''re safe."

    Feeling foolish, Harding tried it again. Even knowing it was improbable didn''t fully alleviate his reticence.

    "A slight improvement. You should keep up your practice, however class starts soon," Brother Roberts informed him, looking towards the entry to the temple.

    Harding requested, ¡°Can we do more of this later?¡± His time in the garden felt more fruitful than all the class time.

    The monk smiled. "You are the first of this wave of classes to ask for more work instead of more answers."

    That wasn¡¯t an answer¡­

    Brother Roberts walked off but turned to look back from the entryway. "Don''t harass the fish too much when you practice. And don''t be late."

    With that he walked away.

    Left alone, Harding attempted to slap the bottom of the pool a few more times and then quit for class. He was unaware of how much time he had sat there, but he found it a little difficult to stand. His legs felt numb and his skin was hot. He suspected it had been longer than he had experienced.

    Somehow Harding got to class before Brother Roberts. Sabina and the group were already sitting on the grass in the shade of the great tree. He could hear them chatting from across the garden. The loss of Alina was already diminishing for them.

    Maybe she just quit. Someday, we all will.

    As Harding walked up Randal waved. Sabina looked up and smiled, then motioned for him to take a seat. "So, like I was saying," she continued, "I think today''s class should be short. Let''s go to town after."

    "I heard there is a Dueling Arena that I want to check out,'''' interjected Arnold. "A friend told me that bleacher seats are really cheap but that you can still see well."

    Sabina replied, "I was thinking we should explore."

    "Like death matches," Ed asked with trepidation, anxiously playing with the grass.

    Randal nodded, "The fights are to the death, but they have a giant artifact that rezes them right there."

    Arnold looked to Randal with renewed interest, "You''ve been then?"

    "We could shop for weapons too," offered Sabina.

    "Yeah, I go down there almost every night," admitted Randal.

    Harding hesitated before asking, "What happens when you die, like normally?"

    Everyone stopped and looked at him. "That''s kinda dark, also that arena sounds gross," declared Sabina.

    "I hear you go to hell when you die, like actual hell," murmured Arnold. No one had experience to add.

    Sabina turned out to be correct about class. Brother Roberts had them practice and then moved about class observing and correcting. With a voidseed loaned to him from Brother Roberts¡¯ personal collection, Harding demonstrated the first lesson and then the second. He''d been slowly getting it, but the day''s work in the Solar garden had been a real breakthrough. He still had to dial in his control, but he was starting to feel some progression.

    After going through the exercises appropriate with each student¡¯s learning the monk addressed them as a class. "Classes will resume on Monday at our usual hour. Next week will be the last of this class. From there we will review your many options for further elucidation. Enjoy your weekend."

    They quickly ate the bland fare of the temple and exited the grounds.

    The arena was called the Grinder. It was a massive brick building that had once served as a mill along the river. Whatever industrial might it once supported had died leaving it a structural corpse. An unnecessary edifice of a past era.

    Outside of the entrance was a large bulletin showing when it was open to the public and the price for that night. Friday''s listing on the bulletin was ¡®Duels Ladder¡¯ in chalk.

    Inside there was a foyer that ran the length of the building. It opened the full height of the building, being constructed between interior support walls. Considerable space had been allotted to a grand coffee shop where a crowd loitered. The space smelled of freshly ground coffee which was an appreciated change from the city¡¯s stretch. The baristas were doing rapid sales to both event goers and circulating street traffic. Other vendors filled in the remaining space, offering sundry refreshments and trinkets. These merchants used makeshift stands giving it a feel somewhere between a bazaar and a bake sale.

    A few quick stops at vendors found Randal purchasing a warm bag of seasoned nuts while Arnold had bought assorted taffies. Drinks required you to bring your own container, which they happily sold separately, so the group opted to skip it today.

    There were two short tunnels connecting the foyer to the main concourse. Both were lined with ticket booths that were little more than barrel tops utilized as tables. They bought their tickets and passed through without event.

    Inside the middle expanse was a square, maybe eighty feet per side, of densely packed sand. Bleachers ran from around the square up the walls with only a walkway between them and the arena square. Posts stood every ten feet or so along the edges of the arena, made from little more than a cluster of wire-bound pipes.

    High along the walls hung a collection of private suites. They were open fronted, but equipped with heavy privacy curtains. Most were open and vacant. No walkways were apparent from the arena floor to the stands.

    The group hunted for good seats in the bleachers. Arnold''s excitement was evident. When they were seated, he actively looked about, eyes wide as they soaked in the atmosphere. His enthusiasm was representative of the majority of the crowd, a growing press of eager anticipation. The throng had an energy Harding hadn''t felt since first landing in the city. Harding found the concept of the arena interesting and definitely wanted to see how combat-centric people were developing, but he had some trepidation about his possible reaction to the likely level of violence and gore. In contrast to Arnold was Ed, who wore heavy anxiety in place of excitement.

    Sabina ignored the setting.

    "Class is going to end next week," she lamented to them.

    Arnold was huddled with Randal, in their own conversation. "Are there rules," he inquired of Randal.

    Harding consoled Sabina, "This is just the introductory course. There will be many more classes and new classmates."

    "Really," Sabina asked Harding hopefully.

    "Not really,¡± Randal informed Arnold, ¡°It''s to disability or death. Otherwise, the fights are in groups by seed level.¡±

    Arnold had his definite interest, "Powers seem cool, but I heard winning fights is all about establishing solid technique."

    Randal leaned forward to look past Harding at Sabina, "It''s why our robes are brown."

    "What is?"

    Harding listened in with interest.

    "We aren''t part of the temple."

    "But we live there."

    "We do but we aren''t dedicated to Okkor. We haven''t even started with the real stuff."

    "Oh. You''re going to stay right?"

    "Yeah, for sure."

    Harding didn''t know his future, but he was looking to make a change. He couldn''t accept inability. His vulnerability felt more of a wound than his face. And he wasn''t alone. He knew Arnold was going to start night classes, but he hadn''t ever heard him say anything to the rest. Randal being at the arena every night made Harding doubt he was looking for permanent temple tranquility either, no matter what he said.

    Harding eyed the pylons along the arena. Randal had said they were part of the magic barrier system and that sitting close was safe. Voidseeds we''re supposed to be safe too, however.

    Harding harbored skepticism.

    "Hey Randal, how effective are these protective barriers really," he asked.

    "Pretty good? I''ve only seen them break a couple times. "

    "You''re kidding."

    "Nah, it can happen. But it''s not a big deal."

    "How''s that not a big deal?"

    "Eh, barriers weaken most spells. The distance from the center to the crowd diminishes most spells too, so anything that breaks through is reduced to a tickle."

    "... And if it didn''t?"

    "We''re inside the Soul Net. Only way it would be a real problem is if the spell took out more people than the artifact could handle."

    ¡°Which is how many?¡±

    Randal shrugged.

    A troupe of jugglers in flamboyant outfits ran out tossing all manner of things into the air to amuse the crowd while the arena staff prepared. Harding noted one juggling branded coffee mugs before he switched his focus to watch the staff working with the pylons.

    All the while he casually listened to the group.

    Arnold shared what he had read of the arena. "I heard some big adventure guild bought out the arena and that they''re currently transitioning everything to a new format."

    "Yeah, but asymmetrical fights aren''t a ticketed event yet," confirmed Randal. ¡°Neither are monster fights. Not sure how they¡¯ll manage that to be honest, I just know they want to.¡±

    The jugglers bowed to mark the end of their routine. The crowd had been filling in all the while and the bleachers were mostly full. The crowd clapped loudly for the jugglers. Some guy started whistling so loud it hurt Harding''s ears.

    There''s always one.

    Out came a man dressed in a black formal suit over a rusty sienna shirt. With no apparent device, but through obviously artificial empowerment, the man yelled, "Ladies and Gentlemen. As your humble host, I, Percival Thad, have the pleasurable duty to provide to you the following spectacle of supreme skill. Heroic combatants in harrowing close quarters, giving none!"

    The crowd roared. Harding watched the pages as they ran around the combat area in last minute duties. Besides last minute alignment of the metal barrier rods, the preparation seemed to consist of a couple lads affixing flags to the uprights while the others groomed the sandy floor. Some of the flags were solid, others made with highly contrasting patterns.

    "What are those for," Harding asked Randal between the end of the crowd roar and beginning of the announcer''s next speech.

    "What are wh¡­," Randal started, looking around. "Oh, the flags. They tell the fighter where to go. They don''t know which corner or who they''re going to fight until they walk out," he explained.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The announcer was ending his next speech, "... in their fight to the death!"

    He went on to call out names of combatants, none of which meant anything to Harding, as eight fighters streamed out from the side gate and into the arena as a single group. If he didn''t know they''d respawn and that they were probably getting great training from this, the barbarism would be too much for Harding¡¯s sensibilities.

    There was a wide variety of equipment being employed. One was wearing a heavily plated lamellar while armed with a greatsword. Another wore a bright argyle tunic and something akin to a kilt, armed with a hammer and stiletto. A third looked to be wearing a leather duster with a saber on his hip. The rest seemed fairly standard fare for the period, wearing heavier than light and lighter than heavy armor.

    "Why no full plate or whatever," Harding inquired.

    Randal enlightened him, "Fighters get rezed, gear doesn''t. Between ladder fights and all their practice, it''s too expensive. Even with a lot of fighters having patrons, cost dictates equipment."

    "Fighters, ready," shouted the gregarious Percival Thad. The fighters raised an arm.

    "Technicians, ready," he shouted next. Each page raised an arm in signal, while the fighters lowered theirs.

    "Barriers up," he yelled enthusiastically.

    With an audible crack, nearly translucent walls sprang into being. They both enclosed the square and subdivided it into rectangles. Harding realized that until that moment, the fighters weren''t sure which direction they''d be engaging.

    "FIGHT," screamed the announcer with vigor.

    Each fighter had his own pace and strategy, but with four fights going at once even those with slower approaches felt hectic. Spectators had to constantly try to watch for which engagement would explode in action next.

    When a fight happened the clash was brutally quick. The heavily armored greatsword caved in an attempt to block it before pivoting and dragging the blade up their opponent''s breastplate in a cross-draw. The move opened the defender¡¯s throat. His opponent grabbed at the wound reflexively and Heavy reversed again, hips pivoting back as the blade windmilled into a downward angled strike and decapitated him.

    Kilt went up against a helmeted giant of a man in a crude mail over leather who was armed with a spear and shield. Kilt moved fast and managed to get inside the spear, hooking the shield with the hammer and plunged the stilleto up into the Giant¡¯s shield arm while sliding to the outside to avoid the spear. Kilt¡¯s success was short-lived though as the size and strength of his opponent proved too much. Giant, having regained his composure, pushed Kilt backward with the shield. He then rapidly followed up with the flat of the shield into Kilt''s face. Even with Kilt defending against it with arms raised, the blow knocked him over. Giant brought the bottom edge of the shield down on Kilt¡¯s chest as he simultaneously dropped to his knee over Kilt. It wasn''t flashy, but Kilt convulsed and looked up wide eyed. Giant put the spear¡¯s upper haft against Kilt''s throat and dragged the spear away, opening up Kilt¡¯s throat in a bloody wound. The crowd cheered, but Harding noticed Giant wince with each movement of his injured arm.

    Harding missed the third fight completely, but both had been longswords, and the exchange had left one brained and the other shaking a gauntleted hand lightly as he looked around.

    All attention was on Duster, who fought a mace and shield armed man in a drab gambeson. Duster kept his distance, stretched out his saber as if to point it at the man then rotated, drawing a pistol from his off hand and firing it into Mace from a bladed stance. It hit Mace in the face and dropped him as if he just collapsed on himself. Harding was sure he had seen skull fragments fly as well as a spark on the barrier.

    Half the crowd roared, the other half booed as a cloud of smoke drifted indifferently. "A gun," Harding yelled to Randal. Randal just nodded.

    "SWITCH," yelled the host and the inner barrier walls crackled as they reformed. The new fights were now set. No break and again no knowledge of which way they were going.

    Duster spun towards an already charging Heavy. Harding had always assumed that armor would significantly slow a person. But Heavy didn''t lose even half a step. Duster dropped his pistol and drew another, firing in panic just before Heavy reached him. The shot hit Heavy¡¯s chest but appeared to have little effect. Heavy''s greatsword slammed into Duster''s hasty parry, but Heavy didn''t stop. They launched a shoulder into Duster''s chest, the follow through bringing fast moving metal into Duster''s chin. The impact caused them both to fall. Duster lay under Heavy, weakly batting his saber against Heavy¡¯s armored back. Trapped underneath, Duster beat the pistol against Heavy''s helmet frantically. Heavy''s head tilted with the blows, but they just laid there on Duster for a moment before rolling off. While Heavy raised to their knees, using their sword as a stabilizer against the ground, Duster attempted his own scramble to get to his feet. Heavy fell forward to plunge their sword into Duster''s side with their weight and thrust. Duster folded and writhed in agony until Heavy''s brutal work was finished.

    Meanwhile, Giant slowly circled with the surviving Longsword, who held it forward with both hands. They clashed with sudden violence, sword chunking loudly on the metal shield. Giant¡¯s injured arm sagged from the blow and Longsword followed up with a low swing into Giant''s knee just as Giant pivoted and brought the other knee up into the crotch of Longsword. Some of the vicious blow below was absorbed on his thigh, but enough connected to crumple Longsword.

    Meanwhile, Heavy got up slowly from their kill and swayed in place slightly. Heavy seemed concussed to Harding, but he was no expert.

    Giant took an awkward step forward and dropped his spear. Giant fell into a kneel over Longsword, they took visibly lacking balance. With both hands he pulled the shield back and brought the edge down on Longsword. Longsword''s attempt at a pommel strike redirected the shield into his clavicle. Giant tried again and drove the shield bottom into Longswords'' helmeted face. Giant beat longswords'' face with the narrow bottom edge of the shield three more times before reaching behind himself. Drawing his dagger, Giant thrust it into Longswords'' throat between his helmet and gorget. Hot blood on wet sand signaled the end.

    Giant looked down right before the announcer yelled, "SWITCH!¡± The yell and snap off barriers were so loud that it cut through the raucous crowd.

    Giant startled and looked up to see Heavy already in a headlong charge, sans sword. The flying tackle took Giant high and twisted him over his injured knee, which gave in a sickening twist. With Giant¡¯s shield trapped between them, Heavy beat their armored fists into Giant''s face. There was no finesse, nor was there a quick and artful conclusion. Just Heavy pounding and pounding as Giant struggled and jerked beneath them. Giant couldn''t get the dagger''s broad blade to find purchase before the brutal assault to their head ceased meaningful function.

    Eventually, Heavy took the dagger from Giant''s half open grip and began sawing.

    "Ugh¡­" moaned Ed.

    Harding glanced over to see Ed looking sick. The crowd roared and Harding looked back in time to see Heavy stand up with the battered-in helmet of Giant in their hand. It drained down Heavy¡¯s arm as they held it aloft. Harding heard Ed lose his stomach into the half eaten bag of nuts. Randal was oblivious to the soiling of his treat as he cheered.

    The announcer''s voice boomed, "Alexci von Rouin! Champion for the third week in a row!"

    There was a large crack and Harding looked back. It took him a moment to figure out what it was, but he realized Heavy had thrown the head at the crowd. It lay on the sand by the barrier, fluids sliding down the nearly transparent barrier. Harding looked over at Randal who was cheering wildly, then back at Ed. He yelled in Randal''s ear, "Going to take care of Ed, I''ll be back when I can."

    Harding led poor Ed out of the crowd and outside. "Why," Ed whined between breaths. Harding looked at him with a soft pity. "You were fine fixing my bloody ass," Harding pointed out in confusion.

    "It''s not the blood, it''s the-," and Ed turned aside and threw up again in the gutter. A couple walking by made an exhaled noise of disgust and took a wide berth around them.

    "It''s the violence," continued Ed, his chubby cheeks scrunched up, eyes closed and watering.

    "I''m sorry," replied Harding helplessly. "Do you think you''ll want to go back in," Harding asked dubiously.

    "Oh no. Never," vowed Ed.

    "Ok, that''s fine. I''ll walk you home then," offered Harding.

    "No. It''s ok. I can do it," claimed Ed.

    "We are friends. I''m not letting you walk back alone," Harding informed him.

    Ed nodded and walked with him. After some time he bemoaned, "I''m not sure I can be an adventurer. Not if it''s like that."

    "That''s fine Ed. You could map the coasts or¡­ write a book on game mechanics that actually made sense. Run a plastic surgery hospital. Whatever, I don¡¯t know, don''t limit yourself," encouraged Harding.

    "What about you,¡± Ed asked a little while later as they walked. ¡°What are you going to do?¡±

    Harding replied, "I don''t know yet, I¡¯m just following fate until I find an offramp I like."

    Ed grunted softly. As they came over the crest of the hill, they saw a familiar figure standing before the open gates looking into the temple.

    "Alina," yelled Harding.

    She turned and looked at them, then waited for them to approach. Harding ran to her, Ed trailing behind. Harding nearly hugged her, but restrained himself to sincerely professing, "Alina, I''m so glad to see you."

    Alina smiled faintly.

    "What have you been up to," asked Ed as he arrived. Harding and Alina stared at him. "What, she died like two days ago," he protested.

    Meekly Alina mumbled, "I went somewhere."

    "That''s fine, I''m just glad you''re back," Harding told Alina.

    Alina shrugged hesitantly, ¡°Maybe.¡±

    "Maybe back to the temple or¡­" Harding trailed off.

    "All of it. I don''t know what to do with my life and then I come here and I don''t know what to do with my life. Why make a world where you''re unsure of what to do? Why make all of¡­ that," she implored in sudden frustration.

    "I don''t know,¡± admitted Harding. ¡°Maybe it''s the price of freedom? You get to do what you want but that means there isn''t some authority telling you what to do. To have quest lines, leveling zones, classes, and that kind of thing you inherently have something telling you what to do. Some people want that and others don¡¯t. Just different needs I guess?¡±

    "What if,¡± ventured Alina, ¡°I don''t know what to want?"

    Harding shrugged with a soft frown, ¡°I don¡¯t know? But I suspect that you don''t figure it out by avoiding it. Why don''t you come inside and see Brother Roberts, he has been worrying about you. Oh, and meet Brother Rent. He went in with the team that finally recovered your body."

    Alina looked shocked, her eyes wide as her lips twitched. "They went for my body," she asked after a hesitation.

    "There were two big rescue attempts for you. It took them until the next morning to get to you."

    "To save me," Alina reiterated.

    "Of course. You¡¯re one of us," Harding told her. "Come inside and let them know you''re back at least, whatever you decide. Ok?¡±

    Alina nodded and followed them into the Temple in search of Brother Roberts.

    It was a couple hours before Harding made it back to the Grinder. He wasn''t sure how long the events went for, but he didn''t want to abandon the rest of them. Eventually Alina had logged off in her cell and Harding was very interested to see displays of magic. It was weird to him that the world was supposedly full of magic and gods, but he hadn¡¯t seen any after three days. Magic that is, not gods.

    Maybe a demon?

    The noise from the Grinder was audible nearly a block away. The crowd was standing and cheering while Harding slipped down the row to where he had left the group. Harding could see flashes of light and hear the clash of combat, but navigating the standing spectators took his concentration. By the time he had made his way to Randal, things had ended on the floor and the audience had reseated themselves.

    Hmm, Arnold and Sabina are missing¡­

    From a quick glance, Harding could see a couple of pages were dragging off a body. Another page trailed after them carrying half of an arm. A very large man sat on the sand, legs crossed. He was covered in blood but didn''t seem concerned.

    Harding leaned in to Randal to try not to yell in his ear, "What I miss?"

    "Everything," Randal yelled while maintaining focus on the man on the sand. The crowd noise started to die down and the colorful Percival Thad walked back out. "And now, for the match you''ve all been waiting for," he said with an intentionally dramatic pause. He pointed at the man sitting in the sand, oblivious to the crew grooming the arena. "Cedrick Long, Archon of the Burning Sands against our previous victor¡­"

    Again he paused for effect, as a woman in a combination of copper colored armor and a cape of midnight blue. She was hawkish in features, almost gaunt, and had her raven hair pulled back tight, "Isabelle of the Crippled Heart, reigning Grinder Champion!¡±

    "Seriously, the last fight," Harding miffed.

    "You were gone for hours," Randal responded with a skeptical side glance.

    "Yeah, well, Alina is back and that took priority. I''m coming back here next week with you though," Harding told him.

    Randal nodded towards the arena as the fighters squared off. Unlike the other matches, these fighters didn''t rush. Harding could feel little eddies of spirit. There were no grandiose visuals, no arcane hand gestures or shouted chains of words. Just deadly intent.

    They''re defensively buffing maybe?

    Isabelle left her cape outside the arena, revealing that she was carrying a simple arming sword. She drew it and discarded the sheath on top of her cape. Harding could see a dagger sheathed at her waist, but nothing else. Cedrick had a simple staff which had been planted into the sand next to him since Harding had arrived.

    Percival went through the fight initiation sequence. Fighters were ready and so were the technicians, but none so ready as the crowd.

    Harding was aware of a flash of spirit energies, repetitions of small ones and a few larger ripples intermixed. Yet still nothing was visible except a growing heat distortion coming off Cedrick. It was the first magic duel he had witnessed and if he wasn''t trained in being spirit-aware he''d think they were just staring each other down.

    There is no way the crowd even knows what''s going on¡­

    Perplexed, he asked Randal, "What''s going on?"

    Randal didn''t take his eyes off the fight, his reply a little distracted and distant, "Burn is a tough matchup for Isabelle''s Weaken, her powers are just fuel to him. They''re both buffing and bluffing."

    Worried he was that far behind, Harding asked, "You can see it?"

    "Nah. I know the spells and I''ve seen Isabelle fight."

    "So this crowd just stares at nothing?"

    "Right now it''s all core work. Like two bulls preparing to charge."

    Core work?

    "Couldn''t one just attack at any time," suggested Harding.

    "Yep. Exactly. That''s why they are taking their time. They could be casting a lot faster if they weren''t watching each other for spell eruption."

    "Eruption?"

    "You know, the way the energy lurches when they are casting. Eruption. Spellsign. Pop. Everyone''s got a different name for the invisible flash."

    That made sense to Harding, as it felt like they were both pumping spirit energy but not doing anything with it. It was the magical equivalent of competitive heavy breathing. Isabelle started a spell that was clearly more from the way it bulged spirit, but Cedrick didn''t bite and she canceled it out.

    And then she was gone.

    There was almost no eruption, just a little pop of an exhale. With a quick motion, Cedrick spun, grabbing the staff by the quarter and swinging it like a bat as he rotated.

    His swing passed through empty air.

    She was above him and falling fast in a crouch, feet first and sword in a reverse grip. Cedrick managed to side step most of it from allowing his momentum to carry him but he still took a long cut along the length of his right arm.

    Cedrick didn''t even inhale spirit, he just breathed it out through his left hand. Spirit spurt out a moment before it turned into a giant gout of flame over twenty feet long. The flame grazed Isabelle, but she had been running sideways and away as soon as she landed. Even as the flames reached out, she teleported again. Isabelle popped into being on the far side of Cedrick but as Cedrick reversed direction she was gone again and then back to her original position across from him.

    After all that, they were back to where they started.

    They both loaded up again, heavily inhaling spirit.

    How much spirit do they have to be pushing for me to feel it from here?

    Cedrick was faster and a double stack of fire rings shot out from him in a forward arc. It crashed over Isabelle and she was so bathed in fire that even her metal armor seemed to be burning. And yet that immolation didn''t disrupt her longer spell which splashed back at him less than a second later. Two visible spikes of dark blue light formed and raced towards Cedrick, slamming into him before he could react. They buried into him, pulsing dark light and waves of spirit.

    "Oh wow, brutal," Randal.

    It looked bad, but so did the fire. Cedrick reeled, his face a mask of pain and anger. He was staggering back as a still burning Isabelle rushed in, sword flashing. As mentally impactful as her attack had been though, Cedrick deflected the slash and then partially turned away her responding back draw. Still, she cut him across the chest.

    Cedrick stuck the staff out, using the end to keep Isabelle outside of her striking distance. After a couple of fast and firm buttend jabs at her, she backed off to circle once more. Cedrick was casting a quick spell over and over as he watched her, while Isabelle kept her breathing deep and regular while pacing slowly around him. The spikes in Cedrick dissolved revealing no physical holes. The flames on Isabelle extinguished, but smoke still wisped from the joints between the plates. The two fighters hovered a moment, like time had frozen to leave them on the edge of violence.

    Isebelle disappeared.

    She was to his side, just out of staff range with her sword raised. Isabelle was stepping into a lunge when Cedrick blew his giant flame at her. Isabelle wasn''t there though, she had teleported again even as she lunged, using her actual attack as a feint.

    From his left, still out of his reach she flashed her dual spike attack but without the long cast. Cedrick was struck and reeled. He fell to a knee gasping as the spikes embedded in him throbbed their dark light waves. Wracked with pain, he held up shaking hands and a sphere of fire grew to encompass him.

    Isabelle launched another flash-cast spike attack but the cruel projectiles hit the sphere and burned up. She backed up a few steps and stood watch, occasionally casting her spikes. Cedrick held the shield bubble and Isabelle tentatively probed it as they both stood still. Soon she was bent over gasping for actual breath as much as she was sucking spirit. Cedrick was just an obscured shadow in his burning cocoon.

    It was a stalemate.

    She kept launching the spike attacks at irregular frequency and he maintained the shield. She was burned and wounded, not nearly as unscathed as he had originally thought as her body posture was visibly flagging.

    "She''s got him and they both know it," Randal commented.

    "How can you tell," asked Harding, very confused by the whole display of powers. He had expected fireworks and while there had been fire, most of what he was picking up seemed to be through his own developed sensitivity to spirit energy.

    Isabelle maintained the stalemate while slowly closing the distance between her quick attacks. She paused to self-cast something, then stepped into reach of Cedrick and began to physically beat on his shield. Even though she was being continually burned by it, she ceaselessly pounded away at him. The flame bubble held, wavered, then released with a pop loud enough to be heard by the crowd.

    Cedrick had lost his strength.

    He was on his knees, facing her, and looked up as the bubble burst. His weak one handed swipe failed to redirect her thrust. Isabelle''s sword pushed through his throat, off center from his defense but not enough to ultimately matter. Blood pulsing out of the wound smoked and sizzled for a moment as magic baked off. She yanked her sword outward, cutting it free of him.

    Cedrick¡¯s body just remained there in a sagging kneel as the crowd went crazy. Randal and Harding were on their feet, as much in ovation as just trying to see. The body fell over, an empty shell abandoned.

    Isabelle sank to her knees, bent backwards and stared up at the ceiling as she fought for air.

    "Ladies and Gentlemen, your continued Champion, Isabelle of the Crippled Heart,¡± Percival announced just as the noise had started to fade.

    The applause renewed.

    Without the artificial amplification, no one would have heard Percival. Harding wondered if he''d sustained hearing damage. The bleachers themselves physically shook with concerning vigor from the cheering.

    My first death in-game will be this place collapsing.

    It was nearly half a minute before things started to settle. Pages came out and started dragging the body off. Percival approached a now standing Isabelle for an interview. "Champion Isabelle, four times in a row you''ve come out on top. What do you have to say," he asked in dramatic fashion.

    Obviously still winded from the fight, she leaned in and with a husky voice, "I''d like to thank Cedrick for the good challenge, it''s my privilege to have such fine competition.¡± She gasped audibly and then continued, ¡°I''d also like to thank the Eight Blossoms for getting me the opportunities to elevate myself to this point. People can talk to the guild reps about admissions tonight."

    "Any plans on the purse money," asked Percival in a conspiratorial tone.

    Isabelle laughed slightly, leaned into whatever must function as a mic and whispered loudly, "Burn ointment."

    Then she turned and walked off the arena, waving to the crowd. "Burn ointment, a wise investment," Percival Thad sagely observed.

    People were starting to leave. Harding looked at Randal, "Can you explain what happened?"

    "Yeah, sure.¡± Randal looked up a moment and then started, ¡°Like I said, Cedrick is a shitty matchup for Isabelle. His burn counters her cripple and he¡¯s a better technical fighter. She was losing until he panicked and threw up that shield. Super impressive as it was that he had a whole other spellform, it¡¯s just too energy intensive. It was over then unless he had something he hadn''t shown, and he didn''t.¡±

    Harding stared.

    What the fuck, how do they see this stuff and I don¡¯t?

    Randal further elucidated, ¡°He couldn''t let up to eat the debuffs with her constantly probing. My guess is she let up on the intensity too, basically shorting her attacks in power to keep him going and thinking she was wearing down too.¡±

    What am I missing?

    Harding cautiously asked, "She won by tricking him?"

    "Yep,¡± he chuckled. ¡°She tricked him into an endurance contest and then faked her side of it. And even then she still almost lost. Cedrick might be stronger and better skilled, but she''s devious and has more experience in the arena."

    Harding looked at the blood on the sand.

    "Are there ever just straight magic fights, or is it always going to come down to¡­" he waved his hand at the arena.

    "Martial combat here is almost always part of an even match." Seemingly understanding Harding, Randal confirmed his thoughts, "Eventually, we have to learn if we want to be able to fight. It''s just what order you learn things."

    Harding nodded to himself, glancing around the emptied bleachers. He observed, "You seem to know way more about this than anyone I''ve talked to."

    Randal got up and stretched his large frame. "I hang out here most nights. I''ve seen her fight like six times, plus some of her private practices since she''s an Eight."

    Eight? She said something about that¡­

    Harding stood too, ready to go.

    "You''re coming with me to the party, right," inquired Randal

    "Uh, party," Harding responded with his usual eloquence.

    "Yeah. An after party. Backstage. Free food. Meet the fighters. Whatever you want to call that stuff.¡± Randal explained, ¡°I have permanent access.¡±

    Randal laughed seeing Harding''s shocked response, "Yeah, you''re coming with me."

    How is he so far ahead?

    "Lead the way," Harding requested. He''d missed a lot of fights, but he had still learned so much. This place could be the opportunity to figure out his path. Randal led him down the seats and along the square to the tunnel where the fighters and pages came in and out onto the field. Several burly bouncers leaned against the doors, quietly chatting.

    "Hey Howie, how''s it," called out Randal as they approached.

    The largest living mass of muscle Harding had ever seen turned to them and grinned, "Randal! Heard you saw some action finally." Laughing, Howie shadow boxed a few jabs.

    "Don''t say it like that, Howie,¡± Randal complained. ¡°Besides, I didn''t. It was this guy here that got the kill."

    It feels like a lie.

    Everyone looked at Harding and Harding had no idea what to do. Howie looked over his face and winced, "They messed you up pretty good, huh kid?"

    Harding blinked before he realized the man''s conclusion. "This," he pointed at his face, "was a training accident. That stupid furry creature stabbed me in the ass with a spear."

    The other guard cringed and Howie roared, "I like this guy.¡±

    Harding said, "I only got one, the other two got away. I''ll get more next time."

    "That''s the spirit," grinned the gregarious Howie. "See you later Randal, we got training to do."

    Randal slapped Howie on his meaty arm, "Wouldn''t miss the pain for the world."

    Randal trains with Howie?

    And with that, they walked into the tunnel. It was a bit surreal to Harding, to walk into the dark tunnel that was the same passage as the victors walked after fights. And the corpses of losers were carried down. Two sides to the tunnel, two outcomes and two ends. Both ends glowed white in bright light, but for those couple moments it was all just a quiet darkness.

    Through the tunnel Randal turned off through a partially open door and led them down a flight of steps. They came out into a narrow hall with equally spaced doors. Down that hall and through another set of doors they entered a giant room, somewhat reminiscent of a warehouse. Harding realized they were under the foyer.

    The room was populated with training dummies and crudely made fitness equipment. However, chairs, tables and several kegs had been scattered around. On a side table a spread of some kind of cheese and meat topped bread that was neither pizza nor sandwich.

    People clustered in classic party fashion, little orbits of socializing that occasionally exchanged people from their fringes. Harding saw people in the crowds he was sure were fighters. Randal, though, led them on without pause though until he broke into the edge of his targeted circle.

    "Yeah, Maddie was pissed about it and clocked me but Anders was cool," said a broad shouldered, muscled blonde as she licked a fresh split of her lip. "It''s the kind of thing the guild is pushing though, they want us to add more hype to the unseeded fights. Next time she hits me she should do it on the sand."

    Harding thought she was moderately pretty, but her poise and assertiveness dominated the circle.

    "Randal,¡± she squealed and stepped forward and hugged him, lifting him off the ground for a moment. "Did you see it," she asked excitedly. Harding realized that, for the moment, the rest of the crowd didn''t exist to these two.

    "Was cheering you the whole way," smiled Randal once he was on the ground again. "Want you to meet someone, this is my classmate Harding. He''s a lost cause, but I''m taking care of him."

    She looked over at Harding and smiled, amused by Randal and gauging him at the same time. "Harding," said Randal, "this is my big sis, Alexci von Rouin."

    "Sister?"

 Chapter 6

    -Harding-

    The party had the same perfunctory energy as any other weekly party, but mercifully the food was markedly better than the temple¡¯s. It was entirely a planned weekly socializer, with the only celebration being that the public had increased ticket sales. Instead of jubilation, what made the experience exhilarating to Harding talking to the fighters. Several fighters had come in with martial arts backgrounds and were trying to translate it to the game with mixed success. A few were training with various npc factions, referred to collectively as associations, including a couple with the Eastgate rangers and one with the Ayr Army itself. The vast majority of the fighters though were members of several various guilds, a term reserved solely for player-made organizations.

    Of the guilds, the Eight Blossoms was the most represented in large part because they were the new owners of the Grinder. Members of The Empyrean Front and the Skullsworn were also common as they were the Eights¡¯ financial partners in the Grinder. Beyond the investment and beta guild status, what they had in common was that each was developing their own fighting styles and unit tactics.

    Harding learned that the associations trained well enough for their specific mission but lacked the broader skill sets. Effective techniques against another human were fundamentally different than against a chimera. Individual combat was fundamentally different from large group combat. The acquisition of both artifact and facility was primarily to facilitate that training, the public flights were just for offsetting the operating costs. And, for recruitment.

    What really shocked Harding was that the arena fighters weren''t the people crafting the new styles, those people watched from the suites to see aspects of their styles clash and expose issues. The arena fighters were the students of those innovators, learning as it was developed. Harding figured those masters must be even more impressive.

    There were some other guilds that had fighters and teams in the arena culture, but training time under the soulnet protection was limited and payment became significant quickly. From what Harding could gather, the Grinder was running nearly all hours of the day, whether the front door was open or not. As Randal had indicated the next challenge for them was figuring out how to include monsters, both for the ticket sales and the style adaptations.

    Though many questions remained for Harding, the night had passed. It was late and the party was winding down. Harding and Randal said goodbyes, the last of which was to Alexci. "Great job tonight sis, you''re really getting there."

    "Thanks, Rand. One more month of being unseeded and I''ll earn my first," she enthused. "Maybe I''ll even be a Duo by CombO."

    "You''ll do great regardless," Randal assured her.

    "When are you going to start training for real," Alexci ribbed Randal.

    "Hey, Howie''s training is intense," he defended. "But CombO is mostly for the older fighters. Besides, someone has to learn all this natural magic stuff."

    Alexci nodded in assent, "We do need that." Though it came as more of an automatic response and not a negation of her wish for her brother¡¯s increase.

    "What''s this combo," interjected Harding.

    Randal smiled, "Oh, it''s a tournament. The Combat and Arms Expo, technically. Fighters and teams are coming from all over the Empire for a massive faire. Merchants and tradesmen, too.¡±

    ¡°When is it,¡± Harding inquired with obvious interest.

    ¡°About three months from now. The Grinder will shut down for it but they might be able to transmit images back here? Like a massive divination ritual to let people watch from the stands."

    Harding furrowed his brow, ¡°Wow, I didn¡¯t know they had magic like that.¡±

    That doesn¡¯t sound like a godseed power.

    Turning to Alexci, Randal apologized, "We gotta go, see you tomorrow.¡± He hugged her and led Harding away.

    As the two walked the late night streets back to the temple Harding asked, "So are you just at the temple to learn for the guild?"

    "Sorta," hedged Randal. "I am super interested in Spiritualism and they didn''t say we couldn''t share what we learn."

    They walked on and Hearing mused on his uncertain future. Randal was correct about the lack of restrictions on their training, but Harding suspected that could change in the advanced classes. Harding hesitated, then shared, "I''ve been thinking about how long I want to stay. I don¡¯t know what I want to do? Being a wandering monk isn''t completely what I had in mind when I started."

    ¡°What did you have in mind?¡±

    ¡°To be honest, I didn¡¯t know? Came in ready to grab a sword and kill wolves.¡±

    Randal grunted, "Seems like the Okkor monks are treated like godseed technicians. I don''t know about you, but long-term I don''t want to be the magical help desk."

    Harding laughed.

    "You could apply for the Eights," suggested Randal.

    Harding hesitated, "We will see. I''m just watching paths open up, waiting for the right one."

    "Don''t wait too long,¡± warned Randal. ¡°They''ll lock recruitment and do a purge after a while."

    When they arrived at the temple, they went their separate ways. For the next hour, despite wanting to sleep, he worked on stretching the deeper parts of his spirit. It was mediative and a good end to a busy day.

    -Joshua-

    Joshua woke Saturday morning. As much as it defied logic, he felt well rested and excited for the day. Checking his messages, he found that Brandon had left him a time and location in game to meet up. The location was a pub called The Wandering Tom, Old Market and he would be the man in the yellow hat. His in-game name was Gregor Ein.

    Joshua spent the morning cleaning his apartment and getting a few groceries before crashing into the rig¡¯s recliner. He sat there a moment, aware he should probably do other things. But nothing seemed immediately pressing.

    He pressed the button.

    -Loader-

    The sun breathed heat on his skin, baking the early summer humidity from him as he stood in the sun. The awareness had loaded in a yet smoother roll. He just stood there for no reason other than to take in the world. Here there was tranquility, freely had and without interruption. His staff still stood leaning against the tree. The breeze shushing through the tall grass in soft sighs as if reality itself was autonomically breathing.

    His mood lifted by this taste of serenity, he touched the lonesome tree.

    -Harding-

    Harding had time to kill but no coin to burn, which is how he ended up in the Solar garden again. He threw his spirit body around in practice. Stretching and shaping; reaching and receding. He was hungry for that next breakthrough. Harding repeatedly pounded the bottom of the pool with his spirit until it was effortless.

    I can actually feel the contour of the bottom¡­

    The fish had long since scattered, driven away by his tempestuous spirit presence. Knowing that he needed to push himself, he changed the exercise and tried to reach laterally as the depth of the pool was no longer a challenge. Each progress further drove his intensity of effort.

    "Better," Brother Roberts casually commented from behind Harding.

    Harding started hard, his spirit body literally jumping out of his skin. "You''re lucky I didn''t fall in, sneaking up on me like that,¡± he exclaimed.

    "Hmm, it is not I who was lucky," Brother Roberts responded smugly.

    Harding scowled in jest and went back to practicing just to be interrupted again. "It is perhaps time you learn some finesse," Brother Roberts commented. "If you are going to harry the fish regardless, try to touch them without their notice."

    "Is a light touch harder?"

    "Perhaps. It is different. Both are necessary, what you breathe in must also exit."

    The further I get the more I discover I lack.

    Harding turned and looked at Brother Richards. The monk was crouched at the edge of the pool, wiggling his fingertips lightly in the water.

    He must be doing what he wants me to practice....

    Concentrating on the monk, Harding realized he could feel the monk''s spirit stretched out. Brother Richards'' spirit body was so subtle he hadn''t consciously been aware of it.

    If I can''t notice it until I intentionally look, am I really feeling it?

    "Brother, can spirit be seen," Harding asked suddenly. "At the arena last night, I could feel spirit. Or, maybe I couldn''t but thought I could? Terms like spellflash make it sound like I should be seen though, not felt."

    "Synesthesia," the monk speculated.

    "Is that what the spell eruption is called?"

    "No. It is when you interpret one sensation as another."

    "So I couldn''t actually feel it?"

    "How far away?"

    "Ah, seventy feet maybe?"

    "Through a throng of people and spell reverb, nearly impossible. It is an ability usually limited to close proximity."

    Spell reverb?

    Harding thought about it while Brother Roberts entertained himself by trying to entice the fish with his fingers. "But vision could be possible," he catechized.

    "Mmm, maybe," was the noncommittal reply as his teacher''s focus was on his spirit-noodling.

    "What''s maybe mean?"

    "Maybe means it is uncertain. Such vision can occur, but usually only as a result of select godseeds placed within the Third gate."

    "But I could maybe do it without?"

    "It has happened, though rare. And that distance seems unlikely in an, ah- untrained individual."

    Harding rolled his eyes, "Very diplomatic of you, Brother Roberts."

    "Such visionary development usually occurs as a result of a great epiphany. And, even then, with far less range," explained the monk. "Spirit Vision is one of the divine gifts of vision. It is impossible to replicate it through knowledge alone. It cannot be trained, only received."

    "One of the vision gifts?"

    "Along with Aura, Life, Magic, and others."

    "Auras?"

    "The coloration imposed on a spirit body by the divine influence of godseeds."

    Harding rubbed his head, hair hot from the sun, as he completed the monk-to-english translation. "Aura shows you what seeds people have? That seems like it should be spirit because it''s the color of the spirit body."

    "They are related. Life has Spirit. Magic is spirit translated by Will and Authority."

    "And I can see it?"

    "Unlikely. Can you see your own spirit body?"

    "No¡­"

    "Have you tried?"

    Harding had to think about it. Realizing he hasn''t ever specifically tried to see his own spirit body, he took the time to attempt it but saw nothing. He could definitely feel the body, but that made sense since it was part of him. Unless he had this sensory issue and he should be seeing it and not feeling it. After a few attempts and some awkward staring at nothing he gave up. He suggested, "Either I can see spirit but I''m experiencing¡­ synthia?"

    "Synesthesia."

    "Or," he concluded, "I''m just crazy."

    "Do not place upon yourself undo limitations. You could achieve both," the monk suggested in his typical warm sarcasm.

    "Asshole," chuckled Harding.

    Harding stretched and resettled himself to continue his attempts at developing stealthy spirit powers. As usual, he was only vaguely aware of time when dealing with spirit. When he realized he¡¯d been there longer than he had planned, he quit without any success. Brother Roberts had slipped away without him noticing sometime during his training.

    Harding, fearing being late to the rendezvous, tore out of the temple at a run. Intentionally ignoring the discomfort of the exertion and the scowl of the pedestrians he made it to the Old Market district''s Royal Exchange.

    Gregor had called it a pub, but it was as much a market as anything else. The building was a large three-story fieldstone affair that had more in common architecturally with a bank than a bar. Multiple doors and windows on the ground floor were open, some of them obviously added later in the building''s life where construction patterns suddenly changed. Inside was an enclosed open-air market, vendors selling food, drink, and variety. Crowds milled about browsing. People sat on stools, stacked bags and anything else that would support them as they ate or socialized. The crowd was noisy and the air smelled of hot food and rich spices.

    A sign in back led him up the stairs to the second floor. There he found the more he had expected, dark wood paneled walls and a singular doorway into The Wandering Tom. It was full of twisting walkways and dimly-lit corner rooms. Central to the pub was a large, rectangular bar. A broad brimmed yellow hat broke up the fairly uniform row of sitting patrons.

    Harding sighed and shook his head. Sliding onto the stool next to him, he chuckled, ¡°Hey Bran- Gregor, nice lid.¡±

    The young man looked over, his soft face rounding into a smile under the brim of his hat. ¡°Harding! Wow. You said you got hurt, but¡­ impressive.¡±

    Harding''s smile was a little redder, ¡°So you started playing Life to become a day drinker?¡±

    ¡°No, but it''s a welcome perk,¡± Gregor beamed proudly. ¡°Seriously though, not alcoholic.¡±

    Gregor poked the glass over towards Harding, ¡°Try it. It¡¯s an infused water beverage. My employer is investigating investing in the maker.¡±

    ¡°Employer, huh?¡±

    Harding took a swig, finding it to taste like a slightly off lemonade with a hint of something green and herbal. His face wavered between indifference and distaste as he looked Gregor over. Gregor''s choice in style was no more palatable to Harding than the drink. Gregor was dressed in a yellow suit jacket, not quite a modern cut but certainly more than a little out of place. Beneath it was a matching vest and white dress shirt. Light gray plaid pants and matching yellow leather loafers.

    ¡°That¡¯s, uh- an interesting taste. What is with the suit,¡± Harding piqued, single brow raised.

    ¡°Long story, let''s get a booth and talk," he explained and set a few coins on the counter before sliding off his stool. When Harding stood he realized how tall Gregor was and laughed, ¡°Damn, you¡¯re tall.¡±

    ¡°Yep. And it kinda sucks.¡±

    ¡°Because of clothes?¡±

    ¡°Everything. Everything has to be custom. Clothes. Furniture. Gear. It never ends.¡±

    "Neither do you," Harding again laughed.

    I¡¯ve missed him.

    Gregor ordered two more of the drinks, which Harding did not refuse but neither did he look forward to consuming it. With drinks in hand and with a bowl of small, yellow spheres, Gregor led a short expedition to find a preferable booth. The two caught up while tucked in a quiet corner booth that was most likely once someone''s windowless corner office.

    They covered what they had done, the highlights and a few select lowlights of their experience so far. Harding laughed at Gregor¡¯s arrest for his unwitting narcotics smuggling and was shocked by his experiences doing community service at a food shelter. As much as they had separate experiences completely unlike what they had come looking for, they both agreed the world was far broader than a normal game. Much more care had been spent in the atmosphere than they¡¯d ever experienced, and yet both had concerns about the game.

    "I don''t know," Harding confessed. "I''m on the edge with this game? I really like some of the stuff, but other things are really frustrating. It''s nearly been a week and I''ve been in one fight with a few goblins. And the rest of the time it''s more like a sim? All I do is learn the esoteric interface."

    "Interesting," commented Gregor.

    "Interesting?"

    "Yeah, interesting," repeated Gregor. "We haven''t been grouped together fighting kobolds in a dirt hole like usual. And that does kind of suck. But we both said we wanted something different than the usual. We needed something to be different and not just starting over on the same game with the same game play but with a new name."

    "True," Harding allowed, "But this isn''t the different that I had in mind."

    "I was reading this journal the other day at work,¡± continued Gregor, pausing to eat a couple of the baked cornmeal puff balls. ¡°This guy just joined the Ayr Marines after loading in. He''s out there on a ship fighting pirates along the southeastern coast. Apparently, it''s a real problem over there. But it''s just this ¡®life on a ship¡¯ journal. All the hardships and horrors."

    "That sounds interesting," Harding agreed, though with suspicion as to Gregor¡¯s actual point.

    Gregor held up a finger, "And I''ve got this friend, he''s never been out of the city he lives in. Real minimal life experiences, you know? But in-game he''s working at a logging camp. He used to think five trees was a forest and now he¡¯s out there learning to hunt, clean his kills, that kind of stuff. He can walk a day in any direction and not find anything. He''s learning foraging, tracking, all of it. He just logs in, gets the list of what is needed and heads out into the forest by himself. Well, they got these elf shits out there that take stragglers and eat them. Not sure that''s cannibalism but it''s creepy. So, anyway, he''s gotta learn to hunt while being hunted."

    Harding grunted, "Sounds like he''s got a pop in the area."

    "Sure. No clue what that is, but my point is he doesn''t need to know,¡± Gregor pushed, leaning forward over the tabletop. ¡°He just goes out and fights for it. He dies and logs off every night. But he doesn''t care about being optimized, he just wants to be engaged. He keeps fighting."

    "Sounds like you''re saying our lives are repetitive and boring because we chose that," Harding skeptically stated.

    Gregor shrugged and finished his drink. "Yesterday, I helped finish fulfilling a contract to get a new guild resupplied. All sixteen players have been out there slowly doing a dungeon. They''re camping atop the thing like it''s a gold mine, like they¡¯re staking their claim. Every night they fight downward until they hit a stand still, then they retreat and log for the night. The next night they log in and do it all over again."

    "Well that sounds like a great deal for them. They just ran out face first and it happens to be working out," Harding sardonically barbed. "But magic isn''t really available, there''s essentially no healing, and fighting is hard, monsters are limited, and so much more."

    And death is so extreme.

    "Why does it have to be easy,¡± challenged Gregor. ¡°Are they learning to fight properly? No. But they are fighting. And they can always learn more later if they need it.¡±

    Harding didn¡¯t know what to say to that so he remained silently peeved. With whom, he did not know. Gregor had points, but he refused to believe it was that simple.

    "So maybe sitting in the city is how we imagined something different having to be, so that''s what we''ve crafted for ourselves,¡± Harding summarized with skepticism. ¡°Maybe they weren''t looking for something different and they acted and are experiencing?"

    Harding felt a little anger at Gregor. He was his friend, they were supposed to be out there together. But instead Gregor was nowhere to be found, having adventures without him. Then again, he''d been sidetracked too.

    Maybe he''s right, I created this life. I followed fate instead of guiding it.

    Harding sighed and ate a few more of the puffs. They were bland, but crisp and salty. They were nothing to be excited about and yet he kept eating them. They nursed their medieval sports drink, more due to flavor than being lost in their own thoughts.

    Eventually, he asked, "So you''re saying that maybe the problem isn''t the game, but that we were given freedom to do what we want and we don''t know what to do with it?"

    "Or that we have freedom of action but we aren''t free from our own expectations? I don''t know, I''m not a philosopher, I''m an accountant,¡± admitted Gregor.

    Harding chuckled. "Fine. So we get active, yeah? We go out and we- what do we do?"

    Gregor laughed. "Right? And we¡¯ve ended up at the start again, unsure."

    What the hell, it is just a game.

    "So let''s just pick something?"

    "I want to start my own business," admitted Gregor. "It''s something I want to do, but I''m not¡­ I can''t right now. But, in this game, I could."

    "That sounds.. Great," Harding lied in well-meaning support.

    Gregor confessed his hesitation, "Yeah, but it doesn''t really work well for grouping and adventures."

    "It could,¡± Harding suggested, eating another handful of puffs. He had no idea why he was still eating these. ¡°You need stuff to sell and people to sell to and¡­ business stuff."

    Gregor was noncommittal in body language. He asked, "What about you?"

    "I don''t know."

    "Yeah, that''s the conversation- figuring it out instead of just coasting and waiting."

    "I need to learn to fight."

    "Ok, sounds good. Then what?"

    "I want to figure this natural magic stuff out? I mean, it has to have a reason right?"

    "You''re arguing there is a reason for the way Life works?"

    "Yeah. Crazy right? But the people I know in a big guild say they screwed up by not paying attention to it earlier."

    Gregor eyed him, a familiar expression to Harding. He was plotting. ¡°Ah, which guild exactly?¡±

    "The Eights, why?"

    Gregor shrugged, "Could be useful later."

    "So learn natural magic. Learn to fight. Sounds like a lot of learning and that¡¯s what you''re currently doing while saying there isn''t enough action."

    "Yeah. I just- I guess I want to get out there. See the world? Beat up the bad guys. You know?"

    "I bet your temple has a cellar full of rats¡­"

    "Har har."

    They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muted din of the pub around them. These were things they¡¯d avoided, in game and out. Their hesitations persisted despite the desire to move past them.

    Gregor broke the silence, "So the question is how are we going to do it?"

    "You need capital and what, contacts and contracts?"

    "Yep,¡± he nodded. ¡°And you need¡­ kung fu."

    "I hate you," laughed Harding.

    They had a few more laughs and finished their drinks before going on their own little adventure of sightseeing the town. They visited the Cathedral of Alexander IV, the massive and ornate home of the Ayr kingdom priests of the Church of the Seven.

    They saw the Mage''s college which was not a tower as Harding had imagined it. In fact it was a block of drab office buildings with a poorly maintained veneer. While they offered tours, no one apparently went on them. There were less painful ways of inducing mind crushing boredom.

    The Castle and Manor of the Crown were somewhat visible, but held behind sturdy walls and strict men. There were no tours of its galleries or viewing of its manicured grounds. Still, there was an overlook from some ways away and they visited it.

    "It seems so peaceful," commented Gregor while viewing the serene lawns. "You''d never know that the current chaos was happening."This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    "Chaos," piqued Harding, looking up at Gregor while shielding his eyes against the descending sun.

    "You don''t follow the happenings or politics do you," guessed Gregor.

    "I meditate. For like, half the day."

    "Well, maybe poke your head up occasionally? Things might affect you."

    "Like what?"

    "The King died at the end of beta. His daughter, now the Queen, took over," explained Gregor.

    Harding shook his head. The timing was appallingly blatant, but that''s how things worked with most monarchies. "So?"

    "She immediately moved to add a new currency of the Kingdom," explained Gregor. When Harding lacked a comprehending response he added, "Previously, all currency was Imperial. There are now two competing currencies in Ayr. And all the economic and political tensions that come with that."

    "Which is why the coins make no sense," realized Harding out loud. He nearly jumped in excitement. He still needed help from vendors to pay and it was a source of small embarrassment. He was also sure he''d been ripped off a few times and he did not have the coin to spare.

    Gregor chuckled. "Yes, the exchange is complex and fluctuating. Completely different number bases. However, that''s the simplest ramification of interfering with the economics of a ruling Empire."

    Harding shrugged, "She''s got a reason, I''m sure."

    Gregor sighed with disappointment at Harding¡¯s lackadaisical world view. "The Empire isn''t in great shape. Not with the recent military losses and the civil war in Chrylen. However, the real chaos started yesterday when it was publicly admitted that three of the Queen''s six ministers are now missing."

    Harding raised his eyebrows at that.

    "So we could see unrest, Imperial action, market instability, or even war, civil or imperial, and soon," Gregor predicted.

    "How do you know all this," Harding sighed in frustration.

    Why am I always clueless?

    "Gossip and the broadsheets," Gregor answered. Given Harding''s flat stare he further elucidated, "Pretty much every Way has people selling big sheets of paper with print on them? You read them to find out things that are happening?"

    "You mean Newspapers?"

    Gregor laughed. "It always amazes me how you can be so clever and yet so clueless."

    "Good genetics and years of practice," promised Harding with a painful smile.

    They wandered the city, chatting and laughing. They explored and took notes of entertainment and food events in their journals. In the end, it was an old friendship in new circumstances. Whatever the rocky start here, they would adapt and enjoy it. On their parting they agreed to have a solid and researched plan of action by the following Saturday when they would meet again. They weren''t going to be passive anymore, it just would take some time to figure out.

    Harding returned to his cell to find a stack of books on his bunk. Tucked into one was a list of other books Brother Richards recommended that the Temple did not currently have. Harding flipped through a few of the books, finding a particular passage pertinent to his present problems:

    The subtle tool is the greatest when given over to the hands of the Divine. To be closer to the gods, realize Spirit moves freely. To hold firm in self is our ardor and not its.

    Harding took that to mean his spirit was supremely pliable and it was only this concept of his that it shouldn''t be that kept him from commanding it. It was easy enough to speculate, but not so easy to change your concept of self on a hunch. Finger in it to keep the page, Harding closed the book and turned it over to read the spine. It read The Sammasana. He shrugged and put the list in at that page as a bookmarker.

    At least it isn¡¯t another simple animation¡­

    In his continued effort to do at least an hour of practice before logging, Harding started moving his spirit. Lacking a good target, he focused on trying to flood the room. Each time he focused on one corner, the others would start to slip. Quickly his attempts became a mesmerizing cycle of swirling awareness¡­

    Harding found himself trapped inside a voidseed.

    Am I dreaming?

    Great waves of light blue light crashed in, passing into the voidseed then sloshing him around as he fought to not drown in his flooding spherical prison.

    I can¡¯t be, I didn¡¯t fall asleep.

    Each time just before he was submerged some of the light-water would leak out until he was safe, but almost immediately another wave would hit. The waves started coming faster and faster until he couldn''t escape it anymore and he was completely submerged.

    What the hell is going on?

    He was smashed against the godglass wall, tumbling and seething in the wash of the violently turbulent light-water. He was slammed up and through the top of the voidseed into a murky black-violet space dotted with white stars.

    This looks like the ISR home screen.

    Ahead of him in the blackness a star winked. He watched as the light got closer, now able to see that it was an undulating rainbow rushing towards him. It seemed peaceful at first but he felt rising anxiety as it neared. He started to understand the immense scale and speed of this prismatic serpent of light. The anxiety grew to overwhelming levels just as the light hit him and consumed his mind. It burned through him leaving his mind truly blank until the light left. And when the light left there was only darkness. Darkness and the sense of falling.

    A great impact struck him and he woke up face down on the floor. The sutures burned and he felt a little wetness between his scalding skin and the stone floor. Harding groaned, "Fug."

    He just laid there against the cold floor for some time. Eventually he got up, made sure everything was hidden from theft and then logged.

    The next day Harding logged in, got up and checked the sky to find mid-morning light warming the world in a soft glow. Harding made the conscious decision to not be intimidated. He went back to practicing. If he was going to become more, he needed to master what was in front of him now. The only way forward was through, he wouldn''t start by quitting.

    Eventually, Harding went to the meal hall for breakfast. There, with his meager meal, he sat in silence and contemplated existence. Shaky still from his experience, he no longer contemplated what he wanted to be but what he truly was. What was a being in this world? There was something to the many selves and the false edges of reality. Every time he got closer to an edge he found he was still in the middle. What changes occurred in him were minute compared to the changes in his perception. Understanding the system of the world brought greater growth than the mechanism of a single action. For instance, thinking about controlling multiple bodies at once tweaked his brain. Yet that was the presented reality. If reality was so malleable then many of his assumptions were wrong. And those assumptions acted as shackles.

    But this is only a game, it isn''t actually like that, right?

    Having no answers and no more stew, his thoughts turned to his future.

    As exciting as the arena fighters were, that life didn''t seem like him. The structure of such a life appealed, but the very same clear progression and process that it offered also limited him. He could try a guild, but he''d probably just get lost in the organization. He could join a group like the rangers, but they were limited in experience, range, and funding. In every direction he was bound by expectation and existing structure.

    The wandering monk route offered the most freedom. Rent was as impressive as he was exhausting, but he had decades more experience than Harding. Surely, he couldn''t catch up? That really was the heart of the matter. The seeming impossibility of learning everything and being as capable as Rent. That and the lifestyle wouldn''t leave room for Gregor. But while he wished Gregor all the luck, he hadn''t really left room for Harding. He''d not been the best, but he had waited. All this had been him waiting for Gregor.

    Or is that a lie I tell myself?

    Harding turned in his utensils to the kitchen and walked back to his cell to read. The Sammasana provided long winded descriptions and analogies on the properties of spirit. He read for a while, but nothing really stood out to him other than a vague sense that everyone was wrong.

    That¡¯s what it means when no one knows, right?

    It was Sunday which meant, among other things, that there was no class. Still, at the urging of Sabina, most of the class had agreed to meet in the Sanctuary garden before lunch. The Sanctuary garden was sunny and exhibited a vast array of bright flowers. Sabina and Arnold were already there. Harding had come to consider them the social core of the class. They were the ones that pushed group unity and activities, where Alina and Ed were more likely to go off on their own. Randal had his own thing too, but Harding was more welcome with him.

    As he approached, Sabina waved greetings but kept talking to Arnold. Harding sat down with them, but wasn''t really listening. Instead, he started to investigate his spirit by staring at the ground and then trying to see himself reach out to that point.

    If I could mistake seeing for feeling, could I train feeling to be seeing?

    He wasn''t a minute into his attempt though when Randal sat next to him. "Alexci fights tomorrow night, you''re coming right," he probed.

    "For sure," Harding confirmed while nodding. "She''s fighting on a Monday?"

    "Yeah, she''s trying a new bracket. They''re hoping she''ll increase interest," he added with a smile, clearly proud of his older sister.

    They both set about their exercises, what communication was needed between them having been said. The others chatted but didn''t intrude.

    Brother Roberts came in a few minutes later, walking with Alina, talking quietly with her. When they were close, he motioned her to the group and stepped in front of everyone. "Good morning class," he smiled. "I know there is no class today, but I thought I''d give you a fun non-standard exercise since you were meeting on your own."

    "Wait, are you giving us homework," groaned Arnold.

    The class booed playfully and Brother Roberts held up his hands defensively. "Nothing of the sort, it¡¯s just bonus work as a reward."

    "I don''t know, that sounds like homework," ribbed Arnold. Sabina pointed to him and nodded her agreement.

    The monk walked to the great tree at the far end of the garden. "As you know, being alive strengthens a being''s connection with spirit. Certain lifeforms are more adapted to this energy than others and this type of tree has an especially deep connection with spirit. The exercise is simple, touch your spirit to the tree¡¯s and attempt to learn from it."

    And with that he walked to the corner of the garden and sat down on an ornamental boulder ringed with a variety of blue flowers, effectively excusing himself from being a part of their practice. Harding immediately got up and walked up to the tree. With his spirit and not his hand, he reached out and touched the tree. Again he tried to see his spirit, but nothing was visible.

    As most plant life seemed to have a puddle of spirit, Harding expected a shimmering pond of energy. Instead, he got a deep ocean. His breath caught at his massive capacity of the tree''s spirit body, a reservoir of spirit that blotted his senses and bludgeoned him senseless. Harding pressed himself further, like a child in an aquarium leaving handprints on the glass. Peering deep into the tree he looked for answers to the mysteries of the spirit body. Intellectually, he knew it was just a tree. Yet, disappointingly, he got nothing from it beyond the being lost in the expanse of its reserves.

    Harding pushed harder.

    He was about to give up finding only more depth when he felt a subtle cohesion between his spirit and the tree¡¯s. Like a suction seal of water, his spirit body was pulled to the tree. Attempting to pull back only tightened the crushing grip. Unable to free himself and fueled by a sudden anxiety, Harding pushed back. He forced his spirit through the barriers between the spirit bodies, pumping out all his spirit at the tree in a desperate attempt at escape.

    It didn''t work.

    Faint whispering grew in Harding¡¯s head, a murmur of some distant crowd speaking a foreign language. Fairly certain it wasn''t with his ears that he was hearing, he thought at the tree, "Hello?"

    Harding instantly felt foolish.

    He had no idea how to communicate with a non sentient being. Still, he could recognize his own spirit, his classmates'' spirits, even Brother Roberts''. It stood to reason that the spirit reflected something about its being. If the spirit was the path of the divine, being the construct through which the divine interacted, then shouldn''t it essentially be labeled?

    How would such a label be read?

    Harding touched and thought, "Who?" It wasn''t truly a question any more than it was a command, more like tasting by smell. Harding heard in his head words he didn''t understand, they almost sounded latin. Yet, as unintelligible as it whispers were, it left a clear impression: ''Tree. Spirit, Mature, Large.''

    Harding retreated spiritually, then tried again, this time tasting deeper this new frontier. He felt the spirit, its own indescribable name, even its location in the world. There was yet more there, hungry for knowledge he pushed harder. Deeper he delved into the tree''s being, pushing against the mental current into its very structure. Penetrating the spirit body without direction or purpose he thrashed about trying to find what could be found. Harding felt the form of a gate, and another, and another¡­ gate after gate he moved within the tree''s spirit. Deeper and deeper, feeling the form of godseeds within some gates as he passed through it and along the clear conduit of power between them.

    Spirit surged and Harding rushed through the passage born on a geyser of power to be ejected from the tree. He cried out with the sudden excruciating pain. Putting his palms to his eyes, Harding gasped as the pulsing pain tore apart his concentration. It felt as if someone had smashed him in the head, the force delivered straight into his brain.

    The pain was loath to recede, clinging to his agonized nervous system.

    Holy shit, is this a curse?

    He looked around through streaming tears. Brother Roberts motioned for him to come to him. Harding got up shakily, then carefully walked over to the monk.

    "Going into a more powerful spirit has consequences,¡± counseled the monk.

    "But you told us to," whispered Harding, trying to not sound like he was whining.

    Brother Roberts smiled softly, "You were supposed to knock politely, Harding. Not try to kick down the door and pillage the place."

    "It''s just a tree," moaned Harding.

    Brother Roberts chuckled, "That tree has greater spiritual energy than you. In fact if it had intellect it would probably be a godling. And you now suffer for your disrespect."

    Smarting, Harding accused, "You knew this would happen."

    "I knew it could happen,¡± he nodded. ¡°I hoped my students would show respect and some subtlety."

    Harding just stood there, rubbing his forehead though it didn''t really help.

    The monk shook his head. "You''ll be ok," he assured. "Go to the Lunar garden, press your forehead to the stones in the heaviest shade and empty your mind. Give it time and it will pass."

    Harding did so, walking out of the one garden and through the temple to the other. With his eyes still watering he went into the darkest shade by the pool and knelt down, pressing his forehead to cold stone. Harding had no idea if these stones were magical, but they were firm and cold and it felt like an ice pack. He just stayed still like that, on hands and knees, forehead against stone.

    As he was finally starting to feel slightly better when a familiar voice asked, "Practicing communion or seeking lunch?"

    Harding turned his head sideways to look over. There was that magical hart again, standing astride the plant life and chewing on Brother Rodney''s prize winning Midnight Lilies. Harding asked, "Rent?"

    "I know you''re young and foolish, but you do know that you can''t eat that stone," the hart questioned.

    Harding rolled his eyes and regretted it immediately. That was definitely Rent.

    "Heard you got personal with the local quercus spiritus," commented Rent. "She plays a little rough."

    "You''re not funny."

    "You''re just sour that she kicked you in the mental junk."

    "Don''t you have something better to do," Harding pleaded.

    "You''re right, those Tidewater shrubs do look ripe and delicious," he said with disturbing excitement. The hart lazily moved to a new section of the planted garden, as if stalking a flight-prone prey.

    Harding gave up on Rent, instead moving to a neighboring stone to press his forehead to the colder surface. His headache seemed to have worsened since Rent had revealed himself.

    "Uhm, Brother Rent, can I ask a serious question," Harding asked quietly.

    "Sure," Rent replied with a full mouth.

    How does he speak as an animal without the appropriate biology? And why does his mouth sound full of it isn''t the hart''s?

    Shaking the distracting thought, he requested, "Can I be your apprentice? Or whatever they call it. I want to learn more than just this, I want to see the world instead of just Brother Rodney''s shrubs."

    "It is good that you''ve decided your path, but you''re not ready," Rent decreed.

    Harding sighed. The answer, while annoying, was not a no. He asked, "What do I have to do to be ready?"

    "Mmm¡­" groaned Rent, "these are amazing, you should try some."

    Harding pulled away from the stone and stood upright, the sudden movement flaring renewed pain he fought to ignore. Rent destroyed the bushes like they were a buffet, heedless of Harding walking along the edge of the water. As he got nearer, Harding complained, "I''m serious, I''m ready to, ah, be ready."

    The stag looked over at him and smiled widely. The decidedly human expression proved disturbingly unnatural on an ungulate''s face. Rent morphed instantly, but instead of being a man he was something else. It was a haunting form Harding didn''t know.

    Normally short and stocky, Rent now stood easily a foot taller than Harding. His body was thin, limbs thinner and elongated. He wore the Okkor blue robes, but his head was a great antlered skull of bleached bone. The eyes were a hypnotic black, not empty though but as if they were portals to space itself. The inverted infinite depth of those portals leaked a thin trail of black goo so thick it was nearly a paste as it crept down the cheeks of bone.

    The form''s presence thrummed with a rapidly pulsing energy. It could have been the headache, but Harding threw up a little in his mouth with the rippling reality. When it spoke, it spoke without sound. Ideas slid over his mind and deposited concepts both ambiguous and absolute. Reverberating in his mind, a blurry thought coming into focus, a distinct impression was formed.

    "Be not afraid. With certainty is the reaping. Stray not, let not your harvest wither. Soon you will die."

    Harding lost his balance and fell backwards. It felt as though he was falling from a great height and yet when he splashed into the pond it was clear it couldn¡¯t have been. He scrambled out of the pond, soaked and clawing his way out. Brother Rent stood there as the hart, chewing and watching Harding with those big black eyes.

    "What the fuck was that," Harding angrily demanded.

    The Rent-stag blinked and, mouth half full, asked, "What was what?"

    "That, that thing, whatever you did to me with the, the, the pictures in my head, those eyes and¡­" Harding was mentally stumbling. Too much had awakened in his mind in those few seconds for him to make coherent sense of it.

    The Rent-stag continued to blankly watch him struggle with his thoughts before finally suggesting, "Don''t chew the cactus in the Solar garden anymore, it messes with your head."

    "I didn''t. Be serious."

    "I am being serious, those flowers give vicious trips."

    "I mean about that thing."

    "What thing?"

    "With the antler skull and the space eyes¡­"

    "Kid," Rent-stag cautioned, his voice taking on a serious tone, "I don''t know what in the giant, juicy, divine sandwich you''re chewing on, but I did nothing. If your reality warped enough to see something, you''re pulling on a seriously heavy thread. One you''re not ready for."

    Rent fluidly shifted back to human and stretched. He paused for a moment to dig at his teeth with his tongue before addressing Harding again. "I''m headed out again for a while, but I''ll return in time. Be ready by then if you''re serious about learning from me."

    Rent paused and added, "Also, you''re muddy."

    He took a step, stopped, and added again, "Also, I''m serious about not eating those cacti." And with that he turned and walked out of the garden whistling, while Harding sat at the pond edge and stared in exasperation.

    He never told me how to be ready¡­

    Alone and with no other purpose, Harding went back to his cell to change. He took his time, but returned to the Sanctuary garden to catch up with his classmates. He found that his fellow students¡¯ practice had devolved to chatting once more.

    "It''s pretty crazy, it''s been a week and we have really only learned one skill," complained Arnold.

    "That''s not true Arnie, it has barely been three class days. And, we have learned multiple uses of a single skillset," corrected Sabina. "It is slow, but it''s not that slow."

    The class sat around the garden for another hour, discussing the topic of spirit, the game and anything else until another class started coming in. They took that as their cue and left. The classes rarely commingled. They barely even interacted with any other monk other than their teacher. There was something about the temple life, some urge to isolate.

    It kind of feels unnatural here. Are they even real? Does Brother Roberts even exist if no one looks for him?

    There had to be at least thirty monks at the temple. Brother Richards had said only two new classes on launch day, but Harding felt like there were at least three students to every monk at the temple.

    Something is wrong in the temples.

    As the group left the meal hall, Harding stopped chewing on the strangeness of the place. Brother Rodney¡¯s angry yelling echoing in the hallways was becoming so commonplace the group ignored it. Both were just other mysteries that solving wouldn''t help him advance. He needed to focus. Between Gregor and Randal, he felt almost embarrassed at his lack of progress.

    The day¡¯s practice group broke up at the base of the hill. Sabina and Arnold headed into Old Market, while Randal turned to the Mill district destined for the Grinder. Harding felt aimless and wandered. He needed to make decisions and that meant not focusing on the immediate.

    As he neared the Rivergate, he spotted Lon Kioski, sitting near the guards. This time, he had brought a mat to sit on to keep his robes clean.

    Harding gave him a nod and called, ¡°Hey Lon, what¡¯s up.¡±

    ¡°Greetings, young Harding,¡± responded the monk with a broad smile. The monk looked exactly as he had in the tutorial, but somehow Harding felt like the monk was happier not doing the tutorials.

    ¡°I have got a question for you,¡± Harding said, looking around to see if others were listening. There was something that made dealing with Kioski fundamentally personal no matter the question.

    Lon kicked an empty collection cup suggestively, ¡°Then they will not hear what we say.¡±

    I have to pay for help?

    ¡°Not free anymore,¡± asked Harding, one brow raised.

    ¡°Payment is a type of intent, a fundamental basis for magic. In this instance it represents your intent to engage in private conversation,¡± explained the system monk.

    Harding nodded, following the concept.

    Kioski coughed lightly, ¡°The cup remains empty¡­¡± It was unclear if Lon meant Harding had yet to pay or that he didn¡¯t make much. Harding tossed in a coin.

    ¡°Excellent. Please continue,¡± said Lon, but his voice was way too clear and crisp to Harding, like the monk was speaking in his head.

    ¡°Creepy Lon, very creepy.¡± Harding paused before asking, ¡°I want to learn to fight, but I don¡¯t want to leave the temple. What should I do?¡±

    Kioski answered, ¡°I am unable to predict success. However, I can inform you if an option is viable."

    "That''s ok. How do I get a list of part-time associations that teach combat,¡± asked Harding.

    ¡°Restricted," declared this monk. "You would have to develop your own or trust a non-system source. It is not ours to divulge the activities or existence of associations.¡±

    ¡°Secret associations, huh? Cool, like assassins and such?¡±

    Lon Kioski starred in pointed silence.

    ¡°Ok, thanks for the info Lon.¡±

    ¡°My pleasure,¡± replied the Great Kioski.

    Harding walked to the Rivergate ranger station. While curious how they were doing, he had ulterior motives. They essentially acted as an NPC check against dungeon overgrowth, which meant their skillset was probably optimized for that game play.

    "Can I help you," Walt mumbled from behind the desk, not bothering to look up at him.

    "Is Captain Milton in," Harding asked.

    "Nope."

    "Sergeant Bresburg?"

    "Nope."

    "What about Isobel?"

    "Yeah."

    "Thanks."

    Harding walked through the door and back to the mission ready room. He found Isobel changing, though she was covered in bandages.

    "Woah, sorry," Harding apologized, flush with embarrassment at his faux pas.

    She scoffed, "Whatever, I spend days at a time in the woods with five guys."

    Harding smiled softly, glad to be released from any wrongdoing. He hadn''t really thought about what her life must be like in that group. He had imagined their patrols to be just short jaunts, not the majority of their time outside the walls. "That must be tough, how do you do it," he asked.

    "How do farmers do it?"

    "What do you mean?"

    "Farmers. They live on farms, relatively isolated and outside the protection of city walls. They don''t have the immediacy or variety we have either. And they''re out there most of their lives. Yet we eat because of them."

    "I guess, yeah, good point," he concurred. "I came to see how you were doing."

    "What, this," she asked while pointing to her previously damaged eye. Harding looked carefully. Her previously green eye was now a strong blue color. The skin on that side of her head wasn''t as tan as the rest of her either. She''d cut her pale red hair down to a fingers width in length, just making the transformation all the more pronounced.

    "Woah," Harding gasped. "What did that?"

    She sighed and returned to getting dressed. "You mean the poll on a troll''s ax hitting me and breaking my eye socket out, or that the replacement healing is different than my body," she asked.

    "Yeah, that," Harding responded, honestly fascinated by both.

    "Meh," she shrugged. "Can''t change either."

    "I''m just glad you''re alright," expressed Harding.

    "Oh," asked Isobel sardonically. "Why, are you sweet on me?"

    "No," replied Harding hastily. He conscientiously looked away, realizing he was still examining her abnormal facial tan line, "I just feel kinda guilty, like it was my fault you were out there to begin with."

    "As rangers, we would have been out there eventually. Unless adventurers cleared it out before us," she concluded as she finished pulling on and lacing her shirt.

    Harding shifted his feet and looked around the room, still uncomfortable with just standing there and watching her dress. "How does that work anyways, dungeons spawning and adventurers clearing them?"

    "I forget sometimes the new people haven''t been around as long as the rest of us. Here''s the really quick breakdown," she said, gearing up to teach.

    "Basically, natural animals breed as a living population and can be managed as such. They¡¯ve got biological needs you can predict,¡± she explained as she sat down and began pulling on her tall boots.

    As she laced her boots she continued her explanation, "Monsters don¡¯t do any of that, they¡¯ll spawn in pops or from entities and then, maybe, wander off for who knows what reasons."

    She was quiet as she finished lacing and Harding waited wordlessly. Finished, she looked up from her seat and shrugged her indifference, "We go around, check the pops, investigate sightings. If no players are around, we clear it and move on while it resets."

    "And what do your team members do when you''re not on," Harding wondered.

    "It''s weird? They seem to not notice and will be fine if I''m partying with them." She stood and buckled her sword belt. "Totally different from being with players. I was an Imp for awhile, that stuff you set up a camp and then log together, but anyone still on is on their own."

    "You were an Imp? Why''d you leave?"

    "Didn''t like the guild stuff."

    Harding didn''t pry, he already knew the ups and downs of guild life.

    "I need training, suggestions?"

    She smirked before it morphed into a lopsided scowl. "Meh. Different groups train for different needs with different gear. Unless you have a really elite trainer, quality is mostly about you," Isobel stretched, winced and sighed. "You gotta be dedicated if you want to be good, but dedication alone won''t get you there. You have to think and adapt to it, challenge yourself and your training."

    Isobel looked pointedly at the door and Harding got the message. She had things to do and his noob questions weren''t among them. He thanked her and turned to go when she suddenly asked, "Oh, you''re a Spiritualist right?"

    Harding looked at her and nodded suspiciously.

    ¡°Can you seal gates yet,¡± she asked, a slight edge of hope bleeding through.

    Harding admitted, ¡°Not yet, why?¡±

    ¡°I know a couple people looking for a Spiritualist to do some work for them. That¡¯ll be the best way for you to monetize your skills,¡± she dutifully informed him.

    Magical help desk. This exchange feels familiar¡­

    ¡°I''ve heard that and I do need the coin, I''m just not there yet. Thanks again.¡± He waved and left the station towards the market.

    Harding made a brief stop at a haberdashery as the idea of a functional hat seemed beneficial. He could not find one that didn¡¯t look silly on him though and he was no Gregor. Finally, Harding bought a dozen sweet rolls from the Bres-Morain Bakery. He had found nothing else of value, so he might as well bring a treat home for the class.

    Walking back he felt a tug on his robes. He looked down to find a small girl in dirty clothes looking up at him. She held out her tiny hand, palm up but did not utter a word. Looking her over, Harding noticed her wide set eyes, overly large and slightly protruding dark eyes. Her little mouth turned down in a pout. Harding thought she was a beggar, but was unsure what he was to do. He asked, "What''s your name?"

    "Sa-man-tha," she replied, annunciating every syllable like they were individual words.

    "You hungry," he asked, immediately feeling like a fool.

    She nodded.

    With little else to offer, he calmly suggested, "Here," as he brought forward the bag of sweet rolls. As he was opening it up to withdraw one for her, she grabbed the whole bag and rummaged through it. Harding smirked, she was looking for the perfect roll.

    Samantha pulled out a roll, sniffed it and took a big bite. "Mmm," she appreciated with exaggeration. Her eyes didn¡¯t show enjoyment though, they remained passive as they watched him. Harding started to reach out for the bag as she had retrieved a roll already when she turned and took off with the whole thing down the alley.

    Nope.

    Harding wasn''t doing the dim alley thing. Not again.

    He was forced to accept his losses and continue on. Harding returned to the temple empty handed, but was quickly distracted as he found a simple sack tucked under his bed. In the sack was a note, a book and an ornate metallic sphere. The book was bound in simple leather and branded with a double hexagram. It was a full sized book, nearly two fingers tall, but didn¡¯t even have a title page. The sphere was an odd thing, slightly larger than a godseed, made from orange enameled steel and some other metals Harding couldn¡¯t readily identify in filigree. The enamel itself was covered in scrollwork of symbols unknown to him as well. Finally, he picked up the note and broke the unadorned wax seal. He noted the smell of the wax, as if aromatic oils had been mixed with it. The note read:

    <blockquote>

    Keep these secret!

    The Szaktaa is banned by the Wizard''s college, all Temples, and declared heretical by the Church of the Seven. Such is the state of the world, that the clearest instruction on Spirit comes from a Phirisian magus writing down his conversations with an uneducated cannibal. Read it daily.

    The seedcrypt is a lockbox for extremely rare godseeds harvested from Tyrants. Don''t worry that it''s Kasagonian, it is empty. However, people will assume it isn''t and covet it. Keep it secret or you will have to defend it. Practice with it daily.

    Neither will help you defend yourself. By sunrise of the coming week, report to Master Bradon Sancliff at the Merchant¡¯s Trade Hall in Old Market district. The temple is great, I love the brotherhood, but the temple is not the road. The road can be dangerous.

    I will return soon. Have all but the last chapter mastered and the crypt open before I return. Stewardship of these items and mastery of these lessons will determine if you are ready.

    -R

    ps - I have officially claimed you as my apprentice, so don''t even try switching when Sister Sara comes to Gremuth.

    </blockquote>

    Harding scoffed audibly.

    Rent just had to be Rent.

    Being accepted, however, came with a feeling of validation and success. As chaotic as he was, Rent was a renown Wanderer. A hero, even if he denied it. Despite Harding¡¯s eagerness to dig into the forbidden book, he found himself handling the spherical seedcrypt. It was of amazing craftsmanship, he felt like it belonged in a museum and not in his ungloved hands.

    Though he wanted to get started right away, he needed to eat and make a showing of himself to the group. Which meant hiding the forbidden book. He was concerned about what would happen if he was found out. Would failure in this test be permanent or mean being kicked out of the order if a monk found out? Rent had dropped on Harding stewardship over a forbidden book and a divine relic, as well as teaching himself magic and fighting. And all while having to keep up appearances at the Temple.

    It would be just like Rent to throw me into the literal fire.

    He hid both the book and sphere in his stack of books, figuring under the bed mat would be the first place someone would look. As he strolled down the hall, he realized his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated. His simple life here had ended, a new one was beginning. He could choose between being afraid or innervated.

    Harding was tired of fear.

 Chapter 7

    After meeting the social expectation of dinner with classmates, Harding begged off any further adventures to study. Returning to his room he set out several study candles and then extracted his secret objects. He felt excitement around the intrigue of his forbidden study, but still the possibilities of advanced learning motivated him most. Harding deeply needed more.

    He knew other students would be having interactions with other wandering monks, in this temple, in other Okkor temples, and in all the other temples to all the other gods. He reasoned his experience was probably not that much different than theirs in what material was taught. Each monk had their own personality though and that would color the adventures each offered. Rent was a very colorful character, so it made sense to Harding that his method would be outside of the norm.

    Instead of the trope perverted monk, I got a subverted monk.

    Harding cracked open the book of Szaktaa and thumbed through the pages. There was no title, table of contents or even page numbers. Harding figured that made the copy a bit harder to identify. Whoever policed such things as heresy would certainly be able to identify it, but others might not. An unconvincing method of security. He could not rely on the minimalism of the copy to protect the book, his continued vigilance would be needed.

    Without instructions otherwise, Harding started reading the first chapter. Some of it was similar to what the temple taught, for instance that the spirit was the middle body between the lower physical body and higher mental body. Other teachings were the same idea, but with different explanations, such as that spirit carries the will of the gods and allows man to manifest them into the world in their glory.

    Where Szaktaa diverged from the standard taught concepts was in the purpose and use of the spirit body. The purpose, according to the shaman, was to allow the divine a greater control over the other bodies. In essence that the spirit, which allowed "Divine and Glorious acts¡±, was actually a tool of control. Szakti, the shaman, claimed that it was a chain to bind the soul to divine command, and through the soul it controlled the bundled flesh. That the flesh was the anchor which held the soul in the physical realm.

    A different take for sure, but this was the understanding of a nonhuman cannibalistic shaman. Harding assumed there was a difference in worldview that colored his take on the purpose of things.

    Szakti professed that magic, as done by mortal will, was the commandeering of the divine mechanisms for baser purposes. Essentially, godseeds were meant only for chosen mortals actively doing the gods'' bidding and the common use was a rebellion against divine order. And as a whole, Szakti zealously encouraged such rebellious attitudes but not godseeds.

    No way they make a game where the players aren''t supposed to use the magic they provide.

    The most shocking part though was his assertion that there were hidden gates within the body, closed off from view and use by mortals. That these gates were of the divine world and coming into understanding of them was to ascend to the divine. He argued that all things hidden not only could be found with the right tools and practice, but sought to be known. As if knowledge had its own will and purpose.

    The shaman, as Harding understood him, claimed that Spiritualism was the path of ascension. But it was unclear if that meant to physically travel to the gods, to become mentally closer to being tools of the gods, or to actually become a gods-like immortal.

    As much as he reveals, more is lost in translation and terminology.

    Szakti was specifically adamant about what the mage had translated as ¡®soul gate¡¯, claiming that the gate itself was the chain that linked the soul to the spirit. The only freedom, he asserted, from this wheel of endless rebirth and servitude was its obliteration.

    I can definitely see why the church doesn''t like this book¡­

    While the chapter was long on concept and theory, there was no practice directly suggested. Simply, it was meant to be a theoretical and theological exploration of primitive Taaka views and not a textbook. Which left Harding with the question of how to satisfy Rent''s requirements. The writing implied a great need to be aware of the gate structure within the body. To master the first chapter, Harding decided to add gate structure awareness to his meditative practice. His ultimate goal was being aware of the hidden gates, if they existed, but the greater neural connection from the practice could only help his future magical endeavors.

    While Rent had complained about the author being a Phirisian mage, Harding couldn''t detect any overt presence of religion. Harding knew little of the gods, despite living in a temple. The religious terminology was ambiguous and pedantic to him, but Harding''s general impression was that Phiris was a civilization goddess. In the context of a discussion with such primitive and barbarous people as the Taaka, the interviewer would certainly be diametrically opposed to the shaman in beliefs. And yet while perhaps it colored the author''s translation choices, the answers felt consistent and surprisingly raw.

    I might need to know more about the gods if they''re all tied to magic. Also if most academics are followers of particular gods, it could influence their findings.

    Harding retrieved his journal and started a notes page. Separately, he began a book topic list for research categories he needed to know more about. Such as the gods, the Church, and any inquisition forces.

    From the visit to the Cathedral he knew a little. It was the Church''s assertion that Addion was the leader of the gods, but that all of the gods were equal. They suggested that any perceived issue between the gods did not exist and instead was merely the result of rivalry between their followers.

    The gods being all one happy team seems like an obvious lie. I bet there used to be multiple religions.

    Finished with the book for now, Harding turned his attention to the seedcrypt and more closely inspected it. His earlier observations had missed some finer details. First, there were two tiny gold inlays on opposing sides of the sphere, creating an axis perpendicular to the scrollwork. They were polished flat and about a sixteenth of an inch in diameter.

    He had also missed that the sphere was actually two hemispheres. That made some sense since a container would need to open. He was unable to unscrew the parts or otherwise separate them which again made sense as it was a lockbox for high level loot.

    Not just loot, with this shape this is obviously a godseed loot box. Yet when the rangers came back with seeds, I didn''t see anything like these.

    Tentatively, Harding reached out and touched it with his spirit. The exterior gave a cold and smooth impression which had no give to his probing. In fact he suspected it had been intentionally armored against spirit intrusion. The idea that something could be proof against the gods'' own tool of spirit gave him pause.

    That means something is effectively an insulator to the divine. But the divine works with it, they craft in their own anathema? Unless it isn''t.

    It seemed counterintuitive at first, until he noticed he could push spirit into the golden poles. Focusing on one, he pushed spirit in a short distance and hit an armored plate. Within were twelve directions he could go down little channels, arranged similarly to a clock face. Entering any gate allowed him into the next wheel of twelve. He continued on through two more wheels when the device cut him off.

    Harding sat there a moment trying to figure out what happened. He had entered the wrong code. It was highly unlikely to guess all four correctly at the first try, which meant it let you enter the wrong paths without judgment until the end.

    Each wheel is a tumbler on a lock, where I turn the energy instead of the wheel. How would you solve this without the duodecimal code?

    Any incorrect path would trigger a failure at the end, flooding it with spirit instead of picking a channel produced the same failure. Harding tried the other side of the seedcrypt and found it to be the same mechanism. Without the code the device would take a lot of time and extreme finesse with spirit, even if it was only one set of four. If each side had different codes, he didn''t see how this was doable.

    Perhaps the code is delivered with it? But then why make such a device? The finesse required to enter a code is tough as it is. Which has to be exactly what Rent wants, there''s no way he expects me to actually open this.

    Unsure of how to proceed, Harding set the two back behind his book shelf and restacked the books to hide them. Then he sat and meditated on the structure of his gates. He tried to stop all the extraneous thoughts while inspecting the insides of his spirit body. It yielded no great revelation other than the frustration of his randomly firing brain.

    It was still early evening when he stopped and, anticipating a busy evening tomorrow with Randal, he set out once again to the town. He didn¡¯t have much in the way of coin and hoped to make money while adventuring, then invest it while living on the cheap with Brother Rent. However, that didn¡¯t appear to be happening any time soon.

    Harding went in search of the Merchant¡¯s Trade Association which was deep into the Old Market district. Again, the Watch guards were helpful. They did take the opportunity of his questioning to point out that the Watch were not members of the Guard corps of the Merchant¡¯s Trade Association. The city Guards were also not members. The distinction between them being that the Watch patrolled the streets and district gates while the Guard was the outer gates and general city defense.

    The Old Market district was dominated by a large open plaza. Harding could easily imagine it being the major trading space of the past city, but now it has been converted into a segmented plaza with flat grassy sections, paved walkways and an ornate central fountain. The buildings along the centrally located Old Market Way all seemed new, with most buildings facing the plaza being commercial. The rest of the buildings were weathered, which stuck out to Harding for some reason every time he really explored this district.

    Did the devs rebuild this section before launch and intentionally left it this way?

    Harding wandered until he found what the last set of Watch officers had told him to look for, a broadstreet called Caravaneer Lane. Despite being a lane, it was as wide as the way and lined with an excessive amount of stables. At the end of the lane he found the Merchant¡¯s Trade Hall, an old building that reminded him of classical Greek architecture.

    He walked the stairs and passed the pillars into a massive open front hall. Along one side was a long desk of clerks who each had a line of waiting customers. On the other side was a long desk of clerks who had various rough looking armsmen standing around as they ran up and down checking a sea of postings on a gargantuan cork board behind them. At the back of the room was a small table being used as a desk, an obvious afterthought of management. On the wooden desk sat a small sign, ¡°General Information''''.

    Harding walked up to the desk and the very large, aging woman who sat behind it. ¡°I¡¯m here to see Master Sancliff,¡± Harding informed her with a smile.

    ¡°About,¡± she asked with obvious indifference.

    ¡°Recruitment,¡± ventured Harding.

    ¡°Fill out a recruitment form and you will be contacted within three weeks.¡±

    ¡°I was told to talk to him directly.¡±

    ¡°Fill out a recruitment form and you will be contacted within three weeks.¡±

    ¡°I was told to report to him by Brother Rent.¡±

    ¡°Fill out a recruitment form and you will be contacted within three weeks.¡±

    She peeled off a form from a pile at the edge of the desk and handed it to Harding.

    Harding read the top and protested, ¡°This says Form Request Form¡­¡±

    ¡°Uh huh.¡±

    ¡°Three weeks?¡±

    ¡°Uh huh.¡±

    Harding looked around the great hall. There were doors behind each of the side desks and a single door behind and to the right of the information desk. There were no other doors in the room except the main entryway. Harding took the piece of paper, walked around the desk and went through the door.

    ¡°You can¡¯t go in there,¡± called the General Information Specialist, but she made no effort to physically stop him.

    The hallway was short, a simple door on one side and a small set of cubbies for changes of clothes on the other. At the end of the hallway was another door. Harding strode forward and grabbed the far door. As he opened it, he found himself outside again. He was standing in a walled courtyard, the ground consisting of a packed red clay that Harding hadn¡¯t seen around town. Across the courtyard was a barn-like structure. Harding kept walking and entered the barn.

    There is no way I am going to get bullied by bureaucratic buffoonery in this world too.

    A small, unpretentious looking man in his mid-fifties looked up from a workbench where he continued oiling some leather belt straps. Behind him was a stable of sorts, but instead of livestock it was filled with rows of all manner of practice dummies, targets and other equipment. The place smelled of seed oils and straw. ¡°New recruit,¡± he asked with a hungry smile.

    ¡°Yeah, I was told to report to Master Sancliff,¡± said Harding, slightly bending the truth.

    ¡°Ha,¡± he scoffed. ¡°Not by anyone in the front office. Who sent you?¡±

    ¡°Brother Rent of the Order of Okkor.¡±

    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re the one he was saddled with then?¡±

    Saddled with? Brother Rent had said he chose Harding...

    Instead, Harding responded, ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±

    ¡°Good. As far as I am concerned you¡¯ve passed the first test,¡± he pronounced. ¡°No one who is going to wait around for some paperwork is going to do one damned useful thing when everything turns to shit.¡±

    Harding just nodded. He had no experience or context to read this man. Sancliff leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands clean on a dirty rag. He asked, ¡°You know what a Guard is, son?¡±

    ¡°I thought it was a person who watched over something, but I¡¯m guessing I¡¯m wrong,¡± responded Harding.

    ¡°No, you are right,¡± said Master Sancliff.

    Harding blinked in surprise. He was so accustomed to being told he was wrong in this world.

    ¡°What most people get wrong is they think it means to protect,¡± Sancliff declared adamantly. ¡°Often the client gets that wrong too. But it all starts with watching. Fail to notice and you¡¯ll fail to protect.¡±

    Harding nodded. The man didn¡¯t seem like someone you should interrupt. Rent was crazy and thrived on banter, but laid back. This man was intense. He even sat intensely.

    Master Sancliff picked up a clean cloth and began waxing a different piece while he spoke. ¡°The Guard corps is a subsection of the Merchant¡¯s Trade Association. They Merchant¡¯s sell power. Various parties, usually other merchants, contract with the association to hire members to serve as guards. You can easily imagine this as bodyguards or caravan guards. And those are the bulk of the contracts. However, you¡¯ll find things like guarding a rich person¡¯s outing, being extra muscle for a bounty hunter, or even a marine aboard a privateer vessel as possibilities. And that¡¯s when you¡¯re lucky enough to have a client who actually knows what they need.¡±

    ¡°So, basically you have to be able to handle any situation,¡± asked Harding.

    ¡°That¡¯s the short of it,¡± Sancliff commented, wiping off the excess clear wax. He was giving Harding his time, but not over doing his planned tasks. The man''s focus was clear and clearly a message.

    ¡°Sounds like what I¡¯m looking for. Are there requirements,¡± Harding asked. This was the path Rent set though, so Harding wasn¡¯t likely to turn it down regardless of the answer.

    ¡°You get what you put in, that¡¯s not on me. You pay, you train,¡± Sancliff laid out firmly.

    ¡°Do I have to join the association?¡±

    ¡°Only if you want jobs.¡±

    ¡°And, ah, does that affect my monk training?¡±

    ¡°Not unless you let it.¡±

    Harding continued to nod as he processed it. Minimal entanglement was exactly what he was looking for in training and Rent wouldn¡¯t have sent him here if the guy didn¡¯t know what he was doing. Without other questions, Harding finally asked, ¡°Price?¡±

    ¡°For Rent? Crown a week, pay and you get the week.¡±

    Harding sighed, ¡°Unfortunately, I don¡¯t have income to support that.¡± A crown was quite a bit of money to Harding, though he supposed if he was doing Guard jobs he might be able to sustain that.

    Master Bradon smiled, sensing a deal. ¡°You come down here and seal godseeds for clients, we¡¯ll call it even.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how to seal godseeds yet,¡± admitted Harding.

    Sancliff shook his head slightly and counseled, ¡°Best learn to do that quick then if you want to live outside the temple.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m getting that impression.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you what, you can start for a crown and then earn it back with a couple days of manual labor. Once you learn the godseed work, then we¡¯ll pick a day and have you in for a half a day doing the work each week. No more fees or labor after that. I¡¯m trying to convince the association we would benefit from selling services but so far the Choosing Council has resisted the idea.¡±

    Harding could afford a few weeks, but he needed to learn sealing fast. ¡°When can I start?¡±

    ¡°Show up anytime with a crown and we¡¯ll begin. I¡¯m open from sunrise to sunset.¡±

    ¡°Thanks. See you then,¡± said Harding. ¡°Oh, and is there an easier way to get back here?¡±

    ¡°Take the side gate in the courtyard, follow the alley.¡±

    Harding did exactly that on the way out. He needed to continue his education in Spiritualism, gather money, and learn to fight while maintaining appearances at the temple. Besides his needs, he wanted to look for more books and attend the fights with Randal. He promised himself that eventually he''d get to do some adventuring.

    Everything always seemed just out of reach.

    -Joshua-

    The morning was a rarified thing. Everything was flowing well and he was making headway in the backlog of errors. Everyone was leaving him alone and he was actually able to dig into the deeper issues instead of just solving other people¡¯s emergencies. By the time his 10:30 with his boss came around he was truly feeling in the zone.

    Joshua ran into his boss on the way into the room and genuinely smiled. The meeting was booked as one of those career planning things where they mentor your mobility. There wasn¡¯t a lot of room for Joshua to move in the business, his desk was fairly unique within the corporation so these meetings tended to be more about planning training opportunities. But he had ideas how to improve the processes and was feeling confident about his success.

    Through the open door he saw a room full of management and knew it wasn''t good.

    They told him he was the worst performer on his team. Yet he knew well he was the only one on his team besides his manager. They told him his numbers were too low. But he had just turned them in the month before, his productivity above expected volumes. They told him they were restructuring and dividing his tasks into multiple desks as it was too much for one person. But they clearly didn''t want him as one of the desks.

    Everyone had a different story and none of it made sense. Their claims were jumbled and contradictory, all of it an obvious obfuscation. What was clear though was after almost five years, he was marched out of the building without even a box for his things.

    Joshua went home.

    He didn''t know what to do and couldn''t make sense of what had happened. He''d have to get a new job. He''d have to start over. He knew that, but today he just couldn''t get out of that confusion loop.

    There was always tomorrow.

    He slid into his recliner and listened to the ISR power up. The blinds were closed and the lights off, leaving streaks of light leaking in through unintended gaps. Status indicators flicked while the processors audibly ground through their heavy loads. The inconsistent atmosphere matched his mind.

    He just faded away.

    -Loader-

    The midday sun greeted him to his loader''s serene scene. Shielding his eyes, he looked up towards the sun. He couldn''t look at its blazing intensity hanging in the clear sky. He just kept trying to look without burning up, an unreasoned compulsion. His eyes leaked tears from the searing light, so potent that he could feel it baking off the wetness around his eyes baking off.

    He just needed to know the light.

    That lone bird sang to him as always, alone yet unrelenting in its search for others of its own kind. He thought maybe he should search it out, but he wondered if he did would it just fly away and never return? That seemed to be the result so often in life. He decided the risk wasn''t worth it and walked to the tree.

    The staff remained; secure.

    So would he.

    -Harding-

    The next week went by in a blur to Harding. He only logged off for food and function, taking to even sleeping logged in. It sounded weird and he had some concerns about it, but sleeping in his bed ended up with anxiety nightmares punctuated by insomnia. The in-game dreams were weird but he woke up rested.

    There are sleep aid ISRs, so it should be fine? I just hope Life isn''t scrambling my brain with some bad implementation. TT doesn¡¯t sell them.

    He got to see Alexci fight five against five and win on Monday night. By the end though, Alexci was so injured she was barely standing. Alexci¡¯s notoriety and violence made her a target in the arena, but that in and of itself was a weapon she wielded. Friday saw her lose in the last fight, but it was a near thing.

    Temple life remained quiet. Brother Roberts focused on teaching extensions of spirit sensing. The original lesson on spirit sensing was pushing the spirit body through open space. The name hadn¡¯t made sense to Harding then, but was now clear with the realization that the intent wasn¡¯t to sense spirit but to sense with spirit.

    The class placed voidseeds around the Solar garden and then searched them out while blindfolded. This was somewhat reminiscent of his experience with fish passing through his spirit body. Harding had to keep reminding himself that even rocks had a small amount of spirit, so with active sensing even the terrain could be roughly determined. It wasn''t sight, but neither was it blindness.

    By the end of the week, Brother Roberts had also taught them aura sensing. It was just a modified version of spirit sensing, focusing on the coloration of divine influence within a foreign spirit instead of only awareness of the spirit itself. Practically, this allowed them to differentiate between godseed colors. To Harding''s dismay, the class reported their sensing as seeing the colors in their mind whereas Harding still only felt them. This turned out to be a small advantage though as he could feel them both as color temperature and as a vibrational frequency.

    It was seemingly for that reason he could differentiate seeds by types and not just colors. A feat that alluded the rest of the class. Whatever advantage that was though crumbled when different seed colors were brought into close proximity. Next to each other their signature became just disharmonic noise to Harding. Also he couldn''t figure out, nor could Brother Roberts suggest why, some seeds were louder than others. With experimentation, they ruled out both color and type as variables.

    Just another mystery that wouldn¡¯t advance him.

    Master Sancliff alternated his Guard training time between strength training, body-active meditation, and movement fundamentals. No named forms, fancy strikes or anything like that. Just how to move and maintain balance. Harding had suspected this was how it would be to start but was still a little disappointed. Then there were the days when he spent his time doing hard manual labor for Sancliff. It was far from enjoyable, but it wasn¡¯t really anything different than grinding coin by non-combat means.

    Throughout the entire process, Sancliff would come and ask questions about minor details from occurrences in the yard. One time it was if a messenger who had been there an hour past had clean boots. Another was the number of students in the class he had drilled that morning while Harding polished buckles. Quick enough, Harding learned that he needed to watch everything and yet he couldn''t remember everything. It didn''t take long to figure out that the questions were of things that were out of the ordinary.

    He spent a Wednesday night bar hopping with Gregor, a tour of the districts Gregor had devised. From seedy bars to upscale establishments, they toured the city. It wasn''t lost on him how their relationship had changed. They were doing the things they would have done together if they weren''t playing a game. Within Life, they were putting aside the friendship of shared goals and started instead to cultivate a friendship built without the attachments of need.

    They already knew each other and got along well, but now they talked about life and experiences instead of just earning experience points and theorycraft. Gregor had settled on opening a shop and was hard at work investigating leads in advancements in technology. He was sure machining and firearms were the future, that Life would follow human history if for no other reason than it was familiar to the players. Harding had doubts about that, but trusted Gregor to find his way through it.

    His own plans seemed lackluster in comparison.

    They made plans for that Sunday, the Grinder was doing an experimental event around teams of ten with added terrain. Whether the format worked or not, they figured it would be fun. Harding was curious how they''d include structures since they wouldn''t regenerate between fights.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Harding didn''t socialize much with the temple group as a whole other than class and meals. Besides evenings at the Grinder with Randal when Alexci fought, Alina was the only other person he spent time with.

    On the days when he could, Harding would seek her out before mediation. She had no interest in the Grinder or anything with a crowd, but quiet joint study in the Solar garden seemed to make her smile. He didn''t try to instruct, but she would occasionally ask a question about what she observed him doing.

    Her trauma from her death simultaneously made her more reserved in the group but more willing to engage with him in private. She had caught up with the class in Spiritualism, but the majority of the time she could be found reading theological history in her favorite corner of the library. She found it a grand drama, both extraordinary and existential.

    She''d stay an hour or so with him in the garden and then beg off. Harding needed nothing from her and didn''t begrudge her her needs. While Harding had caught up to the class in the coursework, it was becoming clear that he was beyond everyone else now in depth. They learned what they were taught well enough, but Harding was developing a broader skill set. And out of all his classmates, only Alina seemed to see it.

    The rest acted like he was one of them.

    In fact, the most exciting of all his efforts though was the progress he was making in his self-directed learning. Szakti once again delivered heretical, and possibly incorrect, information in a questionably usable format. According to him, godseeds were markers of divine influence used to modify mortals into becoming effective agents of the gods. His take read like godseeds were a trick contract, suckering you into giving up purity in exchange for power. It was unclear what Szakti meant by purity, but it was clear that he thought it a bad exchange.

    Beyond the shaman''s unrelenting divine paranoia, he also touched on the mechanics. godseeds, he claimed, contain an altered form of spirit energy. The spirit body fed them raw energy to use and maintained some control over the output. As spirit energy entered the seed it was altered by the divine influence to have authority over reality.

    Like a godseed was an access key to a game edit tool.

    If that was true, it explained why some associated the colors with various gods. Though Harding reasoned that it could be that the religious lore was based on the powers of the godseeds. That the colors of seeds had come first, then the lore created around it. Either way, it reiterated the need to figure out the whole pantheon.

    It also claimed each gate existed in a linear fashion and was connected by a single artery of spirit. This seemed unlikely as it would suggest an apparatus separate from the spirit body. However, each gate being a junction point allowing energy to branch into a particular body or ideal seemed plausible. The translation of ideal within the given context was confusing and Harding wondered if it was actually the correct word. To Harding it was more likely to be an energy system, alternate dimension or at least something semi-conceptual like that.

    Would there be alternate dimensions in a game?

    Szakti''s lore was largely unimportant to Harding. The confirmation of the system from outside the influence of the Church of the Seven was the true value. This gave him some certainty that the overlapping portions were fairly accurate. Beyond learning its knowledge the second chapter had no real actionable practice. Therefore Harding decided it was mastered and moved onto the third chapter.

    Why would Rent say this guy''s ranting was the clearest source? It''s full of anti-religious rambling and paranoia. Is it that the approved writings are all gross simplifications or is there something fundamentally incorrect being taught?

    To his great relief, the next chapter covered seating godseeds. Szakti didn''t call it that, but Harding was already starting to replace the shaman''s terms in his head as he read. That night he borrowed Randal''s voidseed, then as most of the temple was asleep, Harding walked quietly out into the Sanctuary garden. From his studies, the first step in seating was to key the seed. While he had practiced keying in his cell, standing there past the edge of the temple''s light and seeing it dully glow felt like a monumental moment.

    Symbolically, it was a great exploration on his own.

    The early summer''s cool night breeze and even the hint of salt from the harbor was ever more pronounced as his brain actively imprinted his big step in covert learning. He felt extremely aware and alive with the seed anchored to him by a little line of spirit.

    "I''m just going to put this seed in you, then take it back out," he whispered to the Spirit tree. He tried to sound reassuring, but who knew how trees felt. He felt like an idiot even trying to soothe a tree. Nonetheless, everything was working.

    It felt weird to hold the voidseed keyed, like the faintest buzz in his muscles. Its slight vibration caused Harding to wonder if a godseed would feel different by color when keyed. Whatever the cause, Harding was well aware his physical body was responding to the seed''s feedback from his spirit body.

    The tree itself was visibly distorted where the seed touched it, as if reality was slightly elastic and being compressed at the edges. Harding pressed with confidence, he¡¯d read that confidence was important. Confidence and intent. As far as he knew, actively trying was intent. So he tried and the surface gave way until his empty palm was pressed hard against the tree. The seed itself sat under the surface of the tree but still anchored to Harding''s spirit.

    When the seed is keyed it isn''t physical, it''s only attached to my spirit body! Yet it''s still visible, so I''m seeing spirit through it.

    Which is how he discovered the next problem. The book just said that the seed was to be put into the gate, but Harding had no idea where the gate was on a tree. Neither had anything he read discussed what kind of tolerances existed for insertion nor the ramifications of doing it improperly.

    Harding pulled out and started over, this time in search of a gate. Not wanting the same expulsion as last time, he gently sought a free gate from outside the tree instead of driving inside its spirit. As he discovered gates, he found them filled with seeds. Seven seeds before he found an open gate. He looked up the dark form of the tree and wondered how far up the gates went.

    The wealth in this tree though¡­

    With an open gate within physical reach found, he kept his left hand on the tree with his spirit extended through it to the empty gate. He then keyed the voidseed with his right hand and tried to bring the two together. Finding that he needed to go deeper, he pushed his spirit forward through his right palm and the seed moved with it, away from his skin, until it joined the other spirit extension from his left hand at the gate.

    With some anxiety, he let go of the spirit pressure on the voidseed. It snapped into place, resting perfectly in the gate. He could feel the voidseed filling with spirit through his left hand presence. With an overabundance of caution, he keyed the voidseed again and pulled it back out.

    He had some worries about what would happen if the tree refused to give the voidseed up but it gave no resistance. Holding the seed in his hand, he felt it slowly bleeding spirit into the night air. He had scooped a small amount of energy out of the tree.

    Harding repeated the process, practicing until comfortable. He discovered that he could coat the seed in spirit and use it both to sense a gate and key the seed with a single action. He then figured out that he could extend through the seed as a single thread, both probe and carrier. On the much more familiar human anatomy, he reasoned that Brother Roberts'' fluid ease of setting would not be difficult to replicate.

    It was extremely tempting to pull out one of the godseeds from the tree, however he didn''t want to cause issues. He was, after all, standing out in the dark doing actions he learned from a heretical book without permission. Even if they were basic Spiritualist actions, explaining the situation would be difficult. It was other peoples'' property, people who housed, fed, and educated him freely. Ethical considerations aside, Harding didn''t want to metaphorically shit where he literally ate.

    Feeling the energy leaking out of a freshly extracted voidseed raised a new question. Harding did not know if there was a permanent effect on a seed from extraction. Any kind of wear, durability, or other mechanic was completely hidden. Also, did it affect the spirit body? He was extracting spirit with the voidseed, which would refill, which meant there was some interplay.

    Probably isn''t a great idea to experiment on someone else''s tree, but am I effectively increasing the ''spirit pool'' by inserting the seed?

    Momentarily stuck in his progress, he took a risk. Harding held the voidseed in his hand and keyed it. It glowed warmly, inaudibly humming a song of supposed divinity in his palm. He bent his arm and pressed it to his own chest where he could feel his own Heart gate. He brought the two together and released it. It locked into place without issue, leaving the voidseed in him.

    A mental scan of his own physical feelings and spirit body revealed nothing alarmingly abnormal. Beyond the slightest bit of exhaustion, he could sense no change. However, it wasn''t immediately clear if the sensation was in the physical or spirit body, nor was it enough to be concerning.

    Maybe I increased my spirit pool and this is how it feels to not be full spirit? If so, does a larger pool increase the size or density of my spirit body?

    Of all the Spiritualism he had practiced, he couldn''t confidently say he had ever actually expended spirit. Everything had been stretching, shaping and feeling. The only exception was maybe keying, but if keying had a cost it was too small to notice.

    Harding inverted the insertion procedure and extracted the seed. It went smoothly, just as he had practiced with the tree. Looking at it in his hand, the voidseed seemed as it always was. Clear, clean, and exceptionally simple. Though it was again leaking the faintest amount of energy, it didn''t seem to be enough energy to be worried.

    Harding practiced it a few more times and decided he was accomplished enough to be able to have confidence in his ability to do it for others. Instead of retracting it the last time though, he left it in. If he exploded it like he had his first time, he¡¯d be dead instantly. His readings had suggested that godseeds regulated themselves as part of the body. They were somehow both constrained and stabilized by being part of a living spirit body. As the minutes ticked by, he knew it was slowly filling inside him. It would continue doing so until meeting an equilibrium with his spirit body.

    Harding was relieved to not explode again.

    After returning to his cell he sat again in meditation and scanned his awareness up and down his spirit body. It felt slightly depressed, not quite his usual energy state. Figuring this was probably due to the energy expelled during the practice, he ignored it. When he examined his Heart gate, he could feel a slight pressure around it and an emptiness within it. Within the voidseed he could feel a churn, his spirit traveling via its normal circulation and slowly filling in the voidseed¡¯s larger cavity. It felt odd to Harding, so he decided to leave it in for now and see how he adjusted. Harding suspected that after a few hours, or maybe a few days, its presence wouldn''t be noticed.

    Harding read further into Szaktaa while he let himself acclimate to his modified spirit system. To his excitement, the next chapter covered tuning and sealing seeds. Harding had never heard of tuning a godseed. It turned out that godseeds had a slight pole structure and by aligning the correct ends with the spirit body''s flow of energy, a godseed could be ¡®tuned¡¯ to the individual user''s unique biology. Which immediately made him recall the construction of the seedcrypt.

    The effect of tuning seemed to be a very slight improvement of spirit transfer to the godseed, but it must not be very big if people weren''t asking for it. He couldn''t imagine the majority of the world was missing this knowledge. The topic of tuning only took up about ten percent of the chapter, the rest was devoted to sealing a gate.

    And sealing is where the money is.

    Sealing wasn''t that difficult of a concept. When something with a seed in it died, that seed would naturally remain in the physical world as the spirit body withdrew from it. Which meant unsealed seeds got messy on death and became lootable. Sealing a gate bound the seed to your spirit body, causing it to stay with it instead of being left behind.

    So sealing is binding loot by slot. Which means I''ve got three loot slots and anything past that I''ll drop on death¡­ which explains why people pay well for the sealing.

    The mental model of sealing started to challenge him when he thought about death. If death was the spirit being severed from flesh then why didn''t the seed stay with the spirit naturally? And where did the spirit go, since you didn''t just immediately respawn. When you did respawn, where did your new flesh come from?

    Could you find your own dead body?

    The instructions on how to seal a gate seemed simple enough. Key the seed while circumscribing the gate with a band of spirit charged with the intent to seal it. The direction didn''t matter and the speed only mattered in that it had to be slow enough to be a solid band of traced energy.

    In theory, simple.

    In practice though the exercise eluded him. Keying a gate, let alone the drawing spirit around it, while it was within his own spirit body, using his spirit but separate from his spirit body wasn''t at all as easy as it sounded. He could only imagine the resistance in someone else''s spirit, though perhaps the separation would at least be easier mentally.

    Intent was a challenge as well. Harding lacked real context for it and nothing gauged his success on that account. Did his attempts fail because his trace was inadequate, or was it his intent wrong? Without knowledge of the problem, finding solutions became more difficult.

    And then there was the problem of the seed itself. It was as if the attempt caused a great churn of power inside it, the trace causing destructive waves of spirit within the void of the seed. With every attempt it seemed to shake with a stormy reaction and he couldn''t figure a way to make it still.

    Eventually he gave up, resolving to read more about it. Harding needed that money making skill, but he also needed his sleep.  He had promised the full day tomorrow to Master Sancliff.

    He logged for biological needs then came back to sleep. Harding''s Life dreams had been less vivid than the night hauntings he''d had earlier and much more like regular dreams. That night though his dreams were feverish.

    He dreamed of a knocking sound in his chest. He reached down and peeled open his chest, pulling the flesh aside to see. Inside was a voidseed that was filled with water. The water ran into and out of the voidseed from nothingness. Inside the seed swam fish. There was a pair of blue fish that swam in circles, head to tail. Around them swam a ring of three fish, one black, one white and one gray. The knocking sounds he heard was the white fish beating its tail against the edge of the seed every full revolution, as if drumming cadence for the whole performance.

    Then he dreamed of filling himself with voidseeds until he was full of them, much more than just three they just rattled around loosely in his spirit body. He just kept stuffing them inside himself. Randomly, he stopped and his spirit body walked out and away from his physical body. It jangled as the loose voidseeds were jostled by his movement. The abandoned flesh collapsed and rotted, triggering a beam of pure white to erupt from his mouth. Blazing from the stored energy of all the voidseeds, the beam severed the heavens. The sky parted and fell off like curtains opening which revealed a bunch of gigantic people standing around. They all looked down at him in surprise and he woke.

    He took another trip out of the game and back in. He didn''t even really notice it much anymore, it barely felt any more disruptive than getting out of bed on a cold winter night.

    Asleep once more, he dreamed that the voidseed inside him lit up until it violently rattled with energy. It began to burn within him. He could see the inside of his cell, what should be pitch black was lit a gray-purple haze and yet everything was just barely visible. Harding couldn''t move, but he was awake.

    A low zipping sound could be heard, as if someone was sawing wood in the hall.

    Zip. Zip. Zip.

    Harding fought the instinct to panic. Whatever was happening, it would happen.

    This is just Life being Life.

    He smelled it first, before he could see the smoke rising from his chest. Searing meat, a familiar hell. It smelled like ribs, a thought he found disturbing.

    Something is here.

    He couldn''t turn his head to look but he felt it, the presence. He knew this feeling of something else being in his cell. It too had happened before. And now something was here again watching him as his insides cooked.

    Zip. Zip. Zip.

    Two great canine heads slowly came into view. They made Harding think of Hyenas, but they were far too large. Too large to belong to bodies that would even fit in his cell. Yet there they were, hovering over his bedside watching him cook with lolling tongues. He watched them salivate and felt the wetness of their drool drip on his skin. Their saliva, itself superheated, ran in rivulets down the outside of his body.

    And then Harding''s chest burst in a geyser of blood and gore.

    Pain seared his mind but he couldn''t look away as he splattered the hyenas with himself. They licked their lips, tasting him from their own jowls. Harding expected to be consumed but they only watched and witnessed his misery. Harding expected to die, but he persisted in his agony.

    Just endure.

    He''d tempted fate, sleeping with the voidseed inside and now he would die. Instead, he suddenly bucked in bed as every muscle maximally contracted suddenly. He woke and bound into the air from the muscles all having suddenly contracted. A wisp of something crossed his mind as he laid there breathing heavily, a faded voice raspy like a saw.

    Harding gasped and sat up, trying to relax his frantically racing heart. He was sweating and awake with a crispiness of consciousness that seemed as unnatural in occurrence as it was unusual in experience. His mind picked through the night with clockwork precision, remembering and storing every detail. There was none of the usual fogginess to the memory of a dream. It was literally seared into his mind.

    That voice though, it was the saw he heard before. It had been chanting, soft and low, and only in that moment of absolute clarity had he faintly heard its singular, repeated word.

    Suffer

    However concerning Harding might find it, there was nothing he could do. Leaving his cell, not wanting to have that happen again so soon, Harding found the Solar garden''s darkness softened by the pre-dawn light. He walked to his favorite rock above the water and sat.

    Fear pushed at him, demanding he remove the voidseed. He came close to giving in to it several times, but he did not. Scanning himself, everything seemed in order but his mind still itched with the memory of how appealing the smell of it cooking his insides had been.

    That''s so fucked up¡­ Maybe I should check it, I''ll put it back in after.

    But he did not.

    He cast his focus outward and his spirit with it. He threw it with abandon and pulled it back. Set to a rhythm, he stopped judging the experience and just let it pass. There was a profound sense of harmony in it. It wasn''t the empty-minded peace bringing some sage understanding of oneness that he had been told throughout his life he must achieve to be actually meditating.

    It wasn''t an empty mind that brought him peace, but an emptiness of need.

    He just watched the experience of life flow through him and did not judge it. He did not catalog, name, or focus. He wasn''t even sure if he was actually keeping any sort of rhythm with his spirit, but he didn''t want to think about it. It didn''t matter, it just was.

    It kind of feels like fading into the ISR.

    And when he stopped he was aware of what had been and what was. His casting out and pulling in had been pumping spirit through him. Pulling ambient energy in, overloading his spirit body and bleeding off the excess out the top of his head. It humored him a little, that through all his efforts he had trained himself to be a spirit fountain for the garden.

    And now it was time to live.

    He cycled offline for food and freshening and then came back. He found food in the mess hall of the temple and then slipped away before anyone could question his escape. He had wanted to return Randal''s voidseed, but didn''t want to enter his cell. His compromise was to leave it on his cot in plain view.

    Technically, we aren''t supposed to take them out of the temple and it isn''t mine.

    Harding walked through the Old Market district, busy already with merchants preparing for the next day of sales, and then slipped in the backgate of the Guard association. He found Master Sancliff sipping coffee from a mug while sorting through paperwork. The trainer looked up and smiled, glad to have an excuse to put the paperwork aside.

    ¡°Morning, Sir. What have you got for me today,¡± asked Harding cheerfully.

    Sancliff looked at him, his always appraising eye somehow different. Harding could see Sancliff''s attention to his unusual demeanor. Harding was not really a morning person. ¡°A job,¡± he replied, eyeing Harding suspiciously.

    ¡°A job?¡±

    ¡°Yep. Here is the posting,¡± the trainer said as he handed him a piece of paper. ¡°Go in, go to the Member¡¯s desk and turn in your posting to get work details.¡±

    Hesitation started to creep in and Harding worried, ¡°I haven¡¯t learned combat yet though.¡±

    ¡°Bah. You wont need it, this is a job as a porter.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°You carry stuff.¡±

    ¡°So I¡¯m going to be carrying some heavy bag for a rich guy?¡±

    ¡°Yep.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because I said so."

    Harding glared but saw that Sancliff was amusing himself by trying to goad him. He relaxed and shrugged, as if that explanation was enough. Sancliff sighed, robbed of his fun, and explained, "It''s an excellent exposure to what it''s like being out on a contract without actually facing combat.¡±

    That actually makes sense.

    Harding asked, "Any advice?"

    ¡°Yeah, pack your own food and water. Clients rarely plan for you.¡±

    "I have to carry my own stuff and theirs?"

    "Fun, isn''t it."

    ¡°Sounds great. I didn¡¯t bring my pack though.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Here. Happy Birthday,¡± said Master Bradon as he kicked a small backpack over to Harding from underneath his desk. He had clearly prepared for this.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you when you get back. Just remember: Porters carry stuff, they don¡¯t fight," Master Sancliff reiterated.

    Harding hoisted his pack and walked across the courtyard to the backdoor to the Trade Hall. While Harding had hesitated to join the association, he had filed the paperwork as it was free and without binding requirements. Inside, he found a free clerk and handed her the paper. The clerk quickly scanned the job order, turned around and replaced a blue tack with a green one on a listing posted on the wall.

    Harding wondered at not having to show his membership card. Not that he had one yet. He''d been told there was a three week delay.

    If they didn''t even ask to see it then why do I need it?

    The clerk turned back to him. She handed Harding a flag the size of a handkerchief that was made up of four boxes. Two were purple, two were black and yellow checked, in alternating patterns. ¡°Head to the Green Hills gate, your client will be there with a matching Guard flag. You better hurry up to not be late,¡± she said in a tone that clearly communicated it was no real concern of hers how badly he failed.

    Harding left the hall in a fast walk. He knew of the Green Hills district, but hadn¡¯t yet gone there. It was mostly high end housing as far as he knew, which held no interest or use to him. It was across the Bres river from the rest of the city, but had its own walls and bridge. A creation made by and for people who had enough money to do something about wanting to benefit from the city but to not actually be inside the press of the city.

    The elites.

    Harding walked across the long bridge, built wide enough to accommodate carriages in both directions and, just barely, foot traffic beside it. The bridge was tall enough that river barges could float under to dock at the Old Port district just south of it. There wasn''t much to see in the district itself, as it was indeed almost entirely individual compounds behind their own walls. Many of the gates were manned with menacing guards.

    I wonder if they''re association members¡­

    Harding had walked as fast as he could and was slightly out of breath by the time he made the gate yard on the far side. Though it didn''t relieve his anxiety that he was late, he saw no group of people waiting around other than city guards at the gate.

    Unsure what to do, he asked the guards about a caravan leaving and one chuckled at him. The other said, ¡°No caravan is going to leave from this gate, unless you mean some minor noble going for a ride with a great retinue of servants behind him.¡±

    ¡°That could be it, have any left this morning,¡± he asked.

    ¡°Sun¡¯s barely up,¡± observed the guard.

    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± Harding agreed.

    ¡°Nothing happens here between early morning and late morning,¡± declared the guard confidently.

    "Now, midnight to early morning is a different story," confided the first guard, which earned him a kick by the third.

    Harding sat on a bench and waited, hoping he hadn''t messed up his first contract. The guards seemed so sure, but Harding wasn¡¯t comfortable just relying on that generalization. They didn''t have anything at stake.

    There was no traffic though for a half an hour, not a single person. Which left Harding feeling more confident in the guards, but bored. Absolutely no traffic at an open city gate seemed ridiculous. Individual people eventually walked by, but they appeared to be more likely manor staff as their clothing was simple and muted.

    It was over an hour before two men-at-arms and a teenage boy in armor showed up. The boy wore the first plate armor Harding had seen at all, red enameled and evidencing artistic flares Harding was taken aback by the martial opulence of it. The youth¡¯s helmet was off, revealing his soft face and a shock of wavy blond hair.

    Beside him was a lanky fellow, colorfully dressed in an array of warm tones. His dress implied some degree of armor, but not enough actual protection to be of particular note. Harding doubted very much the effectiveness of a few choice and stylish pieces of leather at keeping you alive. The colorful one also wore a wide brimmed hat adorned with a great feather of some unknown bird.

    Gregor would love that hat.

    Following the two by a pace was a nondescript guard. He wore a broad mix of armors, all clearly used, with the only nod to aesthetics being that the plates had been hastily painted red. The red didn''t match the teen''s plate. The armor was maintained, however, and more like what Harding saw at the arena.

    Working armor, not display.

    They stopped at the edge of the yard, where the man talked quietly to the boy while the boy fumbled around in his pack. Eventually, he pulled out a piece of purple cloth and turned to the instructor. Whatever his question, the answer had him turn around and put the flag on a clip of a short flagpole behind them. Harding had seen those poles at all the gates, but hadn''t really considered their function. The flag matched his, so Harding got up and walked over to them.

    ¡°Uh, hello. I¡¯m from the Guard corps. My name is Harding,¡± he said tentatively.

    The Silent guard glanced at him and then looked away disinterested, while the Instructor examined him carefully before stating, ¡°You¡¯re not a Guard.¡±

    Harding tried to explain the situation with a positive attitude, ¡°No Sir, not yet, I¡¯m technically here as a Porter with the Guard corps while I train.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re wearing monk¡¯s robes.¡±

    ¡°Yes Sir, I¡¯m still in training with the temple and with the association.¡±

    ¡°As a porter?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Sir.¡±

    ¡°Jarred, come take charge.¡±

    The teenage boy got off his seat and walked over. His glance at the instructor wasn''t returned, so he simply requested, ¡°Please show your Guard badge.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have one yet. They said it would be three weeks¡­ but I have this,¡± Harding said and produced his flag.

    Silent man snorted.

    The boy asked, ¡°You¡¯re new to the Guard?¡±

    ¡°Yes Sir, I''m still training with Master Bradon Sancliff.¡±

    Instructor declared, ¡°He¡¯s a Guard.¡±

    Silent man muttered, ¡°Three weeks,¡± while watching a couple of men walking through the ward instead of the exchange. Silent seemed dangerous to Harding, like a predator who was lounging after a kill. He leaked little ripples of spirit every now and then, like he was absently revving his spirit. Harding had spent enough time at the Grinder parties to know the feel of the dangerous ones.

    Instructor felt more like a noble house staff or advisor. Loud and confident, yet deferential. The boy was obviously some sort of noble''s son, but hard to read. He didn''t seem unfamiliar with what was going on, just unused to doing it himself. But behind that awkward exterior Harding noticed how fluidly he moved in his armor.

    ¡°I¡¯m Jarred Garnet. This,¡± he said while indicating the Instructor, ¡°Is my man, Philip de Cartier. The other is one of my house guards, Rhett.¡±

    ¡°Pleased to meet you, Sir,¡± responded Harding, unsure of the proper protocol.

    ¡°Did another from your association come with you,¡± asked Jarred.

    ¡°Ah, no Sir. I was just handed this assignment this morning and ran here alone," Harding explained. He added, "I don¡¯t know about anyone else.¡±

    ¡°Then we shall wait awhile to see if he arrives,¡± Jarred said, though he glanced at Philip for confirmation immediately after. Philip nodded slightly but otherwise tried to look uninvolved.

    Definitely his instructor.

    They sat watching the ward, Rhett and Harding in silence while Philip and Jarred whispered while huddled under the shade the wall provided with an eastern sun. After nearly an hour passed, Philip leaned over and spoke softly to Jarred. ¡°Looks like no one took your contract, young Master. We can press on or you can pay the porter and cancel this outing.¡±

    ¡°No, we¡¯re going. The three of us are strong enough for local issues,¡± Jarred sternly affirmed. ¡°Though I do regret the association failing to fulfill the contract.¡±

    Philip nodded slowly and then replied cautiously, ¡°Yes, that is most regrettable. However, you did choose an Opportunity contract instead of an Association contract. Those do tend to attract less attention.¡±

    ¡°I know, Philip," Jared sighed in apparent frustration. "Mother was already disapproving of my intent. I was trying to keep the finances at a minimum.¡±

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    Philip then turned to Harding. ¡°Monk, you worship at the Temple and not the Church, correct?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°Which Temple?¡±

    ¡°Okkor, sir.¡±

    ¡°You are learning to be a Spiritualist?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°You can sense Auras?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°Tell me Rhett¡¯s.¡±

    Harding turned to Rhett, who glanced over at him, amused. ¡°By your leave, Sir,¡± Harding asked.

    Rhett snorted.

    ¡°Master Jarred has given you permission by my asking, young monk. I realize you might be unaccustomed to noble protocol,¡± Philip informed him. He had tried to sound neutral, but it still sounded haughty to Harding''s ears.

    ¡°I apologize, I am new to the city and have spent most of my time in the temple," Harding replied flatly. He could play a role.

    Harding opened up his senses and turned his awareness onto Rhett, touching his spirit body to the man. Rhett radiated green, strong and proud. Though there was noise and variegations in the shade, he was adamantly and thoroughly green.

    ¡°He''s completely green, Sir. A Pure, but not an Archon.¡±

    ¡°He will do, Master,¡± Philip told Jarred with confidence. Then he turned to Harding. ¡°You need not call me Sir, only take my word as if it was from your employer. Master Jarred is the only one for whom protocol demands honorifics.¡±

    Harding nodded.

    ¡°Can you tell me the seed type and sequence for Rhett,¡± Philip asked.

    Harding blinked and stared at the man for a second. Determining sequence was beyond what Harding had even heard of and yet this man just assumed he could. ¡°Uh, no si- uhm, no. Though he comes off very firm, so I think Platinum in the Heart?¡±

    Philip smiled and shook his head, though it wasn''t readily clear if the response was a negative or just amusement at his fumbling answer. ¡°That¡¯s close enough. It shouldn¡¯t matter today, I was just curious how advanced you were.¡±

    Philip looked to Jarred and the young noble looked confused for a moment before he realized his function. ¡°Very well then, we shall be headed out now.¡±

    Harding tried very hard to not scowl at it all.

    Philip nodded at the noble boy, who stood up and stretched. Harding went to pick up the noble¡¯s pack when Philip commanded, ¡°Hold. The young Master will carry his own for training purposes.¡±

    Not complaining, but then why am I here?

    And with that everyone shouldered their own pack and headed out the gate. Rhett taking the lead, then Jarred and Philip shoulder to shoulder. Harding brought up the rear.

    Harding could feel a slight phantom pain in his ass burning as they walked through the gate.

    Ah, memories.

 Chapter 8

    Unlike the Riverside gate, the gate at Green Hills was a full carriage width and sat level with the grade. The road leading away was wide enough for a carriage and a half and made from hard packed dirt. With the grass at the edges cut back on both sides and the ruts somewhat smoothed, it was obvious that it was actively groomed. This side of the river was all young growth forest, thick with undergrowth that actively tried to grow over the road.

    They walked for sometime in relative silence, before Jarred and Philip began an earnest attempt at conversing. Jarred started with, "Instructor Simone said something interesting the other day."

    Philip quietly harrumphed, clearly unimpressed by the mention of the other instructor.

    "He asked since everything we perceive can be replicated by illusion magic, how do we know that all of it isn''t?"

    "All of what isn''t, Master?"

    "Everything. Our existence. This world. Our experiences are open to systemic manipulation. Maybe it''s all one complex illusion."

    Harding didn''t have to see Philip''s face, his scorn was evident in his voice as he spoke, "And who could do that but the gods? And if the gods created this systemic illusion would it not just be reality? Why would they create a reality only to divert from it with a false reality?"

    Cowed by Philip''s derision, the teen signaled his retreat, "I don''t know, it''s not my idea. Simone said it was becoming popular among the philosophers of the Imperial Court though."

    Not satisfied, Philip snidely sniped, "Of course it is, Master. The Imperial Court is famed for their enlightenment."

    Jarred kept quiet.

    What the hell am I listening to?

    Harding fell back a few paces to protect his sanity. The conversation seemed to have died and they walked in relative silence for about a mile before the two started talking again. Even then it was terse.

    Why aren''t we on horses or something?

    They had followed the road for nearly an hour before Rhett finally came to a stop. Rhett nodded to Philip, Philip turned to the young noble and announced, ¡°Master Jarred, we are at the turn.¡±

    With a trepid glance into the woods the teen ordered, ¡°Very well, Philip. Proceed.¡±

    Philip signaled back to Rhett who turned off the road and into the bushes. The others followed, Harding trailing all. He was surprised they were leaving the road, even if it was a game trail that was slightly obscured by some more resilient underbrush. The attitude of the group had changed too. Jarred was much more serious and carried himself upright instead of his usual bored-teenager slouch. Philip kept scanning the forest, growing more on edge the deeper they went. Rhett was ever consistent.

    They continued this way for a bit more than a half hour, walking in the omnipresent shade of the overhead canopy. Summer was in full swing now and so was the insect population. Harding grumbled as he swatted at biting insects while following Philip''s prancing plumage. Harding had hoped the bugs would thin out away from the river, but the swarming remained persistent even as the start of the mountains proper loomed near to the west through the trees.

    Rhett held up a hand and they all stopped.

    Philip coughed lightly and Jarred came around to talk to Harding, ¡°There have been rumors of something stalking these woods and solitary travelers have disappeared within it. What little information witnesses provided suggests that this thing hunts while invisible.¡±

    Why would there be solitary travelers in these woods when there was a perfectly good road?

    Nevertheless, Harding listened, fully aware it was all going to get worse. This seemed like a setup. And it was in the teen''s voice, the way he was explaining what shouldn''t be a porter''s business. Jarred didn''t disappoint him, "We- I, rather, placed a contract with your association for a hunter who could see auras. They didn''t show, but you can see them or something. Just walk with Rhett and look for unnatural auras and we will handle the monster.¡±

    Philip coughed lightly again and when Jarred glanced at him he rubbed his thumb to his index finger. "Oh, uh-¡± Jarred added with discomfort, "since you were hired as a porter, we''ll adjust your compensation.¡±

    The noble looked back at Philip who nodded ever so slightly. Harding looked Jarred over and smirked. The scam was obvious now that he was way out in the woods with whatever was out here eating solitary travelers. He didn''t really have a choice, so he joined Rhett. Rhett gave a sympathetic half-frowning smirk, carefully shielded from the others'' view.

    This is what Sancliff had meant about dealing with the realities of the job. He set me up!

    Harding examined the situation mentally. He couldn''t fight, and yet here they were stalking a monster with a history of killing people. The thing was apparently invisible and they didn''t even know how to find it. Since finding it required a specialist, they probably couldn''t see it. Harding wondered how they planned on fighting what they couldn''t see. The entire thing seemed a monumentally bad idea.

    The request to use aura sensing didn''t make sense either. Not unless monsters used godseeds too.

    Hmm, actually I don''t know that. Maybe monsters do have auras?

    Harding could reliably spirit sense in about maybe a twenty foot radius. He figured that a monster should have a spirit, but so did everything else in the forest. The trick would be to discern the difference. And even if he could, that was much closer than he wanted to be to it. It could easily evade them with such a small sending area. After a moment of hesitation, Harding stretched his spirit body out in all directions equally to sense what he could.

    Might as well get this over and turned in.

    It took him several minutes to get used to the complexity of the task. He couldn''t really hold his spirit body that wide for an extended time, so he had to throw it out in various directions and retract it. The feedback of life he got was intense, after all this was a living forest. While non-sentient beings had less spirit presence, the forest came back as a wall of noise. Doing both casting and surveying was a whole order more complex than his exercises. Doing it while walking on uneven terrain and dodging branches started as a disaster and improved slowly. As he became accustomed to the mental load, he asked, "Will it be on the ground or in the trees?"

    "Ah, they didn''t say. I guess because it was invisible," answered Jarred off-handedly.

    "Then how did they know it was even there, ah, Sir?"

    "I don''t know? Something attacked them and they couldn''t see it."

    Harding grunted with flair, dealing with nobility already souring him and his worldview. No one seemed to actually understand what was going on, they just operated on the assumption of the competency of others.

    He could sense wider, but only by flattening his spirit body which meant anything in the trees would get missed. Harding restarted his sense casting, using the full sphere of sending. It was just easier mentally.

    He adapted as he walked.

    He tried to flatten the bottom of the sphere to get more distance but that tended to lift the whole thing up as well which defeated the purpose. Eventually, he gave up and just stuck with the basics.

    The input bandwidth to his mind was uncomfortable. The theater of his experience was a jumble of physical inputs and non-visual awareness of the world that his brain was trying desperately to represent as a real-time spirit density heat map of sorts. Except he still couldn''t really visualize spirit, causing it to become a hyperactive mess of shifting attention and senses. It simply hurt his brain.

    And he kept tripping.

    If I feel spirit when I should see it, what is this weird mix and why did it change now?

    Accepting he might end up respawning because of it, Harding changed tactics again. In a reversal of his previous attempt, he stopped paying attention to the spirit sensing. He reasoned that he would be aware of any spike in density and the rest was not useful. Instead he just walked the forest, casting every couple of steps.

    As they moved deeper in he started to notice the slight thickening of the air, like a fog rolling along the forest floor. It took him a moment to realize it wasn''t in the air but an increase in ambient spirit in his perception. His brain was mixing signals together as long as he didn''t focus.

    But how do I focus on not focusing?

    ¡°Woah,¡± Harding muttered absently. ¡°This place is saturated with energy.¡±

    Which made sense as it was a forest, but the density had precipitously thickened. And as they continued, the residual spirit became even thicker towards the start of the mountains. Harding semi-consciously followed that density, not bothering to reason out the relationship, instead just operating on the assumption that more magic meant more monsters.

    It makes complete game sense.

    Maintaining the sensing and the duality of active and passive awareness created a pinching pressure between his eyes, but he accepted the discomfort. Given time he would adapt. For now his brain thumped in the effort, or maybe it was his heart, it didn''t matter much which it was. He just had to endure the consequences of the increased data flow.

    I need to practice this more.

    Turning to ask them how far they wanted to go, Harding''s perception inexplicably warped. He could see the aura around the people he wasn''t looking at, but it disappeared whenever he looked directly at someone. Any attempt to chase it resulted in failure to see it. For reasons beyond his understanding, Harding''s sensory technique was combining spirit and aura visually, but only out of the corner of his eye.

    Harding shuddered.

    Fuck, this is weird.

    Harding hadn''t tried to actively use sense aura on the other two of the group, it felt invasive and improper to pry. But this was just extra signals from doing his job, so he felt comfortable with it. Jarred''s red hummed in loud harmony, implying the teen was probably an archon. Harding had always thought of the platinum seeds as feeling assertive, but everything red felt sharp and cocky so he had no guess as to which type. Philip was only a soft yellow though, probably only a single seed.

    Maybe a weak duo?

    Conscious of his delay in speaking, he hurriedly asked, "Do we know anything about the location? How far in should we go? I can''t imagine road travelers coming in this far.¡± Harding sighed internally, his rambling fusillade of questions making him upset with himself.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know exactly, but the intermittent nature of contacts suggests it lives away from the road but hunts to the river," explained Philip. Harding felt like Philip was being condescending, but he couldn''t identify why.

    Maybe he''s just repeating someone else and doesn''t understand himself. Fear?

    Harding wiped sweat from his brow. The day was heating up. He explained to Philip, "Well the ambient spirit is getting heavier towards the mountain. I''m not sure if that is usual, but my instinct is to angle that way."

    ¡°How can you see magic, I thought you have Aura Sight,¡± queried Jarred.

    ¡°He does not, young Master. He is a Spiritualist. They are sensitive to variations in spirit volume and coloration. He likely has no seeds or sight."

    Maybe Philip isn''t an idiot, only a condescending ass?

    Philip continued, "Spiritualists are granted special abilities by their god to know the ways and temperament of magic."

    Nevermind.

    Philip turned to Harding and said, ¡°Please continue your search in whatever direction seems fruitful.¡±

    Harding took a few deep breaths while rapidly blinking and attempted to let go of his focus. The slightly fuzzed sight of his meditative sensing resumed in moments. He took up the lead once more into the ever thickening magic-fog. The ambient light dimmed as they moved, the canopy overhead denser with the older growth.

    Harding felt watched.

    He dismissed it as a silly notion, the others were watching him. Yet the feeling persisted. Nagged. Before long he started noticing strange movements, little flits and blinks of light and shadow out of the corner of his eye. He tried to pass it off as paranoia in the darkening woods. After all, his senses were acting strangely with his modified spiritualistic searching. That could easily induce a feeling of anxiety.

    He collapsed his spirit body pulse flat to get a bit further range. There were definitely things out there, but he could not discern what they were. At first he thought it might be apprehensive forest creatures, skittishly hiding near trees. It slowly dawned on him, however, that the animals previously had not behaved as such.

    This has to be something else.

    He stopped and dropped the sensing, trying to watch for movement with his vision but saw nothing. ¡°Hmm,¡± he mumbled. He was definitely being watched and whatever they were they were actively aware of and avoiding his spirit sensing.

    ¡°Do you see something,¡± Philip asked loud enough to make Harding cringe.

    ¡°I''m not sure, maybe they¡¯re large insects,¡± theorized Harding. He knew he was rationalizing. Insects, being living creatures, did have tiny spirit energy in amplitude and volume. These weren''t insects. Phillip¡¯s face gave away his skepticism.

    As Harding continued to stare though a shadow moved on its own. He shifted his gaze towards the movement, but could see nothing that would account for it. From the corner of his eye another shadow moved. There was no breeze to sway branches or other things that might cause moving shadows. The movements hadn''t been in the same direction either. Yet every time his eyes chased movement he found nothing.

    Anxiety crawled across his brain as he accepted what he had known but desperately rejected. They were man-sized shadows, not insects. And they were working as a group to mess with him, toying with his perception. Testing him, trying whether he saw them.

    ¡°You said one invisible creature, right,¡± he asked nervously.

    ¡°The reports were a singular being, yes. And divine monsters don¡¯t breed, rarely more than two are found together outside of places of power,¡± Philip stated with certainty.

    Harding pointed out the flaw in his logic, "The survivors said one, but missing people don''t give reports."

    Philip sniffed indignantly, not being one for criticism.

    Now knowing what to look for, he continued to indirectly watch and refused to focus on the movement. Tentatively, he asked while he watched, ¡°What about at least a dozen unseen entities in the area?¡±

    ¡°Impossible,¡± Phillip asserted adamantly.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m seeing at least a dozen man-sized things between the trees¡­ no, uh- maybe more?¡±

    They seemed like normal two dimensional shadows, but shifted onto an upright plane instead of cast and stretched by the angle of the light. They did not warp or distort which was how Harding started to pick them out. Some of the edges of the shadows stood at wrong angles.

    They had no features, so Harding couldn''t explain why but he felt as though he had locked gazes with one. The shape rushed forward at him. Harding didn¡¯t react due to its speed and his observer mindset. Eyes of red flashed against the body of shadow just as an open hand of shadow swung at Harding. It connected with Harding''s unprotected chest. He felt no impact but his robes split as did his flesh beneath.

    Harding fell backwards on his ass, still suffering a certain level of surreal detachment. The shadow was simply gone. He was aware of the sounds of shuffling boots, grunts and excited yelling around him, but sat dazed for the moment. The wound stung but everything felt so distant. Slowly he looked up and saw that the other three stood around him, blades drawn and facing out.

    Harding felt Rhett breath in power, not the normal ripple of magic but a sudden drain as if everything was suddenly tilted towards him. Then a burst of high density spirit energy from Rhett. Harding looked away, flinching. When Harding looked back, Rhett was no longer Rhett. Instead he stood as a slightly larger version of Rhett, but with the head of a fox.

    He looks like a mega-sized Rubahwog.

    It was definitely Rhett, though, and not quite right in shape for a Rubahwog either. Whatever Rhett was, it was leanly muscled and long in limb where the Rubahwog¡¯s were the opposite. An oversized spear popped into existence in Rhett¡¯s clawed hands, tasting of verdant magic. He had already launched into an attack, thrusting the spear into empty space. The spear shimmered and the nearly invisible creature popped and ceased to exist.

    ¡°We need to be able to see them,¡± yelled Philip behind him.

    Philip unleashed a spell, a ripple of power bursting around Harding like a blip of static. It was accompanied by a slight golden twinkle of light in the dim wood.  He hadn''t ever been this close to magical combat. As a spectator in the stands magic was clean, but in the thick of it he was drowned in chaotic waves of energy and influence. And emotion, he swore he could taste emotion on the waves. Harding realized the lights had settled on the three, but not him. Whatever spell it was had passed over him.

    Shit. I didn''t party with them.

    Harding got to his feet, looking for threats. In front of him, Rhett¡¯s spear swung and stabbed. For the briefest of moments he could see shadows solidify before Rhett¡¯s darting brilliant spear eliminated them.

    Harding¡¯s back lit on fire as sharp claws slashed him from behind. He rolled forward instinctively and then faced the way of his attack. There was nothing there, he had been attacked inside their loose circle without anyone noticing. Keeping his back to Rhett, he looked across the circle at Philip and Jarred. Harding needed a weapon, some way to defend himself, and fast.

    I need my staff.

    Harding blinked. He looked down at his full hand. His magic staff had appeared as if called, filling his hand. He had not opened or prepared it, it just was. Lacking time to think about it, he took a quarter grip and pressed the tip out in front of him in a basic guard. He neither sensed nor saw any enemy within his reach.

    ¡°Back to the road,¡± yelled Philip wiping blood from a cut on his cheek. Backsword bared, the man started a retreat on his own. Jarred followed him, flashing his magic incessantly. While most magic was more felt than seen for Harding, Jarred¡¯s output was a veritable light show. Red bolts of light rapidly flashed from his left hand as his sword spun in his right. Solid shadows were cut down by both, but more just kept coming.

    A dozen had been a gross underestimation; the entire woods were moving.

    Rhett stood his ground, his spear spinning and attacking to fend off the continual enveloping assault against him. He moved with a furious speed that would rival most Harding had seen in the arena. Suddenly, a box of red light popped up in front of Rhett, a good twenty feet long and seven wide and high. It looked like a giant stone box made of faint red light, even displaying slight decorative work along its surfaces. It was a poor illusion, transparent and obvious, but everything within it burned. The grass blackened and glowed as hot ember, wood dried, cracked and smoked. Within its embrace, the shadows died in flames.

    Not a box, it''s a sarcophagus. A tomb of light and heat.

    Harding wrapped himself in a thick spirit bubble, lacking whatever aid Philip had buffed he did what he could to see. Tight and dense, he hoped it would avoid over-simulation of a broader view. All he needed was to see the ones close enough to attack him and try to cover Rhett''s back.

    ¡°You lead, I¡¯ll follow,¡± growled the not-human Rhett.

    What Rhett wanted didn¡¯t register at first in Harding''s mind, he just watched as the first light sarcophagus flashed and a slightly smaller second copy came into being within it. The light boxes were providing cover for them to flee. A gift from the retreating Jarred, based on the color of the effect.

    Glowcophagi? No, two Cast-kets.

    Rhett meant to capitalize on the cover and wanted him to guide him backwards in a fighting retreat. Harding rotated towards the direction Philip and Jarred had fled and advanced slowly, swinging his staff in the air in slow sweeps. He reasoned he could still hit what he didn''t see. Rhett walked backwards while killing, following Harding with ease.

    Constantly at first, then intermittently, the forest slowly became brighter as the shadow masses dissipated. Harding moved slowly, avoiding trees and downed branches so that Rhett would be unlikely to back into them. They moved that way for some time, though Harding¡¯s sense of time was completely shot under the sudden mental and physical burden.

    Jarred and Philip had disappeared.

    A sudden sense of overwhelming doom crashed down on Harding. It came with a ferocity that was as physical as it was mental. A loud, prolonged roar bellowed behind him with such force that Harding saw the leaves flutter and blow away.

    Nope, not looking.

    A moment later, Rhett crashed into him with force knocking them both down. Rhett wiggled on him, inadvertently keeping Harding pinned face down beneath him as he fought off whatever was attacking him. Something impacted Rhett heavily twice, crushing Harding beneath him and knocking the wind out of him. Rhett''s increased weight and size kept Harding trapped. He could feel Rhett''s reaction to each blow, hear his flesh ripped, the grunts and growls of pain. Another bellow sounded with such energy that dust and dirt lifted off the ground. Rhett gasped and a ton of spirit exploded in a rolling wave of green energy. Rhett, though, laid still. Harding accepted that he too would die here, a mortifying fatality pinned indignantly beneath a corpse.

    He waited for the end.

    After a couple minutes though, nothing had happened. There were no more sounds, no more attacks, no continued feeling of imminent doom. Certainly he felt dread and anxiety, but not the immediate mental press of direct and dire threat. He was once again aware of animal noises as they returned, birds chirping and a squirrel angrily chiding him for being too close.

    He hadn''t even realized that he couldn''t hear those sounds when the things attacked.

    Rhett wasn¡¯t moving. With effort Harding rolled Rhett off of him. Crawling out from under him and seeing no immediate threat, he looked over the fallen guard. Rhett was human again and a bloody mess. Every exposed bit of skin seemed to be cut up, his gear had been shredded and torn from him, and even the plates of his armor were scored.

    Death by a thousand cuts.

    A small bell chimed in the woods.

    Harding started. He looked around in panic, but he could see nothing unusual. He strained to hear, but all was silent. He cast out his spirit body wide and found no concern. He waited, trying to control his heart, in the still forest. All he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears. As far as he could tell, he was the only living being around. Eventually, he had to give up his panicked vigilance and attend the pressing matters.

    Despite the sheen of seeping blood, Rhett breathed shallowly. Harding was no doctor and was very aware of how woefully inadequate his knowledge was, but he was sure Rhett was alive and unconscious. Harding was grateful for it, he was alone and defenseless and Rhett recovering could save him. No wound he could see needed any immediate attention that he could give.

    He had to keep moving.

    Rhett had at least fifty pounds on Harding, but Harding wasn¡¯t going to leave him behind and didn¡¯t trust this current calm. Attempting to mimic how Brother Roberts had carried him, Harding tried to lift Rhett and failed. After several more tries all he had done was strain his back. Harding looked down at Rhett and watched him lay there slowly bleeding into the dirt.

    Disappointed and with no other acceptable recourse, Harding set about collecting firewood. He built a small stick structure after establishing a large stack of fallen wood before he tried to ignite it with the flint and steel that was in his pack. The wood rebelled, seemingly impervious to his sparks. Just another skill he lacked. He was about to give up on it when an errant spark landed on Rhett¡¯s torn shirt and caught it on fire.

    He let the cloth burn while quickly transferring his little stick structure atop Rhett''s burning raiment. Only then did he hack the cloth off with the knife. Harding burned his fingers lightly in his work, but they had fire. The haphazard stick structure crackled and smoked, a burning monument to Harding''s triumph. A glance for larger pieces of wood revealed that his struggles had just begun.

    Ultimately successful, he settled a little bit. Not entirely however, anxiety drove him to turn back to watch the woods every few minutes. That fire would drive them back instead of attracting them was a guess, one he had to admit might be pointless when it wasn''t yet noon.

    If they''re fine out in the day, will the fire really help?

    Harding once more went over Rhett¡¯s injuries, slowly making sure that he hadn¡¯t missed anything seemingly significant. They all seemed to be healing now, though Harding tried to help a few with some bandages Sancliff had packed. He was dubious as to the effect of his effort.

    I wonder if Sancliff had any idea what a mess this would be?

    Harding scoured the area again, finding as much deadfall he could in the immediate area. He was quickly reevaluating his earlier estimate of how much wood he would need. He would occasionally cast his spirit body out as he did so, flat and wide. Those things had avoided it before, maybe they would continue to do so. He knew he was probably doing more than needed, but he had no idea what was needed.

    There''s no way we killed them all.

    Finally satisfied with his pile of wood, Harding quickly cycled his login for a quick bathroom visit, a small bite and a large drink. Afterwards, he settled in with the fire and waited for Philip and Jarred to return. They would have to return to get their man.

    Time passed as he alternated between keeping the fire and keeping the watch. Part of his watch was flexing his spirit body. There was a difference between the meditative flex of spirit in safety and this exhaustive adoption under pressure. It was far less clean than his garden time, but he was tripping over the weaknesses of his previous assumptions and teachings.

    The field was a completely different thing.

    The major lesson was that the thinner the spirit body the more ambient spirit it absorbed. Brother Richards had taught him to push more out from his core and that had served him well in expanding his distance. But doing the opposite brought in more spirit. He didn''t need it yet, but it was a notable observation. A fact no one has mentioned.

    Second to that was the importance of shape. Shape had great importance for specific probing, but the uniformity of it was a waste. All the effort put into perfect geometric expression seemed a waste, though he reasoned it could be argued the practice made the practical application easier. Out here in danger, there was no realized benefit to it.

    Perfection was a waste.

    Harding sat huddled close to the fire. It was still sometime in the midafternoon, but the forest was dim despite the summer sun. Those things hadn¡¯t really been invisible, but had been made of moving shadows. Or, maybe, just been using some kind of ability that bent light defensively. Whatever the truth, they used their obfuscation as a weapon. Sight and senses are defense.

    The hours passed slowly and without incident.

    Still haven''t seen those invisible monsters.

    Rhett had started moving fitfully, but was still asleep beside the fire. He was more torn up than Harding had first realized. He had no clue how much he had helped the man or if he even had. Healing was slow but Rhett seemed tough and the cuts were numerous but not that deep.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Whatever the cause of Rhett''s slumber, he was a fully seeded noble house warrior and the things that had done this to him were still out there. Rhett had slain at least a couple dozen of those shadow beings. Jarred had been holding his own too. But whatever that last thing was, Rhett didn¡¯t have a chance against it.

    So what hope would I have?

    It was just him and his fire and he sure hoped the fire worked. He threw another couple sticks on to be sure.

    ¡°Don¡¯t build it up too high,¡± Rhett croaked next to him.

    Harding jumped. ¡°Shit,¡± he exclaimed and looked over at the now awake Rhett. The man looked sick, but to be fair he also looked like he¡¯d fought to the death against several large hunting cats. It took Harding a moment to respond. ¡°Why not,¡± he asked, fearing he had made some grievous mistake with the fire.

    Rhett explained, ¡°Higher you build it, the more wood it takes.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that makes sense.¡±

    ¡°How long have I been out?"

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure, a couple hours at least?"

    Rhett remained silent as he watched the fire before finally asking, ¡°How¡¯d I live?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how we lived. There was this big roar and then you fell on me. Something massive walked around a bit and then left and¡­ I just laid there with you on top of me and didn''t move for a while," Harding confessed.

    Harding watched Rhett for a reaction but got nothing. As far as he could tell Rhett found it a perfectly normal strategy.

    With a grimace Rhett asked, ¡°And Master Jarred?"

    ¡°Don¡¯t know. That thing went back towards the mountain, but, well I haven''t heard anyone or anything since," Harding concluded with a shrug. He wasn¡¯t sure if he had imagined the bell, it was too out of place to make sense. The monster had already left by then, maybe it was just someone¡¯s lost sheep.

    There were no farms on the way in. And it was a single ring. Idiot.

    Rhett made a soft noise, which Harding couldn¡¯t translate before Rhett gave a long, painful sigh. ¡°Philip did the right thing, getting the young Master out of harm¡¯s way first. His protection was the mission at that point.¡±

    Harding could understand that from a guardian¡¯s standpoint. If Jarred was dead out there in the woods somewhere, Rhett would probably have issues from the parents. Harding had to assume this whole venture would be viewed as a catastrophic failure.

    ¡°Got anything to drink in that pack of yours,¡± Rhett inquired.

    Harding fetched out his waterskin and handed it to Rhett. ¡°There¡¯s a creek about fifty feet further. I can get some more.¡±

    ¡°May I go through your pack,¡± asked Rhett carefully.

    ¡°Sure, I didn¡¯t pack it and I don¡¯t know how to use most of the stuff in it,¡± admitted Harding.

    Rhett rummaged around his pack, suppressing his winces as he did so. He produced several items and then gave Harding instructions. ¡°Find a flat rock, set it into the coals. Nothing porous though. Then go fill that pot at the creek, come back and boil the water. I¡¯ll tell you when it''s good. We¡¯ll eat then and you¡¯ll need to collect more wood in case we¡¯re here for the night.¡±

    ¡°For the night,¡± asked a dismayed Harding.

    ¡°Planning on getting rescued is no plan. Always assume no one is coming to save you.¡±

    "You¡­ we can''t just walk out now?"

    "I''m still in rough shape and need more time for regeneration. It''s going to be dark soon. I''m not sure running blind and injured through the woods in the dark is a winning plan."

    "And survival is the winning plan," agreed Harding.

    Rhett chuckled lightly and laid his head back. "That it is. Make sure we get as much wood as we can."

    "Uh, question?"

    Rhett closed his eyes as he laid there. Without opening them, he agreed, "Let''s hear it."

    "Those shadow things didn''t mind daylight, and light and dark make shadows."

    "So why fire?"

    "Basically?"

    "Because it''ll still get chilly tonight."

    Rhett dozed off as Harding worked. Whatever he was healing from and however his regeneration worked, Harding trusted that Rhett knew what he needed. Harding gathered wood until the darkness started to set in.

    Rhett woke again shortly after dark and they split some bread and cheese from the pack. The forest seemed to change with the dying light. Before, it had a sort of distantly ominous feel, but now it was oppressive. Nightmarish. Still, besides the odd noises outside the light which may or may not have been regular forest sounds, nothing seemed to tangibly change.

    ¡°They¡¯ll come armed and heavy tomorrow,¡± Rhett told him. ¡°Maybe for me, but there is no way they¡¯ll leave these seeds just laying out here.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t get them sealed,¡± gasped Harding. He had no idea why someone could wander out with three godseeds unsealed.

    ¡°Sealed? I''m a House guard,¡± Rhett replied in mild confusion.

    Harding tried to work through the connection, but failed to find obvious meaning. He admitted,  "I don''t understand. I''m new to the kingdom and all of this."

    Rhett shrugged and leaned back, ¡°Yeah, well, when you¡¯re a House guard you don¡¯t seal what you don¡¯t own.¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t belong to you,¡± repeated an incredulous Harding.

    ¡°Nope." Rhett held up his hands staying any protest. "It isn''t easy to join a House guard, but when you do they train, house, feed, equip, and pay you. And they do it better than pretty much anyone else. Some private association guys might make more coin, but not with the same family and sense of honor. That''s worth something."

    Rhett paused and Harding took a breath to reply but was stopped by Rhett raising his hands again.

    "When you prove yourself, you get access to seeds. The more you accomplish, the more you get. You can earn ownership too, don''t misunderstand, but usually it''s just to use. See, as a regular guy you don''t have much access to seeds unless you''re really in the shit often. And then you won''t have much choice in which seeds you get unless you''re part of an organization that has an interest in maximizing your capability."

    Harding shook his head, the explanation seemingly incomplete. ¡°I get why having greater choice in seeds is beneficial, but why not why they don''t seal them. You risk losing them when you die. With them sealed, you come back with them."

    ¡°Usually you come back, but not always," Rhett warned. "And when coming back, how long does it take? Do they go back to the House? A House usually doesn''t take the risk, the other guards will pick up what you die with or guard it. They don¡¯t seal house property, not usually at least, not unless you¡¯re on a raid. If you see House guards with sealed seeds, they¡¯re coming for war.¡±

    Harding didn''t press further. It wasn''t like he could change the situation. Rhett went back to sleep shortly after that outburst anyways. Harding stayed up, tending the fire. Fear and the occasional twig snap kept him awake for most of the night. Once his head started to bob he cycled his login. It bought him a bit more time and he put a few more sticks on, however it didn¡¯t stop the exhaustion from pulling him down into sleep.

    Harding dreamed he was in a place of total darkness. All around him whispered voices. He could not make out what they were saying, but their tone was malicious. He heard a heavy snort in the darkness and looked about trying to find the source, but he could see nothing but blackness. The snort sounded again, even closer, so close the wind of it rushed across his face reeking of decay. Harding panicked but couldn¡¯t move. Helpless in his blindness, Harding heard a whispered voice to the side of him. It was clearer than the other voices, but he still couldn''t make out the words. They sounded foreign. In front of him the other thing roared in anger, hot breath and spittle splashing his face. Yet, he still couldn''t move.

    A bell sounded and the silvery chime brought Harding awake with his heart pounding. The fire was dim, more ember than flame, but it still burned. He immediately started adding sticks. As he did so, he wiped his face. His hand picked up a light mist on his skin.

    That''s just sweat.

    Harding doubted his own explanation, this world was just too messed up to leave him in peace. But whatever was going on, the immediate needs always took precedent. He built up the fire and sat there, huddled against himself as he¡¯d given the pack blanket to the injured Rhett.

    He promised himself he wasn¡¯t going to fall asleep again. Ever. There was no way he was going to risk losing the fire either. And yet, probably not more than thirty minutes later, he started to drift again. Harding struggled to stay awake, he threw sticks on the fire, and even tried pacing. As much as Harding fought it, he was losing.

    As his consciousness started to slip away a loud roar ripped through the night. It was thick, low and high at the same time as if it was made from two voices. The howl was sustained and then suddenly stopped. The forest went quiet. Harding sat scared awake now, heart thundering as he listened to the dark.

    He waited pensively but the night remained silent, no sounds but the crackle of the fire and Rhett¡¯s heavy breathing. Harding didn¡¯t know what was out there, but his thoughts terrorized him. He waited to hear the snort, to hear it come closer. But it didn¡¯t.

    A bell jingled in the night again, small and high.

    ¡°Oh, come on,¡± he growled quietly.

    And then nothing. No clues, no attacks and no odd sounds. Just the night forest returning to normal activity. With torturous lethargy the first ribbons of light weaved between the trees to give a soft glow to the forest floor. Rhett continued to sleep. Harding figured they would need Rhett to be healthy to get out of the forest.

    Shortly after full light, Rhett woke on his own. They split the last of the packed food in silence. Harding listened between bites, having decided that awareness of unnatural silences served as a better warning than watching for unusual shadows. Due to this, he heard it first. The clink of metal on metal.

    Was that a bell?

    Harding looked to Rhett who arched his eyebrows questioningly. Harding was lifting his hand to his ear when Rhett seemed to hear it too. He just smiled at Harding. More noises came moments later, the rattle of arms and muffled voices.

    "Over here," yelled Harding. It was a pointless call though, as he could now see flashes of clothing as men moved through the forest towards the campfire. When the men emerged, Harding recognized their livery as House Garnet. A dozen or so armed men, led by a knight in full plate painted a matte maroon. In the knight''s wake came Philip, but no Jarred.

    The knight shrugged his small pack and freed up his water. After a long pull, he looked from Rhett to Harding and then back to Rhett. "What happened here?"

    Harding looked to Rhett who nodded back at him. "To be honest, I''m not sure we entirely know," said Harding.

    "My man will speak," said the knight curtly.

    "Begging your pardon, Sir, but the boy was awake and witnessed more than I," explained Rhett.

    The knight continued to look at Rhett a moment and then turned to Harding, "Continue, then."

    Harding recounted the encounter and the events of the night. He made sure to emphasize that they''d probably faced forty or more shadow beings and at least one of those giant monsters. He left out the dreams and bells, believing that they would earn him only ridicule.

    The knight picked up one end of Harding''s staff and examined it, then looked him over just as carefully.

    "How is it that a Guard corps porter with no seeds has a magic staff and saves a fully seeded House Guard, while the heir to the House and his well-compensated chaperone run in terror through the woods," asked the knight with genuine curiosity.

    "My first duty is to protect the Master. Rhett was guarding the retreat and fell behind," argued Philip, having come to stand beside him while Harding had told his tale.

    The knight stared at Philip with a dead expression, "If your first duty was to protect Master Jarred, you would not have brought him out here in the shadows of Black Barrow to hunt invisible monsters with a freshly seeded guard and a helpless porter."

    Philip responded with disdain, "It was reported as a single monster and the Master insisted he needed to learn from actual combat."

    "And the Lady forbade it," declared the knight with steely finality.

    No one spoke, an uncomfortable inflammation to a social wound before the knight restarted in a less harsh tone but with no less firm an edge. "There may, in fact, be a problem with his education. And I have long argued that controlled training is not true combat experience, but if there is a problem with his training it is in the inadequacy of his instructors."

    The clear and cutting barb landed, Philip''s face scrunched up and flushed. "We contracted a full hunter from the Guard and the boy is a skilled Spiritualist."

    I''m a what?

    The knight turned on Philip, "And what good is that if he doesn''t know how to fight? If you don''t know what you''re fighting? Do you somehow still remain ignorant to what it was you found?"

    "I''m not sure I understand the que-"

    "Name that which you fled, scholar," the knight spat with venom.

    Harding could see the man struggling to contain his temper. The fact the knight was a man of violence and accompanied by thirteen warriors might have also played a part in Phillip¡¯s restraint. Harding could see it, the men were all the knight''s. Even Rhett. Philip had no support here and he knew it. Instead, Philip tried to retain his pride. "We fought scores of some sort of demons from the dreaming," Philip simultaneously boasted and excused.

    The knight shook his head and sighed deeply. Harding was aware that the other men-at-arms had encircled them, but were keeping their distance. Guarding and containing. "No. They were splinters. Rare enough and obnoxious, to be sure, but not that dangerous to a knowledgeable combatant."

    "They were strong enough to take down your man," pointed out Philip.

    The knight shifted his balance. It was a small move, but one that threatened an attack. Whatever was between the men, it was clear to Harding that Philip''s attempt to disparage Rhett to save face was not tolerated. The rest of the men-at-arms moved their hands to their weapons in reaction to the knight''s shift.

    He won''t allow them to be dishonored and they''ll fight for him.

    "No. That was from being left on his own and what seems most likely a Shadow elemental. One that would have been the end of all of you. The fact these two are still alive appears to be entirely by luck."

    The knight turned to look at Rhett. "How are your wounds," he asked.

    "I''ll manage, Sir."

    The knight nodded, there was no need for more. "Join the men then."

    The knight looked over his men, waiting for Rhett to collect himself before he spoke loudly. "Alright, men. We are dealing with a splinter infestation. Remember they''ll attack if you look at them, attack one of them, or look vulnerable to them. They will go down to any wound, so keep your attacks light and fast. Their cuts have mild tranquilizer and anticoagulant properties, so cleanse periodically."

    The men stood relaxed but listened attentively. Harding''s impression was of competent and hard men.

    "Now, it does sound like there''s potentially a Shadow elemental about too, probably a lord class being," warned their commander. "Favor warm magics, but it''s otherwise your typical rage-driven semi-feral divine. Spread to a loose line and we will hunt and purge the splinters together."

    The knight addressed Harding, "Go back to town with Philip. He will pay you and you will not speak of this."

    "Uh, actually," interjected Harding, "could I stay and fight?"

    The knight smirked. "After the night you had, you want to hunt this thing down with no seeds?"

    "I need to learn."

    The knight chuckled, shaking his head. "Somehow, they brought the Master out here to learn a lesson, but you were the one who gained the education."

    "Go back to the manor and await us," he commanded Philip.

    "I''m not one of yours to command, Vostek."

    "We are in the field, therefore I have command. Feel free to lodge a grievance with his Grace."

    That seemed to silence Philip.

    Vostek looked over at Harding and smiled for the first time. "What do I call you, porter?"

    "Harding, sir."

    "Monk-Initiate?"

    "Aspirant, actually."

    "Well met, Aspirant Harding. I am Knight-Commander Petr Vostek, Field Commander of House Garnet. It is always a pleasure to meet a young man with both brains and spine. It is exceedingly difficult to find recruits with both."

    Uhm, I didn''t volunteer to join¡­

    Harding let it pass, assuming he misunderstood. "Thank you, sir."

    Vostek leaned in, "As a Spiritualist, do you know how to mass key?"

    "Uh, not by that name at least?"

    "You know keying?"

    Harding nodded.

    "It is just keying an area instead of a single point. Won''t do a thing in combat normally, but it is enough to put down something with such a tenuous existence as a splinter."

    "That simple?"

    Vostek grimaced sympathetically and confirmed, "You could have wiped out scores of them if you knew what you were doing. They say that renowned sages can simply will such creatures to cease existing, but generally speaking most Spiritualists are especially well-equipped to handle such types of beings."

    "Shit."

    The knight smiled knowingly, "That kind of thing happens all the time, don''t let it get in your head. Just walk a staff length behind me in the middle of the formation and you''ll be fine, but feel free to key anything you see."

    The commander, noticing that Philip was still about, barked at him, "Why are you still here?"

    Philip posed to protest, but his argument died as looked around. The men all seemed ready to make the argument physical, not forgiving of whatever faux-pas Philip had committed. Philip turned and walked into the forest towards the road without a word.

    The men had reasoned some order while Vostek and Harding had spoken, sorting themselves out when their commander seemed ready. By the time Vostek took to the middle of the line, with Harding trailing, the line men spanned nearly a hundred yards.

    Harding stood a full staff length behind the knight and waited for the order to march. Vostek looked back at Harding and gave him final instructions,  ¡°If something gets through, feed it your keyed staff. If more than two get through, mass key. Watch your backside, these things teleport. Do not engage with the Shadow elemental at all, and, especially, do not try keying it.¡°

    And with that he pulled his sword, looked forward and yelled to his men, ¡°Forward march.¡±

    And march they did, slow and deliberate with weapons bared. They moved through the woods, the gaps opening and closing as men moved around trees and brush. It took a fair bit before any contact was made, and like before, combat set off a chain reaction. They went from having no contact to the entire line fighting heavily every step.

    Those splinters are hyper social.

    The splinters fell with little issue, cut down mechanically with little effort by the House¡¯s unified front. The ones that appeared behind the line were just as readily brought down by spells, detected and targeted by means Harding didn¡¯t understand.

    I can sense them with spirit, why wouldn¡¯t they be able to with more refined magic?

    Eventually they made it to the base of the mountain, which was a steep cliff not quite thirty feet tall. Beneath it Vostek called a halt for rest. Each man took a breather, drank water and saw to whatever equipment maintenance had become necessary by the light but constant fighting. At the end of the break they gathered to reform. As they were spreading to themselves out again, there came a terrible roar.

    One Harding recognized all too well.

    The monster stepped out from behind a tree which was far too skinny to hide it, yet there was no part of it showing from the other side. Its arrival felt like a grease made of fear being spread over his mind. Harding regretted learning its appearance as it was pure nightmare fodder. It stood nearly twelve feet tall and was roughly the shape of a diamond, narrow shoulders and broad hips. It was made up of shadows and darkness, a chaotic mess of different moving shadows bound together as its skin. Off the edges of its body wisped black mist like the broken morning light was evaporating its very being. As it moved various parts of it seemed to be alternating between being two and three dimensional, wobbling in unnatural and nauseating lurches.

    The face was vaguely humanoid, but the jaw was grotesquely elongated, sagging beneath a muzzle which protruded like a short snout instead of an individual nose and mouth. There were no other facial features other than the stretched mouth full of dagger-like teeth of decaying bone, not even eyes.

    It extended its long arms outwards to display its size, like a bird stretches its wings to be threatening. It even splayed its bladed fingers open to make it look as large as possible. The monster lowered its head and bellowed a challenge at them in an attempt at intimidation.

    Harding found the attempt extremely successful.

    The Garnet men''s spells ripped into it before it was even done vocalizing. No command was needed, their experience leading the men to waste no opportunity. Beams of red, wobbling blobs of green, and roaring flames slammed into it. Explosions against its form buffeted it and yet it took the time to complete its defiant display before charging the men.

    For a big thing, it moved with concerning speed. It went from being rocked by a dozen spells to having a man grasped in its fingers with sickening celerity. The hand squeezed and bladed fingers cut into its victim like sharp scissors. Metal armor screeched and the man was sheared in half, armor and all. It let the pieces drop, the broken body no longer of interest.

    With the man dead, the men-at-arms opened up again with abandon on the elemental, freed of the worry of friendly fire. The surface of the Shadow elemental became a discordant strobe of color. While he knew many spells were without visual signs, the violent churn of the local spirit was so great Harding could feel it without active sensing.

    It made him unsteady.

    The thing lurched sideways, stumbled, then sprinted forward a few steps to grab another House guard. The man screamed as he was cut by the clamping grasp. Spells hit the man in what he assumed were aid and not friendly fire. Harding watched in horror as the elemental rotated its wrist and smashed the man head first into the ground several times. All that hung from the man''s slumped shoulders were a few pieces of bloody skin. The monster lifted the corpse up to look at it as though it were confused by it before discarding the broken body.

    Attacks increased again and the beast¡¯s skin lightened, its body sagged momentarily, and then it roared a renewed challenge. This time bubbles of green and yellow formed around a single fighter several spots down the line from the beast. That man stepped forward and bellowed back at the horrible shadow.

    The monster looked at the man in what Harding assumed was shock. Harding certainly was shocked. Despite common mechanics concepts like taunting and aggro management, the idea someone would try it without actual abilities seemed nonsensical. That it was working was even more insane.

    It louped several strides and backhanded the challenging man as he raised his shield. Even as the shield sparkled with enchantments triggered, the tanking fighter was launched from his feet. He flew through the air and impacted a tree ten yards behind with a loud crack. He slid to the forest floor and struggled to get up, making it to his knees before swaying and falling back on his backside.

    The magical assault continued, but their focus on the monster left them open to ambushes by yet more splinters drawn in by the fight. Harding watched a splinter pop in behind a man who was firing beams of brilliant red at the nightmare. It reached around to draw its claws diagonally down the caster''s face, leaving nasty gashes. The exposed wounds stood open to the bone for a heartbeat before the profuse bleeding began.

    Harding snapped out of his shock and tried not to watch the nightmare of the elemental biting down on the head of its next victim. Instead he cast his spirit body out in every direction while keeping it flat and slammed his spirit with a strong exhaling force. The first attempt didn''t work well but by the third he was destroying every splinter within twenty feet of him.

    He forced spirit through his spirit body to the background of screams of pain, thuds of bodies and the clatter of arms. The whole act of it felt different than any Spiritualism he had done before. He was definitely expending energy, the mass keying proving to him that keying was indeed casting an undefined spell. He was accustomed to and practiced spirit manipulation, but spell work was entirely new and had him exhausted quickly.

    Yet, he couldn''t stop.

    Harding began to extend his spirit body in what he meant to be a triangle, but it came out more like a deformed cone. Perfection and form didn''t matter, he had pushed his reach out past twenty feet now. All that mattered was destroying splinters. He didn''t bother to aim, instead just spinning and spraying his spirit attack everywhere men were. The pain of the effort ate at his mind. Sickness and agony worked together in an attempt to make him stop. But he did not, instead he fought against it.

    But it was obviously a losing fight.

    He sucked in spirit from the magic rich environment when he withdrew his body, but expelled more with each mass key. He was slowly burning out. Harding had chosen the casting and drawing of his spirit body over sustained output despite it meaning an area was only being keyed about a third of the time. It was just too much. Harding was far past his natural limits. He wanted to quit, but it was this or die.

    The pain will stop when I die.

    He accepted the suffering.

    Harding paid the price and clamped down on his spirit body to propel every ounce of energy out of it that he could. His spirit body flew out in all directions, the energy bursting from it. He was keenly aware of every spirit his spirit body passed through. The splinters were terrible, like sniffing noxious vapors. Their bitter existence permeated their very spirit. And as he passed through them his spirit body, not just present but charged and expelling spirit, they lost their precarious cohesion and were no more. Broken, the splinters became just puffs of fouled energy floating on the crashing waves of the ambient spirit. Their bitterness gradually neutralized as their remains were reabsorbed into nature.

    Energy waffed up from the blood spilled on the ground. Bits flung out and peeled off the fighters as they wounded and were wounded by the terrible monster. The elemental itself though was like a void. All the floating energy that touched it poured into it, like a great sinkhole had opened up in spirit and everything was collapsing through. When he touched it with his spirit, it grabbed hold and tried to drain him. Harding was sure he broke free only because of the distraction of combat.

    Even as pieces were carved and broken from its form, it drank back in from the energies of both the assailing magic and its own lost life. For certain, it was being damaged towards its destruction. Its roars were of pain now more than challenge, yet its gross regeneration mechanism challenged Harding''s concept of the possible. Instead of regrowing, it cannibalized the energy of its own destruction.

    Exhausted himself, he tried something experimental. As he cast out, he focused on eliminating the edge of his spirit body as much as he could. Then he hardened the edge as he drew it back into himself. Brother Richards had taught that a hard edge was a waste of spirit density, but this elemental suggested more. With no edge it absorbed everything, so would an edge scrape excess spirit back to him?

    The effort did not by any measure refill his reservoir of spirit. He did not take back in much more than what he had before. But it was more. It proved in concept that such a thing could be done even if this attempt lacked efficiency. A Spiritualist didn''t have to be limited to the commonly taught inhalation of spirit, but could instead feed off the area.

    Elated, Harding missed the moment of the elemental''s death, but the effect was dramatic. There was a strange sucking sound and then a pop. Pressure on Harding''s ears that he had been unaware of lifted, ears popping and clearing. The moans of the wounded became clearer. Men lay strewn about, the left wing of the line was scattered and broken. Some dead, some dying, some laying there with bones jutting out or skin flayed and hanging as blood poured down armor.

    The splinters were gone too.

    Harding collapsed to the ground, gasping and nauseous. He watched as the survivors moved with efficiency, each member seemingly competent in triaging the wounded. All he could do was gasp while his body shook involuntarily. A man in armored robes stood in the middle and began pumping out green and blue frequency energy at a prodigious rate. As his spells flashed, they washed over everyone. The dead, the wounded and the hale. Even Harding felt the energy flow over him. His weariness abated and his aches dulled. Those wounded did not suddenly heal, no blood flow stopped but from the use of skilled care. Yet, for all of them, their conditions seemed to have improved somewhat. Except the dead. They were still dead.

    Harding realized he had forgotten to join the party, again, and sighed.

    Once they had done what they could for the wounded, the Knight-Commander approached the spot the monster had been slain. There on the forest floor was a lump of what appeared to be coal, slightly larger than a man¡¯s hand. He picked it up in his gauntlet. Taking it in both hands, Vostek broke away the surface to reveal a godseed beneath, filled with a light purple glow. Around it was a thick band of copper filigree.

    ¡°A fucking Yhanodod-spawn Nightmare walking the living world,¡± someone near him swore. Another whispered, "Was a Nightmare, not a Shadow."

    Vostek watched the seed in his hands as the copper filigree slowly receded, the metal fluidly retreating back to the equator of the sphere until it was just the barest of lines. Sitting there, just barely having control of his heavy exhausted breathing, Harding caught a foul odor in the spirit for a moment.

    ¡°Expensive, this,¡± Vostek said to no one in particular. He then turned to face his men more squarely and commanded loudly, ¡°Police the dead, ready the wounded. We will depart these accursed woods shortly.¡±

    Harding, suspect of the suddenly absent splinters, let out a broad and thin cast of spirit, exhausting himself once more with the violent strength of the expansion. He reached even further than he had before, the back part of the ring touching the stone of the mountain. The contact made him gasp in shock. He stumbled to his feet and threw up a little on the forest floor.

    Spitting clean his mouth he looked up to see Vostek standing in front of him. ¡°Uh, Sir,¡± greeted Harding, far outside of his comfort physically and mentally. It really was amazing to Harding how much he hurt without having a single fresh, physical wound.

    ¡°Good job, son,¡± commended the knight.

    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± Harding responded. Then, after a pause, ¡°Sir? There is something wrong with that hill.¡±

    ¡°There is more than one thing wrong within it and its cursed gates.¡±

    Seeing the question on Harding¡¯s face, Vostek explained, ¡°There is an ungiving gate on the other side of this foul rock. The area is saturated in ancient woe. This forest is still near enough to that dark place that Master Jarred should never have been here so carelessly.¡±

    Harding tasted the energy flowing from the rock face once more, barely keeping his stomach, before questioning the knight again, ¡°Are you sure it opens on the other side? There is spirit energy pouring out of it like a wound down just a bit.¡±

    The Knight-Commander examined him, lost in some thought, before he put his finger to his lips for silence.

    ¡°Jones, get over here,¡± he yelled. ¡°Campton, you too.¡±

    Two men approached. One was injured, but mobile despite his clear discomfort and freshly soiled bandages wrapping his arm. The other was relatively untouched other than a few gouges in the enamel of his armor.

    ¡°Point the direction, if you would,¡± the commander asked Harding in a tone that indicated it was a request due to politeness alone.

    Harding complied.

    Vostek looked at them and spoke with importance, ¡°Jones, go that way with your senses open. Look for a wellspring of power. Campton, protect him. If anything engages you, even a single splinter, you disengage. If you can''t, you do not bring it back here.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Sir,¡± they said in unison, though the wounded Jones lacked Campton''s vigor.

    The two men slowly wandered off, moving at the ready. Behind Harding, the dead were being stripped of all possessions, including having their seeds extracted. One of the dead was Rhett. Despite not truly knowing him, to see Rhett laying there stripped of possessions like he was now just some inconvenient slab of meat caused a stir of emotions in Harding that he couldn¡¯t fully articulate. Anger but also pride, a sense of loss and hope.

    Whatever he felt, he better understood the reality of combat.

    The dead ended up being loaded on litters to be carried out. Harding was left to himself, having no social contacts with the House guards and lacking the free reign to follow the Knight-Commander around. It suited him just fine, only the desire to be gone from the forest made his exhausted self look forward to the walk ahead. After nearly twenty minutes of watching the men hurriedly prepare to move, Jones and Campton returned and had a quiet conversation with Vostek. They were given new instructions and joined the group.

    ¡°Greffenberg, report,¡± called out the commander. Harding watched another man, the one who had been the mass magical healer in fact, come over to Vostek and engage in a quick conversation. After a moment, Vostek started walking towards Harding while continuing to speak, Greffenberg in tow. As they approached Harding could hear a bit of their hushed conversation, ¡°... three ambulatory, the rest only minor wounds.¡±

    Vostek came to a stop in front of Harding and asked, ¡°Are you injured?"

    ¡°No, sir," Harding replied. "Not really, just old cuts and exhaustion."

    Vostek nodded. ¡°Greffenberg, will you be needed by the men when we hit town?¡±

    ¡°No Sir, I¡¯ve done what I can. What remains is for the chirurgeons and alchemists,¡± he commented, running fingers through his sable hair before suddenly coming to attention realizing his lackness.

    ¡°You¡¯re learning at the Okkor Temple in Two Brents,¡± Vostek asked Harding.

    ¡°Ah- yeah.¡±

    "Bunked there too?"

    Harding nodded.

    Knight-Commander Vostek scratched his chin in thought, before ordering, "When we get back to town, Greffenberg, you will drop off your load at the manor and go to the temple. There you will collect the Aspirant''s things, he is named Harding, and inform the monks that the young man will be our guest for the foreseeable future. Leave nothing behind and no confirmation of which of our estates he is staying at or why.¡±

    ¡°Wait a minute-¡± Harding started, but stopped when Vostek stared hard at him.

    Something has changed.

    ¡°You¡¯ve no idea what you have stubbled on nor the ramifications of an errant tongue in this matter. For your protection, you will be a guest until the matter is resolved,¡± Vostek declared. ¡°I¡¯m sure the young Master would enjoy the company and opportunity to apologize for his cowardly¡­ steward.¡±

    While Vostek gave him a wry smile, it was very clear to Harding that he had no say in this and was, effectively, on the receiving end of polite abduction via political power. It took a moment before realization turned to panic.

    ¡°If I may request, Sir. Please make sure to completely clear out my bookshelf. There are some books and items in there, behind the other books, that are personal and I would greatly appreciate the monks not going through them,¡± Harding asked gingerly.

    Vostek chuckled. ¡°Greffenberg will be as thorough as he is discreet,¡± stated Vostek, glancing sideways at the healer to emphasize the matter. There really wasn''t anything else for Harding to say on the matter. By opening his mouth about the spirit leak he had lost control of all his life plans.

    ¡°Come then,¡± offered Vostek, ¡°we march for home.¡±

    They walked back towards the group of men-at-arms and the Knight-Commander shouted, ¡°Up. We¡¯re moving!¡± On his command, resting soldiers moved, packs were lifted, litters hoisted, and boots moved. The men, what was left of them, moved through the woods, eyes open for any sign of movement.

 Chapter 9

    Even if it was functioning as his prison cell, the guest chambers in the Garnet¡¯s estate in Green Hills was the nicest room Harding had ever seen. Spacious and luxurious, it was clearly decorated more for impressing fellow nobles than housing sequestered Spiritualists. Despite the fact that Green Hills was more of a walled suburb than a true city district, the manor seemed excessive in size.

    His room was open and well lit with a balcony overlooking the manicured grounds between the estate''s walls and the manor. The ornate furniture was a bit stiff for his taste, but he could hardly complain. He presumed it to have meaning that he had been put in a nice suite and not a basement closet. Whatever the case though, it was certainly better than Gregor''s jail cell experience.

    The door to the hall was never locked and no guards were posted, but it was made very clear to him that straying from the estate itself would be a monumentally poor decision ending in tragedy. Harding didn''t leave his chambers even though he could. He couldn''t say whether it was in protest, disinterest or something else. He spent the time, instead, focused on his studies.

    Greffenberg had brought all of Harding''s belongings in a timely fashion. If the healer had noted anything unusual about what he had packed, Harding hadn''t heard about it. Not even a comment on an unseeded monk with a seedcrypt. Hopefully Rent would be satisfied with that and not fail him on the loss of secrecy. The voidseed he''d left on his bed wasn''t in his belongings so he hoped that Randal had grabbed it.

    Harding''s self-imposed isolation was respected and he was left on his own. He was visited, however, for the delivery of meals and once by the Chamberlain''s assistant. She was an older woman named Heidi whose appearance matched her personality; stark and without color. She inquired once if he had any needs and when he declined she disappeared and never returned.

    After settling he had cycled and sent a message to Brandon to update him.

    The events in the woods, especially his pressured adaptation of spirit sensing, had challenged Harding''s concepts of the use of spirit as opposed to the practice of Spiritualism. Focusing on nuance and detail had slowed him down in the field, whereas passive awareness and instinct had worked. Not perfectly, but functionally. This reflected his recent experiences with spirit body mediation, but contradicted the general classroom setting''s practices.

    Conversely, learning and using mass keying on the fly and under duress had been very active and focused thought. So much so that its use had contributed to a deep physical exhaustion that was possibly the most trying and desperate act of his life. While there were parts of it that would benefit from the positives of the meditative practice, he was sure that on the whole the conditions and conditioning required differing approaches for different skills. In short, there was no singular solution.

    As a result, he set about changing his practice techniques.

    Harding was unsure if it was the spirit body that became exhausted or if the fatigue was a sympathetic physical reaction. He imagined endurance was trained through forcing enervation and hoped to increase his resistance to those effects by such. Harding started deliberately exhausting himself through emptying his spirit body. Once pushed to his limit, he would then sit and attempt to resist the instinct to pull in spirit. In this state of spirit deprivation he would then do spirit body manipulation techniques in a passive mindset. Once he failed to resist taking spirit, he would recuperate and start again.

    Coupled with that practice, Harding had started to work on his theory about ways to improve spirit intake. He had settled on calling it drawing. Drawing, he decided, was the act of using the spirit body to inject itself with collected spirit energy. While he hadn''t discovered how to optimize it, drawing was just a refinement of what he started attempting at Black Barrow.

    There is something liberating in this. It isn''t just hardcoded ability spamming.

    Testing for optimization in his theory was challenging due to the potential variance in the spirit body¡¯s area and shape with each cast. With no ability to measure that nor the amount of spirit returned, results were extremely subjective. He also didn''t know if ambient density or volatility would affect the return either. Ultimately, the differences he observed so far were small enough to make a clear evaluation evasive. Harding remained convinced though that if optimized they could be dramatic over time.

    On the second day, as Harding read about using spirit body articulation towards accomplishing complex spirit manipulation, there came a knock at the door. It caught Harding sitting on the floor in just his long undershorts, where he had been switching between exhausted meditating and reading. It was not yet mealtime but he got up and opened the door.

    Outside the door stood Jarred. Out of his armor the noble looked even more of a teen than before. He still carried a bit of baby fat in his features that marked him as not yet an adult, however his overall physique suggested he had constant physical training. Jarred''s red-tinged blond hair was as much of a mess as his rumpled clothes. He slouched a little, his face pulled off into a lopsided grimace that broadcast his discomfort with the situation. He looked at Harding and asked hesitantly, ¡°Am I disturbing you?¡±

    Harding felt that maybe Jarred was looking for an excuse to avoid the conversation, but he gave him no escape. With a slight scoff he responded, ¡°No, please come in. All I do is read and train. All day. Every day. Honestly, I could use a break.¡±

    Harding turned and walked into the room, leaving the door open. He returned to sitting on the floor in the middle of the sitting area. Jarred followed him in and closed the door, looking uneasy. ¡°I, ah,¡± he faltered. ¡°I need to apologize for fleeing with Philip. I was unsure what to do and failed to be a man of honor over following the counsel of a coward.¡±

    Sounds like he had that painfully pointed out to him.

    ¡°I understand how it is," Harding assured him. "When a classmate of mine was attacked, I fled as soon as I was offered an excuse by a larger authority. But ever since then, I have felt guilty about it. What we do in the moment is us, but it doesn¡¯t define how we will be. You¡¯ll be stronger next time. Besides, I was just some guy you hired.¡±

    Jarred crossed his arms and shook his head firmly, ¡°A noble''s duty is to his family, his men and his liege. I hired you, so for that outing you were one of my men. Instead, I left Rhett and you behind.¡±

    ¡°Maybe," Harding conceded with a smile. "I would like to think of it as Rhett chose to protect you and I was just too dumb to run. Let''s speak no more of it.¡±

    Harding''s concession and smile seemed to assuage some of the teen''s guilt. Jarred looked around the room struggling with the strangeness of the situation and a lifetime of protocol training. While it was poor etiquette to be sitting on the floor and half-dressed, as a prisoner Harding wasn''t sure he cared.

    "Sit," suggested Harding.

    Jarred looked relieved and crashed in a chair opposite of Harding. He started, ¡°I wasn''t told you were here until last night during supper. This morning I found Vostek, asked him what had happened and he told me that you sat vigil over Rhett in the woods. Alone, until our men arrived. And even after that you fought beside them instead of quitting to the city.¡±

    Harding shrugged, he had gained more practical experience in that outing than he had in all prior play. He didn''t see his actions as remarkable or selfless. Jarred hesitated, Harding''s nonverbal indifference seemingly challenging his ability to respond.

    He''s probably not used to people who aren''t his father''s men.

    Jarred revealed his purpose, ¡°I spoke to Instructor Simone and told him what had happened. He''s a very knowledgeable and highly regarded instructor in the Court. He said I should consider what we might exchange that would enrich the both of us.¡±

    Harding chuckled and ventured, "Well, I''m down to a single set of robes and a bag of borrowed books, so I''m guessing he meant exchange as in training."

    Jarred grinned for a moment before reverting to a properly solemn expression. ¡°Instructor Simone says the only enrichment a noble needs is understanding.¡±

    Harding quirked, "I''m still just an aspirant Spiritualist and my martial training amounts to ways to avoid tripping over myself. I''m unsure what understanding I can give you. I am an expert in being told I''m too uptight and need to relax.¡±

    Jarred smiled at that and confessed in a faux voice, "I''m too informal and need to behave as befits a noble of my standing."

    The response sounded like another recitation to Harding. He felt like a lot of what Jarred said was speaking with other peoples'' words. He realized that he hadn''t tried to imagine the situation for Jarred. The youth had tried to learn on his own. He hadn''t achieved his goal, instead house men were dead and the commoner he hired was now being held prisoner by his family to keep some secret. He''d basically messed everything up.

    Yeah, that would suck.

    Harding shrugged, "I''m not sure what I can give you. I only know enough to know that I don''t know nearly enough."

    Jarred smirked, "I''m not really sure either to be honest. Apparently understanding can''t be given, which is why a noble needs it? When I asked further he said I should find you and, if you were willing, train with you.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like your teacher just wants a day off,¡± Harding theorized with a chuckle.

    Jarred stiffened a little, sensitive about his instructor''s honor. Harding moved them past it and decided to accept the opportunity, ¡°Do we train here then or go back to him?¡±

    After scanned around the room full of expensive furnishings, Jarred shook his head, ¡°We should go back to the training hall."

    I wonder how many things he broke as a kid to train that response.

    Harding put on his last robe and followed Jarred through the compound and a tiled garden to an outbuilding the size of a small two-story barn. It shared the trim and aesthetic elements of the estate including second story balconies and brass doors. Inside, the first floor was a singular giant room with matted floors and padded walls. Above it was mostly open space other than the singular catwalk joining the balconies. Harding found it shocking how much the family invested in training their children.

    Surely it is for the guards, too?

    At the near end stood a middle aged woman dressed in tight clothing. Her slightly silvered hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She was busily engaged in running a girl through a series of unarmed striking drills.

    Real training, finally.

    The girl''s long hair was pulled back into a tail and exhibited the same slight curl and red hue as Jarred''s. Though athletic and trim, her size and features suggested she was Jarred''s younger sister by a handful of years.

    ¡°Ignore my sister,¡± Jarred whispered, ¡°She can be¡­ unpleasant to outsiders, but as long as you don¡¯t notice her she¡¯ll pretend you don¡¯t exist.¡±

    Harding arched his eyebrows and smirked, ¡°I''m familiar with the type.¡±

    He followed Jarred to the other side of the room. There sat a gregariously dressed man in a full array of orange hues, from nearly brown to bright and fruity. He was slightly overweight and relatively short. On his head was a giant hat with a large feather which shaded his down-turned face. The man was engrossed in whatever he was reading.

    Clearly in the same fashion circles as Gregor.

    ¡°Instructor Simone, I have returned,¡± announced Jarred.

    ¡°Wonderful, just wonderful,¡± proclaimed Simone, not looking up from his book. ¡°Why don¡¯t you give me ten laps around the exterior.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Instructor Simone,¡± answered Jarred, who then immediately set off jogging to the door.

    Harding followed in disbelief. They ran around the barn and courtyard ten times at a fair pace, though not a spirit, then returned into the building again to come to a stop in front of Simone.

    ¡°Wonderful,¡± was the bored response. The man looked up and saw Harding. "Oh, who is this?¡±

    ¡°This is the monk I told you about. The one who helped save Rhett¡¯s life and is staying here,¡± Jarred reminded.

    ¡°Ah, yes. And what is he doing here.¡± Simone queried, just short of a sigh.

    ¡°You said to train with him, so I brought him here,¡± Jarred explained with slight confusion.

    ¡°Ah, yes. I meant for you to go train with him, not for you to bring him here for me to instruct.¡± Simone paused, sighed with exaggeration, and continued, ¡°Very well. What is your name, monk?¡±

    ¡°Harding. I¡¯m not a monk yet though."

    ¡°Wonderful. And what are you currently studying?¡±

    ¡°With the Guard association, I¡¯m working on footing for combat. In Spiritualism, I¡¯m practicing spirit body articulations in furtherance of complex spirit energy manipulation for the exploration of the mechanics of divinity.¡±

    Simone stared at him blankly before slowly turning to Jarred, ¡°And what can you learn from this?¡±

    ¡°Hire monks,¡± asked Jarred tentatively.

    Simone laughed and clapped. ¡°Yes, specialists will always be further ahead than you in their fields, that is indeed why you hire them. Very good. Wonderful. What, though, can you learn from training with him?¡±

    ¡°Oh, uh,¡± Jarred mumbled, thinking hard for a few moments as Simone and Harding watched. Harding found the teen¡¯s struggle relatable. Jarred finally decided and offered, ¡°Footwork is foundational to combat and I should not neglect it in training?¡±

    ¡°True, but you are far past that." Simone challenged Jarred, "What else?¡±

    ¡°He could teach me spirit magic?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Wonderful. You hire experts, you use experts, but that doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t also learn from them,¡± explained Simone in banal sagacity. The man was supposedly an expert hired to teach.

    Harding rolled his eyes.

    Reopening his book, the instructor ordered, ¡°Monk, help Jarred train his spirit work. I¡¯ll appraise and offer guidance."

    ¡°Sure,¡± Harding agreed. Harding couldn''t believe it, the man had already returned to his book. Jarred and Harding went off a little bit to the corner of the training floor. As they spaced themselves out at arms length, Harding asked, ¡°What do you know about Spiritualism?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a Okkor monk thing they use to seal godseeds.¡±

    Harding groaned. ¡°Yes the monks do sealing, but what could you do with Spiritualism?¡±

    Jarred shook his head, ¡°Oh, I follow the Church. I''m not into that monotheistic cult stuff."

    Harding sighed.

    Harding corrected him, ¡°Spiritualism isn''t a religion, it''s just using your spirit body. Even the Mage College teaches some of it. You know how to use your spirit body, right?¡±

    ¡°Uh, no," Jarred guessed. "I know how to fight and do all the noble stuff. No Spiritualism though.¡±

    "But I''ve seen you use your seeds."

    "Sure."

    "You''re an Archon."

    "I got my third light seed on my twelfth birthday."

    "Then you use your spirit body."

    "If you say so."

    Harding glanced at the oblivious Simone and remembered Vostek''s comments about Jarred''s education. He took a deep breath. ¡°We¡¯re starting at the beginning then. Let¡¯s talk about what a spirit body is¡­¡±

    They began at the beginning and mirrored Harding''s own education. They were able to source a single voidseed for practice by pulling it from an unused magical training dummy, the cost of which Harding couldn''t imagine. Jarred learned quickly, whether it was a result of his many years of godseed use or the fact he wasn''t human didn''t matter too much to Harding. When they ended for dinner, Harding requested his meal in his room and cycled his login, during which he ate, hydrated and cleaned himself.

    The night passed quietly for Harding as Jarred was engaged with other things. He focused on his reading in the Szaktaa. The book wasn''t written as an instructional text and Harding had never used a godseed before, so the topic of the role of spirit body articulation in spellcasting was theoretical at best to him.

    The basic concepts were easy enough to follow. Spirit resisted being expelled out of the spirit body due to the body''s boundary. Once it left the body it rapidly lost cohesion and what little ability it had to influence the world was almost immediately negated. Godseeds imparted divine command and that was why their magic was so effective.

    The concept was that spells could be influenced by modifying the spirit body. Not necessarily in terms of raw power, but shape and even function could be altered. The magic wanted to follow the body. Doing so quickly was, of course, more difficult and required learning reflexive control. Which meant to Harding more shaping practice was needed, but as each seed had its own manifestation there was no predicting what shapes would be useful to him when he finally got one.

    Beyond that generalized practice though was the realization of Rent''s purpose in including the seedcrypt. Almost all of Harding''s practice was focused on the expansion and shaping of his spirit body. The seedcrypt required the opposite, up close and precise control. He didn''t need the code to the lock, he needed the failed attempts to practice.

    Does he actually expect me to open it? He just wants me to keep practicing right?

    Harding knew he wouldn''t be satisfied without beating the lock. Which was how he spent that second night, learning to thread the lock instead of just flooding it. It took quite some work to be able to produce a thin string of spirit and articulate it within such a tight space. He didn''t even try to figure out the combination and instead focused on learning precise manipulation.

    It was a challenge that he didn''t conquer that night.

    And so it went for the next two days. Harding spent the days teaching Jarred. During the nights he advanced his own knowledge from his meditations, reading and the hell that was the seedcrypt puzzle.

    He had hoped that he could learn some combat from Jarred¡¯s instructor, despite his foppish ways he was a retained instructor. The man''s garb was so ridiculous that Harding internally dubbed him Swatchwork Simone, but his inattentive behavior began to anger Harding more than amuse him. Simone did nothing but sit and read while Harding taught Jarred.

    Maybe this guy is a fraud.

    The singular material benefit from Harding''s incarceration came when he requested a voidseed for his own training. It took the staff less than three hours to deliver one to him. While it wasn''t explicitly stated, Harding assumed it was now his unless someone asked for it.

    Whenever Jarred and Harding went to the Training Hall, his sister Jasika was already there training. Whenever they left, she was still there. Beyond her inhuman dedication to training, she behaved exactly as Jarred predicted. She sweated, swore and shouted angrily while being in near constant combat with her instructor, but never once acknowledged Harding or Jarred.

    Harding was a bit envious of her training opportunities, her instructor seemed as merciless and ungiving as she was. She constantly pushed and corrected the girl. Harding didn¡¯t mind teaching Jarred, but the difference in quality of instruction was incomprehensible to him.

    The Duchess had left the day after Harding had begun teaching Jarred, not that Harding had ever seen her. Harding didn''t know the whereabouts of the Duke either, but this was their townhome and their main estate was in their land holding which was apparently a great distance away. It made sense to him that the majority of their duties would be within the duchy they governed and that the children would be cultured in the capital.

    Except as far as he knew, neither of them ever left the manor.

    Harding couldn''t imagine Jasika stopping to sit with her brother for a meal, so it didn¡¯t seem too strange to him that Jarred started to take his dinner with Harding. The boy had to be lonely. They would eat their meal casually and just chat without any grand purpose or topic. The company was welcome though and Jarred always left shortly after eating which allowed Harding his own time.

    On the fourth night of his stay with the family, they sat on Harding''s balcony for dinner. After the meal Harding asked, ¡°Do you have a Spirit Tree?¡±

    ¡°A what,¡± Jarred responded. This wasn''t an unusual reaction from him as their terminologies were consistently divergent.

    ¡°It''s a type of tree that holds a lot of seeds,¡± clarified Harding.

    Jarred''s face relayed his sudden comprehension before going stiff. He recited, ¡°We don¡¯t talk about things like that with outsiders.¡±

    Someone else''s words again.

    ¡°Oh, ok," Harding dismissed the question with a flat smile, not wanting to push on a sensitive topic. "We have one at the temple and I use it to practice inserting and removing seeds, but if you don¡¯t have one we can learn something else.¡±

    ¡°If you want, we could get a servant to practice on.¡±

    ¡°Ah, no. It''ll be ok.¡±

    Tree. Servant. Same thing right?

    ¡°If we don''t do seed mechanics, maybe we could try some ambient control," Harding casually proposed.

    "Ambient?"

    "Uh, yeah. It''s a term I started using, I''ve no clue what the official name is for it. It''s the spirit energy that exists in an area, both naturally and as a result of recent magic use."

    Harding waved his hands lazily in the air, "There''s always spirit energy around, right? The body of free floating spirit that absorbs expended spirit and feeds it back through spirit bodies. Like how air functions, essentially."

    Unsurprisingly, Jarred eyed him questioningly. More and more Harding found that Jarred did this whether he knew or not, acting ignorant was his default response to any knowledge testing. Despite thinking Jarred did know plenty about refilling the spirit body, Harding clarified, "Basically you''re always passing a bit of spirit through you, but then when you expend it the level of spirit in the area increases. I''m just calling that whole collective, churning pool of free spirit the ambient."

    Jarred nodded along before adding, "And sometimes the, ah, ambient changes. It can be richer in some areas, right?"

    "Correct."

    "So, ambient control is what?"

    "A thing I''m working out, but I''m sure that it has to exist in higher level Spiritualism teachings. Probably the kind of stuff they don''t teach the public, held only for the sworn brothers you know? But the idea is to push or pull the ambient."

    "Why?"

    "To collect it towards and into you. The more you''re injecting inwards, the more you can push out through your seeds."

    Jarred''s eyes glazed over for a second as his mind generated possibilities. "That could be very useful. It might even be enough to win battles."

    "Maybe."

    "Could you do ambient denial?"

    Harding arched an eyebrow and thought about it. "Maybe¡­ but you would have to be pretty close? I''m not sure."

    "If you could lock someone out, that could change some duel matchups drastically."

    Harding shrugged, "I''m sure it''s a known thing to the higher ups. I just don''t have a teacher right now, so I''m doing what I can on my own."

    Jarred tried to hide his wince but failed. As thoughtless as he could be sometimes, the young noble seemed sensitive about Harding''s velvet incarceration. He tentatively asked, "What do you need for your training?"

    "On Spiritualism, I''m ok for a while. I''ve got my books to work through. What I really need is to learn combat.¡±

    ¡°What kind of combat?¡±

    ¡°Everything, apparently.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m ok at dueling, but I''ve only done a little martial combat. It''s hard to train with so few people.¡° He added with shame, "And my first expedition to face an actual monster...¡±

    Harding momentarily pondered how an hour out of the capital with a lackey, bodyguard, and a hired laborer qualified as an expedition.

    ¡°Do you know how long I¡¯ll be here,¡± asked Harding. It was a subject he¡¯d avoided bringing up but he really needed to get back to training and he missed his friends.

    ¡°I¡¯d imagine a week total at least,¡± Jarred weakly admitted. ¡°I¡¯m not sure what is going on, but the barracks here have been filling. A bunch of house blades have been coming in from other posts over the last couple days.¡±

    ¡°How many is that,¡± Harding asked out of curiosity.

    ¡°Thirty-ish? Housed within the walls at least. There might be more in nearby inns.¡±

    ¡°How many are normally here?¡±

    ¡°It depends who is here, but with just Jasika and me here? Maybe eight?"

    "Oh."

    "Some are always here, some rotate around, some just stay a few days to gather before they continue on some mission. That¡¯s all the Marshal''s job, so I don''t pay it much attention.¡±

    They chatted for a while about House Garnet''s military obligations to kingdom and empire before Jarred excused himself and left Harding to his nightly routine.

    The next morning brought a curt knock on Harding''s door as he did his ritual meditation. It was a bit early for Jarred¡¯s normal arrival, but Harding¡¯s sense of time was nonexistent when meditating on his spirit body. ¡°It¡¯s open,¡± he called, sitting as usual on the floor between the chairs in his underpants. He drifted back into himself to finish. Jarred had been attempting to mirror him lately in brief meditation before training.

    Instead of the familiar teen plopping to the ground next to him, the soft slip of fabric on metal suddenly brought Harding¡¯s attention back. He looked up to find Knight-Commander Vostek standing there, bemusedly looking down at him. He was dressed in the House uniform, but had his hands resting on the pommels of his sword and dagger as if they were portable arm rests.

    Seeing that Harding had looked up, the knight spoke. ¡°I have come to inform you that the expedition, of which you have played a critical role in triggering, will be leaving tomorrow. Due to the unusual logistics for this venture, there is a capacity for extra members. Master Jarred has requested that you accompany him as his personal staff in the stead of his Instructor or Steward. You would be expected to serve in that function for the duration.¡±

    Harding stared at him, trying to disassemble what had been said while not being overly distracted by the contrast of the stiffness of Vostek''s speech with the casualness of his stance. Both seemed overly out of character for the Knight-Commander, Harding had found him respectfully formal but practically flexible.

    Oh, it''s a formal invitation.

    Harding asked the only question he had learned for these types of things, ¡°Do I pack my own provisions or is that part of the logistical surplus?"

    The knight gave a single, stiff nod in recognition of a valid question. ¡°Pack for a day, but barring emergencies the logistics train should provide with plenty.¡±

    "And how long will we be gone?"

    "Unknown, but the current plan is overnight in the field."

    ¡°When do we leave?¡±

    ¡°Meet at the front gate by sunrise tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Very well. Thank you Knight-Commander for the honor of personally informing me,¡± returned Harding, attempting to be formal despite his cross-legged position on the rug.

    Vostek smiled at him, though Harding was unsure if it was in appreciation or amusement. He turned to go but then stopped. When he spoke he did not face Harding, ¡°I am glad the young Master will have a friend at his side instead of a coward or a fop. No matter how untrained the squire may be, it is of benefit to a young Master to experience the bonds of a campaign.¡± With that he walked off and out the suite.

    His friend.

    ¡°Well, shit,¡± Harding exclaimed to the empty room. And with that he packed his things and tried to imagine what he might need to request from the kitchen. It would be a long night of anticipation.

    He had little to pack as he owned little. It seemed imprudent to pack his valuables, but he inserted the voidseed in his Heart. It wouldn''t give him any bonuses, but it was a handy carry method for his training equipment. With the staff packed away in that gate as well, all that was left for him was the small backpack Sancliff had given him and whatever remained in it.

    Jarred was busy all day with house business and the whole place had become a swarm of activity. The Duke and Duchess had arrived that morning with another contingent of lancers. Belatedly, Harding realized that all the noble family must each travel with some set of guards. The number of nobility present would affect the quantity of guards in the area.

    Having done his practice all day, mixed with some longer cycles to take on outstanding tasks at home, Harding was left with an empty night. He restlessly flitted between his learning focuses, failing in turn to focus on any.

    For all the eagerness for the next day, the morning came too soon. Harding crawled out of bed and went to the servant¡¯s outhouse. After his morning constitutional, he walked to the gate yard and found an odd scene.

    Harding expected wagons or carts brimming with supplies. Instead, there were several pallets sitting on the crushed stone path, stacked tall with firkins and pins. The last of them was stacked with flat, wide wooden crates. There were no animals or wheeled devices, nothing he would expect for transport. A few servants milled about and about a dozen guards sat and stood in a cluster along the low garden wall. Harding recognized Jones and Campton, but no one else by name. Awkwardly, he stood to the side and just listened to the men.

    A man with an impossibly thick accent mixed with a whistle in his speech was told of some exploit. It was entirely incomprehensible to him, instead only conveying his general invective.

    ¡°What did he say,¡± asked a man with coffee colored skin and an enormous mustache.

    ¡°Damn Whis¡¯, you really should see a priest or something about that,¡± replied another man of the tall blonde build Harding had come to recognize as being of the northerners of the kingdom.

    Whis¡¯ laughter was at least understandable, as was his playfully extended finger.

    ¡°Even if he did get that fixed, it wouldn¡¯t fix his Kanchet accent,¡± added Campton.

    Whis changed the target of his indecipherable ire to Compton. As ill tempered as the big man seemed, Harding could see a smile peek out between the extended strings of expletives.

    ¡°What,¡± asked Mustache, clearly unable to decipher Whis like the rest of them could. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°Even if you fixed Whistler¡¯s mouth and accent, his Scyphor-reamed empty skull still wouldn¡¯t make no sense,¡± predicted a broad woman with brown stubble for hair. She wrinkled her face in mock disgust, making her crooked nose all the more pronounced. Her eyes gleamed, wide open and grinning.

    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to Bett," Campton comforted Whis, "she''s just mad you broke her nose."

    ¡°Twice,¡± Bett exclaimed. ¡°Damned moron can fight, but can¡¯t get up from a table with any liquor in him.¡±

    And on they went, the constant and referential banter of long acquaintances. Men and women who trusted each other with their lives, but not their rations. Harding hopped up on a garden half-wall and closed his eyes. The sun, peeking over the estate walls, bathed him in warmth. Eyes closed, he began repeatedly passing his awareness over and through his spirit body. With each repetition he gained deeper inner awareness.

    "You''re the Okkor Monk, yeah," asked a high-pitched female voice.

    Harding opened his eyes to find a female in a very serious set of mail and plate standing before him. Next to her was a tall man, handsome in his features and wearing a simple breast plate over a gambeson. The man leaned casually on his halberd as he lazily examined Harding. Having given up correcting people about him being a monk, Harding agreed, "Yep, that''s me."

    "Good. I''m Lieutenant Bitterman. I am Knight-Commander Vostek''s second. This is Sergeant Holtz, he''ll be your team leader," she announced before promptly turning and walking off.

    "Thanks Tart," called a friendly Holtz. Bitterman held up an arm, flipping him off as she walked away.

    "Tart," asked Harding cautiously when she was gone.

    "Yep, the common pastry back in the Run is made with Bitterberries. And ah, combined with her friendly disposition, that earned her the nickname when she was still a recruit."

    "Ah, ok." Harding introduced himself, "I''m Harding Hill. Okkor aspirant and member of the Guard association."

    Holtz flashed a friendly smile. "Sergeant Alan Holtz, House Garnet Sergeant."

    "So, I follow you," Harding queried as he slid off the wall to his feet.

    "What, now? You can if you want but we aren''t currently doing anything but waiting," Holtz offered with a shrug. "In the field though you technically follow Master Jarred, while I act as his liaison with the larger force."

    Harding arched his eyebrow at the weird command structure.

    Holtz looked around and admitted quietly, "Which means I strongly suggest what to do and they do it. The Master and Maid, however, retain their authority due to nobility. Technically, I have no business giving them orders."

    Politics and rank.

    Harding clarified, "So, I follow Jarred but you''ll be guiding him."

    "See, now you''ve got it," grinned Holtz.

    Harding scowled slightly. He could already tell Holtz was one of those impossibly happy people. The kind that generated equal parts annoyance and appreciation in everyone. Harding was already instinctively trying to hate him and failing.

    They stood around in silence for a few minutes before Jasika walked up, her austere trainer trailing her like a living shadow. "Holtz," Jasika allowed in a voice like herself; quiet, small and intense. "You are the liaison officer."

    Harding honestly couldn''t tell if it had been a question or declaration. Her face was flat in affect, though possibly with a slight draw in the lips.

    Is that a smile or a grimace?

    Harding wondered if her instructor had taught her that too. Their expressions matched. Holtz bowed in acknowledgement, choosing to remain silent.

    Smart man.

    Jasika glanced at Harding before promptly ignoring them both. In an attempt to break the awkward silence, Harding looked over at Holtz and said, "May I ask a question?"

    "Sure," agreed Holtz cheerfully.

    "Why are the guards so varied in gear? Knowing what we are facing, isn''t there an optimal set? Polearms to fight monsters, that sort of thing?"

    Holtz laughed and then through his waning chuckles responded, "The guards aren''t going, but I understand your question. Truthfully, we''ve no clue what we are facing. And, you rarely do. Selling out might work in a duel, but life is much more cruel."

    Harding noticed Jasika''s posture change, she was clearly listening even though she pretended otherwise.

    "As for the rest," Holtz clarified as he again leaned casually on his Halberd, "Well, when life is at risk you use what you are most effective with. Also, seeds influence squad roles and combat methods making mundane arms take different roles."

    Harding thought about it and found it rational. The prevalence of magic challenged the validity of his preconceptions. In smaller bands of combatants, maximizing individual capabilities probably outperformed the benefits of unit homogeny. Only partially in jest he asked, "But no uniforms?"

    "Oh we got our parade uniforms, house banners and all that," Holtz assured him. "But we aren''t line soldiers and we aren''t in the public operating in an official capacity."

    Harding scratched his chin absently, the sun''s intensity was growing and there was no shade where they stood.

    "Ok, how about this one," he started, intentionally killing time. "I''ve heard guard, blade and lancer. What is the correct term?"

    "Depends."

    Harding sighed.

    "We are all guards by duty, though we do other things as well which supersede that descriptor."

    "So guard is a description of a duty."

    "Aye. And a seeded man-at-arms with ranged offensive spell capability is a lancer."

    "So, some of you are lancers, but not all."

    "Correct."

    "And blades?"

    "Slang, technically, but it''s popular among the men despite being a bit of an insult? It''s like a dangerous underling. The guys a boss sends to mess someone up."

    "Heh."

    The answers revealed something to Harding though, if lancer was a descriptive clarification of capability then it could possibly be a hint at the native class system.

    "Is that definition of lancer just used by this house," he probed.

    "Nah, it''s Imperial."

    "Then what are the others?"

    Just then movement caught Harding''s attention as a large and imposing man walked into the yard from the main house. He wore all red enameled armor with embossed designs and gilded edges. From his belt hung an ax and an unusual small sword. Following in his wake were Vostek and Jarred.

    Presumably, the Duke has arrived.

    The man stopped at the edge of the gravel path, all eyes on him. "Men," he announced in a clear and projected voice. The chatting stopped and they all looked on with a solemn eagerness, "Today we embark on an expedition whose success will greatly improve the house''s position. In our destruction of this enemy, we will acquire opportunities whose bounty will be reflected upon you." There he paused, letting the armsmen process.

    Does he mean performance bonuses?

    "We do not know what awaits us in the dark, but we do know you are capable against any foe. Already some of you cut down a Nightmare elemental. My expectation is that we will encounter further denizens of the Dream, however it is also a place of power. Old and sealed, there is no telling what lurks within. We face the unknown knowing that we will prevail," he exclaimed.

    The men cheered on cue.

    He motioned to a few nearby house blades and they joined him. Among them was Lieutenant Bitterman, who stepped forward and yelled, "Form up and get your asses ready, we portal out in five."

    She spun on a foot and returned to the command group.

    The men started tightening up around their sergeants for last minute preparations. Already standing next to Holtz, Harding pondered the duke''s message. Part of him felt underwhelmed as he had desired some epically rousing speech, but the reality was they were just going to go explore some new dungeon. It wasn''t like they were defending their homes from invasion or fighting oppressive tyranny. They also still had travel time and maybe camp to set up too.

    Despite being a world first, this is essentially just a loot run for them. Though, maybe a rich one if they felt the need to kidnap me to keep it secret.

    The ease with which they assembled suggested familiarity with their assigned teams. Harding wondered if the other teams had unique strategies or themes, but was sure his team was formed around babysitting the duke''s kids. Not that he could complain, this would be content far past his ability and his group was the most likely to be kept safe.

    Jarred approached from his dad''s side, helmet clutched under an arm and his face all smiles. "Hey Holtz, good to see you." They grasped each other''s arm at the elbow in a familiar and practiced embrace before Jarred looked over at Harding. "Holtz here guarded me until I was old enough to take care of myself," he explained.

    "He''s still guarding you," Harding pointed out.

    Jasika snorted, delicately. It was the first thing Harding had seen her do that didn''t seem like she was trying to kill it.

    She even ignores me violently.

    Holtz and Jarred chuckled and began to catch up while quickly checking each other''s armor. Stocke and Jasika stood there motionless. Presumably they had already done a check, but maybe they were just too proper to adjust each other''s gear in public. Harding couldn''t read them.

    I am such an outsider here.

    After their little display, Jarred was back on mission. "Ok Holtz, what''s the formation today?"

    "Browne is center-one, Campton is left-two, Enegram is right-three, and Bitterman is center-four. We have rear-left five while Dahl has rear-right-six," Holtz rattled off

    "Understood," Jarred confirmed. The sergeant''s explanation made no sense to Harding, but all he had to do was follow Jarred. The reduction of tasks made things simple, but left Harding with a feeling of disempowerment.

    "Uh, what about grouping," Harding asked, suddenly remembering his past follies.

    Holtz pointed at the supplies piled up in the courtyard, surrounded by a troop of liveried porters. "The barrel with the golden bands is our raid token, join it and it will add you."

    "Join the barrel?"

    "A raid uses the camp as the anchor. Allows for people to come and go without disruption."

    Harding shrugged, walked over to the barrel and tapped it with his journal. Opening to the Social tab he found that he had joined House Garnet Expedition 2. The title made him wonder what else the Garnets were doing and if anyone could just join the raid.

    Maybe Life knows I''m approved?

    Walking back to his team, Harding found he was full of anticipation. Everything just seemed more vivid. He kept looking around, watching the small crowds check each other''s armor and sort out their individual last minute instructions. The porters stood around the amassed pile of supplies, waiting with visible boredom. Harding smiled broadly at them.

    That would have been me less than a week ago.

    Men had erected two stanchions about five feet apart. They were made of wood and metal, all of which was painted black and topped with flags. Their flags were neither the house coat nor were they a matching pair. Standing on their own, they were reminiscent of the Grinder''s crowd shield apparatus on a smaller scale. Several blades hovered around them, working magic Harding could feel.

    A loud, wet snap sounded.

    Harding jumped at the sound which caused Jarred to chuckle. Harding studied the black rectangle which was contained between the stanchions as a wave of violet spirit rolled past. Harding found the light absorbing nothingness concerning. There was no warning, nothing to indicate there was something there other than the void.

    It''s like a wound in reality.

    "First time portaling," asked Jarred at his elbow.

    "Yeah."

    "Don''t worry about it, it isn''t like things from another dimension are going to pull you through."

    Harding grimaced.

    Just the thoughts I needed.

    Jarred was, if possible, smiling even wider as he watched the men line up. As they started to walk through at a measured pace, Harding asked, "You just walk through then?"

    "Yep. Just keep spaced out and don''t stop."

    "Or else?"

    "Uh, you block the guy behind you and look like an ass?"

    Harding smirked, which only further amused the teen. The adventure had Jarred in a rare mood. Between Jarred and Holtz, it was hard to not succumb to the excitement and enjoy it.

    Holtz wandered to the forming portal line and the team followed. Harding watched as Holtz and then Jarred walked through the silent rent in space. There was no indication something had happened other than that they were gone. This close to the portal, Harding could feel a stream of spirit flowing out of it. The leaking spirit was denser than the ambient and thrummed as it was slowly washed out.

    Harding stepped through.

    He came out the other side experiencing no sensation nor delay to the travel. While it was physically similar to passing through a door frame, the sudden change in surroundings was mentally disorientating. His brain paused but a voice loudly ordered, "Keep moving!"

    Harding stepped forward just in time. Jasika came through behind him, momentarily so close he could feel her spirit against his. Harding breathed with relief as he tracked towards Jarred, having narrowly avoided causing an incident.

    She''d probably have stabbed me in the kidney if there''d been contact¡­

    The portal had exited right along the edge of the hillside, close to the spot where they had defeated the Nightmare earlier that week. It was defined by two stanchions which also sported mismatching flags.

    Each team gathered on the other side and they all stood around talking quietly as the others came through. The leadership squad was once again conferring. It was noticeably cooler in the shadow of the rock, despite not being that far away. There was a faint breeze as well and Harding could feel the spirit slowly draining through the portal.

    Spirit tries to balance itself through the portal, like the world doesn''t realize that the connection is artificial.

    The leadership group consisted of the duke, Vostek and Bitterman. The others in that squad seemed to not be participants in their council. No other officers joined them either. They seemed to be kept busy elsewhere.

    As an accentuation of that thought a stream of porters arrived through the portal all carrying crates, both individually and in tandems. They all came through, then turned around and all went back only to come back through again. As the porters transferred goods, Harding took the time to examine the woods. There was a small team of three house blades standing near the portal with four horses tied to a line strung a ways off.

    They must be the advance team.

    Lieutenant Bitterman whistled shrilly and put her arm in the air. She swirled it slowly and then yelled for them to advance as she brought it down. A different group advanced, walking along the cliff face and slipping into a fissure in the rock wall.

    The groups filled forward, Holtz leading them after the leadership group. The line slowly disappeared into the fissure. The cramped space required them to be stooped and shambling. Bent over slightly to protect his head, Harding shuffled forward behind Jarred.

    The way was lit by yellow-tinted alchemical flares. Some had been deposited along the uneven and gradually ascending floor while the team leads carried lights. This left deep and moving shadows with limited light in the cramped press of bodies.

    The damp rock floor and low ceiling proved challenging, even when the fissure opened up into a cavern. There someone had cleared a rough path through the abundant speleothems and soon they were back into another fissure.

    Despite tool markings on the walls suggesting the way had been manually opened, Harding heard the occasional scrape of armor on stone. Several times a choked grunt or vicious string of curses as someone didn''t duck low enough. Even more common was the sound of someone tripping on the rough floor.

    They traveled through a series of caverns but the pace was extremely slow. Harding began to wonder how far it would be as the realities of being underground settled in his mind. At one point the passage was so small they were forced to crawl on hands and knees.

    Worst dungeon crawl ever.

    The men seemed to agree by the amount of muffled swearing. Harding discovered that robes were not made with crawling in mind. At the end of that hated passage though, Harding could see the dim light of an open area just past Jarred''s armored rear. He nearly tripped in his eagerness to be out that the rock had given way to cut stone.

    Claustrophobia simulator, thanks for the future nightmares.

    The exit opened into a vast darkness. The group''s lights did little but reveal the ground and the wall from which they had exited. The blackness surrounding them was aggressive. Harding stood next to Jarred and stretched. The freedom to do so was euphoric. He didn''t mind so much the neverending darkness in this imprisoning underground in his joy to be able to simply move. The groups were still packed together though as they attempted to take up as little space as they could while filing through the crack.

    Not like our light pollution wouldn''t be noticed.

    "Heh," chortled Holtz, "Glad I didn''t wear metal-soled boots."

    I wonder what Bart is up to.

    Harding looked down in curiosity, the rock floor was polished down to a smoothness that looked as if it had been poured. Strangely, it didn''t feel slippery when walking, but combat might prove precarious.

    The alchemists need to invent rubber.

    "A retreat won''t be possible here," said a woman. Harding didn''t catch who the speaker was in the press of people, but they were disturbingly accurate. If they started losing the fight down here it would turn into a slaughter. There was no quick egress.

    "Ready," called Bitterman. Her high voice was hard. Harding wondered if the command was intended to interrupt the thoughts of the impossibility of retreat.

    Magic ripped into the air and washed over him with too many frequencies for his mind to taste. As the eddies in the ambient were still pounding against him, Bitterman yelled, "Light it up!¡±

    A man stepped forward with what looked like a crude gun to Harding. Shouldering it, he fired. The noise of it was uncomfortable, made worse by the flat stone surroundings, but ended in a satisfying elongated pop. From it launched a hissing and crackling projectile that bathed the world in a bright white light as it sped burning through the black.

    It arched upwards in a phosphorescent streak to plink off the ceiling with a metallic report and skip downward. Driving back into the floor, it spun violently as it slid a ways before finally coming to rest against the far wall over a hundred yards away.

    The man broke open the breech of his device and reloaded with practiced hands, wisps of smoke rising from the action in the glow. Having slammed another munition in, he shouldered and fired along the perpendicular wall. He managed not to hit the ceiling as hard this time, but the flare disappeared through some kind of balcony or rampart that was flush with the wall.

    There were small sounds of surprise around him at that revelation. The distance wasn''t even fifty yards, but the base was still in darkness as the flare had gone deep into whatever chambers laid beyond.

    Harding could already see movements in the shadows, something he wouldn''t have even noticed before his night in the woods. By the time the man had fired a third time into the far corner, Bitterman had called for her men to maneuver.

    "Spread it out," called Bitterman. "We have enemies near."

    One team stayed with the long wall, but went forward ten paces. The others matched down the short wall and then out. Harding''s team stayed put other than stepping off the wall and making sure they were clear enough from each other to fight without being isolated.

    Almost immediately he heard a woman yell, "Gate." An alchemical flare burst into life from that direction and was tossed into some kind of small alcove which Harding couldn''t see into from his position. Light spilled out though, its projection cutting through the gloom.

    That''s not the castle-like wall.

    The first team took a position just forward of the gate and held while another moved past them until they lit up the far wall. The remaining two teams filed in behind them, the command group taking center. Spread out, they were three teams wide and two deep across the shorter wall of the rectangular expanse.

    Bitterman yelled, "Probe forward!"

    And with that the lead groups slowly started walking forward, their support groups trailing. Everyone moved slowly, watching the floor, walls and ceiling. The splinters seemed to compress back, hesitant to engage such a strong force.

    "Bones," a voice on the far side called out.

    Everyone stopped.

    "Report," yelled the Knight-Commander.

    "Uh, really large bones?"

    Chuckles in the dark.

    "Uhm, maybe a big troll or even a tyrant? And a massive sword stuck in the wall."

    "In the wall?"

    "Yes sir, stabbed right into the stone."

    Harding looked but all he could see was shadows too large to be a sword behind that team.

    "Splinters, many," called out a new voice, right in front of Harding from Group Two.

    Whis'' unmistakable voice called out next, still completely unintelligible to him.

    "Here too," yelled Group Three over by the bones.

    "Fighting Advance, Clear the Field," came Bitterman''s hard edged command.

    Flashes of divine energy lit off like fireworks, the sudden lights in the darkness destroying Harding''s vision. A twenty yard cube popped into existence in the middle of the floor. It didn''t emit light, instead everything within it was illuminated and faintly outlined in a glowing dark blue. Every Splinter caught in it was immediately brought down in lances and blasts.

    "That''s an amazing use of illusion," Holtz commented between spells.

    "I can do that," exclaimed Jarred. He concentrated for a moment and a light cube appeared out in front of the leading line. It was the same red cast-ket he had used before. While much smaller and already starting to collapse in shrinking steps, it killed instead of just illuminated every Splinter that made contact with it.

    A fireball streaked out into the darkness. It didn''t end in an explosion as he expected, instead it splashed and coated everything in a ravenous liquid flame. The splinters caught in it didn''t have time to run. They existed for half a second before collapsing under the fire leaving a brief outline before the fire fell to the floor. The fire on the floor continued to sputter and burn as it slowly crept forward.

    That is terrifying, like a giant catapulted balloon of living napalm.

    Not letting an opportunity go to waste, Jasika stepped forward and suddenly pulled hard on the ambient. Harding could feel the world''s spirit shift towards her inhale in a pull greater than any arena contestant he''d ever seen. The chamber was a mad cacophony of combat, but Harding could still hear her spell growing just as well as he could feel it. An angry crackling hissed before a cascade of lightning rushed out in front of the line. Harding was blinded by the blue-white shock, but had seen it fill at least half the room.

    Though momentarily blind, he was sure she''d just brought everything down in front of their entire wing. In curiosity, Harding cast out flat and wide and encountered nothing but the hard presences of the house forces to the front. However, a group of splinters were amassing behind them and he quickly mass keyed them down.

    "Holtz," he yelled, "they''re getting behind us."

    "Aye. Keep it bright behind us and just keep pushing forward," he replied casually.

    There''s only a few glow stick flares back there¡­

    It was madness to Harding, to push deeper and not keep their retreat clear but they certainly knew more than he did. He glanced back at the dim lights as the gently flared.

    Brighter? Does that mean magic present?

    Adopting it as his task, Harding cast, drew, and keyed again.

    Three more.

    The house forces were destroying the splinters with ease.

    This will be over soon.

    And as if summoned by overconfidence itself, an all too familiar roar echoed down the stone room. The roar was joined by another, closer and above.

    Before anyone could even call out for it, a flare shot out from the center along the ceiling and fell behind a newly revealed rampart across from the other one, light pouring out through the crenulations.

    "Up," shouted Vostek as a demonic looking Nightmare elemental roared in displeasure at the bright, hissing light being shot at it.

    With one giant claw placed on top of a merlon, it vaulted over the wall and dropped the nearly thirty feet to the floor with ease. Amid the blades, it lowered its head and roared. Two roars came back from the darkness.

    There wasn''t much Harding thought he could do to it, so he looked for splinters to ward off.

    "Two, Four, Five- burn it. One, Three, Six- Screen Front," yelled Bitterman over the racket of nightmares, steel and magic.

    The ambient was sucked dry in a second, before becoming a tsunami of spirit as a massive wall of magic broke on the monster of solidified shadow. Harding didn''t see the magic as he was watching backwards for opportunistic attackers, but he felt it like a sudden searing flash in spirit followed by scorching magic in the physical. The demon roared and men shouted before he heard a human scream.

    Harding mass keyed again and only felt a single pop. He had to assume that the other teams had their backs covered as he couldn''t reach across the field.

    This place is bigger than a football field.

    Harding turned just in time to watch an elemental crush the man he was holding. Bones splintered, skin split and fluids burst. The monster swung the remains at the nearby team and let go which caused them to scatter out of the way of the flung corpse. It pivoted and brought its other arm into Harding''s team.

    Harding watched as the massive shadow hand came down at him. His mind and body froze beneath the splayed claws.

    Jarred impacted into Harding, knocking him over.

    He fell to the rock floor roughly and looked up to watch Jarred be picked up by the Nightmare elemental. The attacks on the elemental were continuous, but seemed to do little in hindering its deadly movement.

    A solid tendril of lightning shot out of Jasika''s hand and wrapped around the elemental''s wrist. It screamed in pain, unable to move the trapped appendage as the shadow surface bubbled and smoked midnight vapors beneath its violent tether.

    Anchored like that and focused on its entrapped hand, it was oblivious to the charge of blades who laid into ferociously with steel and sorcery. The nightmare visibly shook from the impacts and tried to turn into them. It couldn''t control its arm, but the arm was attached to its body. The sudden rotation of its torso flung Jasika.

    With impressive will, she held her spell even as her armor skidded and scraped over the floor. Staff popping into hand, Harding brought it down in a vicious chop onto the elemental''s hand while blasting everything he had through the staff.

    Whether it be monster anatomy or luck, his chop struck the base of the elemental''s thumb. He didn''t know if it was his attack or Jasika''s shocking binding, but the blow opened the elemental¡¯s grip on Jarred and he was dropped. Jarred fell to the ground and cried out in pain. He laid at the nightmare''s feet forgotten as its rage focused on the harming blades. Harding watched the battered youth look up and find his father before crawling towards him.

    "Four, Switch Front," boomed Bitterman¡¯s amplified voice.

    Jasika, standing once more, created another tendril of lightning from her other hand. She lashed the elemental repeatedly, viciously slashing it''s back with her whip of pulsating lightning.

    Harding was sure the thing would never die.

    And like that, it broke into an inky cloud bathed in the chemical light, a lump falling from its core. Rancid tasting spirit washed over him. Holtz cheered and was matched by voices from the other team as they stared at each other through the gap in space where the elemental had just existed.

    Bitterman broke the trance, "Two, Five- Push."

    The men snapped out of it and focused on the battles raging elsewhere. Two more of the Nightmares fought, the blades holding them more to a contest of endurance than any achievement of destruction. Harding saw one fight where the blade was taking the blows without giving, nearly as much magic hitting the warrior as the elemental.

    Jarred was still crawling towards his father as the man turned and joined the charge against the next. Holtz knelt beside him to render aid. Jasika was wobbly but on her feet which Harding begrudgingly found impressive considering the amount of energy she had pushed.

    He took a step towards Jarred when he heard Instructor Stocke gasp. Harding turned to see her as she was already falling forward, spin and flash her narrow sword in the haze. The blade passed through two splinters before she hit the ground hard. She laid there grimacing, her head having struck the floor hard, but no other splinters tried her.

    Shit.

    Harding went back to his cast-pause-draw sequence, keying when he discovered a presence. He had lost focus of his task, his concern for Jarred putting others at risk. "Stay close and I''ll keep the splinters away," he promised.

    It was all he could do. He had no ability to ease Jarred''s pain nor could he treat Stocke''s slashes. The only useful thing he could provide here was hunting and killing the splinters that would otherwise prey on them.

    Battle raged on across the chamber as groups fought the other elementals. One group continued trade blows with theirs while all the rest swarmed down the second. After a moment of safety, Jasika determined that Stocke''s cuts were minor and the two went off to join the duke.

    Only Holtz and Harding, along with a hobbled Jarred, held their team''s responsibility and kept the splinters off the other combatants¡¯ backs. Holtz stood over Jarred, but even laid out Jarred managed to throw spells when any density of the scavenging shadows was detected. Harding drifted to the middle of the vast field, sweeping and clearing away any that dared risk approaching. Holtz supported with distorted purple bolts, but his attention was on guarding Jarred.

    Harding felt like he was going to collapse. He''d channeled so much energy he felt both fevered and numb. The only reason he could keep going was that he had stopped thinking. He was just doing the same actions over and over.

    Cast¡­ one-two-three, draw. Cast¡­ one-two-three, draw.

    He was unaware of when both elementals were destroyed, only the physical presences of the returning blades. His mind just ignored them though lost in his tormented cycle. Holtz''s hand on his shoulder roused his awareness and he crouched, extended an arm down and toppled onto his ass.

    Harding sat there gasping. He was so exhausted even the pain was numb. His thoughts were evasive, his awareness slowed and his body would occasionally have minor muscle spasms. Someone, perhaps Holtz, gave him a waterskin which he clutched to himself for comfort as much as he drank from it.

    By the time his mind was able to consistently make sense of what he was looking at, the men had the casualties grouped and triage started. Any man who could still fight gathered around Vostek as he maneuvered them into new teams.

    "Moving in five," yelled a slightly hoarse Bitterman.

    How?

    Harding looked up at a smiling Holtz who seemed to read his mind. "Open gate on the other side, we have to keep pushing until we are secure."

    "Shit..."

    "Mhm."

    "Jarred?"

    "He''s being taken care of, but for all of us the only way out is through."

    Harding stood and leaned on his staff, mimicking Holtz''s common stance with his Halberd. As he gulped air his body shook and strange burning sensations flared and disappeared under his skin. In the afforded pause, Harding revisited his past eagerness to delve dungeons.

    I''m an idiot.

    Far too soon, Bitterman was waving in the air and calling for an advance. Besides the occasionally bold Splinter though, there were no further contacts made until they reached the end of the room. There were a few more calls of "Bones", but instead of the earlier excitement of discovery it was now more of a caution of unsure footing.

    "Gate," yelled Vostek, even though everyone had been eyeing it as they approached. At the call someone lit a flare and tossed it through the massive entryway.

    They had set procedures and they were following them.

    It was wide enough for two horse-drawn carts and half again as tall, though the bottom of the raised portcullis took up a bit of the top of the arch. Through it was a four-way junction and each direction had a matching gateway.

    All stood open.

    There''s no way we can make it through three more¡­

    "Jones, which way to the source," Vostek requested. He spoke at a regular volume but all could hear him as they stood in silence. "Left, sir, definitely left."

    "Left it is then¡­"

    Bitterman automatically called out, "Turn Left and Advance."

    Harding hadn''t thought of it, but actively sensing showed a definite current in the ambient.

    The force of blades stalked down the left passage. It bent in a gradual arc and, for a while, they could not see neither their origin nor destination. The surfaces were smooth rock, not the massive cut stone blocks of the great ward they''d left. It was as if someone had just deleted a passageway from existence. The corridor eventually emptied through a framed threshold into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling.

    "Addion''s hairy hangers," muttered someone in the group.

    On the floor was a gold inlaid compound enneagram whose center was twelve feet across. The floor was missing within that central nonagon, replaced with an inky void radiating soft violet light. Energy pulsed from it like an arterial wound. It tasted wrong to Harding, colorless but darker than the ambient.

    Everyone stood transfixed until Bitterman muttered, "It''s a giant fucking open portal."

    "Not just any portal, that¡¯s the Veil of Dreams," supplied Jones.

    "How do we close it," implored Vostek.

    Jones shrugged, "This isn''t my kind of magic, but it''s built into this room and not some makeshift ritual. Maybe there''s a lever."

    The men started to look around. Harding attempted to sense but he was drowned by the raw waves washing out. Out of the portal came a faint, bubbling roar. It was definitely not a Nightmare elemental, much more massive and strangely melodic.

    It''s like a gurgling whale song¡­

    "Closing it faster would be good," urged Duke Garnet.

    "Found something, looks like a key," called a voice up front.

    The crowd parted as Vostek walked over, Jones and Harding drifting in his wake. The knight bent down on a knee and examined the gold disc inlaid in the floor surrounded by a socket of a bluish metal. It sat just off, but connected by a line, to the union of two of the outer lines of the ritual.

    A giant tentacle suddenly snaked out of the open portal and snatched a guy, dragging him back through. Harding could see the man''s terror, but he seemed unable to scream in the crushing coil.

    "Check the corners for keys, weapons up and face the portal," yelled Vostek.

    "Here''s one," came a call.

    "Here''s another."

    "And another."

    "Here''s two more," called another.

    There were nine in total.

    "Let''s try the keys simultaneously. If you can key, go to a lock. If you can''t, kill anything that comes out of that portal."

    And kill they did, though the escaping splinters were the least of the issues. In the roughly ten seconds it took to position and coordinate keying, two tentacles as thick as barrels thrust out of the portal, reaching for flesh. Each was lined with hooked suckers and eyes that leaked a purple slime down the smooth gray-green skin.

    Quickly ichor coated the blades as they savagely hacked at them, other attacks having seemingly little effect. Harding briefly wondered if he would have to mass key the ritual, and if that even worked. But, on Bitterman''s call they all keyed and the portal winked out.

    Two meaty tentacles, severed by the portal closing, slapped wetly against the floor for a moment before the flesh rotted and turned to dust in seconds.

    "Well that was some shit," rumbled Duke Garnet in the sudden quiet.

    Holtz chuckled and slapped Harding''s back. The men breathed a collective sigh of relief and relaxed. The alien energy was gone, leaving a dull but plentiful ambient that felt the same hum as what Harding equated as the normal state of spirit. The men paused for breath.

    "What exactly," Harding inquired of Jones, "Is this dream veil thing?"

    Jones exhaled noisily and gave a questioning frown before shrugging. "It''s the barrier between the living and the dead."

    His explanation made little sense to Harding but seemed exhaustive without him pressing on topics like the construction of reality itself. Intriguing, but not appropriate as men were bandaging wounds.

    After a few minutes they walked back to the junction and explored the other passages. From the original orientation, the straight path had curved in a massive gatehouse. They surmised that they were on the other side of the known exterior gate. The mechanisms of control were not readily apparent and Harding was left with the impression that they didn''t want them open anyways.

    The right passage was a mirror of the left, though the hallway and portal were inverted in orientation. Thankfully, that inverted portal was closed.

    Weary and bloody, the group limped back to the initial, large ward. Holtz stepped on one of the large bones and wrenched his ankle, so Harding walked with him to give him support instead of using the Halberd''s butt end.

    When they got back to the injured, Harding found that they had created a small camp around the fissure in the wall. At some point porters and several guards had hauled in a pair of portal stanchions and goods were now being brought in as tents were erected.

    They''re building a small city.

    Harding looked at the two long walls of ramparts and wondered how they''d been cleared. It certainly wasn''t his place to call them on it. Slowly the place grew from a handful of people sitting inside flares and tending wounds to a tent city with lampposts pushing back the mountain''s perpetual dark.

    Men were sent up into the parapets, but both were sealed from the other side. Guards were stationed to watch for any remaining splinters. With the portal closed though it was believed that their numbers wouldn''t replenish. Hale blades hunted the shadows to extinction.

    Some degree of interest was shown in the giant bone piles. They found five mostly intact skeletal remains of some humanoid that was probably about ten feet tall when living. Of special interest though was the giant sword that had pinned one to the wall and been left there struck into the stone. Also, he heard that Jones had found a ring in the bones that was about the size of a woman''s bracelet.

    Harding collected some food and drink and sought out Jared. He was in the family tent, a massive multiroom thing in the center of camp.

    Sitting with Jarred, they ate a meal of bread, cheese, dried meat and a scoop of gravy. Even with the gravy though, it was unpleasantly dry. They ate in silence, partially due to the state of the food but mostly out of hunger and exhaustion.

    "So what now," Harding eventually asked after the meal.

    "We spend the night and get rested."

    "Inside this place?"

    "You¡¯d rather be out in the dark woods again? To keep that camp hidden they will have no fire."

    "Inside''s great."

    Duke Garnet came into the tent, a piece of bread in hand with a slab of cheese pinned to it with his thumb. Harding started to get up but the duke waved him off. The duke sat on a makeshift stool and looked at Jarred. "How''s your situation?"

    "They say I''ll be mostly functional tomorrow, should be able to fight," Jarred explained, holding up his ankle a bit and slowly rotating the foot. It was puffy and had been lathered with a yellow cream. "It pisses me off, Father," he continued, "It wasn''t that much of a drop, I should have been fine."

    The duke just shrugged and smiled tiredly at his son. "That''s how it goes. One guy gets cut up, but keeps fighting. Next guy gets a nick, but it''s just right and he bleeds out."

    Hesitant to intrude, Harding still felt it was best said in front of the duke. "Thank you for saving my life back there Jarred. I think I locked up a bit. "

    Jarred waved away the gratitude, but Harding saw him smile a little. "You''re here as my responsibility," he stated, "and, as a friend. Plus you saved my life with Rhett. I had debt."

    Harding could see the pride swell in the duke''s eyes.

 Chapter 10

    Harding had ended up bunked on a cot in the antechamber of the Garnet''s large tent. When he returned from a long cycle, everything was quiet in the camp. With the Garnet''s within, he napped. He had still been physically exhausted, yet his sleep was light and disrupted. His brain kept trying to wake him while his body rejected anything but restorative sleep. In the throes of this schism between brain and body, he was roused by Vestok''s quiet entry. The leader of the blades passed Harding by and announced himself at the inner door flap in a hushed tone. He looked back then to the stirring Harding and gave him a nod and sympathetic smile.

    Harding rubbed his eyes and frowned. He had already lost track of time under the mountain. Outside the tent, magical lamps pushed back the perpetual darkness of the cavern. Their efforts leaked in as a dim wash of light in the tent entry. A muted call from the other side of the inner flap summoned Vestok inward, leaving Harding awake and alone again. He could hear voices through the tent walls, but they were no more than muffled muttering.

    Harding grumbled to himself and cycled again.

    While away from Life he noted it was still only midafternoon. When he returned to Life, Harding rolled out of bed and pulled his robes over his head. He was still bent over and lacing his boots when Jarred came into the chamber and began rummaging through one of the crates.

    "Man, I gotta piss. Where do I go," Harding asked in need as he finished the lacings.

    Jarred laughed at him, shaking his head in mirth, "The chamber pot, where were you raised?"

    Harding looked about and discovered what he hoped was the correct pot. Turning his back to Jarred, he manufactured his relief.

    Over his shoulder, "How''s the ankle?"

    "A bit stiff, but I''ll manage. Are you feeling any better? You looked like you were going to die."

    "My compliments to the necromancer then."

    Jarred chortled, then announced, "We are going to go check out the next challenge in a moment."

    Harding sighed. He had asked for this, wanted it in fact. The adventure and challenge, combat and glory; he wanted it. He just hadn''t realized it felt like this. No one had warned him. Despite the tingling buzz inside his metaphysical body urging him to quit back to bed, he knew he would continue. Harding was about to ask what he should bring when the duke swept through the inner flap followed by Vestok. As they passed through, Jarred motioned for him to follow before doing it himself. Harding left his pack and chased after the group which had paused at the next tent over. There, Instructor Stocke and Maid Jasika were waiting outside.

    After pleasantries, notably terse even for Jasika, the group continued on to the edge of the camp. Waiting for them was Jones, Bitterman, and a guy Harding had seen around but did not know by name. He was tall, blond, and mustached.

    "Your Grace," acknowledged Jones. The duke didn''t stop, instead he inclined his head and motioned forward with two extended fingers. The three merged into the group as they continued on to the rear gate near the fissure they had first crawled through.

    Harding had developed a basic understanding of the layout. The whole thing was built like a fortress guarding the gate they now approached. When they reached the heavy portcullis, Harding saw there was a pair of solid gates standing just behind it. Their dark surface looked more like shadows than anything in the dim light, obscuring their presence until close inspection. Duke Garnet apprised the situation and then spoke to Jones, "Osmundus, where are we at with this?"

    "I can''t phase through the portcullis, whatever it is made from is solid to spirit. However, spirit is able to flow through the gaps. The gate beyond is an entirely different story," explained Jones.

    Harding peered through the portcullis at the gate''s dark surface, but couldn''t see anything notable beyond the material''s odd appearance. It appeared as a mottled gray metal, but seemed to drink in the light making it darker near the surface. The gate itself was remarkable in its plainness, lacking any artistry or hardware.

    Jones commented, "Visually, I would swear it''s the same stuff as artifact armor, but¡­ it doesn''t exist."

    "Doesn''t exist," the duke questioned, "as in being an illusion?"

    "Well¡­"

    While Jones tried to figure out how to explain the substance, Harding reached out with his spirit. He threaded that self through the lattice of the portcullis and touched at the door. He could see it with his eyes but his spirit passed through as if nothing was there. Not only was there no collision, there wasn¡¯t even an awareness that he had passed through something.

    "Well, it''s quite solid physically. It just doesn''t exist magically. No one can sense it and powers act like it''s not there," Jones explained.

    Harding was able to push spirit through for some distance down the hallway beyond as there was barely more than a foot between the two barriers. The passage felt plain and extremely utilitarian, fitting with the design of the rest of the place. Whoever had built this place didn''t care about aesthetics at all.

    Weird, for a game.

    Jones continued, "Will here can pass through, so whatever it was designed for must be a very specific threat?"

    The duke turned, "You''ve been through?"

    "Easily, Sir." Will went on, "As Os said, it''s a peculiar setup. There''s a lever on the other side, presumably to open the gates. After a short hallway though there is a platform made of wood. There are no visible controls for the platform, unless the lever works it and not the gate? We didn''t want to pull the lever in case it initiated an attack."

    "Hmm," the duke muttered in thought. "When the camp is ready then, Vestok."

    The knight-commander, instead of responding directly, turned to Bitterman and gave a light jerk of his head upwards. Bitterman jogged off. Harding watched the exchange and the displayed familiarity between the men. Perhaps not with all the blades, but this small group at least acted with an ease that spoke of long experience together. They upheld the expected deference to rank, just barely.

    It was at least fifteen minutes before Bitterman came back, but Harding had to try not to chuckle at times while they waited. Bitterman''s acerbic verbal coaching of the camp could be heard over the quiet chatter of the waiting group. Sound carried very well in the straight-walled stone chamber.

    She returned with all the healthy blades, grimacing as she informed Vestok quietly, "As good as we''re getting, sir. We are... hurting on numbers."

    Vestok just nodded, lost in his own calculations. After a moment he looked up, "Open it up, Payne."

    Will saluted, a seemingly out of place action given that Harding rarely saw any of them use physical signals of rank. Will then walked up to the portcullis while pulling out a thin strip of ceramic material which was about as long as his forearm. He crouched down and placed it on the floor so that it spanned the width under the portcullis. Putting his finger to the strip, Will vanished.

    A few moments later he popped back into existence on the other end of the strip. The maneuver left him sandwiched tightly in the foot gap between the gates.

    "Woah," awed Harding. While probably not useful in combat, the other uses of such an ability were near boundless. Furthermore, Payne could get past while Jones'' phasing was blocked. Harding whispered to Jarred, "How''s he doing that?"

    "Rarer seed power. It allows him to be two dimensional within a surface," Jarred explained in his ear.

    Trapped between the gates, Payne pressed himself up against the gate and rocked his foot forward. In doing so he dragged the strip forward and pushed it under the solid gate portion. Once satisfied with the positioning, he disappeared into it once again. Harding reached out with his spirit body and felt Payne expand from the strip on the other side.

    It felt turbulent between the gates¡­ some disruption from his passing perhaps?

    Jarred''s explanation was likely correct, but it left Harding with a lot of questions. How could a spirit body, let alone a physical one, be compressed like that? If he was just shrinking, he wouldn''t need the strip would he? Why use the strip and not the floor? There had to be some other mechanics and considerations Jarred wasn''t conveying, but the power still seemed exceedingly useful.

    Harding watched on the other side with spirit. The compression of Payne as he bent over to touch the ground. He stood up and moved around the corner. Harding tracked the shape of Payne working at something his senses could not detect. A metallic, mechanical "chunk" echoed through the place. The sound repeated rhythmically, each peal reverberating throughout the hall as the portcullis slowly lifted straight up into the ceiling. Only when the portcullis stopped moving did the inner gate also retract in similar fashion. Payne stood there with a small magical torch, just a short rod with light coming out one end. Behind him the dark tunnel, barely illuminated, waited for them.

    Payne cocked a crooked grin.

    With the way now clear, the men pressed in. The leadership group took the front, but the blades flowed in their wake. Jones awkwardly carried in a lamp post like the ones from camp, bringing greater illumination than the glow of personal torches to the short hall. The hallway was a simple continuation of the cutout for the gate and ran fifty feet before the start of the wooden platform. The floor simply went from stone to wood with a slight crack between. The hallway ended on the other side of the ten foot square platform.

    A lifting platform?

    The group stopped before the wood, hesitant to tempt fate. As Harding scanned the ceiling to check for a shaft up, the duke spoke, "As far as we know, we are the first people since long before the founding of the kingdom to walk this hall. What lies beneath us is unknown to mortal man."

    The crowd was quiet.

    "Now, Jones¡­ how do we get this thing to budge," asked the duke through a barely suppressed smile. The man was enjoying himself.

    "Currently under investigation, sir," was his reply as he tentatively tested the platform with his boot. It didn''t move. The blade gave a shrug to the duke.

    "Can Payne just slip his thing through there," Jarred asked.

    The knight-commander shook his head, "It''s a lift of some sort, that means it goes down some ways."

    Jarred remained quiet. No one else immediately ventured an idea creating a moment of silence. A moment broken by Jones stepping onto the platform and jumping a few times. Someone in the crowd chuckled.

    Harding asked, "Payne, do you have more than one of those ceramic strips?¡±

    "Sure, they break easy enough."

    "Lieutenant,¡± Harding continued, ¡°You have voice amplification abilities, right?"

    "Yes."

    "And can you hear better too?"

    "No, but others can."

    "What if everyone stays quiet, Payne slips a strip through the crack and then we listen for it to hit while counting. We should be able to approximate the distance from that."

    "Worth a try," Vestok allowed. "Everyone go back to the gate. Payne, give me a strip."

    The party backed up and watched their commander drop the strip. He paused, then said, "between two and three seconds before it shattered, another silence before a faint clatter."

    "So that''s like," Harding paused to do the math, "almost one hundred fifty feet, but then something else?"

    "Pointless," ridiculed a small voice.

    "Yes, Jasika," her father asked patiently.

    "The lift floor is wood. Cut out a section, drop a man on a length of rope."

    The duke slowly grew a large grin fertilized with his parental pride. "Jarred," he commanded, "come over here and cut out a section in the back corner. Make it just large enough for us to lower a man through."

    Jarred hopped forward eagerly to be of use and walked out onto the lift. He knelt and pointed at the corner with a finger from which immediately shot a tight beam of red light. Smoke wafted up from the wood as the light burned through. Harding had never seen Jarred use his seed powers like this, let alone exhibit such a continuous controlled stream.

    A good reminder to not assume you know a person''s powers.

    It took awhile, but in the end Jarred had cleanly notched out a two by two foot square in the lift platform. The first time he had cut through a block, it fell free and dropped into the darkness and bang several times on its way down. After that happened, Harding went onto the lift and knelt beside his sponsor to catch the falling lumber pieces as they were cut free.

    Once Jarred was done cutting, the duke stood over Jarred, and peered down the hole. "Hmph," he sighed, before lighting a flare and dropping down the hole. They saw it hit something, bounce and then fall again.

    "Damn," cursed the duke.

    "What is it, sir," Vestok inquired from the hall, having not stepped onto the platform.

    "Some kind of security grate half way down. So we got a hundred-plus foot drop to some kind of grate before another drop. Some very paranoid engineers built this place," grumbled the duke.

    "Can someone teleport down,¡± asked Harding. He was looking through the hole, watching the flare weakly illuminate the bottom, just a little yellow smudge of light in the deep dark. The drop was daunting, a small dark shaft with unknown properties and security measures.

    "No," Vestok responded and gave no further clarification. "Bitterman, go and get some lengths of rope from camp."

    Bitterman once more did as instructed, pushing through the crowd to return with two porters a few minutes later. Each porter was laden with multiple coils of climbing rope. "We''ve got coils of seventy-five yards each. Also, some hammers and pitons as I didn''t see anywhere to tie off in here."

    They ended up tying off on the raised portcullis because the duke didn''t want to leave any anchors in the rock for other groups to use. Bitterman put on a crude harness and lowered herself down the dark shaft, until she tentatively touched the horizontal grid with her feet. After a few moments of testing, she lowered herself fully and stood on it. She mimicked Jones and jumped a few times, then looked back up the shaft and shrugged.

    After another series of jumping, she cupped her hands together and yelled, "They''re damned beefy."

    Her voice reverberated in the shaft as she stared up and waited for a response. The duke looked around at the waiting crowd, then ordered, "Tie off another line and send Jones down, see if we can get this mechanism figured out."

    While the group rigged Jones for his descent, Harding reached out with his senses and felt around the lift and shaft, looking for mechanisms, materials, or anything that felt different. He felt the hard stone of the construction, cut smooth and clean. The thick dead wood was dull to spirit whereas the steel frame was vibrant. Tucked against the walls were metal tracks of some sort where boxes under the lift sat against. Thin rods that readily took in spirit ran on both sides of the drive tracks.

    This is just a gear-driven elevator.

    Harding looked over at Jared who stood next to him watching Jones begin to lower himself. He leaned in and whispered, "I think I found something."

    "Don''t tell me, tell father," Jarred redirected.

    Harding nodded and spoke louder, "Excuse me, sir. I think I found a way to operate some of this?"

    The duke turned from watching Jones descend, "Explain it."

    Harding paused. It would do him no good to stumble in his explanation. He wasn''t even sure how much mechanical knowledge the duke would have. "The lift is wood sitting on a metal lattice frame. There are four boxes, presumably engines as each one sits in a type of toothed track in the wall that they drive the platform along. Probably."

    "Continue," the duke urged, though he returned to watching Jones¡¯ descent. Harding realized that the others might have already figured this out just by lowering below the platform with a light.

    "Each track has two solid rods, one on each side. My thought is that spirit or some other energy is flooded into the rods to make the lift go up or down," Harding concluded.

    "But what type of energy and how is the direction of the lift controlled," pondered the duke, no longer watching Jones. The rope intermittently creaked as the blade worked to lower himself.

    "It''s just a theory, sir, but we haven''t seen any energy type used in this place so far. Hard to tell what they used, but they obviously built the defenses with spirit in mind," Harding pointed out. He really didn''t know, but it did seem like if the builders had an electric elevator they would have at least installed a few lights for convenience.

    Harding tried to gauge the leadership group''s position but everyone seemed to be focused on the duke while he worked through it slowly. Finally, he seemed to accept Harding''s ideas but pushed for more information, "And the grates below?"

    "I''m not close enough to sense those mechanics."

    Vestok nodded to the duke when he looked at him. Vestok seemed to be an aware and forward guy, but Harding understood that no one could be well versed in everything. It was to Vestok''s credit in Harding''s view that the man seemed to be able to alternate between leading and following seamlessly.

    "Ok. Pull them up, then we give it a try," decided the Duke.

    The group collectively pulled Bitterman and Jones up, two lines of blades heaving the ropes. Harding felt conscious about not helping, but it was quite clear that leather gloves were standard equipment for a house blade for a multitude of reasons. He decided to take advantage of the momentary downtime and pulled out his journal.

    He started a new page:

    <blockquote>

    Things to Buy

    1 pair of leather gloves (work?)

    </blockquote>

    With the two blades up, the leadership turned to discussion on how to proceed. Some concerns of theoretical operation were raised, such as the potential of needing to equalize the power to each drive engine. As they planned a solution to the challenge, Harding spoke up again. "May I try?"

    The duke frowned indifference, "No harm in letting you try¡­"

    Harding walked into the center of the lift. Despite having no expectation of success, he still felt the weight of the attention of the gathered blades. With measured pace he created a pair of tendrils in his spirit body similar to this manipulation practice with the seedcrypt. It took a bit of effort but he extended them further until they reached the sides of the lift. Creating a second pair of tendrils while maintaining the first was more difficult and the existing ones shrunk a bit as he changed his focus. Once the four formed, Harding once again worked to extend them. He observed that the other portions of his spirit body were drawn in to fuel his reach.

    The sensation of manipulating his self into such a seemingly unnatural state was disturbing. It was like stretching a muscle slowly until it began to tear. The belief that it was impossible to damage the spirit body by manipulating it did little to assuage the strangeness of sensation. Beliefs can be wrong. The tendrils fought him, continually twisting and trying to retract. Harding persisted, the burden of the crowd''s attention all the more present as he struggled.

    It was a challenge getting each spirit appendage to contact a singular rail. The fact he was unsure which rails were the correct ones was secondary to that battle. Eventually he stopped fighting their nature and instead let them twist and thrash, focusing solely on putting their endpoints to the rails instead of forming his imagined shape. The tendrils warped and writhed, but ultimately connected.

    Through this process Harding made two important discoveries. The first was that focusing on the end goal and letting the form be irregular required much less effort. Geometric perfection apparently being anathema to the nature of the spirit body. The second was that as unsettling as it felt, the spirit body twisting both straightened and hardened the formed appendage. Similar in effect to rolling paper into a narrow cone.

    After his battle to connect to all four rods, he pressed spirit out into them and the lift jolted hard as it slammed against the top of the track. Harding switched his rod contact selection to the other side of the drives and the lift lowered, bucking slightly on occasion. It may have looked easy to the blades watching, but keeping the same energy to each rod was mentally taxing. Too much variance in power caused the drives to buck and bind.

    The four drives were more energy efficient than Harding expected. Small mercies and all that, the way down was still a long distance. Maintaining the required shape and providing steady power for any length of time would be taxing regardless. Harding drove the lift down several feet and then shifted the set of contacts and returned it to the top. "It would be very hard to regulate with different sources, sir," he speculated. Harding couldn''t imagine trying to control four different people¡¯s spirit output to ensure smooth operations. He had yet to hear of any way to measure, let alone regulate, spirit expenditure.

    There has to be an item or machine to simplify this somewhere¡­

    The duke eyed him, paused, then raised his eyebrows and smiled seemingly having come to a verdict. He asked, "How many times could you do a round trip?"

    Harding realized he should have anticipated the question, but he honestly had no educated estimate. Instead, he guessed, "One way will be challenging but should be doable, I might need a breather or two though."

    The duke turned to his command group, "Bitterman, let''s get four lines tied off and coiled on the lift. I want the monk, Jones, and Jasika to go down with you and figure out the security grate."

    Harding had nearly forgotten Jasika was there. When she wasn''t creating mass destruction, she became invisible. Her instructor even more so, that woman was just the stoic shadow of Jasika. And she made it clear she was enduring the perpetual disappointment of dealing with everyone else. Harding assumed that''s what it was at least, the woman''s affect was as flat as the floor.

    The four stepped onto the platform and secured ropes brought to them. Instructor Stocke started to follow when the duke raised his hand. "No, just Jasika." He smiled at his daughter, the unspoken message clear. He was eager for her to excel on her own. In reaction, Jasika showed no emotion.

    Each of them fed the ropes through their harness in case of an accident before Harding began to lower the lift. He went slowly at first and then faster as he got used to it. The faster the rate he expended spirit the faster the lift descended, though he suspected it was cutting into the efficiency of the drives. The difficulty wasn''t the steady trickle of energy at first but rather being consistent in holding the points of contact. Even with the higher ambient energy of the domain, the slow drain became a growing issue as it outpaced his passive recovery. His stored spirit dwindled. It felt like the shaft would never end when Bitterman interrupted his concerted effort. "Stop on my mark," she told him. "Three¡­ Two¡­ One¡­ Mark."

    Harding stopped the lift and tentatively relaxed his spirit body from the contacts. Much to his relief the lift drives held in place when not actively fed energy. After a few cautious moments he returned his spirit body all the way to its normal resting form under his skin. Its return was sluggish. His whole body ached.

    Why can my spirit body get sore?

    "Let''s figure this thing out," Bitterman grumbled and, double-checking her harness, stepped into the corner cutout and dropped out of sight. Jones and then Jasika followed, leaving Harding alone on the lift. He crept to the ledge and peered down. It was barely six feet down to the grid, each rod a square beam at least four inches wide. The three of them stood on the beams while they examined the situation. Harding worried about dropping six feet to a narrow beam. While it didn''t look like you could fall through, slipping and taking a hit to the head could be serious.

    Either head.

    Harding leaned against the wall and watched them explore while he tried to recover. Jones knelt down and began inspecting the sockets where the beams exited the lift shaft wall. As he was doing so, Bitterman looked up at the resting Harding and smirked. Spurred on, Harding braced himself and dropped. His feet made contact on the beam and his knees bent with the force of the impact. A foot slipped and he dropped into a crouch with one leg dangling before he came to a stop. He glanced down at his knee, inches from his chin and was thankful for the near miss. He couldn''t believe he''d been so easily goaded.

    "Damn, why didn''t you use the rope," grumbled Bitterman.

    "The rope?"

    Bitterman wiggled the rope in her harness, then pantomimed holding it beneath her. Harding glanced at the rope dangling from his own harness and smiled slightly. Thankfully Bitterman didn''t spend further effort on his embarrassment, having already returned her focus to the problem of the grate. Harding followed suit. Examining them revealed that it was not a singular mesh but two perpendicular sets of beams. They appeared to be made of the same material as the portcullis above. Each set extended out of metal trimmed sockets along the walls.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Harding inspected the tracks of the lift drive. While the drive tracks and rods were continuous, there was a contact strip running along the rods a few feet below where they had parked the lift. Borrowing Jones¡¯ light, the contacts looked unique to the barred area. Besides them were indentations in the wall away from the drive.

    "What would happen if we just drove the lift into it," proposed Bitterman.

    "I''m not sure it would be strong enough to do anything, but I¡¯m guessing it wouldn''t work anyways. These extra contact patches on the wall look to be some kind of security cutout to the drives. At least that''s my guess, something to keep you from making them collide. It looks like they slide away, probably when the gate opens."

    "Can they be spirited out of the way," inquired Jasika. She seemed to be invested in solving the problem, a noticeable change from her hallmark perpetual disinterest in all things not training.

    "They appear to be completely mechanical, Maid Jasika," stated Jones before Harding could respond. He was pushing firmly on a different contract strip with his hand.

    "What about a magnetic seed," she continued.

    "They appear to be heavily geared," determined Jones after pushing hard on them.

    Harding added, "Cooper isn''t magnetic." The effort earned him a brief scowl from the tiny noble.

    She would not be drawn from the task. "Might a bound teleport through the bars get us past them," Jasika puzzled.

    Bound?

    Jones shook his head, "We are only half way down, it is further than any teleport range and they wouldn''t be able to port while tied off. It would be unlikely someone could catch, and hold onto, a rope coming out of the port and falling."

    Jasika smiled suddenly, bringing a remarkable change to her features. She had a somewhat cute face when she forgot to hate the world. "We make a platform and tie it to the bars. Fasten the bind onto the platform and lower it. Then drop a separate rope for them to climb down themselves the rest of the way while leaving their bind on the platform."

    "That¡­ should be doable, my Lady," declared Bitterman. "Everyone back to the platform so the monk can drive us back up." The group followed the plan without further comment. The trip up was hell. He wasn''t sure if going up was any more difficult or if it was just the accumulated exhaustion, but he was sure he was going to collapse. Only fearful pride powered him on. He was utterly exhausted by the time he could see the lip of the upper tunnel.

    On their arrival, Jasika explained her plan to her father and Vestok while Harding slumped to the floor and tried to be subtle in his gasping breaths. He caught Jarred grinning at his state and Harding, in a brief pause of his misery, returned a playful sneer.

    Bitterman already had the materials for Jasika''s plan being collected and soon they had a platform with four equal lengths of rope attached. A separate, long rope was coiled while the individual ropes from the previous attempt were taken away.

    Jones was swapped out for Instructor Stocke. Bitterman explained the plan further to Stocke, telling her they needed a Duplicate.

    There was some risk still of losing balance on the platform when exiting the teleport but she seemed unconcerned. Fear, it seemed, was also beneath her. Harding fulfilled his purpose by driving the lift down. As he did, Stocke held a small stone out and touched it with her powers. Whatever she had used tasted of the same blue as Rent¡¯s powers, which he found interesting. They didn¡¯t seem to need to give any worship to the god of their powers, but Stocke¡¯s personality seemed entirely opposite of the Okkor approach. She then lashed the stone carefully to the platform with some leather straps.

    After coming to a stop, they dropped down to the security grid as before. Bitterman slipped the platform through the space between the bars and held it there while Jasika tied the ends to the grid.

    Bitterman and Jasika worked together to lower the platform, not trusting to just drop it in case the stone came loose. Stocke bowed to Jasika, then vanished in an invisible flash of invisible cyan, appearing instantly on the platform below. As Harding expected, it didn¡¯t so much as sway. You could fault the woman for her personal skills, but never was her precision in question. She then jumped deftly to the long rope and slid down, her personal torch shrinking further as she lowered the last fifty feet with grace and speed. The light swayed and then disappeared into an unseen tunnel.

    Harding sat back and rested, there was no point for him to watch. The minutes passed and he lost focus until he heard the long rope creaking as it wiggled. Stocke''s arm appeared through the hole as she placed her stone onto the lift. She must have climbed that distance, but that didn''t seem realistic to him.

    Just more mysteries.

    Stocke appeared standing over her stone. She turned her head to Jasika and simply started, ¡°Not going to work."

    Then without looking at him she commanded, ¡°Up.¡±

    Harding looked to Bitterman for confirmation and the lieutenant shrugged and pointed up with a casual rotation of the wrist. Harding complied and wound them to the top again. When they came to a stop, all Harding wanted to do was sit down and rest, but curiosity drove him to walk with the group. The duke had wandered back to the edge of the tent city.

    ¡°You get the lift fully operational,¡± asked the duke, eyebrow cocked in wary hope.

    ¡°No,¡± Stocke simply stated. She looked around in caution. ¡°May we continue this in my Lord¡¯s tent?¡±

    The duke acquiesced and led them through the temporary camp to the Garnet tents. Jones and the other¡¯s stopped outside. Harding stood with Jones, but Jarred pulled him in with him. Inside the tent was the Duke, the Captain, Jasika, Jarred, Harding and Stocke. Stocke glared at Harding¡¯s presence but didn¡¯t actually say anything about it.

    ¡°My Lord. I lowered myself to the bottom of the lift run, which consequently is not quite the bottom of the shaft. There at the landing, a pace in from the lip, is another spirit eliminating portcullis. I would have proceeded past that, but standing guard a ways further were two beings of a type I have never seen. They were humanoid but easily twice the height of a man. They wore suits of full metal which lacked necessary features for a living being. What¡¯s more, each had wings of metal as long as they were tall. I did not believe I could pass and look for controls without their detection, and I wouldn''t be surprised if each was beyond what a squad of blades could handle. If they are not lords, I cannot fathom what lies inside.¡±

    ¡°Troubling,¡± murmured the duke. ¡°Excellent scouting work, Dame Stocke.¡±

    With a frown he addressed the knight-commander, ¡°Vostek, I have serious doubts that we have adequate manpower to make any meaningful headway here. Other than getting that lift operational, do you see any advantage to be gained here?¡±

    ¡°Nothing beyond furthering your claim, my Lord,¡± Vestok sourly admitted. ¡°Perhaps we could slowly increase recruitment? But without defending our presence here, we are vulnerable to others discovering it.¡±

    ¡°Only three seeds from this expedition- isn¡¯t enough,¡± lamented the Duke with a sigh.

    Harding thought he understood the issue. If anyone else discovered it, they could push past or possibly cause a political conflict. He had questions about how likely that was, but it was conceivable someone could say something back in town. How many groups even had the numbers to do something like this? Surely the kingdom¡¯s forces, other dukes, and maybe the already established guilds. But most of the players were still trying to get basic powers and skills sorted.

    Harding interrupted the duke¡¯s rumination with the product of his own, ¡°Excuse me, Lord, but may I offer a suggestion?¡±

    Everyone turned doubtful looks towards him. He pushed ahead despite the visible skepticism, ¡°I, ah, have no direct connection to them but- what about partnering with a guild?¡±

    ¡°Not a chance,¡± Vestok terminated the idea with prejudice.

    The duke, however, was less hasty, ¡°Hold on Vostek, now let us worry this idea some as we¡¯re at somewhat of an impasse. A bit of unconventional is exactly what is needed. Keep talking monk.¡±

    Harding started off by framing the situation as he understood it, ¡°The House needs a large influx of seeded combatants whose potential deaths won''t leave the guardforce suddenly weak, correct?¡±

    The duke just nodded.

    ¡°And you can¡¯t just hire that size force from the Guard association without notice and a substantial amount of coin. You can¡¯t bring in the rangers, who aren¡¯t really situated for it. Also, they would involve the Crown whom I am guessing would take over all rights?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s accurate enough for the conversation, yes,¡± he confirmed with a humored smirk.

    ¡°So you need a large group of seeded and trained combatants itching for a fight who don¡¯t have societal power over the claim and whose absence wouldn¡¯t be noticed by other powers. As far as I am aware, the only groups that fit those requirements are one of the big three guilds.¡±

    Harding noticed Vestok was listening intently now, perhaps he was onto something.

    ¡°They fit that, true, but dealing with them and managing the secret would be all but impossible.¡± The duke shook his head sadly, ¡°They have neither the reputation for secrecy nor reasonability. Their asking price would be astronomical, their security laughable. Any offer made would require divulgence of details that would cost us our claim, they then could decline us and move in to take it.¡±

    Harding considered this. Would his fellow gamers be reasonable to an NPC or would they see it as simply a quest? He had to admit that his experience supported the duke¡¯s assessment. However, perhaps he could span that gap between the two groups.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know their leadership, but I have an acquaintance who is very visible in the Eights,¡± ventured Harding. ¡°I might be able to manage a meeting with a set of circumstances that would accommodate both sides, if I had your permission.¡±

    Duke Garnet pursed his lips and looked off as he thought things through. Harding realized how much he was extending himself into this, perhaps too invested for his own good. ¡°Let us take a break, then I want Jarred, Jasika and Captain Vostek back here. Monk, you¡¯ll wait outside and be ready to be called in.¡±

    And with that everyone filled out but the duke.

    An hour later it had been decided that Harding would approach the Eights and offer a clandestine meeting to develop an opportunity with an established power. Severe restrictions were placed on what Harding could divulge to the Eights to the point he felt they were potentially sabotaging the approach. If Randal didn''t currently know that he was with the Garnets, he certainly could find out from the temple. However, Harding did understand their desire for secrecy and he appreciated their show of trust in letting him try his solution. He''d earned trust since his incarceration.

    The duke¡¯s entourage, Harding included, returned to their Green Hills estate, after packing, via portal. Harding immediately set out to find Randal and, as it was early evening, he headed directly to the arena. Randal was easy enough to find in the stands, he had his favorite seats and was armed that night with a pretzel and beer. Harding sat down next to his friend, unnoticed during a fight, and offhandedly asked, "Hey there, how''s things?"

    Randal glanced over and started. "Holy shit, you''re alive! You just kinda disappeared."

    Ignoring Randal''s shocked stare, Harding admitted, "Yeah, stuff came up and I didn''t have a choice. Alexci fight yet?"

    "No, she''s in the single seed bracket now," Randal replied immediately. His pride in his sister as obvious as always.

    His admiration was shared.

    Alexci was excelling beyond reasonable expectation. Randal eyed him a bit longer before giving up on hope that Harding would explain himself further. Returning to watching the arena floor, Randal opined, "Honestly, thought she might stay unseeded to keep the combat form pure, but I know her goal was always to earn seeds through guild contribution."

    Harding nodded in agreement. He remembered Alexci talking about both routes during the parties. She would talk at length about how unseeded combat was crucial to proving any combat style, often pointing out that some of the other emerging styles were only being proven with seeds. But, she also often shared her excitement to earn seeds.

    He watched the current fight in silence.

    Having now seen raw combat on a large scale the arena fights seemed unrealistically clean. Outside of duels, there didn¡¯t seem to be much organic application for their styles. Harding could understand why the Big Three were trying to develop more chaotic events, that would be much more realistic and better training for their members. And yet, as he watched, he also found new appreciation for the art and skill of the display. Watching the combatants engage and push their arts had an admirable beauty.

    One is not the other.

    When the fight ended and the pages were dragging away body parts, Harding leaned in and quietly requested, "Can I get you to get me a minute with an Eights officer?"

    "Really, like recruitment? Good choice."

    "Maybe later, but right now I need someone who is a really high officer."

    Randal side-eyed him suspiciously, ignoring the new fighters entering the sands. "What''s going on," he asked with a somber tone.

    "Can''t say," Harding refused. Not telling Randal caused some internal friction, but he had promised and was committed to this course of action. Still, he gave a little more, "I''m trying to steer them to something big. But I''m sworn to confidentiality and I need someone who can make big decisions quietly."

    Randal thought for a moment. "Gonna stay for the afterparty?"

    "If I''m invited¡­"

    Randal laughed and offered Harding some of his pretzel as an answer.

    Good to see things haven''t changed.

    They watched the fights. Alexci made a good showing to get to the quarterfinals before being defeated. Harding could see her disappointment from the stands, but it was a big change for her to start dealing with the wide variety of seed powers. Expecting to continue to dominate was unrealistic. He and Randal chatted through the remaining fights and only were silent for the last few. No one really spoke during Archon matches, the crowd was too loud.

    After the fights, Randal took Harding down into the fighters area. The party had, as always, started well before the last fights and was in full swing when the last combatants were still coming back from the field. Randal and Harding hovered around Alexci who was in regular form. She socialized like she fought, with energetic and decisive engagement. They drank, ate and listened to various tales of debauchery and feats of skill from Alexci''s little social group.

    They were nearly an hour in when Randal tapped Harding on the shoulder and led him away from the group. Alexci had a certain social gravity and Harding could almost feel the change in the air as they escaped her orbit. Randal led Harding over to a smallish, unassuming man in his mid-thirties. He was dressed in loose manilla slacks and a brown shirt, like he rejected the style of the times. They were made enough to be recognizably different than a day laborer, but nowhere near as garnish as the performers and socialites. He sat alone at the edge of the room.

    Harding would have thought him unimportant.

    "Excuse me, Aliester,¡± ventured Randal, "could we get a moment?" Randal being tentative and uncomfortable talking to this unremarkable man sharpened Harding''s attention. While not as gregarious as his sister, he was hardly one to be so deferential.

    "As long as you don''t ask for anything, you can sit here as long as you want. You''re Alexci''s brother, right," he confirmed while rubbing the back of his neck absently. The man looked like he regretted every further moment he was awake.

    "Yeah."

    "I can see why you''d want a breather."

    Randal was speechless.

    Harding tagged in, "Hello, sir. My name is Harding. I study at the temple with Randal." He felt like an unctuous salesman, conscious he was trying to sell himself before selling the deal.

    "When are you going to join?"

    "Me?"

    "We are trying to get as many naturalists as possible right now."

    "I''m not sure I follow what a naturalist is in this context."

    "Monks. Wrong word for it, but it''s what Life gave us. People studying skill sets that are neither physical nor seed-based. The Subtle Arts. We want monks and we are the best, therefore you should join."

    Harding blinked at the blatant sell job. Beneath that though, Aliester had easily put to words the distinguishing feature of a monk. A feat even the monks themselves hadn''t accomplished. And all while bulldozing his own attempt to sell Aliester.

    Subtle arts.

    Harding admitted to him, "I am unable to disagree with any of that. Recent experiences I''ve had in a domain suggest you are indeed right to incorporate the subtle." Harding paused. He liked that word. Before Aliester could respond, he pressed on, "However, I was sent as a messenger to request a clandestine meeting of mutual opportunity."

    Aliester shifted in his seat, serious now, "Who sent you?"

    "Clandestine."

    "Ah, Randal, could I have a moment alone with your classmate?"

    Randal seemed slightly annoyed at being cut out of it, but maybe it was just discomfort from being around Aleister. Harding hoped that''s what it was, he didn''t want to damage their friendship. Randal got up. "I''ll be over with Alexci when you''re done."

    Once Randal had retreated, Harding continued, "I''ve been asked to set up a meeting by a, ah- benefactor of mine. They wish to discuss a unique opportunity. I can''t say too much about it, since I have no authority and am sworn to secrecy. My only role here is to offer you a chance to meet with them. A meeting away from any notice, as public awareness could rob both sides of substantial opportunity. They''d like for you to pick a time and place if you''re interested."

    Aliester immediately asked, "How many people?"

    ¡°Huh,¡± came Harding¡¯s clever reply. A moment later he realized the man meant the size of the meeting and not how many benefactors Harding might have. "Uhm, smaller is better? To avoid prying eyes and all of that."

    He watched Harding with uncomfortably intense eyes. When he spoke it was slow and clear, "Why do I want this? Nothing you¡¯ve said is selling me on doing it."

    Harding frowned with worry that he was losing the chance.

    "Well, sir,¡± he started before pausing again to try to calculate what would appeal to a man like Aleister. To be in such a position wasn¡¯t something he understood through experience and he gave up trying to sell it. Instead, he just explained the situation. ¡°I can''t tell you what it is about, but I had to sell the idea of bringing in the Eights to them. If you pass I don''t know if they''ll go to another guild or if they''ll change plans completely. I can''t tell you that you''ll make lots of cash or gear, I don''t know what the outcome will be. I do think, though, that you should do it. Both the experience and politics is something that money can''t buy you. I hope that is a clear enough framing as I''m already pressed hard against the strict constraints of my oath."

    Aliester sat quietly, took a sip of his wine and glanced up at the ceiling. He then looked across the room at someone in the crowd, staring at them with intent. Harding watched a tall man in black doublet turn and look back as if conscious of the weight of the stare.

    Telepathy?

    After nearly a minute of torturous silence, Aliester came to a decision. "Two people, one hour, William and Williams Haberdashery in Charney''s Landing. Tell them to bring coin enough to buy a hat. If that''s too soon, then they''re not committed enough to this for it to be worth our time."

    "Yes, sir," Harding agreed as he rose to his feet.

    Aliester grumbled, "Subtle artists¡­¡±

    It didn''t feel all that friendly, but it made Harding smile.

    And with that, he walked back to the crowd around Alexci. Harding touched Randal¡¯s shoulder and quietly excused himself. Even though she was recounting a story to the rapt crowd, he was aware that Alexci watched him leave. Harding wasn''t sure what that was about, but he didn''t have time to think about it. He briskly walked to the bridge, then ran its length wanting to report as soon as possible. An hour wasn¡¯t much time with the speed of the available transportation.

    When Harding got to the Garnet''s estate, he immediately reported to the duke the conditions and locations. The duke in turn yelled for a carriage to be made ready and for Vostek to be summoned. He then smiled at Harding. "I like this man, this Aleister. Decisive. Describe him."

    Harding described him. His slightly shorter than medium stature, thin physique and thinner hair. His eyes and the way he held himself, as if he was just hovering above exhaustion by the force of will alone. And warned the Duke of his skeptical and direct nature.

    The Duke didn''t bother changing dress to look nicer or more powerful. Instead he just led Harding out to the gateyard. Vostek was walking up to the manor, wiping his hands on a towel and looking as though he had just been wrestling weeds in the garden. "Sir, I was on my way to you."

    "Good Vostek, it is time to buy you a hat."

    Vostek''s hand involuntarily checked the top of his head, "A hat, sir?"

    "A garrish one at that, my dutiful knight, one fitting for you to strut with for the attention of a certain lady."

    A confused Vostek foundered, "A certain lady?"

    "Yes Vostek, how else will you get the eye of Dame Stocke?"

    "Stocke," gasped Vostek in horror.

    "I know you shine on her¡­"

    The carriage pulled up behind them as Vostek looked sick.

    "My Lord, please¡­"

    "Get in the carriage Vostek. We need to work on your acting skills."

    Harding chuckled watching the knight-commander stumbling.

    Vostek turned, pants seat covered in dirt, and held the door open for the duke. He looked to Harding for help, but Harding just held up his hands and shook his head. He had nothing to do with it now. Vostek climbed into the carriage, the warrior grim and ready to make his last stand for his Lord. Or, at least, wear an outrageous hat for him. Harding wasn¡¯t sure which was harder for the man to face. The duke flashed Harding a smile from the carriage, delighted in his opportunity to be mischievous.

    Harding shook his head at the scene, watching the carriage take off in unusual haste. Imagining Vestok at such an important meeting, unaware of his dirty seat, made him laugh. He looked around and found that no one had witnessed him laughing to himself. Having not been instructed to do anything further, he then sought out the chamberlain''s assistant. No one had said where he could sleep that night.

    Harding ended up back in his previous room but instead of staying in he went back to the gate yard with the crypt in hand. He sat upon the low garden wall while allowing his spirit to seep into the crypt''s locks. He was not trying to resolve the lock, neither by logic nor force. Instead, he wished to feel its spirit, to fill it with his spirit. He wished to understand it.

    He thought on the nature of all spirit as he drowned the crypt in his spirit body. Spirit flowed yet was firm. It could not be forced, yet it obeyed. At least, somewhat. It certainly followed its own rules. Spirit had a tendency to be less interested in the details. It was not of the material world and yet existed within the material of the world. It could not be touched and yet it exerted force. It was subtle.

    That''s when it clicked.

    Harding''s epiphany was that the spirit body followed visualization of the result with little care for the how. The more clearly he visualized the result, the higher degree of success it had achieved. When he visualized the action then that had become the focus over his desired effect. Tell spirit what to do and it attempted it, tell it how to do it and it struggled. From what he had observed of seed magic, which was really just applied and amplified spirit, it behaved the same. There were some sets of mechanical laws but they were not strictly adhered to. There seemed to always be some variance between people and even, occasionally, between casts by the same person. In reading Powerball Matrix, Volume II, GWz Jass had documented that some people had drastically different outcomes with the same seed and most had some minor differences. This was supported by Hardings own smaller set of observations. Spirit body and seed mechanics were, presumably, different. But both were also interconnected through spirit itself. Something within that overall system trended towards a default theme but varied almost organically. It bent to the user''s will or expectation but resisted the user at the same time.

    Harding had no seed to experiment with and separating spirit body from spirit in testing would be exceedingly difficult.  For now it would have to stay a pretty theory, but it tickled his brain.

    What if spirit is actually Spirit?

    Harding studied the crypt awhile, just turning its metal shell in his hands.  He extracted the voidseed he had in his chest and held it in his left hand. I''m his right he held the crypt. Expanding and holding his spirit body around both himself and them, he submerged himself in his awareness into his own spirit and made clear his will.

    Open, that I might fill you.

    The crypt opened without fanfare, both locks engaging and the top pivoting by unseen force to lay open, two hinged halves awaiting their fill like a hungry maw.

    It felt natural.

    Harding looked for a second at the internals of the device. It was an incredibly smooth spherical cutout, though the surface of the locks and the necks of the inlaid poles passed through the thickness of the crypt to be flush with the inside. Harding looked at his left hand. He had promised to fill the crypt. He placed the voidseed into the crypt and closed the crypt again over it. The crypt lurched ever so slightly in his hand, the movement so subtle he wondered if he had imagined it. Harding reasoned that it was the locks engaging, but he had to admit that he hadn''t noticed any movement when they had disengaged.

    "There you go," he whispered to the crypt, "it''s the only seed I have. I hope you like it."

    Harding sat still while he held the crypt in both hands in wonder, lost in his thinking about what his discovery meant. Was this proof that spirit was alive and sentient and that he had communicated with it or was it just that the interface was completed via his conceptualization of intent? Then again maybe spirit animated objects and the crypt was alive because it was in his spirit body at the time. Did the minor variations and adjustments in magic come from the user¡¯s mind or the whim of some disembodied intellect?

    He examined the crypt, not its details of design but its continuity of self. He wondered if it was satisfied that he had kept his word. If so, that meant he couldn''t or shouldn¡¯t just open it again and take it out. Was it staying locked an indication of happiness?

    I¡¯m losing my mind.

    He heard the rimmed wheels on the stones announcing the return of the carriage. Curious to find out what happened at the meeting, he ended the mediation. He patted the top of the crypt and hoped, if it was sentient, that it was fulfilled by being filled. As he started to stand, he thought at the crypt.

    ¡°Do as you were intended.¡±

    The world rolled. Blackness crashed into Harding, crushing his vision into a dot before he lost sight completely. Overwhelming vertigo washed upon him like storm waves and he fell backwards over the wall and into the flowerbed.

    He laid there with all sensation distant. Harding''s perception was all wrong. He was disembodied, like the lens of self had been knocked loose and was floating somewhere deep within his body. His vision started to return but It was similar to sitting in a dark room and looking across it and out a small window. He could see green leaves of the estate trees, but there was so much blackness around the edges.

    The world dimmed further until it all receded again and he lost consciousness.

    Harding woke up laying face up in the bushes. The carriage driver hovered bent over him with a look of concern. "Ya alright son," he drawled.

    "Uh, yeah, I think I just tried to stand too quickly or something," offered Harding falsely. The coachman didn''t press despite this obvious skepticism. It had most definitely not been that, though he was unsure what exactly had caused the bout. His suspicion was that the crypt or whatever intellect that was governing or governed by spirit had somehow intervened in his control of the digital body.

    He¡¯d been hijacked.

    Harding made a show of dusting himself off, then wandered towards the manor where he caught up with the duke and Vostek.

    "There you are, good lad," greeted the duke with jubilation. From that mood Harding already knew it was successful.

    "A deal has been struck," the noble informed him. ¡°Three days'' time, no word to anyone though, not even to theirs. They won''t know where we are going, not until we are there at least."

    "Yes, my Lord," intoned Harding. It earned him a snort from the duke.

    "At the very least, you''ll be an operator of the lift. Be ready and rested. I have a feeling you''ll have to do a couple trips in combat conditions," the duke predicted as Vestok silently waited behind him. The Duke turned away from him, wordlessly dismissed. "Vestok, please fetch Marshal Dillon for me. Lieutenants Bitterman and Green as well. We have a mountain of provisions to purchase and move." The duke seemed proud of his little joke.

    Vestok wisely didn¡¯t comment.

    Harding peeled off and went to his room. As exciting as the news about the alliance between house and guild was, his experiences on the garden wall demanded investigation. And possibly recovery. In his room, he pulled the crypt out of his robes. He looked at the surface of it, the inlaid crystals faintly glowed with clear light beneath what he had once thought was paint.

    It felt like maybe it was alive, but Harding was quite aware of the tendency for people to anthropomorphize things. Maybe it was just that treating it as if it were intelligent had helped him focus. Either way, it couldn''t be that he was the first to sense something about them.

    Probably another one of those things they don''t talk about.

    Having wondered once again at Rent¡¯s true intention of leaving such a device with him. As a living force or as a mirror of his mind, the crypt had done something profound to him from which he still had not recovered. With the faint glow coming from the crystal windows he assumed it was powered off the spirit transferred by inserting the full voidseed. He had no idea why a lockbox would consume the thing it protected though he suspected the function of the crypt was very different from what people believed.

    Do as you are intended. I have no clue its true purpose!

    He sat down and relaxed his thoughts. His perception drifted undirected over his spirit body. It was still there, but completely depleted. It was like the crypt had drained the spirit energy from his spirit body. Everything felt like a sunken and squishy morass except the gates. Even the physical body felt slightly weaker around the gates.

    Harding focused his attention to his flesh around the gates. He found that just his concentration felt like he had bumped a fresh bruise. There was weakness in his stomach, but he was unsure of the cause as it wasn''t as noticeable as the sore gates. Still, he would have to watch, perhaps there was some connection between the spirit and flesh besides the gates.

    That night Harding read through the rest of the Szaktaa. It covered manipulating the spirit body as theory, filling in on theory what he had discovered in a more rudimentary fashion through experimentation.

    The next section was the relationship between the flow of spirit energy and its relation to the spirit body. Harding had to read it twice as it maundered on about the already extremely abstract topic. It seemed to suggest you could manipulate spirit energy which was not part of you with your spirit body. He realized he''d been doing this to a small degree by pulling spirit into himself as his body collapsed back to its base form, essentially using it as a spirit scoop. Szaktaa suggested though that it would be possible to control the flow of the ambient spirit and even, potentially, shape it into manifested form via an act the book translated as "channeling".

    The final chapter was the one Brother Rent said he did not expect Harding to learn without him. This was the topic of Spirit Domination. Again, while matters like godseed manipulation had been very detailed and practical, this part of the book was barely hints and vague theories. Szaktaa was suggesting that the spirit body could be fortified with the soul and used to directly manipulate weaker spirit bodies.

    Harding went back and read the three chapters again and then meditated on them. Not just on their content, but on the question of the fundamental nature of spirit and what function did it serve in the broader scope of creation. Sometime afterwards, he focused again on the crypt. He enveloped it with his spirit body which had still only partially recovered.

    Open, that I may see inside.

    Nothing happened.

    "Ok little guy," he whispered to the crypt, "Keep your secrets for now, but we both know you''ll show me eventually."

 Chapter 11

    The remaining two days until the renewed raid on Black Barrow went by quite quickly. He spent most of the time cycled offline, hunting for a new job and catching up on chores. When online, he split his time between his own mediations, training with Jarred, and watching the massive logistical operation underway.

    Regardless of the day''s activity he logged back in to sleep. It seemed like the only way to secure a restful evening, free from the fitful torments that plagued him. It was something of concern for him, but so far it was working.

    He''d deal with it later.

    The Garnet estate was a bustle. Between what house blades they could free up from elsewhere and all the logistical needs expected, the gateyard was a veritable hive of activity. There were multiple pairs of portal stanchions set up at any given time, each topped with their coded pair of mismatched flags. He gathered that it was because left and right mattered in the portal process and the flags somehow described a matched set of four uprights. He did not, however, learn to read their markings.

    Harding watched with fascination during his meal breaks as goods were brought in by both wagon and portal before being redirected back out via portal. Harding couldn''t claim to understand half of what went on, but it seemed that quite a few of the items that came through were alchemical, medicinal, and even some explosive. Most bore a variety of maker''s marks, though a few had House Garnet marks.

    The work dwarfed the initial raid preparation. Harding couldn''t imagine any scenario where this investment was not a significant and possibly house risking allocation of funds, even if one assumed a sizable portion was the Eights¡¯ property. The duke did not seem a foolish man. An investment of this magnitude meant that more was probably at stake here then Harding understood. Certainly more than some random handful of seeds. They were expensive, but not this expensive. The very size of the expenditure added weight to the expedition.

    More of the House Garnet staff came in with the steam of goods, including Marshal Dillon and Lieutenant Green. Marshal Dillon was a big man. He moved his mass with power and familiarity. Harding thought of him as a retired fighter who once was formidable, but now was out of shape. However, that was entirely speculation. It surprised Harding that the Marshal outranked the Knight-Commander. Lieutenant Green was Dillon''s second. Green was less soldier and more accountant. He traveled with an ever present orbit of lower staff. Together they collectively managed all the necessities of maintaining several small, geographically separate military forces.

    His big discovery was that the crypt could be seated into a gate just like a seed. Or, at least, it could be with a seed in it. It still wouldn''t open for him again. Either way, it made keeping the crypt secret easier stowed away in his Heart. Luckily, it was either unlocked or just not possessive of his staff that he had left stored in that voidseed.

    Besides the discovery, Harding had practiced spirit exercises with Jarred both days and they had even spent some time on basic combat. It was clear the sparring session was for Harding''s benefit only and he appreciated it. Jarred stopped by after his dinner on the night before the raid. Harding bade entry to Jarred and chuckled at Jarred''s exaggerated fall into an armchair.

    "Thanks to my sister''s insistence that Stocke comes with her, you are now part of the raid as my official retainer."

    "What''s that change?"

    "Your status. You''ll still have to operate the lift until we gain control of its mechanisms. Outside of that, you''ll no longer be a hired guard and instead be considered part of the Garnet forces proper."

    "That seems reasonable, I guess," Harding shrugged. He knew he would have to operate the lift, but not what his job would be otherwise. Which still wasn''t clarified. He just really didn''t want to sit in that lift shaft while everyone else adventured forward.

    "It sucks is what it does," grumped the teen.

    Harding raised a questioning eyebrow.

    "The only reason your status is changing is because mother allows Jasika whatever she wants. Jasika wanted Stocke''s status to change."

    Harding watched Jarred, slumped in the chair and moody. "I do not understand the issue."

    Jarred sighed, "If I was respected, I''d have my own retinue and not just get a retainer because Jasika got one. They''re treating me like a child during our family''s biggest venture in my lifetime." He sat up straight and looked at Harding, "And the only reason I''m getting you is because my instructors are terrible and they don''t want to show public favoritism to my sister. Also, my father is grateful for your service, but he''d probably repay it in a different form."

    "Ok, I understand that," commiserated Harding. "But¡­ use the opportunity to show them your maturity and don''t get caught up in what your little sister gets?"

    "Big sister," muttered Jarred.

    "What," asked an incredulous Harding.

    "Yeah, by like four years, but she''s got this growth condition¡­ Doesn''t matter, I''m supposed to inherit the title. Which means I need to be a man the house can follow and not the boy that they protect."

    There wasn''t much Harding could say to that so he remained silent and let Jarred brood.

    Jarred chuckled suddenly through a slight smile. "She was pissed about it though."

    Jarred''s mood relented and Harding pushed him to talk about all the preparations that he had been helping with. Further cheered through the distraction, Jarred retired after a while and left Harding to face the long night.

    The morning came with a sudden rush. He got up, rechecked his already packed backpack and went to the gateyard. There he munched on his breakfast, a semi-sweet meat filled flaky pastry, as he watched the hurried final efforts of the staff.

    Harding had finished breakfast and was doing spirit breathing exercises when the Eights showed up. Aleister walked through the gates casually, as if it were no different than turning down any other street. With him were four others. Two were a pair of identical looking men, the first twins Harding had seen. They were lugging bags of gear over their muscled frames and moved with lethal confidence. The other two were women. The first seemed nondescript in every way except that she wore dress-like robes that flowed with her. The other was squat and had ruddy skin and auburn hair. She was thick in body and features, which she showed off in tight leathers that were clearly not intended to be armor.

    When Aleister glanced at Harding, Harding waved. No official greeting party had assembled from the House so Aleister brought his troop over to Harding.

    "You dropped a giant something in our laps, I''m not sure if I want to thank you or curse you," Aleister mused through a smile. He seemed much more awake than before.

    "Why not wait until the coins are counted to decide," quipped Harding.

    "Prudent. Pragmatic. Maybe there will be a spot for you after all this," the man teased.

    Harding shrugged. "My life is like a river. No matter what I do, I end up with wet boots."

    The non-descript woman laughed.

    "That''s why we build bridges," suggested Aleister. "Speaking of bridges, are you the greeting and orientation party?"

    "Me? Ha. Nah, I''m just a hired porter."

    "A porter arranged the biggest secret alliance in world history," laughed one of the twins.

    "Looks like an Okkor aspirant to me," said the non-descript woman with a smooth, flowing voice that almost seemed supernatural to Harding.

    "And occasional study partner for Master Jarred, to whom I am temporary retainer," offered Harding offhandedly.

    "But still not our greeter. Poor showing, that," muttered Aleister.

    "I can¡­ oh, here they come," Harding nodded to the entourage that was exiting the manor. It was duke and duchess with Jarred and Jasika in tow. Behind them followed Vestok, Bitterman and Green. And Stocke, looming behind Jasika.

    Duke Garnet led the group straight to Aleister. "Good morning, Guildmaster Aleister. Welcome to my city estate. This is my wife, Duchess Constance, my son Jarred and daughter Jasika. You''ve met Knight-Commander Vestok, this is his aide Lieutenant Bitterman and the House Quartermaster Lieutenant Green."

    "It is my great pleasure to meet such distinguished figures," Aleister politiced. "With me are the Blythe brothers, they are disreputable scoundrels both but worth three men a piece in a fight. The strong woman is, in fact, my second, Agnes Hope. And finally, the irresistible Runild Lockwood, who is here more because she wanted to be than because she is the head of our magisters."

    Runild curtsied with a flourish, Agnes stood as a peer and the Blythe brothers were just oblivious to the whole thing. For his part, unaddressed, Harding just sat there watching.

    "We are excited to have you with us in this," charmed the Duke. "Do you have any last minute questions before Lieutenant Bitterman goes over the first stage?"

    "You said we should stage at the arena, but that we have to portal at least twice on this expedition. How is this going to work," questioned Aleister.

    Green responded, "His Grace has focused on having the preeminent Portal Corps in the entire Empire. A portalist will return with one of your people to your arena and establish a portal to the staging area outside the city. We will have another portal from there to the staging area. From that staging area there is a short trip to the base camp. Due to the amount of traffic, we request that movement is only one way for now to avoid significant delays."

    Aleister nodded as he followed along. He rolled his head over and requested, "Agnes, could you handle the arena portal and general cat herding?"

    "I can," she drew out through a smile, "though, I should make you do it."

    Bitterman let out a shrill whistle and yelled, "Spooner!"

    A tall, thin man dressed entirely in black broke off from chatting with others and walked over. He moved with grace despite his size. He saluted the Duke, then asked "Lieutenant?"

    "This lovely woman," Bitterman said as she gestured at Agnes, "Is Lady Hope. She is the second in command of our new partners and you will treat her as such by Imperial code. Go with her to their staging area and create your portal to the logistics camp."

    "Yes, Ma''am."

    "If you can manage without me, then, I''m going to take my new toy and go home," Agnes told Aleister, before walking away without an answer. She called over her shoulder, "Let''s move, Spooner. You don''t make money sucking air."

    "Yes, Ma''am," he responded, hurriedly chasing after her.

    "Lady," Aleister asked. "It''s going to be months before I stop hearing about that."

    "Are the rest of you ready to travel," asked the Duke.

    "If they aren''t they know better than to tell me now. Let''s get going, I''m anxious to see what we are up against."

    "Get us underway then, Lieutenant."

    Bitterman saluted with a "Yes, Sir," and went to order the portal be opened from the group Spooner had been chatting with.

    "Most of your guys are already there," asked Aleister.

    "We''ve maintained a logistics camp and a camp inside the domain since we found it," confirmed Duke Garnet. "We have been running supplies constantly since the agreement."

    A sudden wet pop announced the portal opening. The normal portal of nothingness stretched between the two portal stanchions in a crisp square.

    "Huh. Haven''t seen that before," commented Aleister. His head magister smiled mysteriously from his elbow.

    "Goodbye my love, come home soon," affectioned Duchess Constance.

    The duke gave her a soft, chaste kiss on the lips and again on the top of her head. "Always," he promised, eyes locked with hers. After a moment, he broke away and called out, "Ok kids, time to go a'' conquering."

    And with that the group sallied through the portal.

    Harding expected to come out by the rock fissure again, but instead he found himself in front of massive, open gates. Several wagons sat empty, waiting for the next wave of goods. A gaggle of porters stood about waiting for their arrival. With them was Jones and a couple guards.

    "Morning, Your Grace," greeted Jones cordially as he jogged over.

    "And to you, Jones," returned Garnet, "Anything to report?"

    Aleister popped through the portal, rapidly followed by his people.

    "Think we got the last of the splinters, but they''re slippery bastards," Jones reported with a scowl.

    "Holy shit, it is Black Barrow," exclaimed Aleister.

    The Duke looked over at him and smiled slyly, "I did tell you it was virgin."

    Aleister was spinning slowly, taking in the sights. "Yeah, but this is¡­ what, hundreds of years of accumulated treasure?"

    "Presumably. It is occupied."

    That roused Runild''s interest further, "Occupied by what?"

    The Duke looked to Aleister for permission before saying, "We don''t know. Our scout had never seen these monster-types before."

    "So world first on location, on monster type and on successful raid," one of the Blythe brothers surmised. "Cool," responded the other.

    The Duke led the group through the massive doors and down the curving entryway. The Eights looked through the closed side passages at the four way intersection, each wing now blocked by its own portcullis. Harding felt like they were going to request exploration but they were quickly distracted by the opening into the grand yard.

    It was lit with magical torch stands which created a glowing sea of soft light and shadow. The illumination revealed that the yard ran long with ramparts on either side. Light leaked out from over the walls, creating a luminous haze in the upper parts of the chamber. The floor had been cleared of the bones, but the sword was still buried in the wall indicating its deadly past. All of the House¡¯s tents were missing, leaving the yard bare beyond the minimal lamps and a cluster of supplies in the middle.

    "This isn''t a monster den, it''s an underground fortress," uttered Aleister in fascination.

    "You can see why we are excited. Especially with the claims to this land being in question," the Duke

    "How can no one own this land," asked a dubious Aleister.

    Before Garnet could respond, Runild supplied, "On the death of Lord Friedmont, this barony was returned to the crown."

    "Just so," agreed the duke, "Claim by occupation and investment would require royal consideration."

    It''s a land grab of a fortress and barony right next to the capital.

    "What''s with the sword," asked one of the Blythe brothers.

    "We don''t know. There were half a dozen or so giant skeletons in here and one was stuck to the wall with that. Jones, have we tried removing it," the duke asked.

    "Briefly, Your Grace. But it was quickly determined that the work was more useful elsewhere. It''s too large to be a viable weapon. Moving the tent city and supplies into the side chambers has kept us busy."

    Garnet nodded in unspoken agreement before addressing the Eights, "Guildmaster Aleister, you can have your people set up in the main hall. Just make sure to leave a cart wide path around the edges. The way down is at the other end."

    Aleister gazed down the yard and then looked at his muscle, "Boys, go back to the gates and get Agnes on the camp setup when she arrives."

    One grunted and they both turned and walked off.

    Aleister grinned with excitement, "Let''s see what we are looking at, you said there were some complications."

    The duke took the group to the lift and explained the lack of controls and multiple obstacles to Aleister.

    "Sounds annoying until we get a foothold. Runild," Aleister said, looking to her, "This is your task, start figuring a way past this. I''ll be with the duke if you need something. And please, don''t aggro something."

    Runild started to object, but he held his hands up. "Shit happens, I know. I''m saying try not to. You open that last gate? We''ve no clue what happens up here. I''d rather not wipe while we are putting together tents. I''m sure you''ll manage the issue just fine," asserted Aleister.

    Then he turned to the duke, ignoring the look Runild was giving him. "What does she need from your team on this?"

    "Harding, work with Madame Lockwood. Jones, you''ll coordinate with Lady Hope when she arrives," declared the Duke. "The rest of us may retire to the command tent to oversee the work."

    He stood there a moment.

    "Ah, Jones, where is the command tent," he asked with chagrin.

    "Follow me, Your Grace."

    And off the group went, leaving Harding alone with Runild. They stood in the dimly lit lift lobby, her watching him and waiting. When Harding didn''t make any move to take the lead, but instead waited on her, she harrumphed.

    Tentatively, she led to the lift and stepped on it. A little hop on it as if to test its stability, as though it were required. It didn''t give in the slightest. She wandered over to the hole and looked down, using some kind of pocket sized light emitting wand of a completely different design than the Garnets. Then she sniffed the air coming up from below, turned to Harding and he felt her awareness blast over him like a momentary windstorm.

    Was that Spirit Domination?

    "Ok, monk," she crooned. Something about her attention made Harding unsettled. "Let''s see what I''ve got to work with. Your aura is weird, off spectrum. Since you''ve almost mastered Aura Concealment, I''ve got big expectations." She winked. Or maybe it was a blink. Harding wasn''t sure, his brain was still lost at Aura Concealment.

    "Aura what," he asked reflexively and cringed. After a moment he added, "Also, I''m not a Brother, just an unseeded Aspirant."

    "And yet you end up here and they are not," she puzzled.

    He answered with a question, "Uh, I took a job listing for a day porter?"

    She laughed humorlessly. "And you''re what I''ve got to beat an unknown, locked raid door in the next hour? Dammit Aleister¡­"

    It turned out Harding was all Runild needed to beat it in principle. After making him show her how to drive the lift, she just laughed and told him he was in charge of that. It was clear to Harding that she had decided it was menial and beneath her. Then she had him lower the lift to the barred barrier and put a chess piece on the lift. Specifically, it was the black bishop. He had no idea if that mattered.

    Runild smiled at him. "Ok Naught-monk, don''t touch that. Don''t even get near it. I''ll be back."

    And with that, she casually dove through the hole head first. He winced but heard no collision. Shortly after, light streamed and pulsed beneath him, projecting from the hole and minute cracks in the lift floor. And just as suddenly, it all went dark below. Harding looked down the shaft, but could see nothing.

    "What''re you looking for, Naught-monk," asked an amused Runild from behind him.

    Harding jumped in surprise and nearly fell down the hole himself. Pretending like he hadn''t panicked, he calmly inquired, "What was that light show?"

    "Oh, just testing how ¡®anti-magic¡¯ those gates are."

    "And?"

    "Very."

    "So?"

    "I got a couple of ideas, but they require some stuff," she informed him. Then she pointed up and arched an eyebrow.

    "Yeah, yeah. Hold on."

    Harding decided to experiment with the lift. He slammed the whole mechanism with a forced effort of spirit. It bucked and he backed off before he could damage the drives. He hadn''t kept the feed of spirit even in his exertion.

    Runild sniggered.

    The second attempt was smoother and the lift shot up with greater speed. Whether it was the sudden speed or anticipation of more bucking, Runild braced herself when it accelerated. Harding grinned at that dispute feeling like he was having his spirit body pulled out of him.

    Small wins.

    When the lift hit the stop hard he was launched slightly into the air. Landing the small hop, he struggled to look casual. She just smiled at him and asked quietly, "You always in a rush?"

    As she walked away, Harding called after her, "I''ll be here when you go get back with your stuff."

    She muttered something as she sauntered off, but her utterance was too quiet to make out. Harding was grateful for her casual pace as he doubled over sucking air. Hands out to steady himself, he lowered himself to the lift floor and sat there, back against the wall. Something about Runild tweaked his insides.

    That one is dangerous.

    When he was sure he wasn''t going to die, he looked inward and saw he was almost completely empty of energy. Harding decided to never do that again. The cost of spirit was about the same over the distance, but the perceived exertion was far greater.

    Actually, it might actually be good training¡­

    It was nearly an hour before Runild came back. When she did, it was with a middle-aged man wearing dark brown leather clothing, Aleister and two porters carrying the portal stanchions that House Garnet used. They set them up just beside the lift tunnel. Harding felt the leather-clad man activate the first portal, but it had nowhere near the energy of a normal portal. The man then turned and said something to Aleister and Runild, before taking the remaining stanchions from the porter and having them disappear in his hands.

    Some kind of spatial inventory? Oh, they''re magic too.

    Runild Lockwood then led them to the lift, swaying slightly as she moved. Aleister stopped before the lift as the Runild boarded with the leather man. "If those controls aren''t where we think they''ll be, get out of there," Aleister insisted.

    "I''ll be fine," Runild reassured him.

    "I''m serious. I don''t want to rush into a major delay."

    "This is what I do."

    "I know," he grumbled.

    Harding was unsure if they were talking about the same thing or speaking past each other. Even in the dim light her wide eyes gleamed with excitement. "Basement level, Naught-monk, we are going shopping," she enthused, her speech sibilant.

    He drove the platform down at his normal pace until he came to a stop at the barrier.

    "Naught," she said softly and when Harding looked she trapped his gaze and held it. "I''m going down now. Either I''ll return back," she said as she crouched and placed down the Black Bishop again, "or the gates will open. If the gates open, drive down to the next stop as fast as you can and wait. I might need a lift."

    "Ok," Harding asked as much as agreed.

    "We are going to drop through the hole here Norman, the bars are thick and flat, just lower yourself down," she instructed.

    Harding watched them slip over the edge and then walked to the cutout to watch them work. Runild took out a folded clutch of paper with a small metal weight on the end. She dropped the weighted flight and grabbed onto Norman''s arm. "I hate this¡­," Norman muttered.

    "How can a portal mage hate teleports?"

    "I''m not a teleport mage, I''m a¡­"

    And they were gone.

    A few moments later, Harding saw a light pop on in the darkness below and watched it orientate towards the gate side. The light went off again and all was dark.

    Harding tried to not tense thinking about the possibility of having to drive the lift down and rescue them in combat. Which meant whatever they were fighting might get in the lift with them. Escape at that point really seemed unlikely.

    A soft, indirect light came on below with barely enough energy to even see the outlines of the walls. Harding saw charcoal shadows of movement against the pitch black. Barely perceptible hints of movement in the faint glimmer of hidden lights built his anticipation.

    It was about twenty seconds later then the lift barrier started to screech open. Centuries of rest had let the metals create a bond that the drive mechanisms were slowly tearing apart. Another sound followed, a slow and rhythmic thumping. Muted lights flashed below creating a flickering strobe that never quite made it to being an actual light source. As soon as the barrier opened fully, the cutout mechanics retreated and Harding raced the lift down. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Just as he was about to reach the bottom, a great pressure in the ambient rocked him. It was a tidal wave of energy, a sudden tsunami flowing away from him creating a negative pressure of spirit. It was like they had pulled the plug from the bottom of a spirit basin, the dense spirit above crashed down the shaft onto him. The lift shaft turned into a waterfall of power. Harding could do nothing but endure. Even his teeth ached in it. A visible source of light, even less intense than the flashes but constant came into being.

    He limped the lift to a rest once the pressure equalized. The clamor of running boots, metal on metal and voices mutedly filled the air. Harding found himself looking at the back of the portal. They had set up the stanchions in the exit way and he was locked behind it. From the other side came distant sounds of battle. Thuds, yells and screams, though muted, washed over him. Trapped in the stone shaft, the experience was eerie. He was left behind in the dark with the reverberating clamor of death and the struggle to survive.

    Harding wasn''t sure what would happen if he passed through the portal. Would he get spit out above into the wall, would he merge with people traveling through, or would he just pass through as if nothing was there? It seemed an unnecessary risk and there was nothing he could do once on the other side. He was just a young man with a stick and some robes. He sat down on the lift and focused on refilling his spirit from the cascading ambient. As he did so, he listened for the end of the fight.

    Harding''s primary job was emergency lift use and he wanted to be ready to do his job. He certainly was not avoiding the fight.

    Not at all.

    A loud crash came from behind the portal screen and the sounds shifted, seemingly yet even more distant. He could hear no footfalls on the other side, at least not over the muffled noise of the larger fight.

    Harding tested the edge of the portal along the wall with his staff. He assumed that someone traveling through would naturally stick to the middle. It came back whole. Emboldened by his test and chafing at his continued isolation, Harding took the gamble and stepped through the back of the portal along the edge of the wall.

    Emerging on the other side, Harding learned two things quickly. The first being that only one side of this type of portal was active. He had passed through without issue. The second was that an open portal ate light and sound. He physically felt the wall of lights and sounds hit him as he exited the other side. It was so much more intense on this side he felt disorientated. Stone rooms and tunnels didn''t make for a quiet encounter.

    Neither did fiftyish spell-throwing suits of armor in combat.

    The raid was fanned out and wrapped around a single metallic humanoid being. It was simple in design, yet gracile with subtle curves. Made of a matte silver substance, it stood about fifteen feet tall. In one hand it held a long spear which it jabbed towards its targets with cold precision. On the other hand was an immense, curved shield that protected half of its body from ankle to shoulder. Above its shoulders rose thin but expansive wings of shining copper which it held together, folded behind itself.

    Simple metal weapons found little purchase against it. Elemental attacks were largely ignored. It acted as if it were invulnerable and intent on systematically destroying the invaders one at a time. Harding would have felt despair, but heaped on the other side of the room was its dead twin.

    A fallen, metal corpse.

    There were human corpses too, and several too injured to continue to fight. Without his own magic or an appropriate weapon, Harding couldn''t see how to help. In all honesty, he lacked the skill to employ those even if he had them. While he stood there searching for a way to help he saw movement in the air and ducked instinctively.

    It hadn''t been anywhere near him, but no one was looking.

    Searching for something in the air, he found that there were several orb-like items the size of a fist darting through the dim overhead space on unmoving copper wings. Flashes of spell light reflected on their shiny surface. They darted about, attempting to evade attacks that arced through the air. While their surface was smooth and monochromatic, Harding watched as a round iris of red started to glow in one''s front.

    "Cleave," boomed an amplified female voice.

    Agnes?

    The fighters close to that metallic monster backed up, except three who stood their ground. They were spaced out, left like boulders revealed by a receding tide. The metal giant had planted his shield edge hard against the ground and dropped to one knee behind it. The stance rendered him to be all but invulnerable. The two fighters on the edges pushed in tight to work around the shield. Harding watched the thing sweep its spearhead across its front arc before reversing the attack and coming back to the initial pose. Twice more it did this, mechanical and exact.

    What is this, some kind of golem?

    Distracted by the large monster¡¯s movements, Harding lost track of the flying orbs until they started shooting blue energy fields at seemingly random targets. The orbs were unsynchronized, so while their rate of fire was slow the threat was constant and overlapping. Their attacks started as a wide spray of light five yards across then retracted to focus on an individual within the collapsing cone of illumination. Almost all were evaded, once their attack was released they did not change their target nor did they move. But their attacks sowed further chaos in the crowd who were already struggling with the fight. With so many raiders penned into the chamber, movement of the raiders caused collisions and panic.

    A cyan cone started to collapse into its death ray over Harding''s head. Looking to see what it could be targeting in the back of the raid, Harding noticed a small woman in a off-white, load-bearing vest over tan robes. She had kneeled by a sprawled casualty to administer aid with her back turned to the fight. Harding shouted, but the noise in the chamber drowned out anything not magically amplified. He sprinted towards her knowing he wasn''t fast enough. Harding helplessly watched as the beam collapsed onto her back and pulsed.

    She slumped over bloodlessly.

    Harding opened his spirit senses to see if she still lived and felt her spirit body dissolving like heat radiation. He slid to a stop on his knees, wrapping his arms around her. There was no blood nor any physical wounds. Yet her life force was rapidly unraveling. Unsure of what to do, he wrapped her in his own spirit body and tried to constrict it around her. Instead of drawing, he pushed against her to force her spirit back in and feed it. He held his impromptu spirit tourniquet tight, letting nothing escape.

    He held on struggling to not breathe in her spirit, but her spirit body wasn''t whole. It wasn''t resolidifying and he didn''t know if it was even possible to reconstruct a spirit. Even without the remaining spirit leaking out the coherence of her being came undone.

    How do you put back together a person who has lost the magic of life?

    The man she had been slumped over shifted and began to groan in deep agony. Harding couldn''t save both. He probably couldn''t save either. Spirit was his focus but he just wasn''t skilled enough to repair her. He rolled her aside gently and focused on the man beneath.

    Both of the guy''s legs were nearly severed, bone showing from a deep slash that had been inches from being completely through him. Strangely, it cut both legs on the inside above the knees. The dead medic had applied tourniquets and been in the process of further treatment. An unslung bandolier of color-coded vials last on the ground next to her satchel, the apartment tools of her skill.

    It looks like a box of crayons.

    Harding had no idea what to do for him, but she had been trying something so there must be more to do. He looked down at the man who was staring up at him wide eyed, "What do I do?"

    "Green stuff," he groaned.

    Several empty vials were strewn about the body. The dead healer had a metal vial still clutched in her hands. Pulling it free, Harding found the cap to be green. While hurriedly inspecting the cap, he noticed his patient had passed out again. A quick check of his spirit indicated he still lived, so Harding dumped half the vial into the guy''s mouth.

    The man came too, spewing the fluid everywhere. "Fuck," he growled, spitting. "Not in the mouth."

    Oh.

    His patient''s eyes rolled as he fought against the weight of unconsciousness. The legs were still leaking a bit and looked terrible, but at least they weren''t spurting out blood. Harding opened another green vial and poured it out along the length of the two wounds.

    "What next," he asked the grimacing casualty, noticing how his irises were almost black. The guy''s chest kept moving as he gasped for air and Harding noticed some vomit at the corner of his mouth.

    "Drink yellow," he hissed through gritted teeth. He gasped and exhaled. "Then¡­ red and bandage."

    Harding searched through the healer''s bandolier. Despite the gaps of missing vials, it was arranged in spectral order. He pulled a yellow vial and uncapped it. Assuming he wasn''t supposed to drink it, Harding slowly decanted it into the man''s mouth. Most went in, leaving yellow-orange stains down the corner of his mouth from what didn¡¯t.

    Harding found and pulled a red vial. There were several reds of different shades, so he picked the most primary red having to choose something. When he unscrewed the top he was assaulted by a miasmic cloud of odor. He recoiled at the stench. Looking down he found that his patient had once again passed out.

    Drink or apply?

    Harding made the decision and poured it on the wounds. He looked through the dead medic''s satchel. In it he found various tins, also color coded, a couple pairs of shears held in sewn in loops, a few more tourniquets and a thick stack of bandages. Harding pulled out a bandage and tried to wrap the leg. He was careful going under, fearing he would tear off the bottom half. Unsure, he just pressed the two halves together lightly and wrapped it. It was a terrible job, but it was tight and it would keep more contaminants out.

    At the end of the bandage was a row of long tabs. He then pressed the tab end to the bandage and nothing happened. He looked for a peel off but there was none. Nor was there any hook and loop. Nothing he could see to fix it to the baggage beneath it. He even tried keying them but that was worthless. He let go, rummaged through the smaller pockets of her bag and found some safety pins stuck in a swatch. Tightening the bandage again, he pinned it closed. Then he repeated the process with the other leg.

    Probably made it worse¡­

    Harding sighed and absently noted the cyan light bathing him.

    His eyes widened and he threw himself to the side from his knees. Looking back he saw the beam narrowing on his patient. Before he could do anything more from his sprawled position on the ground, one of the orbs fired and ended the man''s life.

    Are you kidding me!

    Angry, he took the medic bandolier and satchel and got up.

    "Rage," shouted the raid voice, but he didn''t even look. Harding could only stare at the now dead soldier. His first patient blankly stared at the ceiling. One of the orbs darted by and turned sideways in an aerial slide, its glowing eye watching him. His spirit rose up in a wrathful seething. He wanted vengeance. He stretched out his spirit body to engulf and destroy the vile thing.

    Indifferent to his malice, it flew away.

    Wouldn''t have done anything anyway.

    Harding felt impotent.

    He felt rage.

    And then he felt an amazingly strong gust of wind.

    Debris flew past him leaving stinging, shallow cuts. Everything was flying, from bits of metal and cloth to the grotesquery of pieces of severed flesh. He watched it pass in seemingly slow motion as he lost his footing. Harding momentarily became debris himself before crashing to his back and sliding a short ways. The wind ceased and he lay there dazed.

    Gotta keep moving!

    Harding got up sorely and looked around as he gingerly rubbed the back of his head. His eyes locked in a new body laying on the ground near him and he started to move towards it without thought.

    "Down!"

    Harding looked up and saw the whole raid drop to the ground as the giant wings rose up and began to beat, filling the entire space behind it. The great wind came once more, debris picked up and came flying at Harding. He dropped to the ground, catching himself on hand and knees before slipping to his chest.

    When the air blast ceased he watched the raid jump up and surge forward. They had, essentially, completed a synchronized burpee before going back to their business of killing.

    "You''ve got to be joking," muttered Harding, still prone. Did he really want to do this?

    Only a couple yards from him lay another injured soldier, so he rapidly crawled to her. He looked her over, noting she was coherent. She had a compound fracture in her right arm near the wrist and her right knee sat at a weird angle.

    "I don''t know what to do," he confessed as she worked through a purposeful breathing technique.

    "It''s fine," she panted softly, "all over soon."

    "I don''t think you''re going to die."

    She stopped her breathing while turning her head to him slightly, seeing him for the first time.

    "Who the fuck are you?"

    "I drive the elevator."

    "BURN IT!" thundered the raid voice.

    Her breathing pattern faltered and she shook her head, teeth bared, "The fight."

    "What about it?"

    "It will be over soon."

    Oh. That makes more sense.

    "You want a yellow?"

    "You got a spare? Yeah."

    Harding decanted a yellow vial into her mouth and she just laid her head back on the stone floor and stared at the ceiling.

    "Attack it, mage," she whispered, urging.

    Harding confessed, "I don''t have magic."

    "Then get down," she hissed.

    Harding looked up and saw the golem¡¯s wings sweep back before rotating unnaturally and firing metallic feathers from them like a volley of arrows. They penetrated shields, sheared armor and found bloody purchases in tissue. Screams rose but the raid''s attacks continued at a frantic pace. The now bare wings appeared were little more than long thin arms. Those arms rotated the other direction and revealed spear-like ends before stabbing forward.

    Harding dove over his patient and waited to be impaled. A moment later though he heard a loud crash and then a long, mournful wail. It was so loud that the metal armor of his injured soldier hummed with it, the dust lifting from the floor into the air. And then it stopped.

    The metal giant was dead.

    In the sudden quiet all that could be heard was the pain escaping the wounded''s lips. "You gonna buy me dinner first," she hissed from below him. Harding looked down confused and realized he was laying on top of his patient. He got back up to his knees next to her. As he did it dawned on him that any attack would have gone right through him anyways, his instinctive gesture more likely to cause further harm than grant any protection. Thankfully, she seemed more amused than mad.

    That painkiller must work fast.

    "When they come through to triage, just give them the supplies. They''ll take care of me," she suggested softly. It was the truth of it, he couldn''t fix her.

    Harding stood up and tried to gauge the raid''s situation. About a fifth of the still standing members were moving through the wounded, sorting them by healing priority. Another fifth had encircled those in the most dire need and were treating them. Still others were layering spells in the area while the medics worked to save lives. It was a concerted fusion of physical, magical and alchemical heading efforts.

    The unwounded and least wounded healed themselves from their own supplies and consumed little morsels of food that looked a lot like candy bars. There were enough of them doing it that Harding felt sure it was a guild supply. Many of these stood watch at the entrances in case something wandered towards the raid. It seemed like no matter what your role was in a fight, you learned to triage after.

    Harding looked for familiar faces. A few House Garnet blades were clearly visible, but eventually he found Vostek and Bitterman holding council with Aleister. Jarred stood a step behind them with Jasika, her golden armor spattered with gore. The duke was conspicuously missing. Unable to help with anything, Harding wandered over to see how Jarred was faring. As he got closer, he could hear the officers.

    Aleister seemed grumpy, "That was a brutal shitshow, but we made it through. I really hope this is a front heavy dungeon."

    "And we considered trying this with twenty," Bitterman shook her head.

    Harding stepped up next to Jarred, who noticed him from the corner of his eye and gave a little nod of recognition. "You alright," Jarred asked.

    "Yeah. You?"

    "Minor cuts. I''ll be ok."

    "What''s the process for determining operational strength," Vostek asked Aleister.

    Harding noticed a little blood on Jarred''s arm and scores in the armor around the shoulder. Harding hesitated before asking, "The duke?"

    Aleister, absently testing his left forearm, responded to Vostek, "The Triage team will report. Then we will know how long of a rest we will need. Could you start the supplies flowing down?"

    Vestok sent Bitterman towards the portal with the faintest of nods.

    "Injured," Jarred replied softly, "but he''ll be alright. Jasika is wearing part of Stocke though, I''m worried about her. I think Stocke is more family to her than I am."

    "Have we seen any additional defenses," Vestok inquired as he glanced towards one of the hallways.

    Harding looked Jasika over again, her golden armor was half painted crimson with gore. She just stood there, helmet still on, not engaging in anything. There were fresh scores on the plates barely visible under the splatter, but otherwise it seemed ok.

    An Eight ran up to Aleister and reported, "Sixty percent in one hour. Nearly ninety percent in three."

    They turned to run and off at his nod, but Harding intercepted them. "I got these supplies but I''m not good with them¡­ who should I give them to?"

    "Keep ''em and use ''em," the medic replied. "We need hands more than supplies."

    "Ok, but, ah, what do I use if it''s not worth a green vial," Harding asked. The minor injury stuff was something he could do to help.

    "They''ve got screw caps for a reason. Half a vial. Less than that, use the light green ointment. Look it''s simple, darker the color, more potent. Green heals, yellow does pain, red is infection, purple is mental effects. Beyond that and you''re probably out of your depth. Look in your bag¡¯s pockets."

    "Got it. Oh, how do I use the tabs on the bandages?"

    "Get them wet, even blood will work."

    "What about like bones sticking out?"

    "Don''t. That kind of thing requires real knowledge."

    Harding paused, remembering that medic he had tried to save. There wasn''t a way to put an alchemy on a spirit body that he knew of, but he had to ask. "What about spirit? I''m a Spiritualist but I couldn''t do anything about those drone deathrays."

    The man¡¯s face flashed with anger for a second, and then went neutral again. "Nothing, insta-kill, worse than death, very first pull too. Was bullshit. I gotta go. Good luck." The medic ran off leaving Harding realizing the guy had more important things to do than give him a tutorial.

    Worse than death?

    Harding watched the man go into action while he bit the inside of his lip in thought. The woman who had died healing had been doing so during a fight and he was fairly certain none of the Eights on the raid were seedless. If he could be a medic, it would give him something to do that was useful that didn''t require magical items he didn''t have. With the raid healing itself, he had time to prepare.

    Harding went back to Jarred. "I know you say you''re fine, but if we got hours before the next fight let''s make sure." He gave the satchel strung over his shoulder a strum, "I got this bag of healing supplies and I''m slightly better than clueless on their use."

    Jarred laughed, "Fine, but taking it off can break cuts open and if there''s swelling it might not go back on."

    "You think you are that swollen?"

    "Nah. Just pitching in on the communal effort of educating you."

    *Maybe I should pull that armor off faster¡­"

    "I concede," chuckled Jarred and began removing his upper armor right there near the officer''s conference. Harding glanced around and realized the whole place was a makeshift trauma ward. Almost everyone injured was stripped down in some fashion. He turned his attention to Jarred, looking for wounds to treat.

    Free of the plates, Jarred slowly peeled off of the padded armor beneath. He winced slightly as minor cuts tore open from having their clots separated. There were a couple red lines over his shoulder, but only one of the two had broken the skin. Jarred''s arm though was freshly bleeding, it wasn''t that bad but it made Harding wonder if they used sutures.

    Taking a bandage he cleaned the wound and then retrieved a tin with a light green top from the satchel pocket. Opening it released a pungent odor that reminded him vaguely of wet garden dirt and herbs. Lacking technical knowledge, he just smeared on a layer thick enough to seal over the cut on Jared''s shoulder.

    Jarred did his best not to wince as coated the cut. Chuckling, Harding teased,  "Does it sting?"

    "Nah," lied Jarred through clenched teeth.

    While Harding smeared more over the red mark, Jarred examined the small cuts in his padded armor. Their edges were stained in blood. With a smile he barbed Harding, "If I had a real squire, I could get that stitched up."

    "Yeah, well I was kidnapped. You get what you pay for," Harding replied jokingly.

    Jarred went still. "About that, I didn''t ask for- Vestok¡­ Dad, he just¡­ I feel really bad about it, though I understand why he made that choice," he admitted in a soft voice.

    Harding scoffed, "It''s ok. The only thing that it changed was me missing my magic classes. And my combat training. And being with my friends. Oh, and going to the arena to watch the fights."

    "That''s what I mean- wait, you go to arena fights?"

    "Yeah. My friend''s sister is like a champion in them."

    "Dad won''t let me," Jarred sighed.

    "Hate to break it to your dad, but the Eights are part owners of the biggest arena in Gremuth."

    "They are?"

    "Yep. After all this we should get them to comp us a suite. We¡¯ll call it political training to strengthen your new alliance. We get a nice spread, some friends, a couple of their people can join us to make it official..."

    Harding continued the inane chatter while he examined Jarred''s arm. Unsure where the use case for potion over ointment began, Harding decided a visible depth would be his gauge until otherwise educated. He dabbed away the fresh blood gently with the soiled bandage and poured a third of the potion on it. He wrapped it with a fresh bandage and came once more to the challenge of fixing the end tabs. Cleaned and wrapped there wasn''t blood to activate the adhesive tabs.

    A little frustrated, Harding leaned in and licked the tabs like a postage stamp before pressing them down. They didn''t stick. Grumbling, he collected saliva and drooled on them with much more fluid. This time the bandage stuck.

    "That''s kinda gross."

    "I don''t know what I''m doing, they said it needed to be wet."

    "What''s wrong with the water in that skin?"

    "Get hit again and I''ll piss on it¡­ No dying on me."

    Jarred''s look of horror made Harding laugh loud enough to disturb those nearby. "Seriously, no dying," Harding reiterated sternly. Jarred just nodded, but Harding felt there was understanding.

    Harding looked around and saw that Jasika was still standing there, alone and unmoving. He sighed, "I really hate to point this out because I don''t want to die horribly, but your sister is still just standing there with Stocke all over her. She could be injured and your dad''s not around to take care of her."

    "You''re right," confirmed Jarred as he eyed her with concern. Harding collected together his healer''s kit while Jarred stepped close to Jasika. In truth she was only a few paces away, but Jarred closed the distance to be gentle as she still stood there ignoring everything.

    Harding didn''t really want to pry.

    He wondered what to do with the dirty bandages. Harding surveyed the room in hopes of guidance. In the background the Eights were crawling over the dead metal giant, presumably looking for loot. Despite trying not to be in their conversation, he could hear Jarred clearly.

    "Hey Jasika," Jarred softly prodded from next to her. "Jasika. Sis. Jassie."

    The last got her to look at him. Instead of venomous, her voice sounded small coming out of her closed face shield, "What?"

    "I''m checking on you. You ok? You''re bloody and just standing there."

    "I''m fine."

    "Let me see."

    "Go away." She attempted to push him and gasped in pain. Her pain sounded strange to Harding, alien to his concept of her. She was invincible, relentless and elitist. Pain didn''t fit his concept of her any more than weakness.

    Jarred firmly asserted, "I''m not going away until you''re healed. I''m your little brother and I will take care of you."

    Meanwhile, everywhere he looked the combatants were aiding or recovering amid a sea of discarded gear. The porters were bringing down crates through the portal, some of which had already been stripped bare. The Eights had descended on their supplies like locusts post-fight. One of these crates caught his eye where it had been abandoned in a small pile of emptied logistical containers. He moved over to it and pushed on it to test its sturdiness. Satisfied, he grabbed it and went back to the Garnets. He set it down behind Jasika as a seat before taking a step back.

    "You will," Jarred was saying firmly.

    "I will not," she retorted, nearly in tears.

    "Jasika. This is part of adventuring. This is part of leading the men. It''s something that must be done. There isn''t room for being proper when we are in the field," he reasoned. "Mom does it," he added softly as if that trumped all logical arguments.

    She glared daggers at him, "I''m a Lady."

    Jarred nodded, "And you are also a warrior, just like mom. Taking your armor off in public is ok in the field."

    "But..."

    "Warriors do what is required for the House and for their companions. If you want to be one, which you are amazing at, you need to accept the same realities they do."

    She stood in silence a moment before relenting, "I will, but stand in front of me. Close."

    Jarred hid his smile, "I will this time. But sit down, Harding got you a seat so you don''t fall."

    "I don''t want your mutt near me," she fumed quietly.

    "He''s the only medic we are getting unless your arm is falling off. I don''t care what you think about him. He saved my life and he has saved others of the House," Jarred chastised.

    She just stood there, a little armored figure staring up at her brother. A tiny bulwark against her brother''s unrelenting reasoning. He continued, "Dad likes him. And you''re too ladylike to say stuff like that when he''s right there, trying to help you. As nobility we have to do whatever it takes. There is no room for your pretentious behavior when there is House blood spilt."

    Her shoulders slumped and she practically fell backwards onto the crate. Jarred immediately started with the sequence of buckles to remove the armor. His hands were deft and practiced as he undid straps. He muttered, "Good thing this is my old armor."

    "Ah! Sweet Abathala''s Grace, you need not keep bringing that up in public," she protested.

    "Why? I won the Young Lords Tournament in it. It''s great armor and better than what I''m wearing now," he informed her, smiling as he went. He may be the younger brother, but he was playing the role of the big brother in that moment.

    Harding wondered what her problem was with removing the armor. He was well aware the women of House Garnet saw him as a cur, but changing armor in public seemed something any soldier had to do. Jarred got off the last of her upper armor and looked up at Harding. "Wet bandage please. Use water, it''s for her."

    Jarred began loosening buckles and pulling off armor. Harding wet a bandage with his waterskin and handed it to Jarred who used it to clean up the undercoat. It was most definitely rent, where the outer armor had only appeared to have a minor penetration.

    "We need to take the coat off Jasika. It looks like it went deeper than we thought. This coat is really wet," Jarred informed her with a wince. Harding watched the concern on Jarred''s face and understood it was worse than his scratch.

    "No."

    "Jasika¡­"

    "No."

    Harding interrupted as gently as he could, "What if we move you to the lift and go up a bit, that''s as good as a tent?"

    Jasika turned her face up to her brother, "I don''t want him looking at me."

    Jarred looked to Harding, unsure what to do.

    "Ok. What if we move you back through the portal to the tents? I''ll give my supplies to Jarred and he can do it?"

    Jasika was silent and sat there turned away from him with her shoulders slumped.

    Harding continued, "I''ll put all your armor in the crate and bring it up. Jarred will have you all healed up, cleaned up, and ready to fight before they advance."

    She sighed and looked to her brother, "Acceptable, if you can do it."

    Harding handed the bag and bandolier to Jarred. "You know how this stuff works right?"

    "Not a clue, these are guild made."

    This stuff isn''t standard then.

    Harding ran through it as he understood it, "Light green is for small cuts and what I used on your shoulder. Green vial you pour in the bigger wounds, don''t drink it. Red preps for bandage and kills infections I think. Yellow is a pain killer, a full vial might be too much for her to handle though."

    He definitely didn''t want to say because she was too small, but the potions logically had to have side effects and they seemed extremely potent.

    "Wish you could just do it," Jarred lamented. He took on a serious expression and warned Jasika, "If it''s really deep though, I''m getting a real healer."

    Harding started collecting the bloody golden armor into the crate while Jarred supported his sister back through the portal. Once Harding had gathered the armor into the crate, he caught sight of Bitterman with Aleister. Harding approached with the crate in his arms. Aleister was speaking to the lieutenant, "... to risk scouting it. We''ve got people at both ramps, in case something wanders up. There''s no point rushing a fight when we don''t know the domain. One of those things gets pulled accidentally and we would easily lose at least half of us."

    As he was speaking, Bitterman''s gaze fell on Harding. When Aleister finished, she asked Harding, "Why do you have Maid Jasika''s armor?"

    "Maid Jasika was hurt. We aren''t sure how bad. Jarred took her up to the camp through the portal. I''m going to take this up to her. Where can Jarred find the duke?"

    "The last I was told, he''s up in the command tent. Start there."

    "Great. Thanks," Harding turned to go.

    "You''re not going to clean her armor are you," Bitterman called at him.

    Harding looked back. "What, oh, maybe? Should I not?"

    "You''ve got no idea how to actually do it."

    "I- yeah, you''re right. Thanks Bitterman," Harding said and ran off.

    "That''s Lieutenant Bitterman to you," she yelled. Harding was sure she was just being friendly. Pretty sure. Probably.

    Harding walked the crate across the chamber and up through the portal. Only then did he realize that he had no idea how to find the camp. He knew the Eights had taken the yard with the Garnets in the both side chambers. But he didn''t know to which side chamber Jarred and Jasika had gone. Luckily the stream of porters, though nearly finished, still had a few people going streaming by.

    "How do I get to the command tent," he asked a porter. The man gave him directions around the Eights tent city and to what was apparently the north side. There a hidden double door was open and Harding went through. Inside were rooms and he quickly found that the back ones had been repurposed. The command tent was no longer actually a tent, but instead a series of rooms.

    Harding nodded to a guard he recognized and told him, "I''ve got some of Lady Jasika''s armor that needs to be delivered, where should I put it?"

    "Three down the right hall, left side. "

    Harding thanked him and walked down the hall. He set the crate down next to her door and sat in the hall to wait.

    It was nearly twenty minutes before Jarred came out and closed the door.

    "She''s insufferable, it''s like bathing a feral cat."

    Jarred looked at the armor, stuck his head inside and yelled something. The result was a large crash as something metal stuck the wall. He pulled his head out and closed the door. With stately airs he informed, "She appreciates the offer, but wishes to do it herself."

    Harding smiled and Jarred couldn''t hold back his grin.

    "You''re dad''s up here but I don''t know anything else."

    "I should check on him. Here''s your healer''s kit back," Jared told him, handing over the gear.

    "I feel so useless in these fights."

    "Dead people are less useful."

    "True. Still-"

    "You got a magic staff you never use."

    "Yeah, it just seems so useless against giant robots."

    "Giant what?"

    "Don''t sweat it, I''m just saying I don''t know how to use it."

    "You key it man, pretty much everything operates on keying of some sort."

    Harding chuckled, "Yeah, I know that. But then what do I do with it?"

    "Smack things with it! We covered this in training, you need to overcome your fear. You''ve done fine once you''re in a fight." He paused, "I need to go to check on dad."

    Alone again, Harding just sat there and went through his supplies, figuring out what he was missing. At least that was his intent, he woke up from a brief unintentional nap to the door opening.

    "Why are you in front of my room," Jasika complained. Harding thought it might have been anger in her voice, but it came out more like a whine.

    "I was doing inventory before I¡­ nevermind, apologies Maid Jasika," he offered, hopped up and left without looking back.

 Chapter 12

    After a visit to the Eights'' medical supply cache in the main camp, Harding now sported a fully restocked medical kit. He had even added a few new things like a new orange-labeled tin of burn ointment and a baby blue vial of antivenom. Oddly, it was marked with a black line across the top, but he had no idea what that meant. While fully supplied, he was still untrained.

    He took the portal down to the raid and wandered. He didn''t have the official count, but it seemed like most of the people were up and moving about. The raid attitude seemed positive and energetic as well. There were no longer casualties being treated and the floor had mostly been cleared of debris. Many raiders sat on or around the empty crate piles. People are social animals, even at rest. Perhaps, especially so. He didn''t see Jarred and was hesitant to just walk up to Aleister and Vestok without his benefactor. He was still an imposter after all, there only by social connection.

    Fortunately, he spotted the eminently approachable Osmundus Jones.

    Harding happily sauntered over, smiling at the blade who was perched on some boxes to crowd watch. With a wave, "Jones. How are you doing?"

    "Not a complaint. Looks like you''re helping out," the blade commented with a hand motion towards Harding''s healer gear.

    "Trying to at least." Harding lamented, "It really sucks not being useful. All this stuff is way out of my league."

    "You tried attacking with spirit?"

    "Sure. Doesn''t do anything though except against slivers."

    "Eh," Jones grunted noncommittally, "Maybe. But I would think it should. All of magic is just modified spirit after all."

    Harding shrugged, "Those seeds and where they come from seem pretty important."

    "And yet they still require spirit. If the seeds come from the gods, then where does spirit energy actually come from," asked Jones.

    "They haven''t taught us yet," responded Harding absently before the question began to burrow into his mind. The easy answer was that it existed as part of the world, but that was a lazy explanation.

    What feeds the ambient energies?

    "Maybe they don''t really know," Jones postulated. His attention snapped to someone in the background and he raised an index finger to signal his request.

    "Anyways," he added, hopping off his box, "you need anything before we advance?"

    Harding deadpanned, "Couple of godseeds and three years of combat training."

    Jones laughed, patted him on his shoulder knowingly, and jogged off to whomever it was that was waiting for him.

    "Oh hey, didn''t realize you''d be here on a guild event," said a familiar voice behind him. Harding turned to face a huge chest, bare and muscled. Looking up he found the familiar face of Howie the Bouncer.

    "Hiya Howie," grinned Harding. "They let you out? I thought those poor duelists would be in danger without you."

    "They''ll manage. Besides, we all need actual experience. And gear. Security is just my contribution to the guild effort."

    Harding took a step back and looked him over. Howie stood there with very basic plate greaves over leather pants, an oversized thick leather belt and heavy boots. He was, however, shirtless.

    "So," Harding commented in humor at the giant, "You''re an evasion tank?"

    "What? Oh. Heh, no. Damned Breastplate is like wearing a plastic bag." He absently scratched his side, "Saved up a bunch for custom work and then come down here where the twenty foot tall mechinels don''t give a fuck what you''re wearing."

    "Mechinel?"

    "Mech plus Sentinel."

    "Please tell me that''s what we are calling those."

    "Nah," sighed Howie. "They are mostly calling them Juggernauts."

    Harding suggested, "J?gernauts?"

    "Thank you! We can''t let these bland naming conventions stand."

    They shared a chuckle and a moment of quiet camaraderie, though through the laughter Howie held a hint of seriousness in his face. Harding didn''t press.

    Howie pulled a pouch from his belt and sat on a barrel. Opening up the draw strings and stretching the bag''s mouth wide he exposed the top of a rectangular loaf wrapped in oiled paper. Howie proffered a selection to Harding. Harding leaned in and peered at the end to see that it was a pre-sliced slab of baked food loaf. They were very similar looking to the candy bar-like food he had seen the Eights eating earlier. He took hold of the top and peeled it away. It was slightly sticky and had some give to it while remaining firm.

    "What is this," he asked before taking a bite.

    "Howie Bar. Standard guild recipe is nuts, dates, coffee beans, honey, and a mix of herbs. Essentially a baking plus herbalism superfood," Howie clarified as he pulled one off for himself. "I make my own version though as a loaf instead, then add in some mint, orange peel, whey, and a few non-standard herbs."

    Harding chewed the bar. It was firmer at the edges, gritty and had an earthy flavor. It wasn''t bad tasting and had a subdued fruity sweetness and aftertaste. If it gave some kind of stat bonuses as well then it was amazing. He did wonder though what exactly non-standard herbs meant.

    They chewed their bars as they watched the crowd. Howie offhandedly observed, "We haven''t found chocolate in this world yet, I bet it''s on another continent."

    "There are other continents," Harding asked. No one had really ever mentioned it. It was always just the kingdoms and the empire. Vague terms with little explanation. Admittedly, Harding hadn''t really tried to learn about either geography or politics.

    "Gremuth is one of three starter cities. Being this close to the city means this place is probably a first tier raid. There are raid-like monsters that rarely spawn in the wild. We killed some of those during the beta ourselves. But a whole raid dungeon, no one''s done it. This could be a world first."

    Harding frowned, "Why didn''t anyone do one before?"

    "Couple reasons really," Howie explained, looking in his pouch as he contemplated another snack. He pulled off another bar then offered the bag to Harding again. Harding shook his head, more interested in the conversation. Also, the last bar was sitting a little heavy. They weren''t unpleasant, just very filling and dense.

    "The closest known raid dungeon is another whole kingdom away, behind a regular dungeon, and it''s only available when that regular dungeon is open. Next, you might have noticed but you gotta get powers so gearing up the whole group takes time. And with the death mechanics, you can''t just grind a raid."

    Harding related to that acutely and wondered how he could finally get a seed. But, it was an impolite question.

    Howie wiped his fingertips on his pants and continued, "And finally, while some guys came in with actual fighting skills, those skills are for fighting mundane people. Once you have to fight things that are twice my size and have powers, you need a whole other set of techniques and weapons. We actually had to design some weapons just for certain mobs, learn to craft them, build enough, train with them¡­ Killing regular people is way easier."

    Harding arched an eyebrow at that. He understood it from the technical comparison but the way Howie said it still sounded crass.

    "But people ¡®ve started raids before," ventured Harding, "they just didn''t clear the whole thing?"

    "Oh yeah," Howie waved. "We haven''t done anything mentionable until we finish. Even then, it''s unlikely we won''t keep it a secret for a while so we can farm it."

    Harding''s brain churned and he made a questioning face, "Dungeons don''t just respawn if you clear them though, right? And when they come back, they''re often different. Since a¡­ raid dungeon? Whatever this is hasn''t been completed, you don''t know if it will come back."

    "Yep. Gotta get there first though, no point in getting excited about it until we do," the bouncer reasoned.

    "Fair."

    Howie held out his snack pouch again and Harding grabbed another despite himself. "These are good Howie, you should go into business. Make some new armor money, invent the breathable breastplate."

    Howie laughed with a big smile. "Thanks. I could use the money, but the guild manufactures the standard bars and issues them as supplemental nutrition for events. Mine are just for friends and barter."

    "Barter?"

    "Every guild event, but especially raids, turn into a giant craft fair to kill the copious down time."

    "Can''t they just sped up healing somehow," tested Harding. It seemed ridiculous to him that people should have to wait so long between fights.

    Hardly good game design.

    "Eh, I''m sure there are ways. We are nowhere near end game and then there''s...¡±

    Howie got lost in thought on that topic and Harding finished his second bar and drank some water. The people in the landing chamber were moving around more, social groups breaking up to start dressing for battle again.

    "Hey Howie, how long are we on break for," Harding asked.

    "Oh, should be soon. Most of the people are healed. Something about unusual energy density or some such, I don''t know," the big man shrugged. "They''ll call a ten minute warning, then everyone will scramble to get all their gear tightened."

    "Cool." Feeling like he needed to get ready, Harding stretched and made ready to move on, "Thanks for the bars. I''ll catch you around."

    "See that crate over there, the one marked with the HC and tilted crown logo," he directed, pointing at a wooden crate sitting on a stack of boxes. "That''s my supplies. Go ahead and grab a pouch. I always pack plenty extra. Keep your head down and your eyes up and we''ll go drinking at the end."

    "Thanks again, I''ll definitely grab one," Harding enthused and waved in parting. He stopped by Howie''s crate and lifted the lid. It was full of pouches. He glanced down, the two crates below it were also marked HC-crown.

    "Damn. He''s already running a full bakery," Harding marveled to no one and grabbed a pouch.

    Having stored the pouch in the back pocket of his medic bag and set out in search of familiar faces. If the fighting was to start again soon, he still needed to ascertain his upcoming role.

    He wandered through the crowd. He passed several clusters of house blades and even Vestok and Bitterman who were engaged in lively discussion with Aleister and Agnes. He didn''t stop there though, while they would end up with the Garnets he didn''t feel he belonged in that circle without Jarred.

    As he continued searching he came across the medic that had instructed him earlier.

    The man stood at a cluster of barrels drinking. The barrels had an up arrow with a teardrop logo beside it seared into the wood. Harding stopped and offered, "Hey, just wanted to say thank you again for the help,"

    "Oh yeah, no problem. Not really used to non-guild people around, so sorry if I was a bit curt."

    He introduced himself, "Harding Hill."

    "Albert Kirk," responded the medic, taking another gulp of what appeared to be dirty water or cold tea out of his mug.

    Harding fished out the Howie pouch, opened it, and offered the opening to Albert.

    "Those Howie''s?"

    "Yeah, Howie gave me a pouch. Take a couple."

    "Thanks," exclaimed Albert. His enthusiasm being the first show of something other than stress from him.

    "What''s that you''re drinking," Harding inquired, though Albert already had a bar in his mouth.

    "Mmrf," he intoned around the mouthful and took a gulp to wash down his bite. "Enriched water, basically just distilled water refortified with minerals, salts, etc. Little bit of flavor. Honestly, it tastes like tepid lemonade. Unless you get someone''s custom brew, then who knows."

    "Wow," Harding marveled. "You guys really are industrious."

    "Ha. Yeah. Guild rule," he explained. "Everyone learns and does something that supports the guild''s function beyond your fighting skills. Most of us have been together for multiple games so everyone just does their thing and we adjust as needed. We already had people who find places, leverage funds, set up workshops and that kind of thing. Samson, our second tank? He is one of the accountants."

    "Cool. What do you do?"

    "I make the medic bags and vial bandoliers you''re wearing. Some other little bits too out of canvas and leather, mostly pouches and organizers."

    "TEN MINUTES," boomed a voice.

    "They''re playing our song," Albert quipped before finishing his second bar.

    "So, ah, what should I do during the fight? Just run around and heal people or¡­" Harding inquired. The constant search for functional meaning was wearing on him but he needed an answer. He needed something to apply himself to other than the more academic exploration of spirit.

    "Eh. You''re not guild, don''t sweat it. We always got a few medics in back, the rest of us fight and then just switch gears afterwards. Do whatever your normal task is with your faction and help when it seems more important."

    My normal task¡­

    "Good luck, see you around," Harding told him and headed off to let him get ready. As he walked through the back of the crowd, he saw the duke with both offspring stroll out of the portal. There was some heavy scoring in his armor along the right side of his chest and arm, but he seemed recovered and alert. Harding altered his travel to join them.

    The three Garnets strode forward with purpose towards Vestok and Aleister. "They just called the ten minute warning until they move out," Harding told Jarred as he joined the group. Jasika suppressed a scowl and focused ahead.

    "Thanks, Harding," replied Jarred without looking over. He seemed focused on something else, though with the fight looming most were.

    "Do you know what you want me to do during the next fight," Harding asked quietly. He felt conscious of his insistent asking and not just his persistent failure to be of any real use.

    "No clue," sighed Jarred. "I guess just stay with us and be ready to drop back if it gets crazy."

    Harding followed the group as they joined the raid leadership. Aliester and Agnes waited for them along with Bitterman. Harding noted that Aliester''s equipment looked pristine while Agnes¡¯ looked battered. It was all the more striking to him because Aliester looked even more exhausted than usual while Agnes was bright-eyed and rocking from foot to foot with nervous energy. The two were talking things out, but both glanced at the duke as he approached. The duke in turn was careful to not interrupt their last minute planning.

    Harding watched Jarred watch his father. It was clear that Jarred looked up to his father and was actively learning to emulate him. When a lull in the leadership debate occurred the duke asked, "I was not here at the end, did the bodies of the dead get handled properly?"

    "Yes, your Grace," informed Bitterman, though she hesitated slightly at the start. Harding tried to not arch an eyebrow at the way she had said it.

    The duke just nodded. "Bitterman, are we still in your team?"

    "Our team is the same."

    "Excellent, I look forward to the next victory."

    Harding eyed Bitterman, unsure of what was going on. She seemed off but no one was saying anything. He wasn''t going to figure it out though. Instead, he climbed onto a crate and from the precariously perch he surveyed the chamber.

    It was as wide as the upper yard, but not even half as long. With the gate to the elevator at the back, the front had twin exits. While both sported the same look as the other spirit barrier portcullises, they were open. The other ends of the yard had inset ornamental Corinthian-style columns where the upper yard had ramparts. They were the first real attempt at ornamentation Harding had seen in the domain. Someone had moved the portal from the lift tunnel to the side of the tunnel entrance. Besides it was an odd plaque on the wall, but Harding did not investigate it further. The whole place was lit with magic torch stands from the camp above.

    The Garnets must have a ton of those.

    Orientated, he hopped down from the crate and adjusted his gear. He saw that the Garnets were checking each other''s armor and found himself relieved. It was one more thing he didn''t have to fumble. When the raid was called to advance, the guilders and blades moved into the right passage in a predetermined order. Once more, Harding didn''t have to know anything other than to follow Jarred.

    Through the portcullis the way was just narrow enough for three men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The floor descended as a slight ramp which curved to the right as it descended. The ceiling was arched and twenty feet high, making it taller than it was wide.

    "This would be a terrible place to be engaged," commented the duke.

    Why do people feel compelled to jinx it?

    A short distance down the ramp they found a section of recessed building facades. Doors and false columns carved into the otherwise perfectly smooth walls of the ramp. When investigated, the men reported them to be little more than one to two room chambers. Empty, small and simple.

    The curve of the ramp changed and started to bow back the other way in the middle of the stretch of side chambers. The place was indeed perfect for an ambush.

    Now I''m doing it¡­

    The duke looked to Vostek, "Defensive staging area?"

    "Probably, Sir," he agreed, focused on their surroundings. "Notice the gouges along the walls, this area has seen heavy combat."

    Informed of Vostek¡¯s observation, Harding could make out irregularly angled lines marring the otherwise clean craftsmanship. The light was poor but the motif of vertical elements in the architecture made the horizontal cuts stand out all the more.

    As they continued forward the ramp leveled and straightened until the end bent quickly to the right. From where they stopped, Harding couldn''t see through the archway at all.

    "Aleister, would you agree that this is as good of a choke point as we will get," asked Vostek.

    "Aye. Agnes, send a runner to the porters, I want two cannon, barricades and munitions brought up and staggered to fire on this point."

    "Got it,* she acknowledged and she turned to find a messenger. The crowd was a tight press. Everyone had to turn sideways to let a person through, and the length of their procession spanned past the visible distance between curves.

    This is really not good¡­

    The downward curve was too long and tight to charge our retreat, and if any one guy fell it would be catastrophic to the mobility of others. Harding didn''t know how raid pulling mechanics worked in Life, but no intelligent monster would charge up that ramp. Especially when all those side chambers could be loaded with men and traps.

    And, apparently, cannons.

    The raid was anything but stealthy. With a small army in armor marching down the narrow stone tunnel anything capable would be aware of them long before they got there. Metal clanked and scraped over the sounds of amassed humanity. And yet, none spoke as if the collective discipline would achieve results.

    The attempt at silence was oppressive.

    "Sounds ahead, multiple. They''re light and metallic," reported a scout to the officer group. Harding strained to hear but detected nothing over the muted din of the crowd. Even ahead of everyone, the scout must have enhanced senses to hear something. The raid stood still but the chance of the group hearing or seeing anything was essentially non-existent.

    Habit pushed them to try anyway.

    "An intermittent breeze of fresh air ahead," the scout reported.

    "Some kind of magic too," said a different voice, "but it''s¡­ colorless?"

    Harding heard others by him start to sniff as they tried to smell the fresh air. Told something existed they attempted to experience it. They were a column of tense men seeking some clue to the unknown, knowing that in the darkness waited death.

    A fart ripped into the silence, somewhere in the back. Laughter ensued. A clue seeking sniffer gagged which caused more laughter.

    "Fuck it," sighed the defeated Aleister. "Light it up."

    Harding had been impressed with the blades¡¯ flare launcher. The Eights were invested in the same concept, but someone had pushed the alchemical technology further. Hollow bloops coughed ahead as the scouts launched multiple flares. Brilliant light poured into the open archway then dimmed as the flares sped away. They were brighter than the Garnets¡¯ and Harding didn''t even have direct vision of them.

    The new lights in the chamber ahead peeled back the shadows of the ramp. The column marched quickly forward to push out of their confines. As they exited the ramps mouth they spread out in an arc to protect their retreat. Despite having launched their flares, the wholeness of the chamber was still not revealed. Areas of deep shadow persisted along the walls and ceiling.

    This new chamber was of different construction than any other part of the domain. Intermixed with the place''s usual cut rock were natural outcroppings. It was as if a natural cavern had existed and they just cut away portions as needed. In the middle stood a large ring of pillars, easily twice Harding''s height. The size of the chamber was quite large, more than the upper yard in all dimensions though how much bigger Harding couldn''t tell. Along the edges were recessed facades, similar to the ramp¡¯s buildings though larger in scale. A couple of small teams scouted the nearby structures to make sure no nasty surprises awaited them.

    Harding stared into the gloom.

    He could hear little clicks out in the dark now, rhythmic ''tinks'' of metal on rock. It, whatever it was, was coming closer at a relaxed pace. Realizing he was holding his breath, he exhaled and tried to relax.

    Whatever is coming will come.

    Emerging from the ring in what was presumably the middle of the chamber, was a metallic, spider-like thing. It was maybe shin high, standing on six legs of slender triangular metal plates. In front of it, two smaller arms were folded against itself.

    The raid all watched it emerge from the shadow nearly seventy five yards away.

    "Ee-epp," it sounded in an alarmed little chirp. It fled, skittering over the floor in its haste. Harding watched, fascinated by how the thing¡¯s legs moved with blinding speed. The construct moved slower though, as it was suffering some slippage from its hurried pace. It was almost cute.

    For a second, no one did anything.

    "Ee-eep," came a response from the darkness. Three more answered, then untold numbers echoed it from every direction until it became a singular, echoing alarm.

    Not cute.

    "Hold the tunnel," Aleister shouted. The raid took a defensive posture in a nearly singular motion. The alarm noises continued for a while but no attack came. The alarm calling stopped all at once and Harding could feel the group collectively tense.

    Yet still nothing happened.

    They stood at the ready, focused on the darkness until they finally gave up. Taking a more relaxed posture, but not spreading out they murmured between each other.

    Someone, Harding didn''t recognize the voice, muttered, ¡°Life just likes to fuck with your head."

    Behind them, from the ramp, creaked wooden wheels as their backup had arrived.

    They had brought up two field cannons, short barreled and wheeled. "No way," whispered Harding. He knew they were coming but it was still amazing to see.

    The tunnel was too narrow for them to be abreast, so under the supervision of leadership they staggered them where the ramp started to be straight around the direction change. The cannon crews packed charge in both but not the ball. Behind each porters started stacking shot and powder charges.

    Troubled, Aliester commented to Agnes, "I don''t like that big open area, it feels like a boss. And they let us down that ramp without challenge."

    Agnes wrinkled her nose and shrugged, "You know how it is here, everything is unoptimized and actively learning how to be tougher."

    They returned to the front of the raid and looked out at the softly lit center. "More lights," grumbled Aliester.

    More flares were launched with thumps from the scouts. They lit up the whole room, launching over a dozen flares before ceasing. Harding thought it a bit too much, but also wondered why they hadn''t done that to begin with. Having no idea of the cost nor duration of the light sources, he couldn''t judge.

    The lights going out mid-fight would be bad.

    The vast chamber before them was somewhat of an oddity. The central area was roughly circular, though perhaps that was a bit of an illusion created by the ring of pillars. As he had noted before, the walls were a mix of smooth cut rock and natural outcroppings. Harding wondered if it had been several chambers at one point. If it was symmetrical there would be eight entrances, but the outcroppings obscured the view of some. The ceiling was so high the light did not make it visible.

    Four of the passage entrances were completely cut and styled. The one the raid stood at was mirrored nearby and Agnes had ordered scouts to confirm that it was in fact the other ramp. And that it was empty.  No matter how much they dug in, they could be flanked unless they split their force. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    All the way across the open plaza, the flares had revealed a great building. It retained the Greek architecture styling and held two portcullises on either side of the stairs. The other four potential entrances appeared to be narrow, curving openings spidering off to the sides. Whoever had built this place had cut them back a little, but left them to retain some natural surfaces. While the visible ones seemed to be without gates, what lay beyond remained unseen.

    And in the middle of this plaza of pillars was a section that looked as if some grand design cut into the floor. From their angle though, they couldn''t make out its mass of complex lines.

    Jarred confided to Harding, "I don''t like this."

    "It does seem like a trap," confirmed Bitterman who had overheard the comment. Like before, the raid had all paused for some kind of response from their expected but unseen adversary. None was forthcoming.

    In his conversational voice Aliester requested, "Runild?"

    She wasn''t around, yet by following Aliester''s gaze Harding found the woman flowing through the press of bodies. It didn''t look that unusual, but Harding couldn''t understand how people just moved out of her way without noticing her. She slid through the press, between their unconscious leans, presenting a predatory grin. "You called," she asked, all teeth.

    Aliester flipped two fingers towards the plaza. "Find out what that is and maybe see what you can stir up," he ordered.

    Her grin widened and she moved off in a rolling sway. Harding stared as she serpentined, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He opened his spirit senses sure that it had to be a power. But with nearly sixty people all magiced up in anticipation of a fight, it was an opaque wall of noise.

    She went out into the middle of the plaza and looked back with a shrug. "Some kind of diagram on the floor," called Runild without care. She spun slowly, her head looking down at the floor. Following the patterns lead her to step this way and then that. "Looks like a complex ritual, it moves but in weird ways."

    Harding wasn''t sure why but Runild ''s pronunciation of weird was off.

    "Hmm," muttered Aliester.

    Agnes finished a quiet conversation and then informed the group, "All buildings and ramps are empty, side passages are not being checked."

    Harding wondered where they got their information. They either had comms outside of Life, which was supposed to not be possible, or some kind of ability within the game. He hadn''t seen anyone approach.

    "Looks like there''s no avoiding it," Aliester sighed wearily. Aleister led the command group towards Runild to investigate. The raid followed, the men spreading out instinctually. They all stood at the edge, only Aliester joined Runild in the circle to work out the meaning of the complex inlay.

    "Can you imagine if the whole thing is a trap," chuckled a man behind him.

    Another responded, "Whole place is a damned trap if you ask me."

    "Yeah, but like instead of hiding it they just put out a big magic trap¡­"

    "And all the idiots stand on it trying to read it?"

    "Yeah¡­"

    Harding looked out at the two standing there, whispering to each other. A puzzle would draw the curious and the general members of the Eights'' resistance to all run and look was impressive.

    What if, indeed¡­

    As Harding watched the two, a sound started seemingly at random. It was an unsteady crackling grinding, like a stone falling down a hillside into the scree. Harding watched the two look at each other in confusion.

    Here it comes.

    A rapid staccato of stoney clacks filled the air and two raiders near him fell over, one holding their bleeding foot. Out in the ritual Runild moved suddenly and Aliester looked down and shouted, stomping at something with his boot instinctually before stabbing with his sword.

    Darkness.

    At first, Harding thought all the lights had gone out. Then he realized that there was still light and he could see, but his eyes had to readjust to the sudden gloom. The light that had been illuminating the place was now just a faint glow, strangled by a blanket of magical darkness. There was a hiss in the dark, then a whosh-thud. Then another, then more. The raid started shouting in alarm, almost completely drowning out the new sounds.

    "Up," someone yelled.

    Another yelled, "Flyers!¡±

    "DROPPERS," thundered Agnes'' raid voice.

    Harding had no clue what to do, but started to see shadows loom as dark shapes glided overhead through the grimy fuzz of the unnatural darkness.

    "Back to back. Withdraw to the tunnel," Bitterman called. The duke''s group inverted into an outward looking circle, but were almost immediately set upon.

    Harding could see only a couple feet before things got inky. Some shapes in the gloom turned to men, others to monsters. In the chaos, both needed to be defended against until mutually identified.

    Two shapes came forward at Harding, emerging as monsters that seemed a miniaturized variation of the mechinel bosses. These were under four feet tall, with the same fluid shape and skin of the J?gernauts, though made from living stone instead of metal. The most striking difference though was a second set of arms.

    Instead of wings, they had a pair of upper arms which each grasped short, narrowly tapered spears. In their lower arms they held a saber and a heater. One put a shoulder down, shield forward, and attempted to ram into Harding. Harding sidestepped the charge and thrust his staff into its legs, causing it to trip forward. The impact pulled the staff''s end along the floor, turning Harding slightly. The shaft of the near spear smashed Harding in the mouth as the monster fell, cutting his lip against his teeth and making him flinch. His hesitation had no cost though as Jarred quickly brought his sword down on its neck and cleaved through it to the very floor. The monster turned to gravel on death. Harding didn''t care what these things were going to be called as his mouth filled with the taste of his blood. To him these were gargoyles.

    Harding spat blood.

    A clash made him remember the other gargoyle, but as he turned he watched as the duke pulled down its shield with his axe¡¯s beard and slid his sword over the top of it into the thing''s throat. The gargoyle didn''t seem to care, presumably having no anatomy, and swung the sinister spear sideways just barely missing a direct hit on the duke over his thrust. The duke grunted and ripped his sword sideways out of the throat to no effect.

    Harding, taking a quarter grip, brought down his staff on the other side of the neck. The shaft of the staff vibrated hard in his hands causing a numbing sensation in his forearms. The attack appeared to have no effect. Fortunately, the angle of his attack fouled its following spear attack at the duke, momentarily caught up against Harding''s staff.

    Harding pulled back, braced the back of the staff and thrust it into the side of the gargoyle''s head. This time he keyed the staff with his spirit. The impact threw sharp shards of stone as the head came loose and rolled off into the gloom. The gargoyle, no longer animated, crumbled to gravel again. Even when dead, the gargoyles could affect the fight by making the footing unsure.

    Harding returned to his positioning, holding his staff at guard and watching. He saw shapes in the darkness, but nothing came towards him. Their defensive circle made an orderly retreat, making slow and steady progress to the tunnel. Occasionally, they would attack a gargoyle that was on another group near them. Everything was orderly.

    Until Bitterman screamed.

    Harding glanced over to see a short, slim stalagmite buried in Bitterman''s shoulder. As Harding gathered the situation, the chunk of rock which looked very much like a slim carrot bent towards him. On the top of it was a single eye, grotesquely human against the smooth living stone of its body.

    It blinked at him, then scrunched its eyelid closed and shook itself inside the wound. Bitterman reached up for it as blood started flowing out faster. As she touched it, thorns sprouted, penetrating her gloves. Bitterman staggered and cried out. Bent over a bit, she looked in shock at her torn up, bloody gloves.

    Harding stepped up to her, intending to try to pull it out despite the thorns, but she swooned and crashed to her knees. Her arm on that side dangled helplessly. The eye watched him with a blank expression.

    Harding, being short on options, tried attacking it with his spirit. It had no effect. He extended his spirit into a spike similar to what he used on the crypt, but twisted into a more condensed lance. He rammed the lance into the monster''s eye and pushed harder. He persisted through the resistance which sagged and then gave way. His spirit lance punched through.

    Bolstered by the initial success, Harding thrust down deeper still. The thing started to spasm and attempted to burrow deeper into Bitterman, but he pressed harder through the knot of spirit density and broke free into a pocket within its spirit. The sudden void made him hesitate. It felt familiar.

    A gate.

    He flooded through its energy channel to fill in the gate with his spirit. Despite being foreign and monstrous, the thing was operating on principles he could understand. He could grasp the mechanics and manipulate it. Harding could feel the root excreting its own spirit into Bitterman, invading and poisoning her as it fled him.

    He just kept pushing, right through the bottom of the gate. Bitterman''s agony drove him forward through his uncertainty and through to the next gate.

    Or, at least, what he thought was a gate as it was solid within. It was filled with fibrous structures, like a knot of roots. While pushing through it Harding was vaguely aware that he was drenched in sweat. His energy was almost empty.

    BREATHE.

    He tried to breath but his consciousness was fully within his spirit, somehow deeper in than any meditation he had experienced. There on a battlefield, he''d lost control of his body and hovered entirely within the spirit. He knew he was going to fail to save Bitterman because he didn''t have enough energy.

    BREATHE.

    He felt like he was suffocating. While he could pull out, he would not accept quitting. He would have to trust his autonomic system. If he passed out he''d probably be fine. He hoped. The spirit didn''t need to breathe, it-

    Oh.

    Harding pulled in spirit from the saturated internal environment he was buried in. He fed on the monster''s energy, sucking it down greedily. It wasn''t pure but now was not the time to be timid. He was gulping the spirit equivalent of dirty water and in his thirst he didn''t care.

    He pulled deeply.

    He slid his mind back to the gate and wrapped his spirit around the non-spirit energy, finding it anchored in place by what he imagined as calcified spirit. He scooped it out, cutting with a hardened edge of his spirit through the fiber structures. Once completely detached it dematerialized into more spirit. He ate that too.

    The monster went still.

    Pressing on the cavity of the now open gate did nothing other than cause Bitterman to puke all over his feet. Quickly he pulled up to the top gate and contracted the spirit. He felt the thorns retract.

    Success.

    Harding pushed to the roots gate and tried to control the gate. He pulled on the gate but the root didn''t react. He pushed and broke into a new flavor of spirit. It was different, less alien, though still with that subtle alien taint. He sucked harder, feeling energized by it. Bitterman groaned and swayed.

    Shit, that''s Bitterman.

    Harding was consuming Bitterman''s spirit through the monster like using a straw to suck a drink from a cup. He immediately stopped, but was unsure what to do.

    With little options left he could think of, since he seemed limited to push/pull and up/down, he thrust all the way down and through the gate. He wasn''t subtle or cautious, he blew through it and was met by an immense pressure of foreign spirit so strong it overwhelmed Harding and he collapsed into darkness.

    Harding woke again immediately, sick to his stomach and dizzy. He thought it was a good thing he was sitting as he was pretty sure he couldn''t stand. A gargoyle stepped out of the dark towards him, but the duke just passed through it with two flowing attacks. Harding had a difficult time processing what had happened. The duke had moved like magic, sliding along it and ending it before it could react. It was mesmerizing.

    Harding realized he was moving which was made clearer when a sharp piece of gravel jammed into his ass cheek as he was dragged over it. He was moving backwards, but he wasn''t moving himself.

    As he watched his party become distant, he saw that Jasika had his healing supplies and was pouring vials into Bitterman''s wound as she pulled the monster out. It looked like a tuber to Harding. A stone parsnip of evil. The root of all evil.

    Yes, they were Roots.

    His head lulled back and he looked up to see Jarred, laboring heavily to pull him backwards to safety. "Thanks Jarred," he attempted. He wasn''t sure it came out right since Jarred only seemed more concerned about him afterwards. Maybe he hadn''t understood, as Jarred was preoccupied with dragging him. All Harding could see forward though was legs, butts and blood.

    Jarred didn''t give up. Up the ramp, past the cannons and into a side chamber. Jarred nearly fell backwards to get him through the door to the first side room where he collapsed next to him, sucking in air hard.

    Harding laid backwards, in a barely controlled fall and stared up at the dark ceiling. His head throbbed, his vision narrow and all his efforts were focused on breathing without vomiting.

    "Shit," gasped Jarred. "You''re heavier than you look."

    "You too man," Harding responded. It didn''t make sense, it was just what had come out.

    Jarred kept quiet, breathing slow and deep, hard enough that it was the only thing Harding heard besides his own pounding heart. His head felt like it was about to pop. A sensation that matched the feelings in his stomach.

    "What happened to you," asked Jarred.

    "I don''t know," admitted Harding between breaths. "I think I vampired Bitterman. She tasted like hot sand. Don''t tell her. Then I think I tried to vamp Life."

    "What," said a clearly concerned Jarred.

    "Don''t taste Life."

    "You really are messed up, I''m going to go find a medic."

    "I''ll be ok. But I''m serious, don''t taste Life. It''s like putting your face over a geyser and opening your mouth. It isn''t going to end well."

    "I don''t understand you," complained an equally confused Jarred.

    "Just give me a second to sort it out, ok? It was like¡­ having the whole universe shoved down your throat in a fraction of a second."

    "Ok."

    "Rip your jaw off force."

    "That doesn''t sound-¡±

    "I got curbied by the universe."

    "You''re saying nonsense again, I''m not sure I should leave you."

    "I''m fine, Jarred. I''m just going to sit here in this quiet dark until the nau-¡±

    Footsteps charged up the ramp and men stormed into the room across from them. He could hear several men talking loudly, while another was screaming in agony.

    "Quieter," corrected Harding.

    The distant sounds of fighting were suddenly broken by Agnes'' reverberating raid voice, "RETREAT!"

    A mass of footsteps pounded in approach, the weird sound of steel striking rock coming closer.

    A voice yelled in the hall, "Load shot!¡±

    "Nevermind," muttered Harding.

    Jarred got up and started to make sure his gear was snug when men entered, dragging a wounded woman. She''d passed out clutching a Root of All Evil in her thigh. Harding realized it was Runild.

    "Jarred, when you can, please get my medic bag from your sister."

    The world was surreal and swaying. Harding swam through the sensation.

    "Where''s the medics," the man demanded angrily.

    "I don''t know, I''m going to go find someone," exclaimed Jarred. "But please make sure he doesn''t pass out, he took a hard blow to the head."

    Who, me?

    Jarred ran out against the retreat to find help.

    Help never comes.

    Harding got up on all fours, groaned, then crawled towards the men who were ignoring him and arguing about what to do about the barbed invader in Runild''s inner thigh.

    As Harding got closer, he could see the root''s eye moving around watching the men. He crawled up, getting no more than a glance from them as they debated if it was better to leave the root in since it wasn''t moving.

    "Gonna get you, you little bastard," whispered Harding.

    He reached over before the men could react and poked the root in the eye with his finger. What they couldn''t see was that Harding had extended his spirit body from his finger and turned it into that twisted lance.

    It was a bit easier this time. Down to the fiberous energy gate, cut and bump. Up once, retract the thorns, down two from there suck a bit of the poison out. Pull out and it was ready to come out. It only took him five seconds this time.

    Harding looked up at them grinning with pride, "You got a medic kit?"

    "No, we aren''t medics," replied one.

    Harding nearly giggled, "Go get me one, this Rock Carrot is ripe."

    Uh, why do I feel this way?

    The man ran for the door as the noise outside increased. Harding could hear him yelling for a medic in the hall.

    "How''d you do that," asked the remaining man as he examined the inert Root.

    "Magic," he whispered mysteriously. His head swam in euphoria, nausea and vertigo. With a half-grin he threw up a little on himself.

    Harding Hill, regal as hell.

    It was mere moments before the man returned with a full medic kit. He regarded the mess that was Harding and shared a look with his partner. With the noise of the retreat outside thundering up the ramp, he knelt beside Runild.

    The returning Eight pulled out a red and green vial, holding them in sequential fingers to unscrew the tops . "Grab a bunch of bandages," he instructed his friend. He addressed Harding, "Can you pull it out?"

    Harding nodded. He was sure he probably could, but he didn''t reveal his uncertainty. Instead, at their lack of coordination, he grabbed the top of it and pulled it straight out. With it came up blood pouring out. He took a little comfort that it wasn''t spurting. The man with bandages soaked away the initial swell, then pulled away for the potions to be poured in. He pressed the bandages firmly back in place.

    Potion man ditched the two empty vials and reloaded. Harding dug out fresh bandages. They repeated the process, this time with Harding applying pressure. The wound had looked terrible between applications of pressure. As he held the bandages in place he asked, "How do we close this up?"

    The question was interrupted as more people entered the room, bringing in wounded despite being wounded themselves. Harding warned them, "Watch out for the devil rock."

    "What," responded a familiar voice.

    Harding focused on him and noticed it was Albert Kirk. "Oh hey, Albert."  Harding paused, feeling like his eyeballs were going to pop out from the ongoing pressure in his head. "One of those evil stone-spiked things is in that corner. It should be dead?"

    He had no idea what actually constituted death for a living rock.

    Another man found it and stomped on it with his foot. It crumbled to gravel, he didn''t even need a weapon. "Good job, Albert," said Albert.

    "Huh," responded Harding.

    "His name is Albert too, he''s my bodyguard."

    The bodyguard acknowledged him and added, "You can call him Al."

    Harding stared. It was too surreal.

    "How''d you guys get that thing out," asked Al.

    "We didn''t, this monk did. He''s a bit buggy, but he can pull them out like nothing."

    "I''m not an NPC," he protested. Potion man just shrugged.

    Albert looked at Harding, nodded, took a step and staggered, then limped to the door and yelled, "We can remove the tail spikes in here!¡±

    Albert became the gatekeeper, showing Doomsicle patients and their supporters where to go. The otherwise injured people were directed to one of the other doors.

    Harding started removing the monsters.

    Potion man crushed them and helped. The other guy he didn''t know helped Al triage the wounds. Harding tried to not think, he tried not to feel his devouring sickness, he just did the removal maneuver on command. Over and over, hovering just above exhaustion and keeping his focus off of himself.

    The fighting in the tunnel got louder and then the raid voice rang off the walls, "CANNON, CANNON, CANNON!"

    A couple seconds later, light flashed and a deep boom rushed through the room like a shockwave. Harding''s ears hurt. They were dead for a moment, just like everything in front of those cannons. Then the ringing started.

    The second cannon fired and he felt it even more in his chest.

    "PUSH," commanded the voice. He didn''t have time to ponder why he could hear that. He was sure couldn''t stand, he barely could see, but he kept going. Sucking down the ambient and treating victim after victim that were dragged in front of him. He didn''t count. The polluted spirit accumulating in him felt a feverish grime coating his soul.

    The worst was a young man, a Terror Tater sunk real deep in his chest.

    "He''s dead," Harding said.

    "No, he''s moving," his friend said, covered in the patient''s blood.

    "It''s the Psychopotato in him, eating his spirit and triggering reactions."

    "If he''s dead, why''s his spirit still there?"

    "Oh shit," Harding realized out loud, "They pin the spirit to the body to be consumed."

    After that, he wouldn''t stop. Alive or dead, they all had to come out and be destroyed. Harding''s own spirit was getting gritty, lumps of alien floating in his spirit batter. Unsure how to resolve it, Harding started pushing his energy through the seedcrypt. It seemed to strain the foreign filth, leaving it in the contained voidseed. It took a bit to cycle the energy through it, like some spirit energy was being trapped in the crypt, but the area was so energy rich and he was, indifferently, feeding a little in other people''s spirit as well.

    Harding Hill, Energy Vampire.

    By the end, existence was agony. Even the moments in-between felt like he was dying. He almost welcomed it and perhaps would have, but the victims had their spirits trapped to their bodies. And their souls were still chained to their spirits so the players were locked inside their own dead bodies as they were dissolved and consumed.

    The only other positive was Jarred returning with his medic bag. Harding immediately consumed a half dozen of Howie''s raid bars.

    "Ugh," he moaned.

    "What is it," asked Albert from the door.

    "Gotta go out. We have to get those out of the dead. They''re minds are trapped in their dead bodies while those things consume their spirits. Those things are Soul Anchors."

    He was just making up terms at this point, but what did it matter? No one else knew any different.

    Harding managed, supported by Al and Albert, to plod down the hallway from hell. The ground was several inches of gravel. The raid survivors had pushed back out into the open, looking for more enemies but the preternatural gloom was gone.

    Dead or alive, Harding and company visited each victim of the Spirit Spikes. They found four dead but still aware, which Harding released from their torment. Surprisingly, they were able to save a House Garnet blade who had passed out, but was not yet dead.

    Perhaps there is a way to resist the feeding?

    Harding looked back at the tunnel, then at one of the nearby entrances. "Put me in the dark and forget me forever," he told Al.

    Albert smiled at him, a genuinely compassionate look. They all but carried Harding to a dark chamber. One of the bigger chambers off the plaza.

    "Here, drink all this, then rest," said Al.

    Harding took a gulp and nearly spit it out. "Is that, uh, the Up drink?"

    He was aware he was drooling it a bit, even his lip was quivering and numb.

    "Kinda, I used it as the base, the rest is medicine for your head. Drink it all, you need it."

    Dutifully, Harding downed it, then looked at his bag. "One more bar," he told them and immediately pulled out two. He ate one in one bite, chewing as if it was mortal combat and not just some extra calories.

    "You guys are awesome," he said sleepily. "I couldn''t have done that without you." He ate half of the next bar, slowing down. "If I don''t wake up, you can have my bars¡­ what did you give me Al?"

    Harding blinked, looked up and braced himself with his hand as he laid out on the cold stone and passed out.

    Harding woke later from a dreamless sleep to a headache, but it was merely all-present and oppressive, nowhere near the cognitive obliteration it had been before. His head was resting on a bed roll and a blanket was over him.

    I don''t remember that.

    There was a dim, alchemical glow in the room and he saw that his medic bag had been refilled. Next to it sat two full bags of Howie bars and two wineskins of something. For the first time in a long time, Harding felt taken care of.

    I can''t remember when that happened last in real life. Bless those Eights.

    He laid there for a while, just listening to the sounds in the plaza outside. It sounded like the normal raid camp, though quieter or perhaps more distant, and he felt no rush to move. He started to think about the people he''d met, both the players from the guild and the NPCs from House Garnet. It was eerie how he had become somewhat emotionally invested in characters who weren''t human.

    Then again, we often treat humans as characters in our lives. It shouldn''t be that way, but maybe everything is just a character to my own narrative?

    Harding sighed a long exhale through slightly parted lips. He sat up slowly, expecting his head to swim. It complained, but not nearly as bad as he was expecting. He ate yet another Howie bar and drank some of the water left him, before stowing everything away. His bag bulged and he had to strap the skins crosswise. The bed roll and blanket he carried under his arms.

    Harding realized he''d brought an actual bag to the raid. Somewhere up there was a change of clothes and a few other things. He hadn''t seen his stuff since dropping it off in the Upper Hall.

    The freedom of non-existent material wealth.

    Soft light glowed in the frame of the door. Through it a makeshift camp was visible, the same lamps having migrated down to provide illumination. It was clearly a rest time, but only a few groups stood around. There were none of the tents of the upper camp, but a lot of the people were just laying on pads or sitting clustered around light sources softly talking. To one edge was a large berm of gravel, the remnants of the gargoyles had been swept out of the way. No doubt the army of porters had proved useful once more.

    He turned and plodded up the ramp and through the portal to the camp above.

    He threaded his way into the command area of House Garnet, but hesitated to go in. They were probably sleeping and he was neither family nor a high up servant. Jasika, despite her attitude, was right about that. He thought of Jarred as a friend, but it wasn''t his family, his place or his job. How long would it be before he moved on?

    "They''re asleep," said a voice from behind him. He turned to see a man sitting in the shadows. He recognized the face, the mustache of the blade with the ceramic stick trick, but couldn''t remember if he had ever been given a name.

    Conversations are so much harder when their name isn''t floating above their head.

    "Is everyone ok," Harding asked, "that fight was¡­ unpleasant." Unpleasant wasn''t really how Harding would want to describe it, but he wasn''t really sure what the proper term was for that hell and he had barely been in it.

    "The House is ok, some wounds but they''ll heal," the guard shared.

    "I''m embarrassed to admit, I don''t remember your name," Harding offered. He didn''t want to be impersonal while asking after the well-being of others.

    "William Payne. It''s understandable, I couldn''t tell you the names of most of these guilders. In fact, most of us are unsure what to call you."

    "What, why? I''m just Harding," he said.

    "You''re a monk, but not. You act as the sometimes squire, instructor and friend of Master Jarred and yet you''re not a noble, a member of the House staff, or any other defined role. There''s just not any rules that tell us how to address a, ah, required guest of unknown status who stays on as an unofficial retainer but lacks an official function."

    Harding gave an exhausted chuckle. It amused him that It wasn''t just him trying to figure out his life. "That''s¡­ understandable. Unless a Garnet says otherwise, I''m just Harding."

    Payne nodded.

    "How''s Bitterman? I was working on her when I blacked out."

    "Tart''s Tart. She kept fighting, one arm dangling. Until the retreat at least, then she got a sword in the leg. She''s recovering now, but I think it will be a long while before she''s functional."

    "And Vestok?"

    "Our Knight-Commander is a hero. He held with the rear guard as the wounded retreated. It seemed to be a noble sacrifice, but the rear guard made it back, bloody and running as if Vyx''s own Creeper''s were trying to crawl up their nethers. Wasn''t a spot on him that wasn''t cut up and yet he wanted to lead the charge after those cannons fired."

    Payne shook his head in amazement, momentarily reliving it. "Then he took a spike to the chest and dropped."

    Harding''s breath caught, "He died?"

    He waved away the concern, "Nah, you removed it. And then their medics went to work on him."

    "I don''t remember doing that. I don''t really remember much of anything really."

    "Welcome to the life. You''ll probably remember more later and regret it."

    Harding felt odd standing over Payne, so he sat. He pulled out a bag or Howie''s. "Had one of these yet?"

    "Nah. Seen those Guilders eating them though."

    Harding proffered the open bag, "Try one, these are a special version."

    Payne took one and bit the corner off as if he expected it to be hard, biting straight through its dense softness. He chewed once, then paused, then chewed to swallow. "These are amazing, those guys got so much stuff. If we could get outfitted with all that stuff- medics, cannons, special food. Well, ¡­"

    Payne didn''t finish.

    "I miss real food,* Harding mourned. "Feels like we have been down here a day."

    "It''s dark outside, you didn''t get supper?"

    "There was supper? I was asleep in one of the side buildings, got drugged by a medic."

    "There might still be food, I couldn''t tell you, was a couple hours ago. Here though, try this¡­"

    Payne rustled through this pack and pulled out a rough linen bag. Opening it he proffered it to Harding, showing chips of a dried meat.

    "Beef jerky," Harding exclaimed quietly, mindful of the sleepers. He grabbed a piece and put it in his mouth, working a chunk off.

    "Pork jerky," Payne corrected.

    "This is pretty goo-", Harding stopped as the heat rapidly built. His mouth felt like the flesh was being melted off. "Hot," he said in pained eloquence.

    "Yeah, spices are expensive. We are issued salted jerky as part of campaign rations. The duke gave the House guard a small farm plot to grow our own stuff, cooperatively and all that. But most of the plot is just peppers."

    Harding was only half paying attention, consciously trying to not rub his eyes. He grabbed some Up and tried to drown the burning, but it didn''t phase the irritating oil.

    Payne continued, "That''s from the new hybrid, we are calling it Kasagosian Creep."

    "Uh huh."

    "Mixed some Eastrun Chili with Auterian Green. This is the trial run for the mix. We were thinking of calling it ''Burn Ward''," Payne told him.

    Harding sat with his mouth open, breathing in and out through it, while his sinuses drained down the back of his throat.

    Who codes this into a game?

    "Good name," he breathed.

    "Too spicy for you huh? I guess, you weren''t born in the Eastrun."

    "This is gonna burn through me until I have a southern run¡­"

    Payne laughed with a toothy good natured smile. Harding couldn''t help it, he laughed too. Payne put a finger to his lips, to signal to be quiet while he fought to not lose control himself. Harding covered his mouth, snickering and then realized his error, his lips started burning seconds later.

    It hurt, but he quietly kept laughing.

    Harding learned the value of camaraderie, even with an unknown soldier. He also learned the relief of stress through a shared experience, including food. Even if he was sure that food was going to kill him.

    Harding handed over his skin of Eight-Up and told Payne, "This is what the Eights drink before fights."

    Payne took a sip, then a longer draw and handed it back. "Damn. Guard needs to start brewing more than just mead. That stuff has a bit of pep."

    "How much of that jerky you got on you," asked Harding.

    "Burn Ward or just plain?"

    "Definitely the Burn Ward."

    "This one and another in my bag, plus some extra seasoning. Why?"

    "Give you that skin and a fresh bag of bars for those two bags of jerky."

    "Deal."

    They exchanged bags, this time bonding over friendly commerce.

    "I could get two bags of jerky for these bars alone," Payne commented.

    "Doesn''t matter, when I''m done those Eights are gonna have the screaming shits tomorrow," Harding grinned mischievously. He was already scheming.

    "You know, you''ll alright Harding."

    "You too, William," agreed Harding.

    Tilting the bag a little, he declared, "Gotta go spread the love. If Jarred looks for me, I''m busy doing cultural exchange."

    William shook his head. Harding got up and set off to make new friends.

 Chapter 13

    The next day found Harding with several small baggies of blueberry-horehound flavored hard candies and no remaining jerky. Camp was stirring and breakfast was being heated on portable stoves by the Eights'' camp staff. From what Harding could tell, camp food for them was various meat-filled pastries and breads. This eliminated the need for utensils and plates while keeping packed gear and cleaning to a minimum.

    Harding walked back to the House Garnet rooms with a dozen of something that tasted like an unsweetened donut stuffed with a savory sausage and onion mix. He had no clue what they were called, but he''d talked his way into a whole sheet of them. As he arrived at the command section, Payne was still sitting guard.

    "Heads up, buddy," Harding called and threw him the bag of hard candy with his free hand.

    "What''s this," Payne asked curiously, exploring his gift bag.

    "Cultural exchange," chuckled Harding. "Oh, and grab one of these for breakfast."

    Harding tipped the sheet towards him and Payne picked one. He took a bite and groaned. "When I die, bury me in these."

    "They''re cooking up tons down by the Eights'' medic tent, if you see anyone looking for food. Are they up inside?"

    "I''ve heard some rustling," Payne claimed with a full mouth before swallowing. "But no one has come out."

    "Cool," he acknowledged and slid in through the front door. The antechamber had a central table dragged in, more out of habit than of use. It was the same set of table and stools the Garnet field command tent normally sported. There were no maps to be laid out and no stacks of papers to peruse. Just a bare table, which spoke to the realities and strangeness of their endeavor. Harding put the sheet on the table, uncovered the entire thing and sat on a stool.

    "What is that smell," exclaimed the duke from the other room a few moments later. He came out like a bear waking from hibernation. He just had his ankle length underpants on and Harding could see the still angry, red mess of wounds in his right shoulder. There was a thin cut across his face and his right hand was heavily bandaged.

    The duke seized a pastry and demolished it in one bite, starting on another before recognizing that Harding was there. He asked, "You did this?"

    "I''m just the delivery boy, that''s the Eights'' camp breakfast," Harding responded, then realized the duke''s hands were empty again and watched him pick up a third.

    Harding started to fear that the duke might actually eat the whole dozen, but the duke slowed down half way through the third. He looked around, the accommodations not being his usual.

    "Here, lord," Harding said and unthinkingly tossed his Eights'' purified water skin. Everything felt more natural after the ordeal of the night. Sometimes mental walls, just like social ones, are best broken by ordeals. The duke dropped the half-eaten pastry onto the stiff sheet and caught the water with his left hand. He pulled it open with his teeth and downed half of it in a gulp.

    "Those alchemies they use are powerful, and I''m thankful for them, but damned do they make you ravenous," he exclaimed.

    He capped and set down the skin on the table to reobtain his food. "Damn fine job here though," he added, taking another bite.

    Eyeing Harding, he asked, "Used my name to get these?"

    "Yes, Your Grace, that and a quarter bag of Burn Ward jerky and a half used tin of Orange ointment. Got these and two bags of hard candies off the Eights'' porters. Dropped my being a member of the Guard association too."

    "Hard candies," he asked with a keen interest.

    "Ah, yes lord," Harding confirmed and pulled the second bag out of his medic satchel.

    "Gave one bag to Payne for barter, was going to give the other to Jarred," he explained as he stood to hand the bag over.

    "No, keep it for Jarred¡­ ok, give me a couple, the rest are for Jarred," he chuckled slyly. "You are showing initiative, I like it. My children still have many lessons to learn, it is good for them to be exposed to other people, to learn from them. Also, to learn to pursue what they want," he said pointedly. "Jasika, stop hiding and come get breakfast. It''s worth it."

    Jasika slipped through the room divider. She was dressed in a simple gown, of nice make but clearly not meant to be seen in public. Her hair was down and a bit of a mess. She glared daggers at her father, who expertly ignored them.

    Practice makes perfect.

    "Part of being in camp is eating new foods. Another is realizing you can''t always control the situation, you can only attempt to forge the best result from what is offered," instructed the duke, taking a fourth pastry to illustrate.

    Jasika peered at them, hesitated and then snatched one deftly, before retreating to the other side of the room to guardedly nibble. The duke looked to Harding, "Would you find us some drinking water? I imagine we are all parched."

    "Of course, Your Grace," Harding answered and set out in search of water. A couple of stops later, including a chance encounter with Howie, Harding was back at the tent entrance with a pin of the Eights'' fortified water over his shoulder.

    "Payne," he called out in greeting. "Talked to the guy who makes those bars, he''s interested in getting a packet of Burn Ward seasoning, maybe setting up trade with you guys after this in raw peppers. Let me know if your guys want to trade and I''ll get you introduced."

    Harding entered the suite without waiting for a reply other than Payne''s nod of understanding. Inside, he found that Jarred had joined his family, as had Vostek.

    "My Lord, a Pin of Fortified Water from the Eights. I hope there are cups?"

    Duke Garnet motioned for the small barrel to be set on the table. They propped it with some random supplies and tapped it. Harding opened his bag and withdrew his prize find, three apples, which he placed on the table.

    "How," asked Vostek, unbelieving.

    "His Grace is helping fund this expedition, correct?"

    "Yes."

    "The guild supplies are extremely good for a reason. They require several things from all members, one of which is to have a separate and supportive vocation. Once you know who does what, you can discover what they have in their own supply crates outside of the communal guild supply. They bring plenty extra to barter with, the whole camp out there is essentially a giant market."

    Vostek grinned slyly and looked at the duke, "Have you considered the possibility of another logistics sergeant?"

    "Alas, he''s not my man. He''s in my son''s employ at the moment," the duke said and slapped his son''s shoulder proudly.

    Harding withdrew the pouch of hard candies and presented it to Jarred. "I found something you might like."

    "Thank you," said Jarred, opening it with childlike curiosity. Once he saw what was in it, his eyes widened. "Candies!"

    Harding smiled at Jarred''s excitement. "I have a feeling they''ll become very common shortly, but there is a confectioner who is testing some new recipes at the raid."

    Power-boosting stat candies will sell.

    Jarred happily stepped over to his half-hidden sister to share his treasure.

    "Knight-Commander, Sir, may I ask how Lieutenant Bitterman fares," Harding earnestly inquired.

    "She''s well enough, resting still. From what I can tell, the size and shape of those wounds stretch the bounds of what the alchemies can handle. She no longer bleeds, but the muscle and flesh has yet to be restored. The medics put her on some restorative medicinal, which she vehemently despises, and have been injecting regenerative solutions directly. She''s improving, but I suspect it will be weeks until she''s fully herself."

    Harding shared his relief, "I''m just glad she''s going to be ok, I was worried I might have made things worse."

    "You did good," Vestok assured him, shaking his head. "And don''t let her give you grief. She gets a little dramatic when wounded¡­ frustration and all."

    Harding tried to imagine the hard woman being dramatic and decided Vestok was being facetious. Or, if accurate, understating the dangers.

    "Petr," sighed the duke, "it drives me crazy that there is nothing to plan. No maps to go over, no strategies. I just sit here and wait."

    "Aye, feels weird, Your Grace," he agreed. "Adjustments had to be made because of casualties, but that is normally Bitterman''s duty. It, well, it isn''t a comforting task to do."

    Jarred slid between the captain and his father, bestowing upon them gifts from his tiny hoard of candies.

    "The word from Aleister was that he would wait until mid-morning to deliver a final assessment of readiness," Vestok informed him, sucking on his hard candy.

    "Very well, I''m in no position to rush them," the duke sighed as he picked up an apple. He sat on a stool and drew a knife. The room was silent as he first cut a wedge and gave it to his daughter, the next his son and finally himself. He repeated the pattern, looked up and saw Vostek standing there waiting for dismissal.

    "Vestok, take an apple and relax, you''ve more than earned a short break. Be back for that assessment though, I shall need you."

    "Very well, Your Grace," he said with the formality of a vassal, but grinned at the duke as a long time friend. He took the smaller of the two remaining apples and stepped out of the room.

    The duke yawned and stretched. "Okay, you kids get dressed and go out with Harding for a while. See the camp, meet people, learn things," he said before pointedly looking at a scowling Jasika. "Yes, you too. Part of being a good noble is understanding that it is necessary to your function that the people respect you. Your authority needs to feel natural to both them and you. To do that, you must be seen and, usually, build those relationships with them."

    Jasika was about to respond but he cut her off. "If you want the men to fight for you, you must represent something to them beyond your rank. We are in a unique situation here, working with a potential and powerful ally who has a very different power structure than we do. So it behooves us to show their people interest, not just their leadership."

    The duke put his palms out, fingers forward and shooed them off with a smile.

    As the kids went into the back room, the duke gave Harding a smirk and chuckled, "Their leadership is especially helpful though."

    Harding grinned back. He could only imagine how the duke would see the possibilities of a long term working relationship with the Eights. With a more somber tone the duke addressed Harding. "I know you aren''t a member of my House staff and Vestok, ah, recruited you in ways that might have slightly bent the rules. However, you''ve been good for Jarred. Jasika needs more socializing, it is clear she''s really regressed since we stopped mandating her social involvement. Please, help them relate to the men. I fear they''ve become only accustomed to their peers and, Jasika, barely even that."

    "I''ll take them around and do what I can. What they take from it though, only they can decide that." Harding couldn''t promise more. Jarred had potential and he liked him.

    The duke nodded, "As it should be. Try to get them back here in a few hours for the assessment."

    "Yes, Lord."

    "I''ll send them out. I ate way too much and I need to sleep it off," he admitted and then joined his kids in the back room. Or rooms. Harding wasn''t sure, he hadn''t been past this point. The room felt like it was originally a front office for some higher up. He could imagine ancient beings waiting here anxiously in defense of the fortress.

    Harding stepped outside and found Payne still there. "Damn, when do you get to sleep?"

    "Matilda is supposed to be here by now, but everything''s weird down here."

    "Did you want to trade those spice packets?"

    "Oh yeah, here," he said and fished through this bag. He produced several small folded packets. "A packet per pound of dried meat or so is what we did."

    "Great, I''ll find you once I make the trade, get you two together later to figure out the rest."

    Payne thanked him and the two settled into the time honored past time of story sharing. Most of it was observations or actions from the past day''s events. As they did this, a squat woman walked up. She was in full armor, dressed for combat, marked with the rising eastern sun symbol the House blades wore.

    "Sorry I''m late, Will. No sun, no real latrine, no idea where stuff is; guess I''m off."

    "I understand Mattie, it''s been a weird day. Harding, this is Matilda Browne. Matilda, Harding Hill, the young Master''s monk. Also, an excellent source for trades."

    Harding smiled, "Pleasure to meet you."

    Matilda did the same, curt and professional with an outsider. Harding understood. Payne bowed out and went to find sleep. "I''m going to go out for a bit with the duke''s family while he''s going to sleep. Should be quiet until the Eights show up for the midmorning meeting."

    Browne quirked a subtle, but real, smile. Outsider though he was, news that her duty would be light and quiet was always appreciated. Not that any security was likely to be necessary down here, but certain protocols would be held to regardless.

    Jarred came out of the tent, dressed in traveling clothes of high craftsmanship. Utilitarian, but with enough flourish to make sure you understood that they were expensive.

    "This''ll be interesting," he said in a soft, conspiratorial voice to Browne.

    A minute later, Jasika emerged. She wore a slim cut but heavy-cloth gown that showed off her absolute lack of a figure. It was like someone had adapted a popular seasonal fashion to her shape that did not flatter her in the slightest. She''d braided her hair back into the crown she usually wore under her helmet and, like Jarred, wore her belt and sword. She walked up to Jarred, shoved her arm through his and then looked off as if she were interested in everything but their mandated adventure. Or, in Harding.

    Harding led them out of the command area and through the Eights'' camp, stopping to talk to the various people he had met or recognized. Each time, he introduced the nobles. Throughout though, finding Howie was his first goal. He found him sitting behind his crates, doing something. Delicious, sweet aroma wafted out.

    "Howie," Harding called. "I got your packets."

    Howie''s head turned, saw him, and waved him over.

    "What are you making? It smells¡­ are those pancakes?"

    "My secret weapon," beamed the living mountain. "Mini pancake skewers, stacked with banana slices, bacon and a local nut butter, drizzled with berry syrup. Doesn''t matter what they got, they''ll trade it all to me for these."

    "You''re ruthless Howie, utterly ruthless. This is Lady Jasika and Lord Jarred of House Garnet. My Lord and Lady, this is the great Howie, Guardian of the Grinder, and Baker Extraordinaire."

    Harding was pretty sure he''d got the honorifics wrong, but didn''t think the players of the Eights cared.

    "Oh," Howie said and stood up hurriedly, running his hand on his apron. He absolutely dwarfed the Garnets. Howie started to offer his hand, noticed it was still sticky with syrup, and bowed with clear uncertainty instead. "A pleasure, your, ah- graces?"

    Jasika almost broke a smile. Jarred laughed, "It''s a pleasure for me, I love your work. Do you have a shop in Gremuth?"

    "A couple of us share a little industrial place, but we''ve no storefront. It works for now though and has a nice view of the river out back," the suddenly awkward bouncer admitted.

    Jarred pressed, "When all this is done, I''d like to visit if you accept guests. I''m terribly curious how you make so many delightful things in such a short time."

    "We would be thrilled to have such esteemed guests," Howie assured him.

    "And," Harding added in a conspiratorial tone, "Sometime in the near future, we will see you at your night job."

    Jarred''s eyes widened but Jasika continued to ignore Harding studiously.

    Howie got back to work, the little mini pancakes cooked fast. While he worked though with marvelous speed, he chatted merrily. "Harding, grab a bag of bars for each of them would you?"

    "Sure thing."

    Howie stood up again and held out two skewers, "A small gift and thank you for your patronage."

    Jarred snatched one. Jasika was slower to do so, but her curiosity and their smell overcame her hesitation. Harding waited for them to get their food before bringing up business. "Here''s your spices and they''d be open to meeting about using more land to grow for you. I''ll introduce you when we gather again."

    "Great, I look forward to it. And, thank you."

    Harding waved goodbye and led the Garnets onward while they nibbled on their skewers and crowd gazed. The place was truly a faire, only lacking blatant entertainers trying to gather crowds. Stop after stop, they were introduced to the people Harding had met previously. Sometimes this even extended to the people who happened to be in the area and the craftsman who made particular goodies. After an hour, both Jasika and Jarred had their own bag of bars, a skin of Eight-Up, as well as other treats. Jasika had traded for her own hard candy. Jarred had picked up three sets of ''regen'' pills. Something about them hyper-accelerating the body''s protein use, Harding hadn¡¯t followed Jarred and the alchemist¡¯s chatter. They were quite valuable and Jarred had used a fair amount of actual coin to purchase them.

    Such rare alchemies weren''t cheap, and not yet an approved guild expenditure. Apparently, Eights pitched in to buy them, at cost, for guild members who had been grievously wounded. The surplus was not so easily parted with due to difficulty and cost of what surely had to be the current cutting edge in alchemy crafting.

    Jarred probably just funded more than he purchased.

    Then Harding took them to the Casualty tent. There they meet the wounded and the near dead, people missing eyes, limbs, or chunks of flesh. They stopped at each one, from both guild and house, and thanked them. They spent the longest with Bitterman, where Jarred left a set of regen pills. Jasika opened up most with Bitterman, even holding her hand for a moment. By the end of the visit both of them were almost out of candy, but Harding didn''t think they regretted it one bit.

    Harding then took them back to their own men. They knew most of them and their interaction was strangely both more formal and more eased. Harding suspected it was the familiarity and shared culture. The Garnets knew their own men and spent the time catching up on events from home. Jarred started sharing Howie bars, which created a sense of competition from his sister. Harding smiled to himself as he watched them strive to be more generous than the other. It was a simple manipulation, but one meant to promote Jasika to interact more with their own men.

    Finally, the group returned to the Garnet command room. Jasika discreetly waved at Matilda as they passed. The group entered the tent to find the duke and knight-commander sitting and discussing what could have been done better in the last fight. "... the Glooms are what made it bad, sir. They were like a flanking cavalry, but in the dark. The Horns weren''t so bad, other than their tails," observed Vostek.

    "I agree, Petr, I agree. But did we really expect this place to just bring a fair fight," the duke challenged. "The Horns'' whole purpose was to break unit cohesion in order to maximize the Glooms."

    Horns and Glooms? I only saw gargoyles and vampire stalactites.

    Vestok nodded along and then asked, "You think we should have stayed in the tunnel, Lord? Just hold a long defense?"

    "Oh no," Garnet waved off the concern. "I can''t help but wonder if the expectation was for us to fight from the tunnel. So if we did, how would the Glooms have attacked? Above, Behind, wait until we think the fight is done and come out to attack when we are tending the wounded? We can''t know, but we are going into another fight blind where we don''t know the rules. Can we find a common theme?"

    "Hello, father, are we late," interrupted Jarred.

    The duke smiled warmly and shook his head. "Still waiting, should be soon though. Tell me what you did."

    Jarred and, when prompted, Jasika shared their adventure and their loot. Jasika talked of Bitterman, of seeing the men still in pain and suffering. Jarred presented his dad with a set of regen pills and the instructions on their use. The duke was obviously pleased with both of his children and complimented them, both on their shrewd barter and compassionate charity. According to the duke, both were hallmarks of worthy nobles.

    The duke was growing on Harding.

    "Our faithful Sir Vestok and I," the noble started, motioning between the two with his good hand, "were discussing the last fight. I want to hear a single lesson you think we should learn from the first two fights then attempt to apply to the next. Jarred, start."

    "The first was a few giants of metal, the second was many, smaller enemies made of stone. I would expect something made of softer matter than stone and maybe," he hesitated before guessing, "a horde of them?"

    "Vague, but possible. Jasika?"

    "The first fight forced cohesion and coordination of the whole," she stated crisply. This was the Jasika that Harding had come to know. Hard and sharp. "The second challenged that cohesion with chaos and required small group tactics. Having challenged both the whole and the unit, I would expect something that either alternates between them or confronts us individually."

    The duke nodded, scratching at his stubble growth. "Our good Knight thought similarly, though he was advocating the need for more unit balance instead of the specialized teams. Good job. Harding, your thoughts?"

    "Uh," vocalized Harding, caught unaware. "I spent most of the fight unaware or in a daze. Besides what''s been said, each fight has not just challenged the physical body but made direct attacks at the spirit body. I gather this is unusual?"

    "Highly," answered the duke as Aleister and Agnes stepped into the room. "Continue with that line of thought Harding."Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    "I would expect that to continue and would ask the question of why make direct spirit body attacks? The fights are deadly enough. Fire, gas, acid or whatever; any sort of direct magical attack could be employed. Instead each fight includes elements that specifically target the spirit body while the physical body is tied up in combat. Why?"

    "Indeed," agreed the duke before turning to Aleister. "Welcome Guildmaster Aleister. Captain Agnes. Our hospitality is regrettably meager, just a bit of water and a cold pastry to go with a hard seat."

    "Campaign life, Your Grace. Couldn''t ask for more. I think our monk-in-training is correct though, each fight has had a hard-kill element focusing on a direct spirit attack. This is likely a theme of the boss itself." Aleister added somberly, "I think we expect it from the next fight too."

    "What is our ready status," inquired the duke.

    "We lost six completely," Aleister reported. "We have five too critical to fight and nine in some state of combat-effective injury including yourself. If we waited until tomorrow morning, we should have at least eight of those fully functional or near enough. The five critical are probably two days out though, minimum."

    The duke sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair.

    Aleister shrugged and leaned back on the stool against the wall behind. "I could bring in more Eights, but the ones who didn''t come don''t have the gear or the experience. They''ll most likely just end up casualties in the first fight."

    Harding could sympathize. It was hard being here and that only by his position, and some luck, had he been anything but dead weight.

    Vestok turned to his lord in concern, "If we take a day of rest it will cost more in supplies and lost labors."

    "But the less we have for the next fight, the more we will lose in that fight. Our losses will compound," countered Agnes.

    Vestok scowled slightly but didn''t argue. It was clear he was trying to manage the Garnet financial losses. Harding wondered how much both parties had spent. He realized he didn''t even know what the loot had been. There weren''t any loot related communications that he''d been a part of, but he had to guess their split was nowhere near enough to cover costs so far. He had seen them salvaging parts of the mechinels and they probably had a selection of seeds out of them, but the gargoyles had all turned to gravel.

    "We should remove the critical back to the city," continued Agnes. "They won''t recover in time to fight here."

    "We don''t know how long this will go, they may yet. Their recovery here lessens security issues," countered Vestok, somewhat sharply.

    He doesn''t know they can talk offline.

    Agnes leaned into the argument with an edge, "And we don''t know if this floor is actually safe."

    The two glared at each other. While Agnes could be pretty direct and Vestok would put Garnet interests first, it seemed out of character for both. Harding wondered if perhaps something had happened previously he was unaware of. Aleister extended a hand, waving Agnes down. "We knew this would be brutal. We also knew there would be constraints on both parties."

    Aleister turned his focus to the duke, "The less men we have for a fight means more casualties we will suffer. For each subsequent encounter that we are undermanned, our casualty rates will be amplified. Do we wait or push today?"

    "We will wait one day," immediately declared the duke. Vestok opened his mouth but the duke silenced him with a quick glance. "However, we need to spend it wisely. Full treatment for the wounded and critical. And we need our top people meeting on solutions for these spirit attacks."

    Aleister exhaled deeply, some tension relieved by the duke''s decision. Harding felt confident it was Aliester¡¯s preference too. "Sounds good, I''ll announce the day''s rest and we will reconvene after lunch with our trickiest mages?"

    "Agreed."

    Agnes looked placated, most likely by the extra treatment ordered for the wounded. Though it could be something else he supposed. Only Vestok seemed stressed about the decision, but he held his tongue in public.

    And so it was that Harding spent that day in camp, though mostly cycled. He had wondered if he''d be called to the magic meeting but he was not. He felt like he''d been an innovator on the topic of spirit, but he had to admit he had no clue to the scope of knowledge or magical potency of a fully seeded user.

    -Joshua at home-

    Joshua had no responses to his job search other than auto-generated rejections. His search was not going well. He was stuck between not being valuable enough to be invaluable and being fresh enough to be cheap. Urgency played a role though, just like the economy. Joshua was not alone in his struggle and it only increased the problem.

    After a new round of half-hearted attempts, he went for food. A bite, a relief and a splash later he was settling back into the couch. It bothered him. He sat there a moment wondering about things before the pressure to turn it on overcame. Thoughts became a slurry he raced down as he drifted in the stream of the ISR. Ever present; the feeling of forward motion.

    Pop. Life.

    -Life Loaded-

    He stood in the grass. The sensations being near instantaneous now when he entered this place. Everything was as it should be, tranquil and lonely with the sounds of Life all around. His tree stood, tall and healthy, awaiting his approach. Against it leaned the staff. Even the bark felt smoother where he placed his hand.

    He was in.

    -Harding-

    The next morning he gathered with the rest of the raid force. They stood in the plaza, gathered near the ramp entrance. Besides the two ramps and the two portcullis ahead, there were indeed a total of four side passages. They had been tentatively explored earlier in the morning and talk was that they were snaking tendrils of more recessed building facades. The buildings were simple one or two room affairs for the most part. Each passage ended in a small turnaround. The wings were, essentially, housing.

    No headway has been made on the plaza ritual yet, which meant that the only direction to go was forward. Ahead loomed the grand columned building and the stairs that led to its recessed maw. On either side of the stairs sat the squat housings for the twin portcullis gates. Those gatehouses were built of cut stone, returning to the construction methods of the upper gateyard. The grand building sat above the gatehouses as if they were cornerstones to it. But the predominant characteristic of all of it was scale, the place built for beings larger than humans.

    Those skeletons they found above.

    The raid was running low on magic lamps, their distribution density from the portal on down had become sparse. They were strung in a line from the portal to cross the plaza, but it was more a chain of lonely islands of light than a solid path.

    Once the raiders were congregated in the plaza, Agnes prepped the raid. "The four pillar groups will hold their own fights. The mage group will counter adds or spells as they can, otherwise they will dps. The burn group will be focusing damage as called. Eights command protects burners and flexes as needed, Garnet command does the same for the mages. Any questions from ¡®gee-els¡¯?"

    No one had any, of course, since the day long break had been announced the leadership had been talking to each group leader. They''d settled on four balanced tank groups, not knowing the fight, with a control and a damage group assisting response. The command groups were really just floaters. Their bifurcated leadership structure wasn''t optimized, but the result was a more flexible use of them. Jasika certainly wasn''t going to follow an Eights group leader. As usual, no one knew what to do with Harding.

    You can¡¯t just rez leadership after the fight¡­

    There were no spare medics for this fight. While they had eight combatants return from injury, they still were down more than they would have liked. No one was expecting it to get easier. Harding felt Bitterman¡¯s absence despite Vestok having assumed that role. The Eights¡¯ commanders were essentially running things at this point. Harding wondered if being essentially replaced by outsiders was the cause of Vestok''s irritation.

    Aleister yelled, which was uncharacteristic of him, "Let''s tighten it up a bit with supporting your neighbors. The fights are pushing for chaos. Adapt to it and resist. Good luck, and stay sharp."

    Thinking about it, Harding was sure he had heard someone besides Agnes and Bitterman use an amplified voice, but the power wasn''t common. The Eights had adopted the same general strategy as the Garnets, a commander for strategy and a loud lieutenant to adapt tactics. The Eights used role based teams that he hadn''t really explored. The Garnets ran balanced teams built for special missions and integration into large battlefields. Different needs and yet similar structure. This fight was the first time he''d seen either of them break from that organization.

    Aleister motioned to the Blythe brothers who led their respective pillar teams forward, single file, followed by the second set of pillars, the ranged groups, then the commands. They walked the lonely line of lamps to the foot of the stairs to the great building.

    "Runild, if you would," Aleister casually  requested.

    Runild advanced along with her sub-team of scouts from the control group. They mounted the oversized stairs, all of them looking a little ungainly other than Runild. It was a good thirty foot rise up stairs. Harding had a good view and time enough to ponder how the mage group was effectively the scout/pull group.

    Life is weird.

    Runild walked in the wide double-door, not even pausing at the suspicious way one side of the doors sat slightly ajar in welcome. The rest of her team, though, showed reasonable caution. No calamity or retreat immediately ensued.

    The raid shuffled their feet.

    Tension was drawn out longer, no sound or signal from within. It stayed as such for so long the command groups came together to have a hushed discussion. If they lost a whole group outside of a fight, that would surely delay the raid again. A murmur rose as a single mage came down the stairs. Skipping slightly to time the odd spacing of the stairs, he approached Aleister in a lope. Harding could swear he felt the whole raid try to listen.

    "It''s empty," the man said with a shrug, his padded cloth bunching at the shoulders slightly.

    Aleister''s response was flat, "Empty?"

    "Yep," the mage responded with pursed lips and wide eyes. "Go figure, right? Place looks like some ancient world office building. No papers or anything, just empty offices. They''re finishing up the search but Runild told me to tell you¡­" he held up a finger, readying his quote. "Tell Aleister to sit his ass down and wait, I don''t need rescuing."

    Agnes softly snorted.

    The raid rippled, relaxing outward in a wave. Aleister grumbled but actually took a seat on the stairs. Whether he meant to follow Runild''s suggestion or just rest his exhaustion wasn''t clear. However, the rest of the raid followed suit and soon most of them sat on the stairs like an awkward group photo.

    The scout mage added, ¡°There is some weird interference with the usual comms. This whole place has been full of pockets of suppression though.¡± He quirked his lip and shrugged.

    A little while later Runild and her crew exited the building. Her group joined the other mages at rest and she swayed to the seated Aleister. He looked wearily to her and she smiled softly back, patting him on the shoulder sympathetically.

    "Nothing," he intoned with skepticism.

    She laughed, so soft and breathy it was almost a sigh. "Not even a scrap of paper."

    "This has to be the strangest raid we''ve ever done," he declared tiredly.

    She just shrugged.

    "Do the gates go through at least?"

    "I''ll look."

    And off she went again.

    Shortly thereafter the raid was marched to line up at a portcullis. The scouts had opened it and, when they went through, they found a short tunnel to an expanded chamber. It then turned to a tunnel and another gatehouse. Beyond was another open area of dim light.

    Once more they had no idea what to expect.

    "Retreat is through this gate to the cannons,¡± called Agnes in her raid voice. They were already wheeling the field pieces up into the chamber behind to blast whatever might chase them. Harding followed the flow of raiders through the tunnel, shuffling towards an unknown doom. In the condensed lights inside the tunnel, holes in the ceiling were visible, but nothing attacked them from above.

    While the first plaza had been utilitarian beyond the floor inlay, this one took his breath. From the high ceiling hung large crystals that illuminated the place naturally with their unnatural and softly radiating light. Instead of the recessed facades of buildings along the walls, there were three large buildings partially cut out of the natural rock. They had the same Greek aesthetic as the grand building despite their different construction. Each was as large as any building he''d seen in Gremuth.

    The group tentatively moved into the plaza, clearly recalling the surprise attack in the last. They stopped in the middle and looked about. After a minute of nothing, Runild strode forward from the guild once more. She walked with her steady confidence towards the building to the front. No one objected. Harding wondered how often it got her killed. Aleister certainly seemed to stress about her relaxed manner.

    I wonder how many times she''s caused a wipe?

    When she reached the bottom of the stairs up to the middle building, the twin doors opened and a figure stepped out. He looked human except he was too large in scale. He was easily three feet taller than Runild. Built like Howie, he had his muscled frame on display as he wore no shirt. He wore loose slacks of off-white linen held by a wide leather belt which was adorned with gold armor plates.

    "I am Ghasatavaro," the monster''s voice thundered through the cavern with an uncomfortable volume. There was a slight reverb to his voice, like he was speaking with two voices. He continued, "Champion of the Fourth Order, Alph of Phiris, Lord of this Domain and Guardian of the Pillar."

    Boss.

    Ghasatavaro paused, looking over the crowd arrayed before him. "Who comes before my throne?"

    Not two voices, one in my ears and the other in my head.

    The duke looked over at Aleister and they shared a nod and both walked through the raid to stand with Runild. She paused, bowed the musclebound giant, and returned to the raid.

    "I am Duke Elias Garnet, Lord of Eastrun, Sworn of Ayr," proclaimed the Duke.

    The Eights''s leader scratched the back of his head and then introduced himself. "I am Aleister, Guildmaster of the Divine Eights, and, uh, Manager of the Grinder Cafe and Coliseum."

    The judging eyes of Ghasatavaro took measure of them before rising above them to examine the raiders behind. "A Lord of Men and a Merchant of Blood stand before me, but who here claims the right to my throne?"

    Aleister shrugged, "It''s a joint venture, we are just here for the loot and fame."

    One of the Blythe brothers, Harding still couldn''t tell them apart, chuckled softly, "Coin and cred."

    Ghasatavaro turned to the duke, "Then you, mortal, claim rights to the glory of the throne?"

    "My house stands with honor in its service to the Kingdom of Ayr. I seek no throne, only rightful benefit to my house and children."

    "Then who claims rights to what is mine," he demanded with rising anger. Ghasatavaro stomped a foot in displeasure and a visible ring of dust spread from the shockwave. Even being back with the other raiders, Harding felt a ripple of air brushed past. Weapons were raised, but after a moment it became clear it was not an attack.

    This guy is no joke.

    "None present appear capable of claiming a throne. None here manifest significant force. None have, nor seek, valid claim. This requires mediation," he proclaimed, then added, "A Mediator has been requested."

    Aleister shifted on his feet, settling back his balance and spread his hands before him, "How long will-¡±

    Next to Ghasatavaro stood a robed being. There had been no sound. There has been no visual clue or other notification. Reality had just changed in jarringly abrupt fashion.

    Life didn''t do sparkles, it just bent shit.

    The being''s head was the bleached bone skull of a great horned beast. Harding had never seen a beast like it but guessed it to be a massive mountain ram or similar. The eyes were empty sockets of void-like nothing, but in those pits of darkness leaked out as thick black rivlets of goo streaking down the elongated cheeks.

    It looks kind of like the weird Rent vision¡­

    The newcomer was a horned skull shorter than Ghasatavaro and thin, wrapped in robes of the same style as monks. The fabric looked like actual gold, it was not just yellow. It radiated to the eye, but cast no light around him. He wore no armor and carried no weapon. Harding did notice the hint of a toe cap showing beneath the robes.

    Even it knows the worth of quality boots.

    "Honored Servant," rumbled Ghasatavaro. His bass voice carried more than a hint of surprise, "I am humbled you came to my call, I had expected a Glory Alphe."

    The Mediator hadn''t moved, it just existed with an unnatural stillness like it had no real physical presence. A higher pitch male voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere. It was rich and laid over a faint bed of static.  "This is the first request of mediation between immortal and mortal since the very awakening. Authoritative oversight was deemed prudent. I answer the Call."

    Ghasatavaro responded immediately, "I follow the Will."

    Still no movement, not even a twitch.

    "I am Yhavat, Agent of Revenee, the Honored Magister of Phiris. I will mediate this dispute as per the Governance," it declared. Its right hand was held forward, upright, a thick tome bound in gold on it. The hand didn''t move, it just was in a new position.

    "Who will speak for the Mortals," Yhavat asked.

    Duke Garnet and Aleister exchanged glances, then Aleister gave him the nod. The duke stepped forward and Aleister retreated to the raid, quickly checking over people to keep the raid ready despite the events. Getting lulled by dialogue could be a real issue on a first encounter.

    I don''t think this is an event though, this is the game working something out. We broke something.

    "I am Duke Elias Garnet, I will represent those gathered."

    "Godling, they come before you gird for combat with bared steel and summoned will, thick with fate and full of spirit. This is their right." Yhavat was now facing Ghasatavaro, hands at his sides. The tome just hung in the air where his hand had once held it. Harding couldn''t decide if the manifestation was broken or terrifying. This thing, for whatever reason, cared little for their shared reality. "What mediation do you seek?"

    "None present could claim my throne. None present seek my throne," he asserted. "Am I bound by the Governance to moderate myself by the codes, or may I deal with them as invaders?"

    "It is true that they are not yet ready, but Law cannot be forsaken. The codes will be followed. They do not meet the requirements to allow extermination," judged the Mediator.

    That''s a win.

    "I am a Champion, should mortals be allowed to challenge here? Should I be held back and they prevail, her pillar will lie fallow," contested Ghasatavaro. For a boss, Ghasatavaro seemed kind of whiny to Harding.

    Yhavat''s response was sharp with judgment, "This pillar has been fallow for hundreds of years. You have sat in the dark, dutiful in your calling but not exuberant with her Will."

    Ghasatavaro said nothing but even from this distance Harding could see the shifting of his stance. That proclamation had drawn blood. Softer, it added, "Your service is recognized and should you fall you will be taken up in her Glory."

    Yhavat was turned to the duke, "Son of Gavin, understand you that should you press forward with this challenge, even in victory none here shall have claim to the throne?"

    "Honored Servant," Garnet responded in courtly dictation, "We know not of this throne. We learn through action and are unknowing in your ways. We sought challenges and spoils but had no design on a specific reward."

    "Very well." Mediation was over and Harding could feel the raiders tense. "Ghasatavaro, you must choose in accordance to her Will. Conduct the Rite of Exchange in her manner or meet any honorable challenge honorably."

    "I cannot agree to Exchange. Though I acknowledge the rite, it would forge bonds that I cannot accept.¡± Ghasatavaro declared, "It must be combat."

    Yhavat advanced the issue, "Son of Gavin, what is your choice? Withdraw in peace or challenge by combat?"

    The duke straightened himself and utilized a skillset Aleister lacked. "We did not know of Ghasatavaro, we have no understanding of thrones, pillars, orders, agents or much of the rest. The only term I knew in all of that was the holy name of Phiris. Shadows of the Dream attacked my son outside this hill and everything since has been a result. I''ve never been honored with the presence of a Servant. I have no foundation of knowledge from which to make this decision. And yet it appears that there is a set of laws, ones we are not privy to, that apply to this situation. I ask to be given knowledge of them that I may govern prudently and effectively counsel those who I am responsible for."

    "Excellent choice," Yhavat declared. Harding could almost hear a smile in the voice.

    "Granted."

    The duke staggered with a groan, started to raise a hand to his head and then stood upright once more. Whatever had ailed him had lasted only for a fraction of a second. He seemed fine after.

    "May I confer with my advisors?"

    "You may have one hour."

    Ghasatavaro grunted and went to the top of the stairs to sit. The action seemed an act of unhappy acceptance, but he spoke quietly to Yhavat out of the hearing of the raid.

    The duke walked back to the raid at a casual pace, but his eyes wide and completely dilated. He made an exaggerated face of comical panic before smiling.

    I understand Jarred a little more now¡­

    "This is so weird," whispered a voice at Harding''s elbow. Harding started. He looked over to double check but the voice was unmistakable. Runild. Everything about her was an expression of unnaturally smoothness. More rhythmic than silky, like the undulations of a snake. Harding found her admirable in many ways, but she still was completely unnerving.

    "Yeah. I think they''re trying to deal with us being here before we should be," he suggested.

    "Three fights for a raid dungeon seems weak, we didn''t even wipe."

    "I don''t think this is a raid dungeon though. I think it''s something else. A dead city? A holy site? Unfinished content?"

    "Sounds like perfect dungeon material to me," she murmured in disappointment.

    The duke reached the group and had everyone gather around. With the command structure for both factions closest, he made sure everyone could hear.

    "As best I understand it, we aren''t even in the real fight. Ghasatavaro is a godling and thus open to conflict. Even though this is a domain, it isn''t his domain so much as he is the gatekeeper of this gate to a higher realm."

    The duke paused, making sure people were following. "There are rules governing how he fights. We are being given the most optimal status possible, which means we would have to have the least capable form of him. Any who fights in a challenge must either win or die. Any who do not fight can be forcibly expelled from the domain. That includes the wounded and civilians above. So we must decide, be happy with what we have done or risk everything for a giant unknown."

    Everyone was quiet.

    "What''s a godling," asked Agnes. Harding was glad he wasn''t the only one who didn''t know.

    "It is a being higher than a mortal but less than a demigod," said Yhavat in a conversational tone, despite not being in their midst. He was still standing all the way at the top of the stairs, conversing with Ghasatavaro.

    "That''s not creepy," grumbled Agnes.

    "So, the first question," Aleister put forward, "is it worth proceeding?"

    "If we win, it''s worth it," stated Agnes.

    "But can we win," Vestok asked. "He''s an immortal. We don''t even know how to end something like that."

    Agnes smirked at him, "Probably just hit it more?"

    Everyone else ignored the exchange between the two. Harding understood Vestok''s doubt and it was hard to remember that he was a NPC. Agnes was correct that most games just increased the survivability of a tougher opponent or required specific types of attacks. But, Life certainly didn''t follow the conventions.

    Duke Garnet waited for Aleister to speak first. Aleister realized it only after he¡¯d spent a few moments of looking off while focusing his thoughts. Finally, he admitted, "Vestok is right, we have no idea the power jump we are dealing with here. We''re deep in the red on this raid, but wiping will cost more."

    Aleister was clearly unhappy about what he had said. He rubbed the back of his head and looked around at the others. The duke countered, "I have a duchy I am responsible for and while the duchess is highly capable, I cannot lightly risk the death of her family or forces. However, a great deal of my responsibility is providing financial and military power. A gain in either is a worthy prize. The risk of this spirit death is the question for me, we do not know if it is permanent."

    "We can try asking," shrugged Aleister. "Yhavat, I am Aleister Bode, the leader of the guild present. So far in all the fights we have faced spirit killing attacks. We aren''t sure of the permanency of such death. We need to know if that will be the case here to properly assess risk."

    Yhavat addressed Ghasatavaro, "Spirit destruction is forbidden against mortals. It disrupts the Functioning. Explain."

    "It was not intended for them, Honored Servant," Ghasatavaro explained, shaking his head slightly. "The defenses were in place for low beings. I did not anticipate mortal presence and once they were within the domain¡­" Ghasatavaro glanced at the raid, like he was trying to keep secrets and checking that nothing registered. "You are aware of my limitations in this role."

    Harding watched as Ghasatavaro essentially gave the "nothing I could do" defense for instantly kicking people out of the life and death cycle. Yhavat didn''t seem impressed. Granted he had no expression in face or posture, but Harding was feeling optimistic.

    "Mortals," announced Yhavat. "Such powers will not be used against you. In recompense for previous violations, any who die in your challenge shall be returned by this throne''s glory."

    Ghasatavaro flinched. He tilted his head and breathed out before he protested, "... Honored Servant! That punishes my success! It is an unfair trade, for every moral I kill I will lose glory."

    "The forces before you would be stronger had the Governance been followed. Order demands theft be unprofitable," rebutted Yhavat. Harding was sure arguing with something the system considered ''authoritative oversight'' was a losing strategy. Yhavat had been silent for a moment, yet no one spoke. Even the raiders weren¡¯t making much noise. He was that impressive. "Should Ghasatavaro fall in obedience, he shall be raised to the Fifth Ideal."

    Whatever that meant it had seemed to mollify the hypertrophic giant''s concerns. Harding wasn''t too keen on the qualifier of if the big man was obedient. It seemed to suggest that following the rules was still optional and the godling seemed a bit temperamental. What the new conditions had done, however, was change the cost of the fight. Everyone got instant resurrection after the fight? At least that''s how he took the proclamation.

    The air hummed with the excited whispers of the raiders.

    "What of those already fallen or destroyed," the duke asked quietly.

    "They are gone,¡± said the Servant, making Harding wince. Gone as in dead, or gone as in completely gone wasn¡¯t clarified. The duke didn''t push the topic. It was clear that whatever was, wasn''t going to be changed.

    The duke instead addressed the joint command, "The only cost to this will be pain then. Do we have any other concerns or do we accept?"

    Agnes and Vestok finally agreed on something; to fight. Aleister, though, chewed on his lower lip. When he spoke it was clear it was for Yhavat. "How do we become able to claim this throne for it is clearly the most valuable prize before us?"

    "That must be learned as part of your own growth, though a few of you are closer than the rest," was the servant''s answer.

    "Which of us are those," rapidly returned Aleister.

    Soft and unnerving, a choir of feminine laughter echoed as if from a thousand voices all around them. Yhavat remained still as always. Harding exchanged a glance with Runild who seemed way too calm.

    If this goat-skulled creep is of heaven, what''s hell like?

    "Perhaps, if you prevail such knowledge could be sought as a prize," the goat skulled servant suggested.

    "Last call for concerns then," proclaimed the duke. There may have been some, but none were voiced. Every delay was becoming an agony of prolonged tension.

    The duke took a step out of the raid crowd and bowed to Yhavat. "Honored Servant, we give thanks for your effective mediation."

    He then bowed to the still sitting Ghasatavaro. "Godling Ghasatavaro, by your choice we seek to test ourselves against you in honorable combat. Whatever the outcome, may we both be enriched."

    "Fair enough," Ghasatavaro admitted as he stood up. "Prepare your people in peace. Should any body or effect touch my stairs, I will engage by the Governance and without mercy."

    The duke leaned towards Aleister and urged, "Any changes you might have, make them now. We are committed."

    The portcullis behind them clanked down, slamming shut and sealing them in. "Committed, he says," laughed Agnes. "It''s a fucking cage fight with a god."

    "I''d say he''s the one trapped in here with us," growled a Blythe brother. The crowd laughed, Harding groaned.

 Chapter 14

    Despite their attempted predictions to respond to the themes of the domain, they found themselves facing a single, overwhelming foe. He was even forbidden from using the very mechanic they had convened meetings over. He didn''t seem to mind though, he wasn''t even going to put on a shirt.

    "Dragon fight, boys, get arranged," yelled Agnes as she marshaled the raiders. "House Garnet, I want you damaging and avoiding damage. No clue how aggro works with this guy¡­ just start slow. "

    A minute later she yelled, "Buff it! We pull in thirty seconds."

    Harding felt a wave of magical effects go off. Layers of enchantments coated him. A few even downed potions or ate pills. The Brothers Blythe stepped forward and took a stance several yards before the stairs. None of this kind of prep had taken place before, at least not in front of Harding. He''d been too late to the first fight for buffs and the second one had been an ambush.

    This feels familiar finally.

    "Pull ''im," the Agnes¡¯ raid voice boomed. It was surreal to Harding. This wasn''t an unaware npc, Ghasatavaro knew what they were about and casually watched as they did it. He very well could have read each buff cast. A single, thin thread of magic lanced out from behind the tanks and landed on the stairs, leaving a dark spot on the polished stone. Runild. Literally landing a small spell on the base step of the stairs.

    Ghasatavaro seemed to think it was funny, he laughed at least. He took his time standing and stretched a little. His muscles bulged as he contracted them all at once and suddenly he was bathed in a golden sheen. Then he raised his left hand straight forward and rapidly made hand signs. Between the distance and the quickness, Harding couldn''t make out the specific articulations.

    "What is that¡­"

    "He''s casting¡­"

    "Yeah but what is with the hand¡­"

    Ghasatavaro finished his cast then moved his hand in a circle, punching the palm forwards before pulling back to a specific, unheard beat. As he did so he moved his hand drawing a circle in the air.

    "Is that¡­,"

    "He''s casting a ritual with his hand!"

    "RANGED BURN," came Agnes'' raid voice.

    Over forty magical attacks shook the spirit around him. The visible ones streaked through air, crashing into Ghasatavaro. He didn''t seem to notice, instead there was now a glowing nine-pointed star in front of his left palm. It hung in the air a moment before fading.

    A half dozen slower acting spell effects dropped on him and smoke wisped from his body. Ghasatavaro bellowed a roar and extended his right hand out. Harding risked a look with spirit senses and was stunned. Spirit was a torrent in the chamber, churning at a hard boil. As the attacks streaked and splashed against the godling, he was awash in a violent vortex. The magics spun and twisted around the room before draining into a brilliant white point on Ghasatavaro¡¯s hip that burned like the sun.

    Harding could see this magic, it would not be denied, not even by his defective sight. In all the chaos it stood alone and seared his mind¡¯s eye. Just as Harding turned his head away, a small explosion in the magic burst from Ghasatavaro''s abdomen. Dropping the sense, Harding saw a longsword in the godling''s right hand. He realized it was an item summons. The sword was probably a greatsword to a human, but in the giant¡¯s hand it looked like a slightly too small longsword. Harding wasn¡¯t going to open his senses again, he knew it had to be a powerful magical weapon.

    Then again, maybe he doesn''t even need that.

    As a realization of what he had sensed formed in his mind, he said to no one, "Oh shit!" No one could have heard. Harding yelled to Vostek next to him, "Captain, the fetish on his hip, we gotta-"

    Ghasatavaro came in a blur. He moved with unfathomable speed and plowed into the braced Brothers and then through them to the back of the raid. Precisely the back and no further. Bodies flew in his wake. At the back of them he pivoted on his foot and swung his left hand towards the duke. Whatever ritual he had brewed was released and no one needed enhanced senses to know it.

    Harding had no idea what it was, but he heard a loud crack, shrill whistles and people near him exploded. Whatever scatter of projectiles he''d fired had gone through the whole crowd and hit the buildings behind. The walls burst in violent explosions of stone shards.

    The duke staggered and fell. The head of whoever had been behind him became a jet of gore leaving a mangled stump as the body collapsed. A column of raiders all the way through the raid just dropped, left dead or maimed in an instant. Harding looked down. Jarred laid dead at his feet, his arm all but torn from him by a penetration that had opened his ribs too. His breastplate was curled in, the metal torn. It had gone through the front of the chest and out the side, taking the whole arm with it.

    Jasika was alive. He didn''t have to see her to know it, he could taste her magic. It tasted like blood in his mouth, felt like fuzz in his eyes. It kept going and going, a wind up that seemed far too long. The little noble was pulling in spirit at a dangerous rate. To be noticeable over the noise, to effect a low buzz in this cacophony of casting, she was crafting a response the likes of which he had yet to see.

    As the raid rushed to even the score, Harding caught a glimpse of Ghasatavaro through the ritual''s carved chasm of carnage. Hanging from his belt was a crude figure made of copper. A lumpy doll of metal twined in effigy. It was where the glow had been, now it was actually on fire. Waving his sword in a lazy circle, Ghasatavaro taunted them with his relaxed pose. Harding watched his left hand in fear, but he made no sinister motions. Having unleashed his opening salvo, the godling was not pressing his advantage.

    Is he on a cooldown?

    Harding yelled, "Get his fetish," but it wasn''t loud enough, nor honestly, specific enough.

    As the wall of melee raiders impacted and swarmed, Ghasatavaro''s sword chopped down like he was cutting underbrush. Some swings cleaved though, others were halted under staggering impact. Occasionally, a block would throw the raider back into the press. Polished lance-like polearms flashed bright in between the attacking tanks to stab. The godling took wounds and bled but was unconcerned and uninhibited.

    A solid pillar of lightning crashed down on Ghasatavaro, big enough to completely obscure him for a moment. The crack of it left Harding momentarily deafened. Raiders too close were thrown back, while others recoiled. Jasika. With ringing ears he watched the lights recede from his retinas, revealing a smoking and red-fleshed godling.

    Ghasatavaro snapped an arc with his sword and it sparked to life, covered in crackling power. Either he had lightning powers too or he''d just stolen Jasika''s thunder. One of the Brothers had regained his feet and charged at him, but he blasted a bolt of lightning from his sword tip at him. The tank erupted backwards through the air. Ghasatavaro did not relent and the discharge pushed the Blythe across the floor until the charred lump hit the foot of the stairs. There it remained, half slagged armor and some charred, smoking meat.

    The raid tried to hack into him with weapons, but only the bristle of polearms had any real opportunity to find purchase. The frantic magical assault on Ghasatavaro made it dangerous enough to be too near him, nevermind the dangers of the godling himself. His blade darted and swept, keeping the front line on the defensive and bleeding. Ghasatavaro¡¯s blade stayed low to guard the smaller humans¡¯ attacks, using downward thrusts to attack though occasionally his blade would whirl into a high chop.

    The godling bled from many wounds and yet none seemed grievous. The spells fell on him relentlessly, though he was largely unbothered by any but the most vicious. Slick with blood and red still with burns, he seemed preternaturally hale. Nimble and powerful, he moved with little concern in predatory aggression.

    Unable to communicate what he''d seen effectively, Harding pushed forward towards Ghasatavaro to try himself. He took his spirit body and pulled nearly all of the left half over his right arm, wrapping and twisting it into an impromptu armor.

    And then he waited.

    Ghasatavaro''s sword came down against Agnes'' shield, again and again until she was driven to her knees. With the godling''s focus in the other direction, Harding lunged forward to make a try for the fetish. The godlings'' sword raised high and this time it came down cutting cleanly through Agnes'' attempt to block, shearing her half open from shoulder to hip. Harding couldn''t stop, his momentum driving him forward ending with the spirit glove extending into a lance attack. He did not aim for Ghasatavaro nor the fetish, but the ring on the strap that held the fetish to the belt.

    It had no effect.

    Harding wasn''t deterred. He had suspected it might not work. Such attacks had been all but ineffective against inanimate objects. He bent the tip of the lance back into a hook and keyed while trying to pull it. It latched hold, seemingly more interactive with magical items than the mundane. Or, perhaps, it was the torrent of spirit flowing into it making it solidly of that realm. He yanked on the ring to pull it loose, but once more the attempt was unsuccessful.

    With his spirit body extended and hooked around the godling''s gear, Harding felt extremely endangered. He tried to key the ring itself, but it didn''t care. Without any other ideas he and no time to rethink things he focused his intent.

    Spirit guide my allies'' spells.

    It shouldn''t have worked, but it did. A little. Some attacks curved hitting the ring, most flew straight. There was something here about the fundamental laws of magic. A form of channeling. But now wasn''t the time. The spiritual heat of those spells he bent scorched his spirit. He wanted to let go in the great agony delivered to him, but he didn''t have a chance. He felt Ghasatavaro''s gaze fall on him, a crushing pressure of deadly intent. Harding knew he would die, so he let his spirit burn as he drew spells through it.

    At least he could be helpful in death.

    Two whipping tendrils of constant, snaking lightning wrapped around Ghasatavaro''s arm, wrestling for control of his sword. They hissed and crackled with vicious energy. Harding''s skin was burned from his nearness, Ghasatavaro''s superheated flesh cracked. Jasika again. No one else handled lightning like that.

    Ghasatavaro struggled, his arm both subject to the force of the spell and the disruption of the electrical current in it. The air filled with burning ozone and burnt flesh. Spells continued to ride Harding''s spirit guide, consuming his spirit. He swore he could taste the colors and see the shades of lethal intent as they rode through him. He was a magical lightning rod. Ghasatavaro pivoted, turning his hip away from Harding. Harding had no idea what finally did it as he was distracted by his imminent death, but the ring broke. The fetish fell into his spirit hook and jiggled there.

    Having the magic bauble, he ran.

    He immediately went spilling forward as Ghasatavaro''s free hand hit him with a balled fist. Harding spiked into the ground with a crunch and pop. His left arm immediately became both numb and a painful storm of fire. He tried to get up as fast as he could, his left hand still clutching the burning metal as it was branded into his flesh. It was still drawing some spells to it, though only a fraction. One hand down, he pushed to his knees and hopped to his feet. He was riding adrenaline and who knew what magic.

    With his mission clear, he ran.

    He bounded through the thinning crowd, lacking thought of what to do next. It didn''t really matter though, he felt a tug in his chest and looked down. There was a two inch hole there. His brain disconnected and he fell as his legs turned elastic and unresponsive. He fell, smashing face first into the stone floor.

    He lay there in agony, helpless as the sound of the fighting started to grow distant. His body was unresponsive, his spirit body slowly unhooking from his flesh. He looked at his spirit body and saw it pulling away. Not pulling he realized, it was failing to be connected. As his body gave up, whatever power that connected his spirit to his physical body weakened and the two were drifting apart.

    As that distance grew, Harding realized he wasn''t looking from his body to his spirit, but from his spirit to his body. His perspective felt like it had changed, though he wasn''t sure. Instead, he spent what energy he had to control his spirit body. He reached out simultaneously for the fetish and for his body.

    Touching the fetish was like intentionally electrocuting yourself. His spirit vibrated from the power with such force he thought he would come apart. Harding felt doom swallow him in a moment, but kept reaching for purchase on his body.

    Ghasatavaro had activated something behind him. Things were going poorly for the raid. In desperation, Harding flailed his spirit about. He continued to slowly drift away. Wide, panicked sweeps of his spirit felt nothing.

    It had been a good idea.

    Harding accepted his death then. He would return. There was nothing to truly fear. This was an end, but not the end. In a detached, scholarly sort of mind he traced slowly down his spine. None of the gates were in the spine itself, but they were aligned with it. He might as well use this moment to learn.

    A memory came to him of spirit-drilling those vampire carrots. That thicker "other" energy below the last gate that had broken his mind suggested there was more. Maybe it was the ambient, maybe something else. At least in those mobs, but maybe in everything. He tried to press what was left of his spirit to his Heart gate, then he tried to push lower through it. It had no effect. Clutching at his spirit, refusing to die before he learned, he dragged his awareness down his spine.

    He probed; shifted, then probed again.

    His spirit finally drifted free, merely aligned with his body, but his awareness remained exploring the corporeal. His corpse. He tried to not be distracted by his own death and continued his survey. He got to what he deemed to be too low on his body, and started again. Lower and lower he went once more, slowly feeling with pressing energy.

    Come on spirit, flow to where you were.

    When he found a slight divot, he hesitated. He wouldn''t have even noticed if he didn''t have the spirit equivalent of teeth-rattling power flowing through him from the crazy ambient energies. Even then he wondered if it was imagined. It was like holding a hose against a wall. If the seal was broken the water would spray out. Maybe he had just rocked the edge a bit. The fetish was still in his hand, its energy leakage racing from him in all directions. But while it burned into the flesh of his hand, while it dissipated in all directions, the majority pushed up his spirit channels. He followed it with his mind, swimming in the stream of energetic excess until he hit that wall. With great effort he pushed through.

    And slammed into his body.

    His former body''s muscles contracted, spasming for a second as foreign spirit surged through him. The eyelids opened. Harding was seeing through the physical eyes which looked up at his disembodied self while simultaneously sensing down with his spirit. A confusion of sensory overlays writhed in the grasp of his thought. He looked into his own eyes which were looking back into him. It nearly broke his ability to think, cognitive capacity and the familiarity of what he considered reality both shattered hand in hand.

    Attempting to ignore the jumbled mess of his mind, Harding pulled himself back into the dead body that had recently been him. Using the foreign spirit he patched into what had been, and perhaps still was, him. It felt like it took forever, slipping slowly into the decaying flesh sleeve. And even when he''d aligned the gates of spirit and body, the collective being wasn''t as receptive as usual for things to naturally align.

    Without a better idea, Harding connected to the fetish burned into his hand. The Throat gate casters often channeled through their hands, therefore it had to be a normal spirit body connection. He was unpracticed and going backwards, there was to be no grace to it. He just tapped into that torrent at the source, consuming all the emitted energies. He held on tight and let the pressure from the fetish do the work. It flooded in, so great even the damaged flesh of his arm swelled from the pressure.

    It was in his spirit body and not the physical, yet it felt like it filled his throat and then saturated him. It was like trying to breathe water, but he didn''t care since he was already dead. He was dead and didn''t need to breathe.

    I have control, I do not need control. I am.

    BREATHE

    He intended to sit up and he did. Normally, Harding would not claim to be graceful, but this was like a bad zombie movie. He demanded to be standing and his body obeyed, but without the finer learned skills that lent some semblance of grace.

    Spirit, fix my body. I require it to be repaired.

    Something happened, some unknown response triggered. But it was obtuse and he wasn''t sure what was occurring other than that the stream of power from the fetish was vibrating differently. He reached for and fumbled with a green vial before realizing the bottom half of it was missing. Blown through with his lung most likely. He skipped a few vials down the bandolier and tried again. This one was full but his inability to move his left arm brought him to an impasse. Combat raged around him as he put it to his mouth and clenched down. Trying to not shatter his teeth, he began twisting until the top came off. A little of the potion spilled down his throat. Harding was thankful his senses weren''t working right as the wretched liquid dribbled down his throat.

    Small wins.

    He took the vial and poured it into his chest wound. He was vaguely aware that he was just pouring some of it through him. The hole must pass through his body. It had taken out a part of his heart and lungs. Harding used another vial. It seemed, to his detached mind, that an exploded heart and ventilated lung was probably at least a two vial wound.

    Pain rocked him suddenly, his senses surging to restoration as his brain turned on again. Coming out of his undead-like state, he fell forward without control. His left shoulder slammed into the ground and popped back into place. Harding thought to himself that it shouldn''t fix his dislocation, but accepted it as blood filled his nose.

    The more functional he became, the more the fetish''s power burned through him. The restoration sped up as pathways were vitalized. He lifted himself to his feet again. Other than the intense pain and disconnected awareness that blood was leaking from him in many ways it shouldn''t, he felt normal. More than normal. He felt like a balloon that was suddenly full, but the flow of spirit hadn''t stopped and now the wholeness of him was starting to stretch.

    He was sure when that fetish ran out, he would die again. He was limited in time. He needed to be near Ghasatavaro. Now.

    And he was.

    The break in reality would have had him puking, but he hadn''t really become himself yet. It was just a facsimile of him, powered by some power greater than him. Be it a god''s power, a godling¡¯s or the tumultuous ambient pressure focused into him, he was. It was just another wave in the storm of chaos in his mind. Had he teleported or just blacked out during movement? He needed a weapon, where was his staff? Behind him on the ground, amid the dying and doomed. He needed it.

    Harding raised a hand and the staff was in it. He brought the other hand down, burning the fetish into the staff. His melting soon bonded his hand to the weapon. He aimed for Ghasatavaro''s neck and struck, but the godling dodged the blow even in this weird flow of time.

    Is this the normal state of being for a godling?

    The blow missed its target, but struck the godlings'' inner forearm that gripped his sword. The grip went weak, the sword dangled but did not drop. A sudden rain of blows hit the sword, capitalizing on the momentary stun and the sword was knocked from his hand. Ghasatavaro''s hand flashed out and closed around Harding''s head, then squeezed. Harding was studying himself once more, watching his headless body slump.

    All of that, for a single stun.

    But it was enough, blades found purchase. Spells rent flesh, curses leached into body and mind. Ghasatavaro''s seeming invulnerability had been broken for a moment and that was all the raid needed to tear him apart until he was naught but bone and tissue.

    Harding was aware of events as he watched from above through a slightly fisheye lens of vision. Departed from his body, he hovered in an erratic flowstate of time and space. Some things and moments were hyper realistic, while the majority were just vague impressions.

    At some point, he became aware of the spiders. Or, spider-like things at least. They were more blurry impressions than fully resolved entities. They were the size of cats and always at the corner of his perception, never where he looked. These weren''t one of those mechanical things that had raised the alarm before, but some kind of apparitions.

    Other things moved deeper in the dark, a shine of eyes, a blurry figure, even sounds of a busy market. A pale horse watched from top the steps. An old man, bent with age, eyes white with blindness stood beside it. But still, all the while, Yhavat glowed golden, always in detail, somehow connected through the weird blend of realities.

    Reality? Layer? Subroutines?

    He could not see the spirits of the others killed, but he saw and felt Ghasatavaro''s spirit rise. The giant man was a torch in the gloom, burning with spiritual power and reverberating psychic waves of emotion. He screamed soundlessly, but the emotions crashed over Harding, drowning him in anger and frustration. Saturated with injustice and indignation, they felt animosity towards the gods and¡­ towards something else. Some power, shadowy and hidden, undefined but present. Holding him back, making him fail for some scheme that disregarded him.

    Betrayal?

    Harding realized his very self was being overwhelmed by the strength of the thoughts coming off the spirit of the fallen godling. He was losing track of who he was and what was Ghasatavaro. The death of an immortal was a clarion in whatever transitory realm they shared.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Blinding light flashed.

    Harding was laying on his back, staring up at the glowing crystal outgrowths on the ceiling. He blinked fresh, newly remade eyes. All those alien thoughts and emotions rapidly receded, draining his soggy mind of the ghosts of alien sentiments.

    A face eclipsed his view, Runild curtained by her long sable hair hanging down. She looked amused or, perhaps, she''d eaten Ghasatavaro''s heart raw. She was enigmatic that way. Maybe it was his inchoate rebirth, but her eyes seemed to sparkle with their own light. "You need to learn to run better, naught-monk."

    Runild didn''t help him up. She just watched him struggle, bemused. "You''re wobbly," she commented. Harding noticed she was playing with Ghasatavaro''s fetish in her hands, smoothing and stroking it. She looked up, suddenly aware he was watching her. "I''m going to put it in the pot, I just wanted to see it. It is so curious, an incredible example of conduction."

    "Magic," he asked. A pain stabbed in his head and he listed sideways before it suddenly was gone and he was just fine again. He tried to blink away the feeling that his brain had been turned inside out.

    Resurrection is rough.

    "Yes it is," she told him in a congratulatory tone. Runild turned from him to walk back to the others. He couldn''t tell if she was confirming his guess or mocking him. He followed.

    Yhavat was in the middle of the raid and people were slowly rising in a ring around him. Rebirth of the dead crept out from him as he stood still and unresponsive, the progressive reunion of slowly mended flesh and detached spirit the only sign he was engaged at all.

    Up close, Yhavat bothered Harding even more. The more he looked, the more alien and wrong Yhavat was. He had a body, but it just didn''t seem as complete and structured as a normal being. Like he was a sketch or a half completed illusion. There was nothing that was definitively wrong, yet nothing seemed right either. Proportions, mechanics and materials defied common understanding of how things should be.

    It''s just a game, but still.

    Harding switched to looking at him in the spirit realm and immediately wished he hadn''t. Yhavat stared directly back, a locked gaze from that bleached goat skull. Those eyes, pits of emptiness, were a neverending descent into a void of nothing and everything. It created a sense of movement such that Harding felt like he was falling in. Symbol''s flashed in Harding''s mind, things he had never seen before. Or, perhaps, he just couldn''t remember. A repeated pattern of four geometric shapes, a pause, and then repeated. Over and over, and yet as much as they burned in his mind, consumed his thoughts, he couldn''t quite comprehend their wholeness even though they seemed simple.

    Everything was warped and distorted, as though he was speeding up by falling through the darkness of those eyes until the very reality he perceived bent under the strain of his attempt to comprehend. Harding dropped the spirit vision. Yhavat hadn''t moved, still staring off into the nothing, having continued to stand unmoving as he reknit reality by stitching the intangible to corporeality.

    Howie walked up to Harding and smiled down at him. In his shadow, Harding realized he no longer felt some implicit threat from his size but genuine warmth. "Good to see you alive and well again. Hate seeing a friend dead." Howie told him. "Also, excellent call on that trinket of his."

    Friend.

    "I feel like I am going to get a snack for that," Harding teased.

    "Nah. Something even better. I bet there''s at least a half dozen that would, but I''m going to officially extend this offer to you," Howie announced with uncharacteristic seriousness. "When you finally stop being silly and accept fate, I''ll sponsor your application with the guild."

    Harding liked the Eights. He liked Howie. He just wasn''t sure he wanted to join. But Howie hadn''t said that he was sponsoring, only that he would sponsor. Harding took it as a sign of trust, of a willingness to put his name forward to vouch for him. And that, regardless of his choice of future, Harding could appreciate.

    "Thank you. Should I apply, it would be an honor to have you be my sponsor," he smiled.

    Howie nodded, signifying the end of the serious stuff. "Want some jerky," he asked and held out a familiar bag.

    "Burn Ward?"

    "Uh huh."

    "Hell no, I just got finished being dead for a second time. No point making it three."

    Howie laughed.

    Runild joined them then, eyeing Howie''s bag and asked, "What delicious treat do you have now?"

    Howie looked at Harding in askance to which Harding nodded emphatically. Howie shook his head. Suppressing his smile, Harding explained, "It''s a rare treat from the Eastrun. Only like ten bags have ever existed. I hooked Howie up with a trade contact using my duchal connections and that was part of the gifts. Howie loves them."

    "Is this true," Runild asked Howie suspiciously.

    "Yes Runild."

    "And yet you hesitate in sharing with your, ah- herbal supplier?"

    Howie extended the bag and she took a piece, sniffed it, blinked but took a bite. Howie watched in horror.

    "It''s tasty, a little mild, but should sell well. Thank you for sharing." Then, calmly, she took another bite and sauntered off like a cat who got her mouse.

    "She scares me," Howie declared flatly.

    "Me too, bud, me too."

    They shared a look.

    "Aspirant Hill," uttered a voice from behind Harding that sounded more like a snake pit than a human.

    Harding jumped a foot and yelled, "Shit."

    Howie wasn''t moving at all. No one was.

    "You are the nexus of these parties, please collect the decision makers and meet me in the throne room."

    Time resumed, though for whom Harding was unsure.

    "What is it," Howie asked with concern. Harding''s face was probably still shocked.

    "Did you¡­ you didn''t. Damn that thing creeps me out."

    Howie just looked more concerned.

    "That Yhavat thing told me to gather leadership, but he did it in my mind all jump scare like. Sick bastard."

    "Oh," Howie offered. "I''m sorry."

    "No rest for the wicked. Or, apparently, unpaid porters taken hostage and subjected to untold horrors."

    Howie tilted the bag of jerky towards him.

    Shrugging, Harding agreed, "Yeah. You''re right." He reached in, took two pieces, and walked off in search for those Yhavat had requested.

    Harding found the Garnets first, though he wasn''t sure if that was by luck or intention. They were huddled together and Vostek was talking, "...I understand that at some point the Queen will know. I agree that you being the one to inform her is advantageous, but-¡± Vostek stopped talking when he saw Harding.

    Taking the pause as an opportunity, Harding said, "Your Grace, I have been instructed by the Honored Servant Yhavat that the decision makers should gather in the throne room with him."

    "Hmm, thank you," acknowledged Garnet. "Did he tell you where the throne room is?"

    "I believe it is the building that Ghasatavaro exited from, the one central to this district," offered Harding. He knew, he just couldn''t say how he knew. It was like foreign knowledge had been shoehorned into his head and thinly disguised as intuition. "I am to inform the Eights as well, but I came to you first."

    "Yes, good." The duke paused and arched an eyebrow before asking, "Did he happen to give guidance on how many may attend."

    "No, my lord. He just said I was the nexus of the factions and therefore it was my responsibility to gather them."

    "Very well. Jarred, Jasika, you will attend. Vostek, please keep thinking about this situation. When we are done with this meeting I expect new negotiations with the Eights will be the next order of business."

    Vostek saluted, which seemed odd, then turned and walked away with purpose.

    "If Your Grace will excuse me," requested Harding, "I must complete my duty."

    "Carry on."

    Harding snuck in a smile at Jarred who nodded back. There would be time for stories later. When some multidimensional servant that a local deity both bowed to, and was constrained by, gives you a task you do it.

    Harding found Aleister fairly quickly. Agnes was talking loudly, waving her shield around as she did, "I don''t know, looks the same but it just feels different somehow?"

    "You''re nuts," judged one Blythe.

    The other agreed, "I know what you mean. My armor feels a feather lighter. It''s like when they repaired everything they got it wrong."

    "Or used up some of the material," suggested Agnes in a concerned tone.

    "Excuse me, Guildmaster Aleister. Honorable Servant Yhavat had requested that the decision makers attend him in the throne room."

    "Why not just say Yhavat," scoffed Agnes.

    "I don''t know, all these honorifics and stuff, I know enough to know that I don''t know and that I don''t want to be the one that makes a mistake," Harding shrugged in explanation.

    "Fair enough," responded Aleister with a sigh. Harding wasn''t sure he was going to make it. Freshly resurrected, the man looked like he''d been days without sleep. Harding followed his gaze to the Garnets starting up the steps. "Agnes, with me. Harding, fetch and escort Runild please."

    The two took off immediately, leaving Harding with the Brothers. Harding smiled and shrugged at them awkwardly before he ran off.

    Runild was harder to find. She was buried in a huddle of mages. Presumably comparing notes, but he had no idea what mages got up to when allowed. How the Eights differentiated who was a mage from the rest of the magically powered raiders was entirely occult to Harding. Harding decided to live dangerously, "Runild, I am supposed to bring you to Yhavat."

    "Yeah, sure, I guess. Where are we going?"

    "Follow me, but up the stairs."

    Harding walked with Runild through the crowd. Most of the raiders were socializing and resting, milling about with little order. The typical post boss and pre loot call pause. Regardless of his handicaps, they''d beaten a godling and it had been no sure thing. It was a great achievement and bragging right. But the tradition of post-fight raid social chaos was forever. Without further instructions, they reverted to their normal behavior.

    I''m always glad they''re not my cats to herd.

    Harding tried to be cool, but he was climbing ungainly stairs to a temple that was being referred to as the throne room by a divine entity. It was exciting, even if he did have to concentrate on the stairs. He was determined to not trip in front of Runild, doing so would constitute a third death on the day. An ego death.

    The massive double doors at the top were clad in steel both polished and pristine. They still hung ajar from Ghasatavaro''s exit. Within was a simple hall, though wide and not so long. It felt a lot like a temple to Harding. The architecture was arched and subtly elegant while giving the impression of immense structure and strength. The ceiling consisted of a central, vaulted dome. The floor beneath the dome was recessed several steps in a circular step down. On the far side was an altar, simple and covered with charms, candles and offerings.

    Yhavat stood in the back of the recessed circle, the other humans in front of him. The Garnets on one side and the Eights on the other. "Good luck," quipped Harding in a whisper, then turned to leave.

    "You will attend." Yhavat made his will clear. Harding swore internally, turned and walked with Runild across the very temple-like throne room down into the circle. Harding realized it was an intricate portal circle of inlaid gold and bore a mass of script in some language he could not read.

    "I remember," mused Yhavat. "Long ago, I was an Alph here, carving these very stone walls with the glyphs of the living structures of divinity."

    Oddly personal.

    "Gathered Mortals, you speak for the factions which, banded together, defeated the selected form of Ghasatavaro. As he no longer exists in this realm, he cannot handle your rewards with this glory. I shall continue in my role as the mediator."

    "Behind me is the throne. When it comes time for you, you will understand its purpose. When you assume it, you will perceive its function. We stand upon the Fourth Pillar of Creation. With the Fourth Ideal in place, this too you will begin to understand." He informed them, "We shall go up."

    There was a surge of spirit power and in the same instant reality changed. The effect had happened simultaneously with Harding''s awareness of power. The speed of the working scared him a bit. He could not imagine a human brain competing. The group stood upon a large, flat shelf in the mountains. The chill in the wind cut to the bone, driving against them invisibly from the iridescent blue sky. Far beneath, fields of grain swayed like distant waves. Beyond and around were majestic mountains for as far as Harding could see. Their foothills cloaked black in pine forests up to their tree line.

    "Behold, Kharsir, The Spine of the Divine Prism, the Fourth Spectrum, Realm of Hamidar, Chief among Agents of Phiris," introduced Yhavat with sweeping arms. Here he was animated, though it did not make him any more natural.

    "Is this Heaven," awed Agnes.

    "Way too cold for my heaven," murmured Runild, casual as always.

    "This is not what you would call heaven. This is the inverse of Sleep. This is the Invigoration," Yhavat informed.

    Harding was positive that the being would have smiled there and he was glad that the helm showed none.

    "Honored Servant, why are we here," asked the duke, looking around in amazement.

    "I thought it a more suitable setting. One which would convey the relative gravity of the occasion and not just the task at hand; rewards."

    Loot.

    Harding could feel the group smile.

    "As per the Governance, you shall be given a number of rewards. As you cannot claim the throne, it will be adjusted in commemoration of this event," the servant explained. Harding watched the being. The robes did not stir in the wind. He suspected the thing was still not fully present.

    Where is it from if not from here?

    Yhavat laid out the manner of his reward structure, "As knowledge is not understanding, the number of choices I could offer you would only burden you with their weight. Instead, I will select for you by your given answer. Duke Elias Garnet, Lord of Eastrun, name your desired outcome."

    The duke answered without pause, "To see my men become stronger."

    "Hold out your hand," Yhavat instructed. A small potted tree, barely more than three inches tall appeared, planted in a thin, tall, tiny metal pot. Beside it was a threaded, metal tube.

    "Ah, thank you," the duke''s courtly instinct covered for his confused hesitation. While the duke was unsure what to make of it, Harding thought he knew.

    "That''s a spirit tree," he said, excitedly.

    "Close, Aspirant. It is the dwarf variety. Feed it a drop of blood a week, mixed with ten drops of clean water. On that alone it will thrive, even when sealed away in that tube."

    The duke smiled and bowed humbly, though Harding was pretty sure the duke didn''t seem all that thrilled. Harding wondered at the implication of a miniature spirit tree.

    How would it strengthen the blades?

    "Aleister, Guildmaster of the Divine Eights, name your desired outcome."

    Aleister looked at the duke, then back at Yhavat. Borrowing wisdom from the duke, he responded, "I wish to advance my guild''s goals."

    "Hold out your hand," Yhavat repeated.

    Aleister quickly held out both hands. In his hands appeared an ornate seedcrypt made of stone. Aleister clearly knew what a crypt was and didn''t question its value. When you''re standing in an unknown world and what amounts to the personification of the system gives you an locked epic loot chest as a reward, you don''t question it.

    "Master Jarred Garnet, name your desired out-?"

    Jarred had obviously thought about it because he answered before Yhavat had finished asking. "That my sister be granted what she needs to overcome her¡­ troubles."

    Jasika turned to him with an almost pained look. Whether it was embarrassment of publicly mentioning her issue or the weight of her brother''s generosity was unclear. Harding, though, caught the duke''s smile. The man was unrelenting in his pursuit of his children''s growth.

    "Hold out your hands."

    She looked at Yhavat, confused, and for several moments did not act. Finally, she lifted her hands. In her hands, slightly larger than her petite palm, appeared a tome bound in metal with a locking clasp. The book panels looked to be of scribed gold. The spine and joints of polished silver. A silver chain hung from it and ended with a clasp. She looked up, questioning.

    "Wear this upon your sinister, keeping it in the daylight whenever possible." Yhavat flicked the index finger of his left hand. "Your touch upon the lock will actuate the fastner."

    She examined the dainty thing and touched the lock. It fell open in her hand, to overhang her palm. She began to flip the pages, the soft shush of paper against the wind. Harding saw that the script moved on the page.

    "The Tome of Dying Knowledge," explained Yhavat. "A truly blessed creation of Magister Asrat, it is constantly changing as knowledge dies and is reborn. It can never be read in full, a beautiful piece illustrating truth. Within it is the power to understand your questions, but of course the right questions are much harder to come by."

    Jasika was entranced. She began to read before she remembered her manners, "Thank you Honored Servant for your wisdom and graciousness."

    Jasika curtsied. Harding nearly died, shocked by what he had witnessed.

    Yhavat inclined his head, a silent conveyance of something more than mere acknowledgment of manners. Jasika watched him a moment before looking back at the open tome.

    Mini-Tome? No, Travel-sized.

    Harding couldn''t imagine trying to read a book that was constantly editing itself. Surely it was a portal to madness. He wondered how it would help her with a physical disease. The idea that it contained everything currently falling out of being known was intriguing.

    It''s basically a wiki of edits?

    Yhavat started again, "Agnes, Fierce Warrior Priestess of Kasagos, what is your desired outcome?"

    "I''m a what?"

    "Is that truly your desire?"

    "Hell no, I want Ghasatavaro''s sword."

    Aleister stifled a laugh as Agnes thrust out her hands, palms up.

    "It is not mine to give, nor have I the authority to replicate it," he apologized. "The closest I can offer is this from my private holdings." A short sword appeared in her hand sheathed in a darkly stained wood scabbard. Agnes, her face betraying her disappointment in its size, pulled the thin blade free. It had a fine guard and small pommel, both made of brass half green with corrosion. The blade itself was polished to an oddly warm tinted mirror.

    "This athame was created by a Kasagosian godling through acts I will not speak. Though intended for ritual sacrifice it functions well as any physical weapon." Yhavat cocked his head sideways before sharing, "In fact, I gutted him with it on his own altar. Once I had carved out his tongue and melded his anguish with the blade, any living thing cut by it will taste the truth of the tarnish in their souls. Its edge is honed by its own hunger, do not test it. "

    It wasn''t what she had wanted, but Agnes'' grin revealed her pleasure in such a gruesome and fearsome weapon.

    Yhavat turned back to Jasika, "Maid Jasika, Daughter of the Rising Sun, name your desired outcome."

    She looked up from her book at Jarred who empathically shook his head. There was not only no expectation of reciprocity, but a clear refusal. "Honored Servant, I wish I was a better person but my brother has already bested me. So I''ll ask for an opportunity to be a better noble, to be of benefit to the people of Eastrun." She closed her book and locked it, then struggled with what to do with it. It had a belt clasp but she hadn''t figured out it''s working, her father though held out his hand and she handed it to him. Once empty handed, she put her hands out once more without instruction. The potted sapling that appeared in it was nearly dropped due to the sudden weight.

    Yhavat chuckled, a skittering noise as agreeable as a hundred spiders climbing inside of your shirt. "They will accuse me of serving the mistress of fecundity with this, but it is the applicable answer. For your greenhouses only, it will not thrive in your weather."

    Lost behind the leaves, she requested, "Honored Servant, ah, what is it?"

    "Theobroma cacao. It is an opportunity to serve your people, but only an opportunity. None can make you what you are not. That power is yours alone."

    Yhavat turned to Runild, paused as if listening, then turned back to Jasika once more. "Also, go with your brother for coffee." It felt so random, but Harding was beginning to get how things worked here. That had to be a divinely ordained quest.

    To an NPC?

    He turned to Runild. "Weaver Runild, name your desired outcome."

    Runild looked over at Aleister, "Trade my lot for his fetish?"

    "That''s fair, I suppose. Yeah."

    "Then whatever Aleister wants," she told Yhavat.

    Aleister held out his hands and said, "I need to strengthen my guild further, I would like a set of one of the hidden godseeds."

    In his hands appeared three godseeds, each banded in gold but entirely clear in color. Were they not clearly banded, Harding would have thought them voidseeds. "This set being released should appease her ire at the mass resurrection. It is best suited for an aggressive hunter, not a defender."

    "Oh, I have someone in mind already. These will suit her well. Thank you, Honored Servant." While Aleister put them in his satchel, Harding realized that it rankled him a bit that they were given no explanation. He wanted to see stats or know the loot. It was an ingrained expectation.

    Life didn''t care.

    Yhavat turned finally to Harding. "Aspirant Hill. You are as between mortal factions as you are between divine powers. As an Agent of Phiris, I cannot affect this balance." He paused. "However, commerce is the communion of society. If you wish to make a trade to mark this moment, I am amendable." Yhavat watched him with those black pools of nothingness, waiting for him to act.

    Harding had nothing to trade. He looked down, he was still wearing his medic kit. His staff was in his seed storage. In his left hand, forgotten, his last piece of jerky.

    "How about this," he asked incredulously. Harding had no clue what an immortal being with no evidence of a mouth would want with a dried piece of pork.

    "I accept. It is a rare item. The only of its kind in this realm. I will trade you for this," he offered, holding up what appeared to be a voidseed he''d pulled from his head. He extended his hand towards Harding and explained, "I cannot help what you might infer from this trade offer, but it is all I carry on me besides the symbols of my office."

    Harding looked at it. Voidseeds were much more valuable than a piece of jerky. For all the other rewards the item had appeared, yet this was being offered by Yhavat physically. There was more to this than he understood, the act was obviously significant. Perhaps others were watching.

    "I accept this trade with respect for the spirit of its offering." Yhavat held open his left hand upon which Harding place the jerky. Mimicking the position, Harding held his left hand open and Yhavat deposited the voidseed. He noticed Yhavat''s fingers were not skeletal as he had first thought, just slim with protruding joints. Harding had also thought the hands to be bone, but they were actually a grainy, matte metal.

    He just gets stranger.

    When the objects had been exchanged, Harding felt a slight slip of spiritual power. He paused to internally chase that feeling but lost it. Giving up the chase, Harding noticed Yhavat was still keenly watching him. "There is Glory in the first Ritual of Exchange between mortal and alphen upon this plane of existence. The Lady of Order smiles upon you, despite your fate."

    Yhavat had indeed pulled some trick, but on who and to what end he didn''t know. Not wanting to fail in meeting the exchange, Harding returned, "You should get robes with pockets, then you could carry more things."

    Runild snorted.

    Harding felt foolish, but he really was confused how a being who seemed to summon things at will was limited in what he carried. Yhavat did not respond to Harding and instead pronounced, "This realm now awaits those mortals who would break from the limitations of acceptance. But for now, I shall return you to your home."

    Harding had a brief moment to once more scan the horizon of imposing peaks before everything was the throne room again. The raider leadership stood there in the circle alone. Yhavat was not there, or at least was not visible.

    ¡°Well, that was unexpected,¡± Aleister offhandedly offered. ¡°Shall we divvy up the loot and head back to town?¡±

    ¡°I am ready to return home as well. I find the cots more uncomfortable than my pride is generally willing to admit," smiled Duke Garnet. "I will be leaving a small contingent here though, to guard and operate the upper chambers. I would like to control if, or at least know when, others come. When we learn to claim the throne and open that portal, I would be displeased to find someone else sitting there to greet us.¡±

    Aleister raised his eyebrows and leaned his head, ¡°Are you proposing a partnership in expanding our raid operations?¡±

    ¡°I think it is an excellent training tool for our men. A training yard doesn¡¯t prepare you for this kind of thing. Perhaps joint training should be a topic of discussion."

    ¡°We shall discuss it further,¡± agreed Aleister, ¡°I think there is a mutually beneficial arrangement to be forged.¡±

    The men shook hands, then Jarred with Aliester. They left the throne room, which Harding still thought of more as a temple and returned to their people. Harding wandered the plaza as he examined his thoughts.

    Yhavat was right, he was of neither world. He was stagnant, caught between the pull of multiple forces and desires. In order to change his situation, he needed to change his approach.

    So Harding started planning.

 Chapter 15

    Harding gave his regards to the Eights before leaving Black Barrow. He returned with the Garnets to their city estate and thanked them for their hospitality. Though in truth he had been a hostage, he felt no need to bring it up. Despite the undesirable start of the experience, how it ended far surpassed his expectations. He made plans with Jarred to meet later in the week before returning to the temple. It seemed strange to think of a NPC as a friend and yet he did.

    Adjusting to the temple was difficult. The temple life was too quiet, both alien and familiar. It was comforting to feel safe but agitating to feel stagnant. Brother Rent had not returned and the class had moved on without him and neared its completion.

    Harding was not sure what to do with another voidseed. Yet Yhavat had orchestrated the trade for a purpose. Either he was meant to have another or he had been used for some larger game and it had nothing to do with him. Probably both.

    He put in among his things and mediated, focusing on the alien bits of energy still in his spirit body after the root fight. He swept energy through himself and into his crypt contained voidseed, over and over. Slowly, over the course of an entire evening, he strained it all out as the crypt-void combination seemed to collect the dross.

    Brother Roberts sat down with him the day after he had returned and attempted to assess the situation. He ran Harding through a number of tests, from simple observed meditation to complex spirit manipulation. At the end Brother Roberts gave him his opinion, ¡°You¡¯re further than the class now, there is no point for you to be with them. You¡¯ve made remarkable leaps in some areas, have had little growth in a couple and have adopted unorthodox methodology for a few.¡±

    They were quiet a moment.

    ¡°Still, I would not hesitate to move you to the rank of Initiate in the temple with those who stay after the class. In a few of those tests, you were better than some of the brothers. Is that something you want, to stay with the temple? I know you¡¯ve been training with the Guard association and have been a guest with nobles. Your robes have certainly seen¡­ excited wear.¡±

    ¡°I would like to stay, to become an Initiate and be an acolyte to Brother Rent when he returns. He instructed me to wait and meditate, but to be ready to travel. I think I need more help from the Guard association than the temple for the moment.¡±

    Brother Roberts smiled at him and nodded, ¡°That sounds like a well thought out plan. I hope it works well. When I¡¯m not teaching, please engage me with your questions on spirit.¡± Brother Roberts patted him on the shoulder and stood up slowly. ¡°The temple initiation ceremony will be this Saturday evening, please attend if possible.¡±

    Having settled on a course with the temple, Harding headed out to visit Master Bradon. In Harding¡¯s mind, this would be the most difficult thing to rebalance. He had been sent on a day job and never returned nor sent a message for more than a week.

    He must think I quit.

    He walked through the side gate and entered the training yard. Master Bradon was taking a class through exercises with the spear. Harding longed to join in, but other than a quick acknowledgement, Master Bradon ignored him and focused on his class. Harding sat and watched as the class went on for nearly an hour.

    ¡°Ok, gentlemen. Break for lunch. Be back here in two hours and we will work on defense with the spear. I went easy on you last week, this week you¡¯ll make up for it.¡±  As the class filed out, Master Bradon waved Harding over to his office and sat in his chair. He sat there a moment with his eyes closed, then looked up at Harding. ¡°Don¡¯t get old,¡± he counseled.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I have a choice in that, sir.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± he admitted, before staring into Harding¡¯s eyes. ¡°So, tell me.¡±

    ¡°Uh, that job was a shitshow. I ended up in the woods with a half dead soldier, burning a fire to keep some kind of nightmare at bay. Then soldiers showed up and ¡®escorted¡¯ me to a ¡®strongly encouraged retreat¡¯ where I¡¯ve spent the last week dealing with the ramifications of it. I didn¡¯t even get paid.¡±

    Master Bradon laughed, hands on knees, bent over in his chair. ¡°Damned if Rent can¡¯t pick them. I figured something went wrong when I didn¡¯t see you and the pay was never entered. But hostage over the fallout of a lordling¡¯s adventure, you¡¯ve got the luck.¡±

    Harding shook his head. ¡°Learned some alchemical healing, improved my spirit magic, got beat to shit and died twice. There''s some other stuff in there too, but it seems pretty silly compared to, you know, dying.¡±

    "Look son, eventually, you figure out there are three kinds of contracts. The best and majority are the quiet ones where your greatest challenge is fighting boredom. Then there are the eventful ones, you go, something happens, you move on. Most of it is still quiet, but that little burst makes it different. Those aren''t common, but they''re common enough that they''re why you get hired. Then there are the utterly insane ones. They''re incredibly rare, but they do happen."

    Master Bradon learned back in his chair and fished out a sandwich from his desk. "Mind if I eat while we talk?"

    "No, go ahead, I don''t want to use up your lunch."

    Master Bradon took a bite, chewed, then raised an eyebrow and took a drink of something Harding suspected was tea. "Once had a contract, me and someone that I used to know, to guard a single wagon. Wagon was a trader run by two miserable merchants, can''t even remember their cursed names. The kind of folk you keep your distance from and don''t speak to or of. One night we were in the darkness, watching, eating, and those two fools were arguing, hotly. Was the kind of boring contract where the people are so terrible you just want it over."

    He took another bite, chewed and washed it down.

    "We hear a rustle, gurgles, we run into camp. The one merchant is stabbing the other in the lung, guy pulls his own dagger and rams it up under the guys jaw into his brain. Dead instantly. First guy gurgles blood, keels over, dies quick enough."

    He took a couple of bites of his sandwich, letting the situation sink in before continuing.

    "Here we are, two hired guards. Middle of the journey, both merchants dead with a cart laden with goods. So we dragged that to the destination and went before a magistrate. He ruled we failed the contract, no pay. However, he also said that the cart was then legal salvage and we rightfully owned it minus taxes. So we failed our contact and made about twenty times what we were going to."

    "That is crazy."

    Master Bradon raised his eyebrows and grinned, "Whole world is crazy, just a matter of if you catch them with their masks off."

    After a few more bites he looked to Harding, the last bit of sandwich dangling in his fingers and said, "Tell me your plans then." Before Harding could answer, he popped the remaining bite in his mouth and listened while he chewed.

    "I want to go back to training with you, like Brother Rent planned. I need to learn to fight, I felt so useless in all that it made me sick. Just spend all day learning from you. Spend my nights on magic or, occasionally, with friends. Until whenever Brother Rent shows up and takes me on as Acolyte. Which is pretty much the original plan, I just understand more where I''m at and where I need to be?"

    Master Bradon smiled, "Very good. I got this class for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, show up early and I''ll get you started so you can work all day."

    "It''s good to know what you lack," he added. "People, they see that gap between where they are and where they need to be, and they either get motivated or they give up. Realizing their gain is where it''s tough. Sometimes their goals aren''t obtainable, but often they just can''t stomach what it will take to get there."

    He scratched the side of his nose and made it plain to Harding. "They want to be the best and they won''t be. You don''t become the best worrying about others, you focus on being the best you and the rest happens. You won''t be the best fighter, there are way too many people with incredible natural talent who get discovered young, trained exceptionally, and have more experience because of it. It''s what they''re built to do, it''s fate. That''s what fate is, just the optimal path that you''re likely to fall into. Your path isn''t as a fighter, but that doesn''t mean you can''t or shouldn''t learn to be more than competent. Be the best? No. Be your best? Yes. Sounds like you''re willing to pay the price and have some grasp of what that price is, with that we can get you well on your way to being your best."

    They chatted briefly and then Harding thanked Master Bradon and headed back to the temple, stopping in Old Market to pick up a couple broadsheets and a new pair of socks. His money was dwindling and he needed a way to generate more.

    A couple weeks in and he still hadn''t been paid a single coin.

    Once back to the temple, he read through the broadsheets. Four of the queen¡¯s advisors were still missing and she had initiated the procedure to name her own replacements. If the broadsheet¡¯s article was correct, the Queen¡¯s advisors were usually required to be named by the other advisors; however if a quorum was not present, she could initiate proceedings on her own. Harding was pretty sure he¡¯d solved that mystery.

    A textile factory in Breshem had burned. The second industrial fire in the last two weeks. Piracy was notably up, which made sense to Harding. Get a bunch of new people with no way to make money and then give them a little time to get some weapons and boats. A rise in piracy and banditry was to be expected. The worst of it was to the east in the duchies of Damon and Eastrun. Eastrun itself had a section of coast that was officially called Pealing Shallows, but was already commonly referred to as the Pirate Coast.

    I wonder how that played into the Garnet''s push to raid.

    There were a handful of estate sales and auctions, the ones that stood out to Harding were the heirless widow of the kingdoms retired hero general turned historian, a mill industry baron who Harding believed was the neighbor to the Garnet city estate, and a tinkerer who was celebrated for his innovation in firearms. But, Harding had no money.

    Beyond the usual gossip, parties, and mass recruitment for various trades, Harding did find one other interesting bit. The Empire was pushing its other kingdoms to stay with the Imperial coin. Gregory had told him the Ayr kingdom had dropped the Imperial. The currency conflict was empire wide and fierce. No real reasons were given either way, but Harding thought it had to do with larger economic policy.

    Doesn¡¯t it always?

    Harding took in dinner with his old classmates. They caught him up on the various happenings at the temple while he¡¯d been away. The most notable being the absence of Alina, who had left the temple permanently. They were unsure if she just quit the temple or gave up on Life entirely. Their conversation was lively and good natured, but it felt different to Harding. Here were people he knew and reasonably liked, but not until being with them did he discover how much he had changed.

    They wanted to know where he''d been and what he''d been doing. He couldn''t tell and he couldn''t tell them that, so he talked about making a new friend and staying at their place while spending the days meditating. Ed thought he was lucky. Sabina wanted to know if he was cute. Ed thought maybe it was a she. Randal knew some, but stayed out of it.

    Yes, Harding assured them, he would graduate and go through temple initiation with them. Inside though, he didn''t feel like he belonged anymore. He wondered if he ever had. Harding understood a little more that fate wasn''t a destination, it was a path to be traveled and he was ready to move on.

    After a night of meditation, he went back to Master Bradon to learn. Instead of attack drills, he learned more footwork, which he practiced mostly unsupervised as Master Bradon taught other classes throughout the day. Eventually a progress check happened while Harding was taking a break. "I don''t get it," he griped to the instructor, "You get these new recruits, they come in, you drill spear for two sessions and then they leave. I just squat, shuffle and the like day after day."

    A corner of the instructor''s mouth ticked up. "They are learning what they came to learn, they are not learning what I could teach," he pointed out. "Learning to evade leads to learning to read when to evade. When you can do that, you then can learn to counter. Knowing these things allows you to exploit the weaknesses of others."

    Harding knew he was right but he didn''t like it. The whole experience in Black Barrow had taught him he could adapt, but it had also been brutal in highlighting his deficiencies. He sighed. Master Bradon spoke the truth, "You came to me to learn to fight, not to hold an issued spear and stand at a gate." Most of his students were beginning guards or escorts.

    That was not Harding''s fate.

    "That''s true," Harding reluctantly allowed. Still he really wanted to feel like he was making some sort of tangible progress. "Is there a weapon I should get to prepare for learning?"

    The weapons master''s response was edged, "No. You are the weapon. To focus on one weapon at this point is failure. Besides, we have practice weapons for training. Later, you will be ready to focus more."

    Harding was about to question when he was cut off, by Master Bradon holding up a six inch long, quarter inch wide dowel. "Any weapon you want, I will beat you with this. Is this magic? No, it is a tool for rope."

    Humbled, Harding went back to work until early evening. He gave Master Bradon his goodbyes, was told to come the next morning, and then limped home with his leg muscles twitching. After cleaning up, he met up with Randal. "You''re going tonight, right," Harding confirmed. With Alexci fighting tonight, Harding had already assumed he would.

    Randall gave a sheepish look and admitted, "Yeah, but I was waiting until supper is served here. Free is free. After that I''m going out, you want to come with."

    "Randal, do you trust me?"

    "This is where you ask me something weird and creepy right?"

    Harding sighed, "Just come with me now, we will get plenty of free food, ok?"

    Randal, not known for skipping a free meal, hesitated but ultimately gave in. It was the clearest sign of trust Harding could expect. The two walked south from the hill, until Harding turned into the bridge to the Green Hills.

    "The Grinder isn''t this way..."

    "Yeah. I know. You know what the Eights were up to last week, right?"

    "Sorta, but I''m not supposed to¡­ and you do?" He paused, his mouth opened in mid-realization. "Oh, when you¡­"

    "We are going to walk across this bridge, turn around and walk back. And for doing that we will get a suite out of it. My legs are still wobbly from training, I''m not walking this extra distance for no reason."

    Randal had no argument against that. Arriving at the House Garnet estate, they were greeted by a familiar guard. "Woah, Stoltz, what are you doing out front? Thought you were a big deal," quipped Harding.

    "I am, that''s why I''m out here for the public to see," he laughed. "Also, tradition. You get a new seed, you take a watch at the gate to remind you of your roots." He then added in a fake whisper, "and to impress upon these louts the rewards of excellent service."

    Randal just watched this exchange, staring at Harding like he was an alien.

    "Who''s your friend?"

    "Classmate and my contact with the Eights."

    "Very well, the young Master has been excited all day." Stoltz gave the other guard a faux glare, "Well? Open the gates, man."

    Through the open gates, Harding led Randal into the gardens. Randal eyed the place and smirked, "So this is where you were staying while I was cramped in a temple cell?"

    "Only like half the time, also, be nice to the sister," Harding warned as he waved at Jarred who sat on a veranda with Jasika. Both had dressed far too nice for the Grinder. Noble expectations, money and social ineptitude was a hell of a combination.

    Jasika wore a crimson dress, elegant but subdued. It only whispered about excessive money instead of screaming about it. Jarred, however, was dressed in multiple shades of gray leather and white silk, somewhere between a formal sparring session and the Queen''s Own ball. One was ready for a gala and the other the fencing club. Harding rolled his eyes but smiled. They were what they were.

    The Garnet children came down and met them. Harding gave the formal introductions and made it a point to praise the Garnet hospitality.

    "A carriage, or shall we walk," asked Jarred.

    "The lady''s preference, though low profile may be better."

    "Ride," declared Jasika.

    Quickly after they were seated and had begun to roll Jasika spoke, "I understand this is a diplomatic exercise, and that he told me I should go, but why the choice of an evening coffee instead of supper?"

    Randal choked and Harding covered for him, giving a concerned look over his friend. "My Lady, the Grinder is a large complex which is the joint project of three large guilds, one of which is the Eights. They will be serving food in a large, private opera box with important people from the guild, including their trade and craft organizations. Coffee is the front business and thus a bit of a code."

    Jasika gave a little nod, satisfied that it was one of those fashionably understated events, and settled to stare out the window. By carriage, the Grinder was only a couple minutes travel and soon they stepped out into the street. People milled about the front. The sun still hung just above the buildings and the river air wasn''t too foul today. The emblazoned carriage and obvious noble dress caught more than a few eyes. It couldn''t be helped. The budding alliance would eventually be known. Jarred hopped out to help his sister down. Harding and Randal exited after. They were met at the front entrance by Howie, who bowed and held a door open.

    "Greetings Howard, it is quite agreeable to see you again so soon," Jasika informed him. Though she was stiff in delivery, Randal threw a questioning look at Harding. Harding just shook his head.

    "Lady Jasika, always a stunning beauty," Howie humbly offered. Jarred groaned quietly at the unabashed flattery, but Harding thought Jasika blushed a little.

    The party went into the building and the Garnets eyed the massive open space fill of vendors. The smell of coffee was nearly overwhelming, a presiding aroma over the active sales. Agnes was waiting for them, looking like she''d just come from the warcamp.

    Maybe she''s been logged out?

    "My Lord and Lady, so wonderful to see you here in our hospitality. Harding. Randal. Please follow me, Aleister and the others will join us when they can. Event nights are always busy."

    Agnes and Howie led them up a flight of stairs into a carpeted hallway. The overall styling went from repurposed industrial decay to opera house decor immediately. The party was led down the corridor, passing a few doors that had private guards before coming to their destination.

    Within they found themselves in a room open to the event floor. At the open end were several rows of tiered seating. At the back of the room were several hotplates resting on a sideboard counter. Two couches ran along the sides, looking very much like budget elegance selections. The whole upper floor felt a little like a small casino, but with more traditional aesthetics and less busy carpet.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    More like a small arena.

    "Very nice," commented Harding in his understanding of the design reference. He was given the impression that the Garnets were unfamiliar with this style of room, but their social training allowed them no more than a pause before they swept in with seeming comfort.

    "Howie, you coming," asked Harding.

    "I''m the guard tonight," he said with a grimace.

    "Why? Agnes, the Garnets have a relationship with Howie and they have people in trade negotiations with his people. I doubt any security is needed outside, especially considering the people inside."

    Agnes looked at him like he was messing everything up. Harding was getting used to the look.

    "Ask Jasika," Harding suggested, ignoring Howie''s attempt at interjecting.

    Everyone looked to Jasika. Agnes clearly didn''t know that she was not the impartial arbiter of decorum in this as she acquiesced without protestation. "I find Howard quite pleasant company," Jasika confirmed, before peering over the ledge to the arena floor below. "What type of entertainment is this?"

    "You didn''t tell her," exclaimed Agnes incredulously.

    Harding motioned to Jarred, Jarred returned the gesture. Neither wanted the blame. When it was clear the effort was a draw, Jarred took responsibility. "Yhavat told her to come, he didn''t seem to think more was needed," offered Jarred in defense. "Besides, I have never been here either."

    "But she''s¡­" Agnes started before realizing that she didn''t want to complete that sentence.

    "You''ve seen her covered in gore," Jarred pointed out.

    Harding added, "And burn the flesh off a godling."

    "What," exclaimed Randal. Which only got him the attention of the frustrated Agnes.

    "And why is he here, he''s just a recruit," she exasperated.

    Randal joined already?

    "My dear Agnes," Aleister said from the door, "You''re a tactical maven and my most respected officer, but you''ve been outmaneuvered by a kid in a robe and an immortal¡­ whatever the hell that was."

    "Sir!" she complained, the first use of an honorific Harding could recall her ever using towards Aleister.

    "Tactical retreat to the wine rack, soldier," Aleister ordered playfully. "And, ah, bring me one too?"

    "I got food and a barmaid coming,¡± Aliester announced. ¡°We''ve got wines, coffee, flavored waters and a selection of hors d''oeuvres. Ask the server for anything specific. There is still about twenty minutes until the fights start."

    "Thank you for this impressive hospitality. We will have to return the favor," Jarred assured. Jasika just smiled, then looked back over the railing. The arena below being clearly more interesting to her.

    A group of men and women entered a minute later. Introductions were made as they included various trade officers, the head of training development, a buyer in weapons procurement, two alchemical research members and more. The box became crowded, even with many of the same people filtering out again. House Garnet was present and the Eights were trying to impress. Jasika retreated as Jarred engaged. Harding filled two mugs with coffee, indicated that Randal should follow and went down into the corner of the booth where Jasika was huddled.

    "Coffee," he offered, as though he were declaring a truce. He extended a mug on a saucer with a small thimble of cream on the side. She accepted it dutifully, wearing the most polite version of the don''t-you-dare-sit-next-to-me face she knew.

    Harding sat next to her.

    Randal sat next to him and the trio shared an awkward silence. Eventually Harding told no one,

    "I love new people and trading for new things, but the formal contact stuff is mind numbing to me."

    Jasika tested the temperature of her coffee, focusing on that instead of him.

    "Still, I suppose I should go see how Jarred is doing," he sighed. "Lady Jasika, if you have questions about the fights, Randal is your man. He comes to every fight, knows the fighters, and even socializes with them afterwards."

    She looked at Randal, then at Harding, "Fights?"

    Harding blinked, not knowing how she still had not keened onto the event. It could be construed as a circus of sorts, as it was essentially just a flat rectangle of packed earth. The event master was getting ready at the side of the arena. The crowd hum increased in anticipation.

    Harding spoke gently, "That is what the Grinder is Maid Jasika, half coffee shop and half pit fights."

    "They don''t actually die," clarified Randal hurriedly.

    "Actually they do, but they got this device under the floor, it''s kind of like what Yhavat did apparently, but in artifact form. When they aren''t doing shows, it''s how the big guilds train. No holding back blows, full lethal intent training. I believe the Queen has the only other device in the kingdom? Ask Randal, I''m going to check on your brother."

    Harding got up. "You¡¯d better give me heads up before your sister fights," he added sternly as he slid past Randal.

    Randal quirked an eyebrow with a squint, "You didn''t hear, did you. She gave up her seed, she''s fighting the unseeded events again. So she''ll be early."

    "Let me know," Harding reiterated.

    As Harding walked away he heard Jasika ask, "Your sister fights here?" Harding smiled. He''d landed the hook.

    ************

    It was several weeks before Brother Rent came back to town. There was no warning. Harding was sitting in the Solar garden one afternoon, meditating on the nature of spirit and attempting to coax it to respond again when an unnoticed Rent spoke, "You figure all this out yet?"

    Harding opened his eyes and Brother Rent was sitting beside him in the same pose. Harding rolled his eyes. "I was trying to commune with Abathala because I thought you were lost."

    "All I''ve lost is my innocence¡­ and my staff."

    "You''ve lost at least a dozen staves."

    "Ah, but they were all mine, so they are but one staff in concept."

    "Lost your mind too."

    "I may have lost your gift¡­"

    "You''re remarkably capable at gifts."

    "How far through the book are you?"

    Harding reached into his Heart gate, pulled out the crypt and lightly swiped it with the spirit extended from his palm. He opened it with a simple mental command instead of the complex manipulations thought to be required. Inside was the original voidseed, its walls nearly coated with the muted ash gray flake of the stained corruption.

    Rent covered his surprise with humor, "I may have subverted too hard, don''t know my own strength and all that. What have you done?"

    "Long story, I might tell you were I properly incentivized."

    Rent laughed.

    "I''ve created a monster."

    Harding paused, then asked in a serious tone, "Have you ever had it speak to you?"

    Rent responded with confusion, "Had what speak to me?"

    "It. Spirit. Magic. Whatever it really is."

    "Ah. I see. No. There are a few writings that suggest such, but they''re widely dismissed as waking dreams. Sometimes, when you''re deep in meditation you can hear things, feel things¡­" he trailed off. The hesitation was unusual for the brash monk. "Some say they''ve even held dialogues, but that is treading next to madness. It''s most likely your inner self speaking back to you.¡±

    Harding itched the side of his nose and considered that it had been his imagination. "I suppose that''s plausible. Didn''t seem like it, but I can''t say I know. Still, it opened the crypt for me."

    "Perhaps it was just an intuitive use?"

    "It led to doing weird things too."

    "Like what?"

    Harding remained silent for the moment. Rent was being serious enough it was starting to concern Harding. He wasn''t sure what was heretical. Rent seemed to enjoy flouting those rules, yet the man was still a monk. Something was bothering him though. Harding started, "I pushed my spirit through a monster''s spirit body and disconnected its spirit from its body.¡±

    "Hmm."

    "Also, manipulated its gate powers while I was in there. It was weird? The thing had powers without seeds."

    "Maybe I should become your acolyte..."

    Old Rent was back.

    Relieved, Harding retorted, "Definitely not without your first training from pictograms only half-visible on an ancient amphora unearthed in the land of the dead that depicts how to reach the fourth ideal."

    Serious Rent returned, quiet and sharp, "Where did you hear that, the Fourth Ideal?"

    Well, shit.

    "Uh, same place I gave a vampiric carrot a spirit enema. Which I''ll tell you about once you give me the gift and make me your acolyte officially. Then, we get out of this stuffy temple."

    Rent snorted.

    "But, you can stop and eat Rodney''s garden first. You have responsibilities after all."

    A slow smile grew on Rent''s face, "This may work out after all.¡±

    ************

    Later that evening, Brother Rent and he had finished both the paperwork for the temple and dinner for themselves. Both bland, as always. How there was paperwork not only baffled Harding, but disturbed him on a fundamental level. Filling out forms in a game.

    Randal came and sat down with a bowl and some bread. "Hey Brother Rent, are you staying awhile?"

    "Actually, I wanted to find you to talk about that," interjected Harding. Harding explained to Randal the change. Although he had talked about wanting to do it for awhile, it had always been more of a thing in the future.

    "But we will be back through regularly, right," Harding asked.

    "Irregularly, but yes. I tend to take different paths, but this is one of the few temples I always try to stop for a couple of days," explained Rent. Harding smiled at Randal and ignored his inner unease at the change.

    If Randal was disappointed, he hid it well. "You''re coming to the Grinder tonight then, right?"

    "I''d like to, do you want to come with Brother Rent?"

    "What is the Grinder?"

    "It''s a coffee shop run by the largest guilds." Harding paused, "And a combat arena."

    Brother Rent bared a predatory grin. "The same guilds that are putting on a tournament in four months?"

    Harding straightened as Randal squinted at the monk, "You''ve heard about that?"

    "It is the talk of the town¡­"

    "It isn''t being announced until tonight."

    "Well I''m sure I heard it somewhere," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

    Rent added slyly, "I love a good show and maybe we could pick up some work as godseed tuners or as spirit medics."

    "We are going to circle back to this ''spirit medic'' bit," promised Harding with a pointed look, "but what if I told you I was on a first name basis with one of the hosting guilds'' leadership?"

    "When do we leave for the show," asked Brother Rent, excitement apparent.

    Harding pushed away from the table. "We should go soon then, I owe the Garnets a goodbye. Perhaps they''ll want to come this evening."

    "The House Garnet of Eastrun?"

    "You''ve missed a lot while you were lost."

    Randal snorted, then tried to cover it up, "You got lost, a traveling monk?"

    Brother Rent¡¯s eyes narrowed as he glared at them, "You''ve both been talking to Rodney haven''t you."

    Time moved on and so did they.

    They went to the Garnet Estate so Harding could say goodbye and ended up talking the duke, Jarred and Jasika into going to the Grinder with them. At the Grinder they were invited into Aleister''s suite, where he was already entertaining as a guest Sir Geoffrey, Knight Commander of the Castle Guard. As the overseer of the Queen''s soulnet artifact, they had common operating issues and research goals.

    The Event Master came out to the middle of the arena, dressed in five shades of green, and addressed the crowd. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Curious and Connoisseur, Savage and Sophisticant, please allow me the delight of informing you that our fight formats have been updated to the exciting competitive standards of the upcoming glorious tournament.¡±

    Cheers.

    ¡°Individual fighter classes will now be either natural or open. Natural fighters must harrowingly face their opponents without the aid of magic or alchemy. Open fighters are allowed any aid that was brought upon the sand before the fight, including those brought by others.¡±

    The monoseeded are going to get crushed, but Archons will be challenged further.

    ¡°Fights will continue as an elimination tournament, either in solo or group brackets. Due to the complexity of the group fights, we will be posting a team schedule starting Monday. Teams will not have set nights, so be sure to check the schedule to follow your favorite teams.¡±

    They''re starting permanent fight teams.

    ¡°And with that, let me introduce to you this evening''s natural fighters¡­"

    The group watched casually as they chatted. Quickly, the topic turned to the tournament.

    "Sir Geoffrey, will the Guard be sending fighters to the tournament. Rumor has it, under your excellent tutelage, the Queen, Bless the Crown, has some of the best fighters in the kingdom, even when not including the Queen''s Own."

    "We are considering it. I would like to field a team, but our first priority is our duty to the Crown. Should Her Highness attend though, we think we would have the numbers."

    ¡°We, too, are investigating if we will be sponsoring fighters from our ranks. However, after some recent losses, our current duty roster is too thin to allow a team. Perhaps, if enough awaken in time though," explained the duke.

    Awaken?

    "Mom would be incredible in the individual event," interjected Jarred.

    "Yes, son, she would," warmly allowed his father. "But ability alone does not dictate whether someone fights. She is excited to attend, but has no interest in participating."

    Sir Geoffrey pointed out, ¡°Duke Garnet, you are commonly known as a very skilled combatant. One might even say even feared by the majority of the court. Will you be fighting?"

    The duke let out a long exhale. Holding his hands out empty, he excused, "It would be exhilarating, but it would not be appropriate." He didn''t sound unhappy though to Harding.

    ¡°I have not yet decided if my children will be allowed, but the position it could force my men or even other houses'' men into is unbecoming of a conscientious Lord," proclaimed the duke. "I''m sure it''s different for a guild or association, but my men are sworn to me through death. Many have died for me. As their lord, how could I cross blades in competition or stand in their way to advance for my own amusement?"

    Sir Geoffrey nodded in understanding, Aleister watched below, submerged in his own thoughts. Harding felt a bit of disappointment, he had seen the duke fight monsters and was pretty sure he would be a formidable opponent to any individual.

    A few fights into the night''s events, Albert Kirk and Runild joined them. "Heard you were up here, wanted to pay my respects," Albert bowed to the duke. "Your recent investments are really coming together. "

    Runild countered, "Pfft, he heard there was hot food up here and wanted to eat. His hunger was making him really bitchy."

    They sat in the back after piling up their plates. Runild hadn''t been kidding, Al had served up a heaping platter for himself. No one else seemed to pay attention to them though. Jasika, Jarred and Randal huddled together to talk fights, powers and strategies. On the other side Duke Garnet engaged with Sir Geoffrey and Aleister on stately business and guild functions. Brother Rent and Harding existed in the gap between. Occasionally Albert or Runild would insert themselves into their conversation, but mostly they just ate and cheered the fights.

    Harding thought about the culture of the Eights, where these two could just come up and pillage the appetizers in front of high ranking guests. While some might see it as low discipline, Harding knew Aleister was entirely results driven. They were team leads and acting questionably improper, yet there was a core to them that was hard and the rest was just let go.

    They were a family.

    When Alexci fought, the group didn''t talk. It wasn''t just for Randal¡¯s sake. Alexci had built a reputation in the guild. She gathered a certain following in both her fight progress and her social engineering. She didn''t move like Runild, but she was fast. She didn''t have massive strength like Agnes, but she overpowered or used leverage against many opponents. But her most striking feature was her brutal aggression and unpredictable methods. She''d try anything and would often succeed. She just kept coming; fast.

    In the arena square and the public square.

    This fight Alexci fought a heavily armored opponent who stood behind a large kite shield. Instead of depending on his defense though, he came at her in a reckless all out attack. His faith was in armor allowing his effort to be entirely in his attack. She defended, readily falling back. Her retreat was alien.

    Then at the moment her first counter hit his shield, she let her attack carry her physically into his shield. She let go of her sword and grasped the edges of his shield. Twisting away from his lunge and falling backward to her knees as she added to his momentum. The culmination was an awkward throw.

    He landed hard.

    She jumped on him and brought both fists against the back of his head. She used his shock not to get in more blows, but to draw his own stiletto from his hip. She rammed it ruthlessly into the side of his neck. Viciously, she did it over and over until it was quite clear he was dead.

    She rolled him over and arranged him on his back, shield on chest on top of his crossed arms as preparing him to be interred. Then she thrust his sword in the sand above his head like a grave marker. Percival came over to her and told the cheering crowd "She ruined another perfectly good knight."

    They roared.

    She slapped Percival on the ass with the flat of her sword that she had just picked up. Playing for the crowd, he pantomimed anguish and grabbed his ass with one hand while putting the back of his other hand to his forehead. The crowd lost it. In less than thirty seconds she''d savagely killed a larger, heavily armored aggressor, put on a small show with his corpse and was now in a slapstick routine with Percival.

    "Your sister has everything an event needs, Randal. We have multiple new fighters a week here just to fight her," praised Aleister.

    "She certainly loves the show," agreed Randal.

    "What''s with Alexci being unseeded again," Harding asked.

    "Uh," Randal hesitated. "That''s her story. I shouldn''t talk about it." Jasika and Aleister both eyed Randal, though Harding thought it might be for different reasons.

    Down below, they were clearing the sand while two fighters stood at the edge talking to Percival.

    Harding took the time and announced, "I wanted you all to know that I''ve become Brother Rent''s acolyte. Some of you already knew, or at least knew it was my plan." People congratulated Harding. Harding gave thanks and moved on, "We will be leaving the city soon, tomorrow morning maybe?"

    "Mmm," mumbled Brother Rent, well in the process of draining another ale. "In the morning, hangover and Okkor be willing."

    "Tomorrow afternoon," Harding amended.

    "Will you be gone long," asked Jarred, though all of the Garnets watched him.

    "My understanding is we will be circling through the Empire, but that we will be back through a few times," answered Harding.

    Brother Rent had gone for more ale, but called over, "Probably be through Eastrun in a couple months, once Harding can survive the road."

    The duke nodded.

    "I''m going to have a little care package sent over," declared Albert.

    Aleister picked up the idea and added, "A bit from Agnes and I, too."

    They both looked at Runild expectantly. Feeling their intent, she looked up from her plate of chicken with her mouth full, "Whafp."

    "I''m sure Runild will have something to add," Aleister assured him.

    "I appreciate it guys. No need, but I certainly appreciate it. I''ll miss all of you. However, I should see you soon in a month or two and if not, we might be going to the tournament? How hard will it be to get tickets, Aleister?"

    Aleister laughed, "Basic entry will be free, though they''re charging a lot for camping. I''m sure vendor prices will be insane. However, I''ll get you an All Access pass. It''ll get you everywhere but the Nobles section. For that, you''d need a House sponsor."

    "And we will gladly have you both as guests," affirmed the duke. "We should have the actual passes by the time you come through Eastrun. Just stop there and someone at the holding can provide them if we are not in residence."

    Brother Rent inserted himself, "We would be filled with gratitude. Young Harding here should be ready to act as a fully competent seed setter by then. Should your house have any work, he would be grateful for the opportunity to practice." Harding was suspicious of Rent''s gracious manner and decided it was entirely motivated by the prospect of fully comped vending.

    "It is good to train those that seek to master, it is how society aids in the development of their skill," Sir Geoffrey opened. "Should you happen to pass by the castle in such need, please present yourself. While we do have a few setters, they have many other duties and would be generous in offering up opportunities for you to work. Especially since they are responsible for the Watch as well."

    Rent smiled, amused by the prospect and assured him such opportunities would be sought. Hatching felt like a commodity, one Rent was happily trading away for favors.

    "What about the rangers," Harding asked, more than a little sarcastically.

    Purposefully oblivious, Sir Geoffrey clarified, "They fall under command of the military and, as such, have access to their services."

    The rest of the night went smoothly. The end events were Grand Melees and those were highly entertaining. They were also in a tournament format, a last man standing chaos of all participating guilders in that class in the arena at once. Afterwards, they all went down to the fighters lounge. Even Sir Geoffrey was included. There they mingled, drank and paid compliments to the athletes. Harding took the opportunity to bid a temporary farewell to Alexci, who seemed a little sullen that he would be leaving again.

    Or, maybe, I''m imagining it.

    "I must train though," he asserted using logic she couldn''t argue. He admitted, "I''m not where I want to be in skill. Hopefully, once trained, I''ll be very capable enough to join my friends instead of just following them."

    She was sincere when she instructed him, "Don''t waste any opportunity. That''s all we get. I probably train too much," she admitted somberly before snapping back. "But someone has to teach these finks some humility. It''s a costly task, but not so difficult."

    As the group chortled Harding felt like he had seen behind her mask for just a moment. Everyone saw her good-natured aggression, a charging warrior who was the life of the party. But everything demands its balance.

    Everything has a cost.

 Chapter 16

    Late the next morning, Harding had packed his meager belongings and left behind his old cell. Brother Rent still hadn''t emerged, so Harding settled in the front garden with Randal and Ed.

    "Well, open them up," urged Ed, eyeing the packages. The packages had come in a single cloth sack during the night. Inside the sack was a wooden box, a smaller cloth sack, a waterskin, a pair of wool socks and a note which read:

    <blockquote>

    Harding,

    Good luck on your adventure. Train well, learn much, then come back and join the Eights. Recruitment endures eternal.

    Your tournament passes will await you in Eastrun. We don''t have them printed yet.

    -Aleister

    Included:

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Box of Medicinal Alchemy refills, Albert</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Howie Treats, Howie</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Eight-Up, Agnes</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Wool socks knit by Runild</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Large pot of gold, Aleister</li>

    </ul>

    PS: The passes will be fully comped for vending. You''ll have a place to sleep with the Eights. (The pot of gold didn''t exist, it''s the passes.)

    </blockquote>

    Harding chuckled, then began to laugh. The others stared at him. When he could breathe again, he explained. "You gotta know Runild. She moves like a viper and I''m pretty sure she''s venomous. Also, she knit me socks. It says by, not from."

    Harding stowed his goodies in his pack. "You guys have fun without me. Randal, are you going to the tournament with your sister?"

    "She''s not getting all the fun."

    Brother Rent appeared in the temple doors shortly after, a small haversack over his shoulder and that was it.

    "Ready?"

    "Yessir."

    Brother Rent took on a somber face and looked at the other two, "Rodney gives you any issues, you let me know and Harding here will eat his bushes."

    "Ah¡­"

    Ed burst out laughing at Harding.

    "We have done Okkor''s will here my boy, time to move on."

    And with that, Brother Rent led Harding out the gate and into a new life.

    Harding thought it would be dramatic. He was exiting the temple life. He was leaving behind his friends, his home, and the city. New horizons, new lands, and new adventuring awaited. Instead, they went to visit Master Bradon.

    Rent and Brandon chatted between the weapons master''s yelling at another new member class learning the spear. They stayed so long that they had lunch together.

    Some new life, sitting around Gremuth while waiting on Rent.

    They stopped at a bank, a launder, and a provisioner. It was mid afternoon before they exited the city.

    "So, where are we going," begged Harding now that the when was finally answered.

    "Have you no sense of adventure? Can you not feel Okkor''s flow, carrying you to your fate?"

    "No one is around to be impressed with your theatrics, Rent."

    "Oh. Yeah. Habit. We are headed to Bresham. We will make it before nightfall, stay there overnight, and then take the portal tomorrow."

    "Portal to where?"

    "Depends upon what I find out tomorrow. Wandering monks don''t actually wander. Well, we do, but it''s¡­ directed wandering, not random wandering." Rent nodded his head side to side, debating, before he corrected himself, "Somewhat directed wandering."

    They walked along the side of a dirt road headed out of the North gate. Wagons passed in either direction. The further they got from the city, the tighter the forest closed in on both sides of the road. Harding knew the river was off to the west some ways, and the road seemed to angle that way, but otherwise was lost. Piles of horse manure populated the road. It slowly dawned on Harding that his imagined future of learning the ways of the mystic warrior monk against picturesque backdrops may have been in error.

    An hour into walking in silence, his sole challenge had been avoiding the odiferous excrement. Instead of the next adventure, it felt like starting over. In an attempt to save the dream he inquired, "What am I to learn?"

    "How not to get lost."

    "Seriously, what is it I should expect to learn?"

    "I do not mean lost on the road. The road is the easy part."

    "What other ways?"

    "To ego. To fear. In life, and in death."

    "Ok. So when do we start?"

    "When you are ready."

    "I am ready."

    "You think you are ready."

    "How do I become ready?"

    "By learning two things: The duality of acceptance, and the falseness of duality."

    "You want me to learn something, knowing it''s false?"

    "Mmm. Just so."

    Harding chewed on the concept while he drank from his waterskin. Rent hadn¡¯t said the acceptance of duality, but the duality of acceptance. He also said that quality itself was false. And, to be cute, he¡¯d split his statement into two parts.

    Does he mean that acceptance is false?

    Harding tested the water, "So, ah, what''s that supposed to teach?"

    "The difference between knowledge and understanding."

    "And this helps me fight?"

    "It helps you fight many things as there are many types of enemies. It is just as hard to learn what to fight as it is to learn how to fight."

    "So¡­ know your enemy?"

    Rent was quiet as a wagon passed, creaking and grinding along. The horse huffed and the wagoneer touched his hat in regards to the monks. Harding figured it was probably one of those things, fellow travelers of the road showing mutual respect. Something like that.

    He skipped to avoid fresh leavings and Rent continued with the trader out of earshot. "Mmm. What is the foundation of society?"

    "I don''t know, laws?"

    "No, close, but no. It''s order. Without order things do not function. Things only function because we agree that they do. When we agree things no longer function, they don''t."

    "Wait. We agree things function when they don''t, so they do. But they aren''t, so agreeing really isn''t making things function."

    "And that''s your first lesson in duality, non-duality."

    "Why aren''t laws more important, they make things work."

    "Laws are an attempt to impose order. But they fail at that. They''re really there to create the appearance of order. The illusion of order that the masses believe and thus agree to. Without order, there is nothing for the laws to falsify."

    "That seems academic."

    "Does it? What is the enemy of society?"

    "If society is order, then chaos?"

    "Why?"

    "It''s the opposite."

    "Duality."

    Harding grumbled. He wanted to learn to fight, not some disgruntled monk''s philosophy. Still this probably fit into Life''s vision of holy order. "I guess, but then¡­ is chaos not the opposite."

    "Nope," he chuckled.

    Harding wiped sweat from his forehead, the day was fully heated now and while the trees offered shade they did nothing for the humidity. "Fine, what is?"

    "Maybe truth? Truth is in opposition to society. But again, that is a false ideal. It''s all just what you stepped in."

    Harding looked down and swore. Rent hummed happily to himself. After dragging his foot around to scrape off as much as he could, Harding pressed, "What''s the point of all this mini philosophy?"

    Rent tapped his own temple twice. "You are to be a monk of Okkor so you should probably understand him."

    That was a shockingly fair point. "You mean like reading his holy book or something?"

    "That is knowledgeable, I said you should understand.¡±

    Harding scowled but accepted he''d been led in a circle. "Ok, fine. So what should I understand?"

    Rent laughed.

    Yeah that was a dumb question¡­

    He walked a few paces before he began, swatting at some flying insect. "Okkor brings what can be into being. He is the river of change. Order is just a piece of driftwood floating in that flow. He''s neither against it nor for it. His conscious followers praise not the coin nor do they follow society. Flow. Accept and resist, be the duality and see its fallacy."

    "I''m confused," Harding admitted. He''d heard the term Lord of Potential before. But was he a god of chaos then? "Is society the enemy?"

    "No. Neither is commerce. But they are rigid. The concept of an enemy is the illusion."

    "You''ve got this whole answer by not answering thing down solid."

    "When you understand what I said you will no longer have a question. Is that not an answer?"

    "Fine. Whatever. I''ll think on it, but tell me something else first. What are these portals?"

    "Ah, that is much easier,¡± cheerfully allowed the monk.

    Rent seemed to naturally glide on the road. No puddle, pie or stone surprised him. Harding was unsure if it was experience or just some artificial assistance.

    ¡°No one knows where they came from, some say the First People made them, but some scholars say it predates even them.¡± Rent thrust out his hand and panned it across the forward arc dramatically, ¡°There''s nine of them, spread throughout the continent, all synchronized together. They''re major conduits of everything."

    Being able to teleport goods and people across large distances would significantly impact commerce. They should be hubs, with society built around them. Instead, he was walking a road to one.

    "Then why isn''t the capital next to one?"

    "Gremuth? It wasn''t ever supposed to be a capital. Started as a little fort, then a fortified city, and so on, guarding the mouth to the Bres river. Only through a bunch of wars and politics did it become a major port and then the royal city."

    "And Bresham?"

    "Industrial city, lots of water power from a wide and fast river. Never was anything more though. Most of its goods are shipped by the river. The portals just do not have enough throughput to ship that way."

    Volume is usability in shipping.

    They walked on for nearly two more hours before they arrived at Bresham. The forest had given way on one side to being tree lines at the edge of fields. Wagon traffic had increased as more roads connected. The river pulled away from the road and then came back bringing more new growth forest. I''m the end, Harding could smell the city before he could see it.

    Bresham was nestled into the wooded bank, maybe a bit more than twenty-five feet cut clear between the wood and the city wall. It was a thin wall with little effort to be much of anything. Harding''s impression was that it was to keep the wildlife out. Or, maybe, the people in. Either way, it was not a bulwark against invasion but a palisade of complacency.

    The entry gate structures were at least made of stone. There were four separate gate doors and traffic flowed in a single direction for each gate. At that moment, there were three gates acting as exits and only one as an entrance. Despite the traffic, a couple guards stood round, their billhooks cradled in an arm as they chatted. On either side and between the middle two gates were wall towers of the most basic construction. Within them were guards. Harding could see shadows pass slits in the walls, but whether they were armed with bows or sandwiches he couldn''t tell.

    Despite the lateness of the day, the sun still sat as a high crown in the trees. The entry line shuffled forward at a slow walk. The guards just gave cursory glances at anything that wasn''t a wagon. As they passed through the gates a guard called out, "Hullo Brother Rent," and waved. The guards inside the gate didn''t seem to be attentive either. The one looked them over and told them to enter in a voice that was the embodiment of boredom. Harding decided the city security was for show and tax collection. Maybe wildlife.

    The city district inside was fairly uniform. Each building was made from a mix of cut stone and brick for the first floor. Upper floors were either a continuation of that or made of wood. And that was a lot of wood as the city had insane verticality. Almost everything was four stories tall and crammed together. The predominant style was jettied buildings as well. Combined with the narrow streets and denser traffic, the heights and overhangs made the city feel enclosed and claustrophobic.

    The entire place looked like a fire hazard. It smelled like moldy wood, old urine, and wet hay. The place looked like it was one house fire away from all burning down to the ground floor. The streets were bathed in shadows, but the alleys swallowed light whole. Tight, twisting spaces between buildings that Harding would not enter.

    He had a whole new respect for Gremuth.

    Harding followed Brother Rent though oddly angled streets that ran straight until you got near the river. The river was lined with massive factories, behemoth buildings of brick similar to the Grinder. They left it behind though as they crossed the river bridge. From the bridge Harding could see the width of the city and the other bridges that spanned the Bres. A stone dam up river diverted conduits and piers along the factories allowed for barge loading.

    The city felt like a grimy factory.

    Across the bridge the buildings changed a little. More row housing with less wood combined with a seemingly more organized development plan. If Harding had to guess, the section they were in was newer but not necessarily wealthier.

    Rent led them to a place which looked like every other residential building on the street. Instead of a tenement though it was full of Okkor monks. As they walked through, unfamiliar monks nodded or called out to Rent. There were no conversations of note, everything was impersonal and cursory. Rent brought Harding to a service counter in the back.

    "Hey Re- er, Brother Rent," said the old monk as he eyed Harding.

    "Hi, Henry. Meet my new acolyte, I''m taking him on the road so I need to change his robes."

    "Ah, a Winter Traveler. What''s your size?"

    "I don''t know?"

    Harding not knowing led to him having to take his robes off and stand in the room in his underpants. The clerk checked the size, then measured him for undergarments. Having scribbled it down he headed into a storage area in the back.

    "You need new clothing, you come to Bresham,¡± explained Rent. ¡°Most other temples will take weeks if they don''t stock your size."

    Henry came back, with a stack of clothes. "We got here two pair of winter pants. Two pairs of winter undershirts. And a Winter Traveler. Anything else?"

    "No, that''s great Henry. Thank you."

    It barely fit in his pack and that was with his medic stuff in the haversack, which now also bulged past its preferred capacity. Rent led him deeper and into a cramped dining hall that was little more than a couple benches.

    They dished food themselves from a few pots and baskets, which a brother would refill occasionally as other monks moved through. Instead of trying to eat in there though, Rent brought Harding to the front stoop. There they sat in the summer air, the city still holding the day''s heat in its stone and ate in silence. They watched the street traffic, no one paying them any attention.

    The city was alive, but the people seemed less diverse than Gremuth. There weren''t any colorful dandies, clanking adventurers, or extravagant wealth. Just the working poor, leaving the factories for their tiny apartments. Few travelers were obvious players and Harding could understand why, there was little here to offer any excitement. On one hand, this drab multitude was a little depressing. But, on the other, here were the people who made the goods that powered commerce.

    Items didn''t just magically appear in shop inventories.

    Finishing his meal, Rent told Harding more about the temple. "Visiting Brothers have a bunk on the fourth floor. The roof is a silent area for meditation, no speaking up there. Shitter is out the back, through the garden."

    Harding nodded in understanding, mouth full of bread.

    "Meditate your usual, think about your future goals and get some sleep. We are heading out before sunrise."

    Then Rent turned and went in.

    Harding followed a bit later, having finished eating. He dropped his bowl off, went to the roof and did his meditation on spirit. With four other monks up there meditating, he felt like spirit was closer than usual, but thinner. He wondered if it was really sentient, or if he was just imagining it. He wasn''t sure it mattered. The result was the same, but achieving a singular result is different than grasping a broader truth.

    What would it mean if the forces were sentient?

    Harding found an open bunk, dressed down to his underpants and crawled in on top. He had just been assuming that Rent would make the choices for him, to lead him to a greater understanding. That was what he understood an apprentice or acolyte to be. But, maybe, that wasn''t the way to go. He needed to learn to fight and he needed to learn more combat magic. After that though he was unsure. Rent had mentioned healing spirit bodies. Also, he needed to make a little coin?

    As he drifted to sleep, he realized he was a monk only because he was led there. He kept looking to define himself there, but he knew he''d probably end up in the Eights in the future without something drastic changing.

    Am I just wasting time?

    Harding slept peacefully for some time before he began to dream. He wasn''t even sure when the dream started, only that he found himself in a ring like the pillars of Black Barrows. There was only darkness outside the ring. Inside, with him, two beings fought locked in an epic struggle. They were all wrong though, their legs much too short and their torso too long and pear shape. They both wore breastplates of gleaming silver, were armed with short swords of steel and had wings of white feathers. They seemed indistinguishable from each other.

    One broke an arm free and stabbed with the sword, which pierced the other''s arm. Harding bent over in pain, clutching his arm. The being stabbed seemed oblivious to it and smashed his head into the other, who reeled back, breaking their wrestling embrace. Harding tasted blood in his mouth, felt a loose tooth. They came together, and one slammed a knee into the other''s groin.

    Harding went dizzy, his vision swam. Nausea overcame him and he lost awareness for a moment. When he came to, he was underwater. A strong current pulled him and he struggled with asphyxiation. Two fish swam up to him. They seemed attracted by something, perhaps his blood as he was still bleeding. One fish was white and the other black. They were otherwise identical. Harding watched them breath while he drowned, their mouths gaping and their gills functioning.

    "CHOOSE," he heard in his head.

    "Brah..." said the other, quiet and garbled.

    Harding''s consciousness was drifting away. He didn''t care about the fish, he was dying. They watched passively. Indifferent. Gulping.

    Harding woke with a start in bed. His heart thundered as he sucked in breath. He gasped in the dark, feeling claustrophobic. Feeling his way around in the darkness, he slid off the bunk and inched his way to the hall that had some district light leaking through the stairwell window. In the hallway, he raced down the steps and out the door. Harding breathed in the cooler night air in big gulps, trying to slow his racing heart. He slowly lowered himself to sit on the stoop and shook his head.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    After a minute or two, he had started to calm down and just watched the quiet city night. An occasional figure or two would move in the street, but it was otherwise deserted. Each intersection was lit with hung lamps, creating pools of light where the shadow would recede to reveal a traveler for a moment. Then they would disappear.

    A couple walked towards him and stopped as they entered the soft edge of the light at the base of the stoop. Harding''s heart stopped. There stood Ricasso and Bluejay, arms linked as if for a civilized and proper stroll.

    "I am always astounded, my dear, at your uncanny senses. Your jackrabbit is indeed here, out on the steps to greet you no less. Hello, Mister Hill. Miss Bluejay oh so wanted to visit."

    Harding started to speak but no words came out. Bluejay gave Ricasso a soft bat with a hand, which he ignored as he leaned over and peered at Harding intently.

    "No, Miss Jay, I do believe he is alive. It would be unseemly if the monks just discarded him, dead, on their stoop." Ricasso snorted to an unheard joke and took out his handkerchief. Wiping his spectacles, he continued, "I do not believe you''ve broken him, I smell dream on the boy like jam on a biscuit."

    Bluejay glanced at him. Ricasso stated seriously, ¡°No miss, I do not know which flavor of jam it is. A cooler berry, perhaps?¡±

    Bluejay stepped onto the stoop and knelt before Harding, peering up at him, light glinting off her eyes in a very wrong red non-glow. She poked his kneecap inquisitively with a finger, testing tentatively as if he might be an illusion.

    "Ha, hello Miss Bluejay. Mister Ricasso. I, ah, you are quite correct, sir, I just had a sequence of severe visitations that left me physically unwell. I hope my sorry state didn''t cause offense."

    Bluejay smiled. It started like genuine concern but morphed into a predatory teeth barring. "Yes indeed, you''re quite correct. Boy''s done something quite strange to his spirit. And an Okkor monk too, yet he has her in there.¡± Ricasso shifted his focus squarely onto Harding, ¡°I wish you all the best, truly, but Bluejay here has taken an interest in you. And I will be so bold as to say she has been perturbed by your lack of recognizing her in your past meetings."

    "Our past meetings," asked Harding, equally concerned and confused.

    "See there, he simply didn''t see you,¡± consoled the dandy. ¡°I doubt such a wholesome boy as he would intentionally ignore such a lady of standing."

    Bluejay turned to Ricasso and made a series of noises between clicking and gagging. Harding''s skin crawled. Ricasso laughed. "Of course not, Miss Jay, of course not. I wouldn''t dare speak for you, other than in completion of my duties as your liaison."

    Bluejay scrunched her face at him, turned back to Harding, watching him a moment. He didn''t even see her move. She went from watching from her crouch to holding him by the throat, nose to nose. She breathed slowly on his face, her head tilted inquisitively. Harding could feel it immediately, she had pinched the blood flow to his brain in his neck.

    She bumped his nose with hers, it felt like a cat prodding a terrified mouse to move for it. Harding''s consciousness was dimming, but he did not struggle. He knew these two could do what they wanted with him and he wouldn''t be able to even call for help.

    As his vision narrowed she leaned in suddenly and crushed her open mouth to his mouth. Fluid rushed into his mouth as she ground hard against his mouth. He couldn''t breathe. His brain was shutting down. He inadvertently gasped, choked on the fluid and it filled his sinuses. Tangy, coppery and viscous- it dripped from his nostrils.

    It''s blood!

    She let go of him suddenly and he hacked hard, spitting up blood all over himself. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, returning to stand next to Ricasso. She smiled at him.

    "I do believe, Mister Hill, that she likes you," declared Ricasso.

    She looked at him. "Yes," he told her, "I know that''s how they feed their young. Are you implying he''s your chick?"

    She clucked once at Ricasso, then turned away. "My apologies, Miss Jay, but if you don''t know what you mean then I''m not sure how I can know your meaning." He paused, then responded again, "Yes, I do believe he will remember your affections this time."

    Harding looked up at the pair, his coughing mostly ended but still seeing pinpricks of light in his vision. "I do believe he will indeed. Only a fool wouldn''t, and our young monk here isn''t one of those."

    She nodded, smiled again at Harding with a bloody mouth and then took Ricasso''s arm. They strolled away, carefree. Harding watched them go. Bluejay turned her head back at the edge of the light, saw his gaze and blew him a kiss. She seemed to sway her hips a bit more after too as they turned to shadows.

    "Why," moaned Harding and leaned back on the stairs and passed out.

    Harding woke up on the stairs of the stoop to a black cat licking blood off his face. His back ached and he had no idea how long he had been out. It was still dark though, it couldn''t have been too long. Harding carefully picked up the cat behind its front legs and set it down beside him. He pet it once as a peace offering, the thing glared hungrily at him despite it looking well-fed. Harding whispered, ¡°Happy to have bled for you. At least someone gets something out of this.¡±

    Looking down he realized it was easily too much blood to be just his. He got up slowly and went back into the temple. In the soft light of the front entry, he saw that he had blood from his nose to his thighs. He was thankful he''d been shirtless, but his undershorts were still stained. He found a bucket of water in the back and wiped himself down in the flicker of a candle¡¯s light. The shorts seemed a lost cause. Once he was as clean as he could manage in the circumstances, he trudged up the stairs. He was more tired than he could ever remember being. He climbed up into bed and passed out.

    It felt like he''d just closed his eyes when Brother Rent woke him. "Time to get up." Harding groaned. Slowly he moved, angling himself off the edge of the bunk before letting  himself fall to his feet. He winced and swayed a little, then looked to Rent.

    "Nose bleed," Rent asked.

    "Yeah. Tough night."

    "Nothing will fix that like walking a few miles."

    "I hate you."

    "No you don''t. You''re just learning to hate. I will teach you the true depths of hatred."

    Harding rolled his eyes and pulled on his robe, remarking, "It''s already working."

    "Feeling better?"

    "No, learning to hate more."

    Rent chuckled.

    Dressed and packed, they stopped downstairs for breakfast. It was too early for there to be breakfast though. Harding pointed out a sign showing exactly when the monks were served breakfast. Rent didn''t let him go back to sleep.

    Life was unfair.

    Despite his advocacy for more sleep and a meal, they left the temple instead. The walk back through the city was eventless. While the city street they''d stayed on had been nearly empty in the late night, the streets had come alive with foot traffic in the predawn. The single gate functioning as an exit this morning was empty. Harding assumed the guards were around somewhere.

    Serious security here.

    Back onto the main road, they continued north until coming to a major crossroad on which they turned left. Headed back towards the river until reaching the portal. Their journey was short. The portal was just over ten minutes walk from the gates.

    The portal was a flat shelf of curious rock above the bank of the river. The ground was even out into it and then steeply sloped down to a single pier where a small barge was moored. The city was not more than a stone¡¯s throw through the brush away. In the top of the flat rock was a large silvery inlaid circle. It looked remarkably similar to the plaza in Black Barrow, though he was fairly certain they were different. Harding decided they were the same kind of magic, but different functions.

    This inlay was inscribed with eight large runes evenly spaced around the edge. Between each large rune was a repeated set of two smaller runes. The second of the smaller runes glowed with a soft amber light.

    There were a couple people standing well outside the circle, but the riverside grove was quiet and still. The area around the portal was worn and matted, nearly to gravel. "See the lit rune? Never cross the circle when that one''s glowing."

    Harding thought about asking why, but waited. Within a minute there was a surge of magic and the whole circle flashed. Nothing else seemed to happen, but as the next rune clockwise began to glow a gust of cold air blasted into him.

    Harding shivered from a sudden, frigid breeze.

    Rent looked over at him, but Rent was outlined by a ray of morning light and Harding couldn''t comfortably look back. He squinted, before being forced to turn away. He stared at the portal instead. Rent spoke softly, "When the portal activates, the two linked locations swap everything inside them. Including air, wind and snow. Even arrows and such. That second rune lit is a warning it''s about to change. You don''t want to be crossing the boundary when it swaps."

    Harding looked around but didn''t find any signage. The first light of the next set had started to glow, this one a yellowish off-white. He asked, "How do I know where it''s going?"

    "That depends on what you mean," shrugged Rent, causing his shadow to dance over the edge of the circle. Harding let out an exaggerated sigh at which Rent chuckled. "The coming swap will be with the next location rune on the track. If, however, you are asking what the runes mean then the answer is that it is a mystery."

    "It can''t be a mystery, you know where we are going."

    "Yes, we know which ring corresponds with which rune. Therefore, we know what it means in a locational sense. But if that rune means ''muddy creek'', ''Rupert''s landing'', or ''ring seven''- that we don''t know. We barely know any of the First People''s language, and this runic set predates that. So in a literal sense, it is indeed a mystery."

    "Pretty sure I''ve seen some of these before¡­"

    "Oh, Where?"

    "I''ll tell you later," Harding muttered looking around. "Never know who''s listening."

    They stood around for a bit less than a quarter hour, then Rent said, "This is us."

    Rent held Harding by the shoulder and waited for a wagon and near a dozen workers to exit out of the circle. Only then did Rent guide Harding onto the platform.

    "Where are we going," inquired Harding.

    Rent quirked his especially irritating smile, the one he saved for his most endearing moments. "Meditate on the purpose of mystery while we wait for it to be revealed."

    "Ass," mumbled Harding under his breath.

    Rent stepped to the other side of the circle to speak to a woman. Harding tried to think on the meaning and purpose of mystery in life, but couldn''t concentrate. Lances of light breaking over the trees illuminated the circle. The light caused the woman to turn to avoid looking into it which, in turn, revealed that the duck she was carrying was wearing a hat. A little knit beanie of dark green wool. Rent wanted him to think on the meaning of mystery, here is an actual-

    Everything changed.

    It was becoming a familiar feeling. The fragility of reality. It still twisted his guts and tripped his brain, but it was only for a second and then the feeling started to fade. Harding wondered what it was like for people who used personal teleportation in the chaos of battle.

    He knew they''d switched places, but he felt like he was on the same platform, staring at a dense wall of trees. Different trees, but still trees.

    "Turn around," said Rent in a quiet voice.

    Harding turned and his jaw dropped. They were standing on a plateau overlooking forested hills smeared dark with pine. Nestled two hundred feet below was a small city that sat along a narrow river.

    "Good luck, my Lady," Rent called as the duck lady walked off giggling at his attention.

    There were few people at this portal. The sky was a bit darker and laced with a faint shadow of hidden clouds. Harding surmised they''d traveled east far enough to change the location of the sun back at least an hour. Lights of the city below still reflected off the smooth surface of the languid river.

    Besides being the crack of dawn, why do so few people use this?

    Rent grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off the platform. "Good manners make a man," instructed Rent.

    "But you eat all of Rodney''s prized plants," accused Harding, finger pointed at Rent as he stumbled behind the moving monk.

    "Hesitation in war is no mercy," Rent retorted.

    Rent let go of Harding''s collar and started to walk the path. Harding glanced around at the waiting people, some of them starting to move into the circle now that it was empty. He had been gawking and in other people''s way. Harding followed Rent, smiling.

    It was now starting to feel like an adventure now.

    The path wound down the hillside in great loops and switchbacks due to the steepness of the slope. Harding quickly learned he had made a mistake on the height difference, it was closer to three hundred feet. Perspective was a tricky thing.

    They arrived at the gates to the city, though that might be an overly generous estimation of it. It was more just where the road conveniently exited the buildings through a rough palisade. Rent made a turn on the path and started walking north just outside and away from the city. Harding hesitated. Here was a city, small but full of promise and comfort. And instead they didn''t even explore it. He didn''t hesitate long though and jogged to catch up.

    "So, ah, no town."

    "Nope."

    "What is the name of that town?"

    Rent kept his pace. "Tamis Cross."

    "And, ah, where is that town?"

    "Better question. We are in the central region of the Kingdom of Ihroe."

    Harding gave up for now. He had heard of Ihroe, but only the name and only in passing. He watched the forest as they walked the road. The river was a backdrop of soft noise upon which birdsong and other sounds of nature sat. The pines on the hillside were dense in canopy but their thin trunks opened the area up making it easy to see except where elevations obscured. Around the trail, especially on the river side, the undergrowth was thicker. Across the river the rock wall hung a hundred feet above the near still waters, its stone striated in shades from tan to red.

    When there was no other traffic, Rent and he were the only foreign sounds in nature. Occasional gusts brought waves of pine scent and dust. They traveled like this in the rising morning sun for nearly an hour before coming to the first road crossing that was more than a footpath. Towards the river Harding could see a bridge, with several men standing about this side of it. The other way disappeared into a forested cut in the hills.

    "Hold your staff out."

    Harding summoned and extended his staff towards Rent. Rent touched it with his left hand, a copy popping into existence in his right.

    Harding squinted. "So you can just copy a magic staff?"

    "Duplicate."

    "Whatever. You could just carry a magic staff, copy it, and never lose the original¡­"

    Rent gave him a half-hearted smirk.

    "Look," Rent nodded towards the bridge. "Any trouble, you just stay alive by any means."

    Anxiety set in. Harding peered down the wooded lane at the figures. As Harding wondered why he hadn''t bound himself back at Tamis Cross, Rent spun his duplicated staff once. Rent grunted with a note of surprise, "This is a good staff. I shouldn''t have given it away." Even the impending danger¡¯s anxiety had to give way to the weight of Harding''s dramatic eye roll. Rent moved on and approached the bridge casually. When they came close one of the men waved at them. The others just glanced at them and then went back to talking.

    So shady¡­

    As the monks continued towards them two men stepped out in front of the group to meet them. "Hold up, Brothers," said a man in a hat that looked like a ushanka, "the bridge is out ahead."

    Who wears a ushanka in summer?

    Rent leaned over to look past him and shrugged, "Looks fine to me."

    "Structural issues."

    "Nothing to be done about that I guess," Rent sighed and turned to Harding, "We will head back to Tamis then and use the bridge there."

    "We could ferry you across, but it costs money," explained Ushanka.

    Displaying a mouthful of messed up teeth, his companion added, "We gotta eat."

    While this conversation took place the other three men began to spread out to flank them. Spear on the right, Hatchet on the left and Beard trailing behind.

    "Let''s be honest," Harding requested. "This is a shakedown. You''re trying to rob poor monks."

    "Ain''t no poor priests," spit Teeth.

    "No one seems to understand the difference," Rent wearily explained to Harding.

    "Shame that," commiserated Harding before looking at Ushanka. "This is pointless as we are poor monks. Let us through and everything will be fine." The demand was false bravado, but ultimately he''d just respawn.

    In response, Ushanka drew his sword. It was an ugly thing, more machete than falchion. Teeth tugged on his mace awkwardly as it had become caught up in his belt loop. With the others still out of immediate reach, Harding found the threat overdone. What menace their display was meant to have was lost in Teeth''s now comic struggle.

    Ushanka swung a wide slash at Rent, who met it with a one-handed counterstrike. As he did, Rent stepped in and thrust his open hand at Ushanka. He was angled wrong to actually land a solid blow on Ushanka, but with a burp of magic a copy of the staff came flying out of his open hand. It materialized as it left his hand slamming into Ushanka''s throat. It didn''t stop there though, instead the staff just kept flying and exited out the back of Ushanka''s neck in a pink mist. It arced through the air with a little wobble as Ushanka crumpled to the ground.

    Harding froze at the sudden gore.

    Rent was already moving again as Ushanka collapsed, with a step back he turned to a bladed stance. Staff in his left hand and braced against his forearm, he stepped forward. As Teeth tried to move past his weak guard, Rent jabbed him in the off shoulder with the end. It wasn''t hard enough to do any real damage, but it put his already off-balanced swing over the edge. Teeth checked his swing and tried to back step. Rent pivoted and whipped himself around with the free hand windmilling.

    As Rent''s hand swung down another copy sprung into his hand, but this time he caught it near the end. His spinning arm snapped down and smashed the staff''s iron shoe into the side of Teeth''s face. Teeth flew out of Teeth as he dropped to the road.

    Harding wasn''t sure he was dead, but Hatchet forced him out of his shocked observer mind frame. He took a two-handed quarter grip on his staff and gave paced, quick attacks to keep Hatchet at bay. Harding was keen on not being chopped. He readily retreated whenever Hatchet got past a thrust. Harding knew he wasn''t going to win, he was just trying to survive.

    The sharp knocks of wood impacting wood behind him let him know Rent was still fighting. He just had to focus on staying alive until Rent saved him. He kept thrusting the end out and retreating, occasionally bringing up his rear hand to drop the front end in a strike at Hatchet¡¯s knees. Anything to keep Hatchet at bay.

    Harding didn''t remember Beard until the curse hit him.

    Harding hadn''t been hit with offensive magic before. The curse felt like specks of alien spirit trapped and writhing in his flesh. Everything crawled inside, muscles spasmed and a heavy sense of nausea rose. Hatchet came at him fast then, like he¡¯d been waiting for it. Harding tried to intercept with the butt of the staff, but he wasn''t fast enough. Hatchet batted it downward as he tried to push closer. The tip dropped and Harding knew he was doomed.

    The sudden impact at the end of the staff was jarring and pushed the staff through his grip. Hatchet''s attack didn''t come, instead Hatchet dropped groaning. Harding looked down and saw Hatchet curled in a little ball. It took Harding less than a second to realize that Hatchet had deflected the staff into his own groin.

    The curse inside Harding was multiplying. He wasn''t sure if Beard had hit him again with the debuff or if this thing grew over time. It was in his spirit body, writhing as it fed on his spirit. And whatever the mechanism was, it was growing. Harding swept his spirit body side to side and rammed the foreign energy through his Heart gate. Some of the little worms went crashing through his crypted voidseed and were strained from his spirit. Not all the corruption, but some, using the same mechanic he''d used against the vampiric corruption in Black Barrow. He looked up to see Beard rushing him with a knife the size of his forearm. To add to that, Hatchet was getting up.

    Beard slashed. Harding tried to step back from its short reach, but everything seemed to move too slow. His body felt sluggish even as his chest opened up from the knife. Pain shot into his brain. He knew it wasn''t truly him, but couldn''t overcome the instant sympathetic response.

    Beard reversed the swing, going for a stab. Harding threw himself back and lost his footing, falling hard on his ass. Beard¡¯s swing caused him to partially step over Harding. Beard staggered sideways as a flying staff deflected off his shoulder and glanced off the side of his head. He shook his head and turned to face Rent.

    Rent''s staff was chopping down, but Beard took it on his forearm and grabbed it. He flashed his other palm at Rent. Harding felt the magic as Beard released his spell. Harding tried to get up but he couldn''t. Nausea attempted to overwhelm him, he was going to throw up any second. Those spirit parasites were eating his spirit and thus his ability to control his physical body. He focused on pulling those spirit parasites into his crypt where they writhed in containment. If he was going to be of any help to Rent, he had to be functional.

    Harding looked over at Hatchet. He was folded over his knees onto his back, a spear buried through his upper abdomen. Hatchet twitched a little, gurgling softly. Eyes wide open, he just stared at Harding as he faded away.

    Rent was lagging, but still attacking. Harding assumed he had the same curse problem. Beard was outclassed in skill and weapon. Rent raised his staff high, preparing to bring it down in a hard strike. Beard moved in, under the strike and buried the knife in Rent''s neck. Magic flared and Rent appeared a few feet behind a Beard, staff already sweeping down. With a wet crunch, Beard''s skull was smashed in from behind and he fell flat on his face.

    Rent came over to Harding, put his hand up to his neck and looked at the trace of blood on it. Then he shrugged. ¡°Cut that one a little close.¡±

    Rent paused.

    Harding refused to acknowledge it.

    ¡°You alive?"

    "Yeah. For now. I think."

    "Good, stay there."

    Rent walked over to Hatchet and put a foot on his chest. Hatchet groaned wetly. Rent pulled the spear out, then rammed it through Hatchet''s throat. He worked it around, using the spearhead to saw open the wound. He then walked over to Teeth and did the same to him before returning to Harding.

    War Rent is scary.

    Harding pulled both red and green vials from the haversack as Rent returned, then opened the bag to the bandages. "Help me out?"

    "What do I do?"

    "Use a bandage, soak off the blood, pour the green along the whole wound. Press the bandage, count to ten, then¡­"

    "Hold on, one step at a time."

    Rent followed Harding''s instructions. After he removed the ruined robes and wrapped Harding''s chest in a bandage. He''d been cut across his chest deep but the thick leather bag strap and metal buckle had kicked up the sharp blade. There was a bit of a cut on the other side and the bag was compromised, but Harding knew he''d been fortunate.

    Harding drank about a third of a yellow and then looked to Rent''s wounds. He had taken the tip of Beard''s knife just off the base of the neck and a thin slice up the forearm from Spear. Harding treated Rent''s wounds splitting a green between all of it. He could probably have used the light green balm, but he decided to be overly cautious.

    "That alchemy is pretty handy stuff," commented Rent before taking a small swig from the open Yellow. He grimaced.

    "Yeah, nasty right? Their alchemy is great for flesh, ok for muscle, but don''t get hurt deeper than that."

    "Generally, I try to avoid getting hurt," quipped Rent.

    "How''s that working out?"

    Rent sighed and failed to resist a light grin as he played with his sliced sleeve. He seemed to enjoy Harding being as much of a smartass as he was.

    The two were picking up their things when Harding asked, "Can we loot that guys'' seed?"

    "Normally people have it sealed, but if they aren''t trained or rich," Rent arched an eyebrow and looked over. "Come over here, I''ll teach you."

    Harding jumped at the opportunity, moving maybe a little faster than he should with a fresh injury. Either that or he should have used more of the yellow, the tearing pain punishing his eagerness. Rent was kneeling beside Beard, so Harding joined him gingerly. "Damn Rent, he''s a mess."

    Rent ignored him. "You know gate locations. You know how to extend your spirit body. So you should be able to check his gates."

    Harding made his twisted spirit lance and jammed it up Beard''s ass and through all the gates until it came out the mess of his head. The Throat gate had an object in it.

    "Zezev''s grimy fingers," swore Rent. "What did you just do?"

    "Checked him efficiently. He''s got a seed in him, how do I extract it?"

    "Normal people, one''s who don''t give corpses spiritual prostate exams as a pastime, find the seed with a touch of their spirit body. Dead, those channels are vacated and oozing remnant spirit as the seeds drain. A little pressure to empty the seed out and then it''ll come out when keyed. It needs to be empty, unlike changing your own seed."

    Huh? Oops.

    Harding pushed out what little spirit remained after he''d ramrodded the courier and it popped out without issue.

    "It''s orange." He honestly wasn''t sure if he should be disappointed. He knew orange was, generally speaking, the bottom end of what people considered uncommon. At least in Gremuth, where yellow and greens thrived as the most common.

    "We knew that it was a leech already."

    "What do I do with it?"

    "Use it, if you want."

    "But, it''s not blue."

    "They''re basically all the same to use, what you learn on one generally transfers to others. Also, I''m pretty sure Okkor doesn''t care."

    "Really?"

    "Pretty sure. Never heard of a god objecting. Theoretically, I guess it''s possible," Rent shrugged.

    Harding looked at the orange swirl in the globe. It was banded in copper. It was so simple, yet he knew there were hidden complexities. "Where do I put it?"

    "In your bag, we will talk about it later. Right now I would like to be somewhere other than knee deep in a field of corpses."

    It only fit in his bag because Harding tied his blood soaked robe to the outside. Settled with their business, they walked to the bridge. Rent stopped, put one foot on it, then tentatively the other. He jumped heavily, anticipating. "Imagine if¡­"

    "No way. Those guys were bandits."

    "Doesn''t mean the bridge is solid."

    "I''m sure it''s fine."

    They shared a long look.

    The two crossed the bridge but both moved quicker across than they otherwise would have. Harding wasn''t an engineer, but it seemed fine to him. The rest of the morning was uneventful, though the scenery was gorgeous. Midmorning, Harding shared his Howie bars and some Eight-Up. When the simulants kicked in for Rent, he declared, "I''m joining the Eights if this is how they live."

    "No you aren''t."

    "True, I won''t have to. My loving acolyte will keep me loaded with their goodies."

    "We''ll see..."

    It bugged Harding to finally have a godseed in his possession and to just leave it in the bag. But he had to trust Rent, and perhaps, himself. It was past midday, after having taken a footpath off the main road and another turn up a steep hillside trail, they crested the hill and looked across a flat high prairie. In the distance, nestled in a copse of trees, were several very small buildings and two large barns. Past it, the hills rose again, studded with the pines he had become familiar with today.

    "There we are, our destination."

    "What is it?"

    "A farm, Harding. It''s a farm."

    "Yeah, but why here?"

    "Mystery," Rent said with a stupid grin and started off without him.

 Chapter 17

    The farm wasn''t a farm, but a ranch by Harding''s understanding. He wasn''t going to argue with Rent over the semantic difference. He certainly couldn''t explain the difference between a hobby farm and a homestead. Whatever the term was, the place sat quiet and still. A few animals were visible, some chickens and a couple horses, but there was no human movement around the yard. There was a large garden, but no fields for crops in sight. Just vast, softly rolling high plains grassland and fences towards distant trees and higher hills.

    The monks were not met by anyone when they entered the cluster of buildings. After checking the farmhouse, Rent tried one of the barns. There they found an older man sitting on a worn stool at a workbench. The man was well into his fifties, his silvery hair cropped down and face clean shaven. He wore heavy pants and a full sleeve shirt which surprised Harding a bit as the sun on this high prairie was intense.

    The old rancher looked up when they entered and stoically responded, "Welcome Home, Toly."

    "Hi, Dad."

    "Woah," whispered Harding, watching in amazement.

    Dad?

    "May we stay in the second cabin?"

    "You know the rules."

    "Yes, Dad. I was just making sure you didn''t have visitors. I need a place to stay for a month, figured you wouldn''t mind a little extra labor for a bit."

    Those old pale eyes turned to Harding, sharp and unflinching. "This your new protege? He worth anything?"

    "With spirit manipulation? Yeah. With the rest of it? Nah, he''s miserable," Rent said nonchalantly as the two men stared at him.

    "Hey¡­"

    "I got a few things could use doing."

    "Is the old barn still like it was?"

    "Yep."

    "Let me get him started, then we can catch up," suggested Rent. The old rancher nodded and went back to work on a bit of leather like they''d already left.

    Rent led Harding to the smaller cabin. It was a simple structure of a single room. A stove sat in the middle and there were three bunks on one side. A crude table and three chairs filled half the remaining space. A small workbench waited barren under a small window in the wall with the door.

    "Throw your stuff in, then follow me," Rent instructed after he had tossed his bag on a lower bunk. Rent walked out, expecting Harding to be following. Harding ditched his bags and ran after him. They entered the more weathered of the two barns and Harding was shocked. It was clean, wood floored, and almost empty. What was in there were a few various training dummies and a wall of weapons.

    "Here''s the rules," began Rent with a serious tone. "You''re not allowed questions. You work if you want to eat, except Saturdays. And no noise if it''s dark."

    "How am I supposed to-¡±

    Rent held up a finger for silence. "Dad''s rules. Dad''s place, Dad''s rules. And don''t bring up Mom."

    Harding remained silent.

    "Good, now come here. This is a simple striking dummy," Rent told him, pointing to a thick cylinder mounted to the wall, wrapped in some kind of braid. "Hit it."

    Harding, unsure, walked up to it and punched it. He immediately regretted it.  The braiding didn''t nearly absorb the impact like he expected. Oddly, a small, red colored rod lifted up out of the center by an inch and then slid back down.

    "No. I said hit it." Rent leaned over and casually hit it, the center rod flew up a foot. Revealed by the rise were graduated marks on the rod.

    Harding tried again, knowing it would hurt and he got nearly the same result as the first. Rent stepped in behind him, tapping Harding''s feet into position with his own and grabbed Harding around the waist. He said, "Relax here."

    Harding obeyed. Rent twisted his hips. Moving him back and forth over and over to help him with the full body flow of the punch.

    "Now hit."

    Harding did, the scoring rod went up a bit more. It didn''t hurt any less. Rent made him do it five more times.

    "Good."

    Rent grabbed him by his serratus. "Relax here." Again, Harding relaxed and Rent started moving him, twisting his core muscles. Over and over again, then made him do it together.

    "Now hit."

    The rod went up a bit more. "Do it until I say stop."

    And so it went, step by step, then connecting them and moving up. Harding saw how each part, in proper order, added power. As they finished, Harding was feeling confident, the scoring rod nearly six inches.

    Then Rent had him step away and this time he squared with the target and hit it. Harding felt a little spirit to it, but watched the rod telescope up to a bit over three feet.

    "Knowing is not understanding. Understanding is not doing. To do, you must know. To do correctly, you must understand. Once you understand, it will change how you do. Eventually, through practice, you will do without knowing. Then you may learn more."

    Rent rubbed the back of his head and looked over at the wall, as if he were looking through it to the other barn. "Uh, keep doing it until I return."

    Is there a Rent separate from the monk?

    Harding started again and was only vaguely aware of Rent leaving. He would punch, evaluate, adjust, and try again. He just kept repeating the cycle and blocking out everything else including the pain. It became trance-like, meditative. He asked, in his mind, for help from spirit, but there was no answer. He knew he could punch with both the physical and spirit body, but he hadn''t been told to.

    "Weak," commented Rancher. Harding stopped and looked towards the door, there stood Rent and his father.

    "I didn''t tell you to stop," Rent instructed, making Harding turn and keep trying. Rent was definitely different around his dad. Harding wasn''t sure if he was excited about the change either.

    Everything felt different while being watched. He couldn''t find himself, that emptiness that he''d been tracking before. The scoring rod kept slipping down further and further, causing Harding more anxiety. It was a vicious loop and even though he was aware of it he couldn''t seem to stop it. Frustration grew.

    "Turn around," said Rancher. And when Harding did, Rancher said, "Hit me in the chest."

    Harding, tentatively complied. Rancher didn''t react. "Again, harder." Harding did again. And again. After about twenty punches, Harding was winded and Rancher hadn''t moved. Harding stopped attacking just to be casually slapped by Rancher.

    "He doesn''t defend."

    Rancher went to slap him again and Harding moved to block it only to have his feet kicked out from under him on the other side. Harding crashed hard onto the wood floor and groaned. Rancher grunted. "Don''t see what you''re going to do in a month. Maybe by spring he wouldn''t die in his first fight."

    "I''m just using the time we have. We are a religious order tasked to a life on the road, not an established combat school."

    Rancher scratched his jaw, watching Harding stand up. "Not much value in doing something without intending to finish."

    Rent admitted, "He would be better off with that consistent drilling over years. I can''t offer that. This is better than anything else I can get him in the time we have. And, well, I wanted to see¡­ home." Harding was sure he was going to say he wanted to see his dad, but he didn''t. It seemed like a tough relationship.

    Rancher sniffed, picked at something in his teeth with his tongue and looked down at Harding despite being shorter. "Explain the basis for your claim of him being a fast learner."

    "I left him with a book for a month and when I returned he was better at spirit body manipulation than any one at that temple."

    Rancher''s lip twitched, dismissive of¡­ something. Harding wasn''t sure whether it was spirit work or the temple monks.

    "His combat training so far is a week with Bradon and the hour I left him alone after showing him a basic punch."

    Rancher was silent. He was clearly thinking and no one wanted to disturb him. He finally looked back at Rent then at the various dummies asking the wall. "This is how it will be," he stated firmly. "We eat at dawn. We work the ranch until noon. Lunch and a nap, then I''ll train both of you until dark. Once the sun is down, do your magic stuff and sleep. Sunrise, we start again. Except Saturdays. And the anniversary. We start tomorrow. I''m going to go make dinner, foods on in thirty. "

    His proclamation of training and dinner seemed like the same topic, there was no change in tone. Harding got up and went to dust himself off when he realized there was no dust. Rancher kept this barn extremely clean.

    Harding watched Rancher leave and then walked up to Rent.

    "Uh, what just happened?"

    "Dad''s going to train you for a month as long as he gets another crack at me."

    "And how do you feel about that," Harding asked.

    "No questions," Rent admonished, but then admitted, "I am conflicted. The absolute best training you could receive in the Empire if you don''t have a crown or an invitation to one of three specialty schools. And maybe better than some of those schools."

    "But, you''re unhappy about some of it."

    "You better appreciate this because I think he''s going to try to settle some things with me."

    All of this meant he would need to be around all day, six days a week. While it gave him pause he realized he''d already set the precedent. Harding leaned against one of the support posts and looked inquisitive. The silent question hung there as it took Rent a moment to realize it. He laughed, "I''ll allow it. He trained me when I was a kid, as an instructor''s son at Clifton-Akers Academy. Before I graduated, things... happened. Dad came back here and I quit and joined the temple. Life''s been harder for both of us since."

    Rent shrugged as if to say things happen.

    "Well, maybe we both have unexpected opportunities here."

    "Yeah," Rent said, looking back at the door his father had excited. "Maybe."

    He turned and slapped Harding in the shoulder. "Speaking of unexpected things, let''s go ahead and deal with your new godseed."

    Back in their cabin, Harding sat staring at the leech seed that sat on the table. "Each color represents a god.¡±

    Rent arched an eyebrow.

    ¡°What, it wasn''t a question!¡±

    Rent snorted. When he started talking again, his voice was hesitant. ¡°Mostly correct. Probably. That''s the commonly held theological theory. Seven gods, seven colors of seeds. And orange is Kasagos."

    "He''s not Okkor."

    Harding could do this statement-as-question trick with Rent, but he suspected it wouldn¡¯t be tolerated in front of Rancher.

    "True. You understand Okkor reasonably well by now. Kasagos, he''s¡­ well, I''m sure his monks would tell you I''m wrong," Rent waved his hands dismissing them. "Kasagos is slow, he suffers, he boils- full of pain and vengeance. And that''s what you need to understand when you think of him.¡±

    Needing to think about how to be slower didn''t sound like a good sales pitch to Harding. Lost in thought, he messed up and asked a question, "If I want to be mentally slower or physically?"

    "No. It doesn''t make you actually slower, it just won''t speed you up. Leech is a weird one too, I think. All the copper banded seeds tend to be a bit unique honestly. Maybe the gold ones too, I guess, but not as much."

    Rent paused, "A little off topic there."

    Harding quirked a lop-sided grin. As far as he was concerned, any information on seeds was a boon. It was one thing to read a book like Powerballz, but real world observations were much more useful.

    Theory only gets you so far in the ¡®real¡¯ virtual world.

    Rent started his lecture, "You understand the three gates and their basic functions. You understand the mechanics, polarity, setting, sealing, all that. So it really comes down to forming a unified strategy with your skills, your assets and your other seeds. What¡¯s the best functioning combination for you. "

    Rent leaned back in the chair, "It''s not permanent, you can move it around and try things out. All the concerns about paying for seed services obviously don''t apply to you. I''ll tell you what I know, but it''ll be good for you to experiment and practice yourself."

    Harding stared at the godseed hungrily. It just sat there on the table, a globe of orange potential. Something about it creeped him out, maybe it was the association with Kasagos. Yet where some seeds he''d seen had a swirl to their color, this one almost writhed. He wanted power. He had wanted loot. Now was the time and he wasn''t going to let himself get weirded out thinking about putting a metaphorical snow globe of leeches inside himself.

    "I think leech is a movement type Heart, but I''ve never seen it used. Non-combat movement skills aren¡¯t a popular choice with the public power use, but I hear thieves like them. And like any Heart, it will change your body a bit over time. Leeches are known to be harder to kill."

    It was underwhelming to him. Non-combat skills were great in a party, but his issue was he wasn''t useful enough in combat. His foreseeable party was simply Rent, he needed to be effective in situations like the bridge bandit fight.

    "You know that thing¡¯s Throat power," Rent chuckled at his little joke. "All the curse type throats are great in a group though. Not much flash, but over time very effective over time."

    Harding scowled but had to agree. He didn''t think Beard would have landed a blow on Rent without it. Harding was no combat monster himself, so it had some benefit.

    Debuffers add value.

    "Mind leech is kind of disturbing. It makes open wounds and curses worse. I think it feeds off them too, there is some other more subtle effect there. Haven''t fought one that I know of, but I did fight a monster once that had something like it according to the folks I was with. One on one, it''s not so bad. In group combat though they''re a nightmare to go against. Everyone targets a Mind leech quickly because of the accumulative effect they have. They''re absolutely devastating in long combat or mass combat."

    Harding tried to process that. In the Heart it wasn''t considered great for combat. The fast attack of the Throat was an increasing disabler. And the slower to use Mind manifestation was only really useful in group combat, where it would also make you the immediate target.

    "I''ll have to think about it. Also, I need to find books on how voidseeds function."

    Rent stood from his chair and stretched his back. "They''re basically blank seeds." He looked meaningfully at the doorway. Harding got up and walked to the door before pausing and looking back. "Yeah, but I think they affect the spirit body."

    Rent was unconvinced, "Not that I''ve heard."

    Once through the door, Harding slipped out and side stepped. He walked shoulder to shoulder with Rent to the main cabin. He took the time to chew on Rent¡¯s dismissal of voidseeds having effects.

    A few moments later, Harding gave up considering what Rent said versus what he wanted to believe. "Maybe. I just got that impression from a trade I made."

    Rent looked at him.

    ¡°Voidseeds. I traded for one.¡±

    Rent shrugged facially.

    Then what was Yhavat¡¯s purpose?

    Rent opened the door and they went in as light was settling just behind the tips of the distant trees. Inside, this cabin was similar to the other. This one was a little larger and had actual interior walls. The interior doors were just hanging pieces of cloth though. The drum shaped stove had an actual flat top and oven door above the fuel hatch. Even the workbench counter was improved with an inset basin as a sink.

    Rancher had already dished up the plates. Steak, beans, and biscuits. They washed their hands in the basin and sat down.

    No one spoke through the whole meal.

    Afterwards, Rancher looked at the dirty plates and then at Harding. Harding understood, picked them up and put them in the basin and began to clean them with the supplies he found. Behind him, Rancher gave his prediction on the weather and tomorrow''s ranch tasks if his prediction was right. It seemed like no matter what, Harding would be cleaning out the barn.

    After the short discussion, the evening was over and they returned to the cabin. Harding had debated what to do with his seed, but in the end he knew he could try different configurations. He moved his voidseed to his Mind, the crypted and contaminated voidseed to his Throat, and set the leech to his Heart. All of them set neutral and sealed.

    He felt it immediately.

    There was a cool warmth in him. It was just a slight buzz of something barely perceptible, shivering on the edges of perception. A dancing blur somewhere between the spirit and the physical, flickering like flames. He''d probably get used to it and stop noticing quick enough, but for now it was like a loose flap fluttering in his mind. His attention kept going back to examine the change.

    "It feels like it''s leaking."

    Rent laughed. "That''s Heart gates for you. They saturate your physical body slowly when first anchored. Give it a day and it will feel more solid."

    "How, er, ah- I don''t know how to use this."

    "Let''s go outside to do it."

    The two went outside and stood there in the leaking light of their cabin¡¯s door and window. Somewhere up in a tree an owl hooted over the soft drone of the night''s insects. The whole setting burned in Harding¡¯s mind.

    "Seeds operate like lungs," Rent explained. "I''ll skip the theories there, though I got a few books you could read on it. Think of it like you breathe spirit in through your body, especially your feet and legs. It coalesces with a direct tap of the fresh spirit current coming deep from, ah, your lower extremities."

    "Asshole."

    "Something like that, not quite that though."

    "So spirit is like breathing in through your ass¡­"

    "Kind of, it''s more like the spirit body is a permeable body that absorbs ambient energy from this dimensional existence as well as a flow from another dimension. Then it combines the flows and pushes the energy up a channel through the sequential chambers you know as gates. Then through each gate¡¯s unique system, producing different manifestations of the anchored seed''s power."

    "I know that."

    "So, use of one is similar to breathing, but with your spirit body. Instead of manipulating the edges and shape, you''re drawing in and exhaling. All known seeds have an exhale function. That is, pushing energy into that gate, which floods the seed, then exhaling through its walls instead of up to the next gate. Something we usually teach initiates in the temple. Oh, and don''t forget to psychically breathe, too. Your body should do it on its own, but sometimes those signals get mixed up and the initiate passes out."

    Harding contracted his spirit body, similar to drawing, but without extending himself. He felt the increase inside him as it channeled up through the leech and drained slowly out of him. He did it several more times, feeling the pulse of the leech as it was pressurized and then released.

    "Ok, try to control the gate. You should be able to almost pinch off the flow of that gate and really expand it."

    Again Harding tried, and though he had some success, this was much more difficult. It felt like trying to hold your breath and exhale at the same time, but in your throat.

    "And then consciously exhale through the seed instead of the gate."

    Something foreign flared, yet nothing happened. "Uh¡­"

    "Hmm. Try to focus your intent on a target for the power. Some seeds require an appropriate target."

    Harding inhaled while trying to pinch the top of the gate closed, pushing the exhale through the leech while looking at a spot in front of him. Instead of moving, it felt like he blew a spray of spirit leeches into his body.

    "Shit."

    "Explain."

    "Think I cursed myself¡­"

    "With a Heart gate that would be extremely odd. Determine if it''s that lethargy-type curse."

    "No, it¡¯s," Harding paused, trying to get a better feel for it. Taste seemed a better explanation, or maybe even smell. There was a flavor to the parasites and it was different from what Beard had done to him with this seed. "It''s just gross, like things crawling in my flesh."

    "Hmm. Well, push them out and either try again or we can go inside."

    "I''ll try again."

    Harding pulled in the parasites, feeding them to the crypt¡¯s dirty voidseed. It wasn''t efficient, but they liked spirit energy and came with it into the channel as Rent had called it. Once clear, Harding tried again. Same result, a torrent of invasive leeches.

    "Nope."

    "Ok. It¡¯s something you just have to develop a feel for. Either that or it maybe has some unusual function. Most seeds are just exhale and maybe inhale functions. There are others though. Then there are spellform variations¡­ I''m going to sit on the porch and read. You keep trying as much as you want. "

    "I don''t know this inhale function."

    "Think of it like the inverse of the normal function. Some seeds, in some gates, can be inverted. Like, when I copy your staff. I inhale to copy and exhale to create. Exhaling harder brings the copy into existence more forcefully. Then there is boosting for even more power¡­"

    "Boosting sounds great, but let''s do this inhale/exhale stuff first."

    "Right you are. The inhale, or inverted function, is usually weaker and often the support or triggering function. Repair for instance can be inverted to destroy, but it''s notably weaker in effect."

    Harding nodded along but towards the end he just pulled in energy and then gave a quick push of energy straight into the seed. Not through it, not out it. Just over pressuring it. His body felt a flash of compression and then nothing.

    "Inhale didn''t work either."

    "You can start to see why people who have just got a new seed are not effective with them. There are several compendiums of seeds, none of which seem to be completely correct but they are all sought after anyways."

    Harding sat on the ground and exhaled leech. The parasites spread. He then inhaled leech and the parasites dissolved.

    "What the¡­¡±

    Harding did it again.

    Rent was talking but he didn''t hear. The parasites would dissolve into him on the inhale, but they weren''t adding energy back into the spirit body. Rent¡¯s breathing analogy wasn¡¯t exactly accurate, at least for Harding. It was more like flexing a muscle versus moving the body with the muscle.

    "When I inhale the spirit parasites dissolve."

    "So exhale creates the effect and inhale removes it. Suggesting you maybe don''t want it to just run its course? It is possible I''m wrong about it being a movement ability. Or, maybe, you''re manifesting some alternative spellform instead of the primary."

    Harding sighed and climbed his fingers through his hair, absently noting it was getting longer. "So we learn something, but open up more possibilities."

    "Unfortunately, but, there''s always tomorrow,¡± Rent encouraged half-heartedly. ¡°You can sit out here and work on it if you like but Dad''s serious about being at the table at sunrise. You''ll probably think you''re going to die before dinner tomorrow."This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    "Sounds great," Harding mused sarcastically. "Oh, and Rent, thanks for your help."

    "Have a goodnight Harding," Rent replied warmly and went inside.

    Harding was out there for what he thought was another hour. He summoned the parasites, then unsummoned them. Repeating the actions over and over. He experimented too with summoning them, and then trying both the inhale and using the crypt to filter them. As much as he experimented he didn''t find the answer or much of a difference.

    He stood up, brushed himself off and went inside to sleep.

    A rooster crowing at the sun woke Harding to another day of sleep deprivation. He took the time to throw some water on his face and pull on his boots before he hurried to the main cabin. When he entered, Rancher and Rent looked up from their plates. "Toly, I thought you''d win for sure, but here he is. Boy, put some food in you, we are headed out shortly."

    Harding dished a plate of eggs, potato and some unknown ground meat and sat at the table. He was a few shoveled forks into his meal when he realized the revealed truth. "Wait, that means Rent bet against me..."

    Rancher laughed and put his empty plate in front of Rent. Harding inhaled the rest of his food, surprised at how hungry he was.

    "He needs real clothes if he''s going to work," observed Rancher.

    "I''ll get him some Saturday, he can wear an apron until then."

    "It''ll work. Would have been better to pick some up on your way here though."

    "Yes, Dad, it would have."

    "Keep telling Marion he needs to increase patrols."

    "I''m sure you do."

    "Doesn''t do any good though. Those Outriders they got are as soft as your apprentice here."

    "After a month with you, I''d take Harding over them."

    Rancher just nodded his disappointed agreement.

    Rent started cleaning the dishes, and was a good way through, before Harding finished eating. When he brought them over, Rent handed him the knit scrub pad. "Bet was for each other''s dishes, you get the rest. Come out to the big barn when you''re done."

    Harding walked to the big barn after he was finished. Inside he found the men saddling horses. Rent tossed him a heavy leather apron, then began to show him his next job. He was too muck out the three currently used stalls. After that he was to scrub the floors.

    "We will be back before you''re done, I''d think. Just going one pasture over."

    Rancher and Rent rode off, leaving Harding alone at the farm. It took Harding an hour to clean out the stalls and lay fresh hay in them. While having heard the instructions, his lack of familiarity with the work and location was an obstacle. He then started on the floors, but was barely a half way through scrubbing the floorboards when Rent rode back in. Harding watched him through the open barn door..

    Rent dismounted and stored the tack, before letting his mount have free roam of the attached corral. Harding was still scrubbing as Rent came back in. "You''ll get faster at it with practice, my guess is you''ll do this a fair bit. He loves the menial labor lessons. Think of it as physical meditation."

    Harding grunted.

    "I was thinking about your seed issue. I might have an idea, but we will save that for the appropriate time."

    And with that Rent went to the work bench and began doing maintenance on some leather items in silence. A smell filled Harding''s nose, something Rent was using on the leather.

    "I would like to learn how to care for my leather goods when it is possible," he stated.

    Rent stopped and looked over at him. "Yeah, we can manage that soon I''d think."

    Rancher came back in on his horse soon after. "Set him up scraping paint, I want to repaint the big barn before fall. Then, come back inside." Rancher went about his tasks like they weren''t there. When Harding finished the floor, Rent had already got out the scraper and set him to start scraping. Harding scraped the barn. And scraped. And when Rent came out, he started Harding at the beginning again and showed him how much scraping he was missing.

    To Harding it felt forever before lunch, where he cleaned up and sat in silence again. He consumed a small loaf of bread, some kind of smoked fish that Harding couldn''t identify and some fruit as he wondered again what he was doing. He was looking at hours of scraping paint off a barn in the middle of nowhere. As a game, for entertainment.

    I¡¯ve lost it.

    Afterwards, the three went to the training barn where Rancher had them line up. "Unarmed combat is what we will learn. If you want to learn a weapon, make yourself the weapon then learn how to make it part of you."

    Sounds like Bradon.

    "We will be spending training time in three parts. The first hour will be fundamentals, the instruction on how to do. The second hour will be drills, teaching your body to do. The third will be sparring, the actual doing."

    "Come here," Rancher instructed, standing next to a winged dummy. He then guided Harding through the correct distance, stance and motions. Striking a wing, causing multiple other wings to move, each at their own pace and with their own sets of wings. Rancher then guided the next set of movements which caused equally unequal shifts back the other way.

    "When you attack, you are vulnerable. When they attack, they are vulnerable. We will cover how to bypass this cycle later, first you must learn what each action causes."

    The rest of the hour was Rancher correcting, adjusting and showing variations. When Harding was sure there was no ending to the nightmare Rancher declared, "Drill time."

    He pulled up a handle on the winged dummy and rotated it, then pushed it back down.

    "Twenty-five percent. Start."

    Harding did the opening strike and the opposing wing snapped around and hit him. He tried to push it back and got stuck in the opposing knee by a lower wing.

    "Reset. Again."

    And that was Harding''s life for the next hour, being defeated by a clockwork coat hanger.

    Exhausted and bruised, Rancher had him face off with Rent in the middle of the room. "Toly, you counter. Don''t level him, but I won''t have you bring soft either. Start."

    Harding felt awkward. He weakly swiped at Rent. Rent just redirected his attack and backhanded him across the face.

    "You want respect, you attack like you deserve it," barked Rancher.

    Harding performed the attack harder and got slapped again.

    "Harder. Again."

    This time Harding didn''t hold back. Rent still turned it with ease, but the resulting strike was a jab in the chest.

    "Better. Keep going."

    Harding kept attacking, being counted, and getting hit. Somewhere along the way he realized he could counter too. Slowly he worked up the amount of attacks he would achieve, but it was variable due to Rent changing his blocks and counters.

    "Stop. Toly, set him to work. Then come help with supper."

    Rancher turned and left. Harding sat on the floor, little more than a pile of suffering. He took long, deep breaths and every one of them hurt.

    "I''m never moving again," Harding told Rent.

    As a response, Rent walked around him and stood there with a broom.

    "After every training session, you sweep the studio."

    "Why?"

    "To show it respect."

    "It''s a barn."

    "On the outside, yes. Inside, it is your path. You show it respect. You show your teachers respect. In doing so, you show yourself respect. When you respect yourself, you take your sacrifices seriously."

    Rent held out the broom.

    Harding stood up, groaning. He took the broom. "I have to show you respect?"

    Rent nodded.

    "Well, shit."

    Hatching wandered off with the broom, smiling to himself. Then he started to sweep and stopped, smiling. He ached and his body was shaking slightly. But he was doing it. Not sweeping, but progressing forward. Finally, steeling himself against exhaustion, he stopped thinking about it and just did it. When he finished, Rent was long gone and he put up the broom, blew out the last lantern and closed up the studio.

    Supper was mostly quiet. Harding''s appetite raged to start, but he found himself full quickly. Utter exhaustion threatened his very awareness. After eating, Rancher sent them on their way and cleaned up the dishes himself.

    Harding was about to crawl into bed when Rent said, "I had a theory about the leech."

    Harding just groaned, then turned back. He stared silently.

    "I was thinking maybe the leech isn''t a movement type. It''s definitely not a shift, so maybe it''s a blessing."

    "I''ve got no idea what any of that means."

    "Either it''s a situational and complex movement, or it''s not a movement at all."

    "Ok."

    "If it''s not a movement, the effect it is causing in your body has another purpose. Heart either changes your body or changes where your body is, usually¡­"

    "Ok."

    "So try it now, see if it eats tiredness."

    Harding shrugged, then regretted it. He exhaled leech, felt the intrusion of the spirit parasites and immediately regretted doing it while standing. He collapsed to the floor. Harding let out a whimper as he laid there and lightly drooled on the floor.

    "Success! it teleported you to the floor."

    "Hate," gasped Harding. "You."

    "Might want to try the inhale function."

    "Nha," groaned Harding.

    Yet, he did. The effort to inhale felt like he was going to break, but it resulted in sudden relief. "Oh, that''s better."

    "Yeah. But you need to figure out if it fixed something or just hurts more when activated."

    "Good point."

    "So do it over and over until you know."

    "My hatred is growing."

    "If you want to know, you have to try."

    "You are supposed to be my teacher, you should know the answers."

    Rent ignored him, "You should see what effect keeping the parasites active longer has."

    Harding sighed and exhaled. At least this time he was already laying on the floor. It felt like his flesh was going to burst, muscles and even bone ached and shook. And then he inhaled. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

    "It just hurts more when I use it," Harding concluded. He picked himself up and crawled into his bunk.

    "You said I should know everything," said Rent.

    "Yeah, sorry. I didn''t mean it."

    "I understand. I just want to point out that there are seven colors, with four types each, acting differently in each of three gates. That''s eighty-four combinations. Then factor in a good many of them have dual functions. Say that''s one hundred and twenty. Then you get into seed orders, boosts, affinities, archon powers, and spellforms," Rent finished pulling off his robe. "That''s a lot to know. I''m not a Ki''kero."

    "Don''t know what a Kai Hero is, but your math is wrong."

    "I estimated."

    "Yeah, but there are more than seven colors."

    "No there isn''t. I mean, there is the occasional semi-formed voidsphere, but they don''t really do anything notable. "

    "Yeah. But there are also the hidden colors."

    Rent stopped moving. His face hard, he warned, "Don''t say that in a church."

    Too tired to care, Harding countered, "Yeah well, an Alphen told us there were hidden colors."

    Rent moved to him quickly, face to face. "Harding. You need to tell me how you came into contact with an Alphen."

    "Fine. I''ll tell. But, I get a story in return. We exchange them. Commerce is the communion of society."

    "Now you''re quoting scripture¡­"

    "Really? It''s something I was told."

    ¡°Story time."

    And so Harding told Rent of this adventure, leaving out a lot of details that weren''t pertinent to understanding the end. He concentrated on the encounter with Ghasatavaro, Yhavat¡¯s mediating and the trip to the Prism, Kharsir.

    "Aleister asked for a full set of a hidden color,¡± Harding explained, emphasizing that it was a hidden color and not the hidden color. ¡°Yhavat gave him three seeds that were clear. All with silver bands. Then Yhavat said something like ¡®it would make up earlier to her¡¯."

    Rent had been quiet the whole time.

    "That explains your familiarity with a noble house and a well established guild."

    "Yeah. But it''s not really my story to tell. I was there, I experienced it, but they''re still attempting to make something of it and so I''m trying to honor their secrecy."

    "Right. Which is good of you and I''ll not tell anyone. However, don''t ever tell that story again. Your story refutes damn near five hundred years of church doctrine in multiple ways. Completely challenges our concepts of creation, of godseeds, and more. The whole godling and throne concept alone would be considered blasphemous by the Church of the Seven. "

    Rent went quiet. Then he said, "There''d be a mad scramble on all voidseeds, the Garnets would be summoned to the queen, every guild and power would fight to get access to that throne. Whoever has that set of hidden seeds would be a marked person. I''m sure there is more I can''t think of at the moment. So, please, don''t tell that story again, at least until it goes public."

    Harding hadn''t really thought it through, he just knew he wasn''t supposed to talk about it and that had been good enough for him. Now, he wondered about even telling Rent. He sat on his bunk, back to the wall, and felt the weight of secrets.

    "I will tell you about the Ki''kero,¡± Rent started. ¡°Over a century ago, there was a secret school of warriors that were called the Ki''kero. At least, that''s the common understanding of their name. They were so secret that even today there is no proof of their existence and most people say it is only a story."

    Harding yawned.

    "The Ki''kero were great martial artists who trained individually, and as units, from a very young age. Every member of their society was a student first and only after passing did they become regarded as an adult member. Which meant that everyone in their village, both the old woman herding geese and the middle-aged man baking bread were elite warriors."

    Harding blinked away sleep and tried to stay awake. The day was crushing him with a fatigue that was painful.

    "The Ki''kero were said to have every seed. And that every student had to master every seed in order to be raised to a full warrior. When they did, they would determine their seed combination and receive those seeds from the school."

    Harding was losing the fight.

    "...  regarded as the epitome of seed mastery. Some even claim that it''s against the Will of Heaven to only use a ¡­ should, therefore, endeavor to experience¡­"

    Harding blacked out. He felt a presence near him. In his mind, he was sitting in the bunk alone. He wasn¡¯t awake, nor was he dreaming. Yet daylight was coming through the front window, though the light was alien and cold. He turned his head to see a plain woman, pale in all aspects but her large, glossy black eyes staring straight at him. Clutching her dress was a little girl, thigh high to the woman. She was like a small copy, or perhaps a daughter who imitated her mother. She too, watched with glassy, wet eyes of blackness. The little girl raised a finger and pointed at Harding. The woman reached out and pushed her hand down, but didn''t stop staring.

    Harding came to with a start.

    He was still sitting up, presumably asleep. The room was pitch black, Rent having gone to sleep. Harding looked to where the women and child had been, but saw nothing. He knew he should go to sleep, but he felt wired from that weird dream. He slipped off the bunk quietly and went outside. Sitting in the dirt in the same spot he had the night before, he began to exhale and inhale through the leech.

    Harding didn''t discover the use, there were no sudden revelations. Instead, he just practiced the activation. Trying to make it faster and more spirit efficient. Whatever it did, faster and easier would eventually be useful. Harding found that the spirit energy which entered his body through the Heart gate didn''t feel like the same energy his muscles were begging for. It didn¡¯t seem to combat fatigue. It was as if there was more than one energy body and the parasites were crossing boundaries. Yet, he made no further advancement in discovering its use. Nor did it make sense given what he knew.

    He did, however, become terribly sleepy again. He went back inside and climbed into bed and slept deeply.

    Harding woke to the rooster again, once more being tardy for breakfast. After breakfast, he spent the morning scraping the barn. A quick lunch and then a nap a little longer than an hour. Rent woke him up and walked with him to the training studio.

    Rancher began teaching Harding something he called Bird Meditation. The exercise he taught was ''Hawk''. The name didn''t make much sense to Harding, but as Rancher moved him through the motions he could start to see the usefulness of the skill. He was to train the body response in a negative state that was a union of empty mind meditation and muscle memory.

    After teaching, observing, and correcting, Rancher told him to face the wall and practice.

    Behind Harding, he could hear conversation but not the words. He struggled to not focus on the words, but instead just that there was the sound of conversation. Then the sounds of sparring, grunts, a grapple into a take down, more strikes¡­ he fought it. He kept trying to understand what he was hearing. But he knew that was wrong for the exercise and judged his judgments.

    Over time he was able to let go a little, to give up the hyperfocus and go deeper into his mind. He considered himself unsuccessful on the whole, but glimpses of the intent encouraged him.

    After what was, presumably, about an hour Rancher called a halt and began the next phase. Both Rent and Harding were put through a vigorous body weight exercise session. Harding wanted to quit after ten minutes, but Rancher kept on him and Rent kept going. Determined, Harding just took Rent''s pace and forced himself to keep going until his body gave out and he fell flat. Rancher kept at him verbally, encouraging him to keep going.  After a quick pause, he''d push again until failing all over. It didn''t end until Rent failed too.

    With Rancher, you hadn''t succeeded until you found where you failed.

    At the end, Harding was genuinely worried he may die. He thought yesterday had been bad, but he realized it was only a display of his ignorance in how much worse it could be.

    "Good first effort," said Rancher. "Now I know how weak you are, I can adjust."

    Harding would have injected but he had neither the emotional or physical energy. Rancher seemed to read his mind, "Weakness is not the lack of power, but the willingness to quit."

    Harding was pretty sure he could feel his heart beat in his eyeballs. He sucked air, watching Rancher with slightly fuzzy vision.

    "Rent, come help with supper. Harding will pay respects," Rancher patted the broom for emphasis.

    Harding spent the next half hour, shaking and pushing the broom. When he finished he put everything back in its place and went to the Rancher''s cabin. Supper was steak, potato and broccoli.

    After, when Rent and he went back to the cabin, Handing admitted, "I fell asleep during your story last night."

    "That''s ok. They''re just the most fearsome warriors to ever live and legend has it they fought Death to get back a daughter who was loved by all." Rent was being sarcastic, but it was said with a genuine smile.

    "That sounds pretty epic, saving a princess from death¡­"

    "Oh, she wasn''t a princess. She was a promising student, but not the best. By all accounts, she was fairly normal for their village. However, she brought joy to their hearts and in her death, this village who faced death often decided they''d had enough and sought out Death itself."

    "Oh."

    "And no one ever heard of them again, or so the story goes. But after that, the dead began to return all over the world. We certainly know that at some point death went from permanent to how it is now, a kind of intermittent permanence. Whether the Ki''kero existed, or if they had anything to do with that change, we can''t say for sure.¡±

    "I wish we had some idea on this leech power."

    "I''ll check in Tamis Cross Saturday, they might have a book. Otherwise, I''ll write to a scholar friend in Bleggenburg."

    Harding shrugged. He wanted to know now, but that wasn''t going to happen. It was a challenge to make peace with the obstructions, but there wasn''t anything he could do other than give up. Which he would not.

    Harding scratched his head, feeling sticky. He pondered, ¡°Thinking about moving it to the Throat gate.¡±

    "You could, but you''d need a living target. If you want to tell Dad you want to practice magic by cursing one of his chickens over and over, good luck to you."

    "Maybe the rooster¡­"

    "No."

    "Then I don''t know what to do."

    "Keep practicing the spirit breathing. You''ll need that no matter what. Also, summoning those parasites causes fatigue. You could use them to make training harder."

    Harding stared at Rent like he''d lost all sanity.

    Rent grinned mischievously, "Just a thought."

    Harding went outside, to his patch of dirt and did his spirit meditation. As the sun went down, he switched to the spirit breathing. Repeatedly summoning and unsummoning the parasites, he began to experiment.

    Harding found he could blow the parasites up his spirit channel directly into the crypt and even past it. It was worth noting how flexible the system was, but the exercise stuck him as kind of like trying to force yourself to throw up so you could get bile in your sinuses. It was noteworthy also that the inhale only removed the parasites from the spirit body and physical body. Once in the crypt, they seem disconnected from the leech¡¯s functions.

    Harding went to bed and slept soundly that night. In the morning, he woke and and went to breakfast. On entering, he saw Rancher and Rent sitting at the table, already eating.

    "Today is Saturday," Rent informed him, mouth half full of what looked to be bacon.

    "Oh, right," replied Harding, he''d genuinely lost track but was currently focused on the bacon.

    Rancher forked his eggs, "After breakfast, we''ll hitch the buckboard and go to town. We need some food, a couple pieces of hardware, and I have a few personal errands."

    "I need to find some work clothes, too," remember Harding aloud as he watched Rent cut his pancakes into little squares.

    Rancher grunted.

    Harding hurriedly dished what seemed like the best breakfast he had ever had. They didn''t have syrup, but Rancher had picked up some heavily spiced apple butter the week before and Harding made a note in his journal''s shopping list to find more of it in town.

    After breakfast, Harding helped Rent uncover and roll out the buckboard. It was strange looking to Harding, a thin box with great steel leaf springs on wheels. They pulled it around the barn where Rancher had started walking out and prepping the horses. Once it was hooked up, Hang begged off and ran back to the bunk house to grab his things before returning to jump into the back, as Rancher and Rent took up the bench seating.

    They took a road out of the ranch and down the side of the hill, different than the footpath Rent had brought them in on. Harding saw why Rent had used the footpath quickly, the road was longer, cutting a more controlled angle through the hills before spilling out onto the main river road. They followed the river to the bridge and then over it without incident.

    There were no bodies or other signs of violence. Though Harding thought he saw a few darker patches.

    Tamis Cross wasn''t anywhere near the size of a Gremuth district, but it was pleasant. Large enough to have a bit of industry and gentry, yet small enough to feel busy without being crowded. Situated to have markets for produce fresh off the farms, Harding found he rather liked it. It was manageable, instead of being overwhelming. They rolled to a stop in front of a building with a sign that read, "Paine Hardware".

    "I''m going in, then the General. If you find the wagon unattended, I''ll be right back. Rent, go take care of your needs and meet me out front Nightbaron''s."

    "Ok, Dad," Rent acknowledged and slid off the buckboard¡¯s bench. "Come on Harding, let''s get you taken care of."

    Rent led Harding through the streets with obvious familiarity. The place wasn''t big, just a handful of streets running parallel with the river and regularly spaced but irregularly angled crosses. Their first stop was a bookstore, called Taninwort, where Rent engaged a well-aged gentleman who was short and round.

    "Ysac," Rent greeted.

    "Toly, what a pleasure as always," the merchant warmly exclaimed. Harding could imagine Rent being the type to be a big customer out here. The merchant, Ysac, looked around conspicuously and whispered loudly, "You have anything to sell me?"

    Rent pulled out a couple books from his bag and handed them over without a word. The book merchant glanced quickly over them, eyes gleaming in delight.

    "And what would you like for these?"

    "Three silver for the green one, but that other is a first printing, another eight for it," Rent said, holding up his hand to stay Ysac''s haggle. "Thing is, I''m looking for a book so I''m happy to talk about trades if you have something."

    Ysac looked at Rent like he had just descended from the heavens to proclaim the merchant blessed. "What is it that you are looking for?"

    "Tamelin''s Guide or Raines'' Compendium," Rent listed, paused, then added hesitantly, "Maybe Gailbrandt''s, but I''m not a fan of his."

    Ysac gave a scandalized look, "Oh my, the thought of me even trading in Gailbrandt''s prattle makes me feel ill."

    Rent just nodded, ignoring the theatrics.

    "Sold my last of ''Guide to the Will of the Heavens'' a month ago. Haven''t been able to get any more yet. Seems like everyone''s buying them up suddenly. Raines is less popular, as I''m sure you know, still haven''t had any of those for a winter.¡± Ysac looked almost saddened as he proclaimed with a sigh, ¡°Less popular being less printed, even if it''s superior.¡±

    Rent tapped his fingers on a nearby shelf in thought.

    Ysac hurried on, fearful of coming up short, ¡°I''ve got a first edition of ''Undertow'' and a beautiful private press of ''Spiritus Rex'', if you''re interested?"

    "What I actually need is something on Kasagosian seeds, I was just hoping for a more complete working.¡±

    Ysac¡¯s mouth opened silently. ¡°Toly, are you switching temples? No. None of my business, forgive me.¡±

    Rent just cracked a smile both slight and suffering.

    Ysac flapped his hand at Rent as if it was going to lethargically take flight. "Ah, about midwinter last, this Reductionist comes into the shop. Beats me what he''s doing in the Canyons, but it isn''t my concern, right? He wants to sell me some prints because he''s lost his¡­ oh, nevermind, point is, I''ve got just the thing for you."

    He toddled off, leaving the two of them standing. Rent looked at Harding and arched an eyebrow, slowly growing to a grin. There was a loud collapse, some indeterminate oaths uttered, a moment of silence and then Ysac reappeared. He handed a black bound book to Rent.

    Ysac sniffed and declared, "There you go, ''The Blade that Hones'', standard text of the Disassemblists. They''re the more occult sect of the Kasagosian Brotherhood, as you know. And, if you''re familiar with the work, besides all the basic Reductionistic theories and Disassemblistic conspiratorial chatter about ''hidden truths and acts'', there is a comprehensive breakdown of their god''s seeds in there."

    Rent paged through it then inspected its bindings. "How much?"

    "Five. It''s a sacred text not meant for sale."

    "Both my books for this, the copy of ''Spiritus'', and a silver. An Imperial Eagle, not an Ihrovian Crown."

    The two haggled for a bit, ending at an amicable exchange, plus three Imperial coppers.

    As they walked out, Rent handed Harding ''Blade'', with a comment, "Disassemblistst monks are weird, don''t let their philosophy influence you. Their thoughts are like a virus. It''s like a man who stares into a mirror until he is unsure if he stares or is stared upon."

    "Sounds lovely."

    "Let''s get you some work clothes."

    And with that, they made a quick whirlwind of shopping. A pair of identical, basic outfits of trousers and a shirt. Finally, some work gloves to cross that off the list. A stop at the post office, where Harding picked up a very small local broadsheet there while Rent took care of personal business.  And a stop at the stand of a local woman named Edith who sold the apple butter that had so enamored Harding. Rent picked up a single flower there, a variety Harding wasn''t familiar with and didn''t ask about.

    Not my business.

    They found Rancher at Nightbaron''s, which wasn''t a bar but instead an armsmerchant.

    Rent explained as they neared the place, "A Nightbaron is the big local owl species, kind of the mascot of the area."

    "How big?"

    "Hmm¡­ could take a toddler before you could react."

    "Crap."

    The prices were high. At least that was Harding''s assessment. That didn''t mean the deal was unfair though, as Harding honestly didn''t know the market rate for quality weapons in the backwaters. Then again, Bresham wasn''t that far and neither was a handful of other big cities. The prices though meant everything in the shop was simply far outside Harding''s current means. He didn''t need anything currently, but the inability roused that long-standing itch.

    "How do I make money," Harding lamented.

    "We''ll make a years worth at CombO. Otherwise, by any normal means. Selling services, dabbling in trade, or various crafts. And the Brothers¡¯ stipend."

    "We get paid," Harding exclaimed.

    Rent laughed. "I get paid. Brothers get paid. Not much, but it helps. Initiates and Acolytes do not get paid."

    "Bah."

    Rent laughed and returned to examining an odd looking recurved camp knife. Rancher was across the little storefront, talking quietly with a man behind the counter. Whatever business they had was suddenly concluded as Rancher reached over and shook the other man''s hand. Rancher withdrew a bag of coins from his pack and placed it on the counter. They followed him as he left, curious camp knife unpurchased.

    In the back of the wagon, nestled amidst all the goods, Harding opened ''Blade'' and skipped all the way to the back where he hungrily paged through the seed compendium several times before finding his seed.

    The reason it took effort was annoying. The Kasagosian monks didn''t call it leech, they called it lesser vampirism. They also didn''t call them godseeds, instead they were ¡®divine allowances¡¯ which somehow got shortened to pacts.

    Why can''t anything be universal!

    As Harding bounced along in the back of the buckboard, he told the other two, "The Kasagonian monks call godseeds ''divine allowances''."

    "Yes," confirmed Rent. "They are nearer to the concepts of Phiris¡¯ Constructionists on that idea, but not in terminology. You''ll find that though, a certain bleed over between adjacent colors. Just like Abathalian and Okkor monks focus on currents. Heh, Addionese too, if you count energy as waves."

    Harding continued to read and left Rent chuckling to himself. He merely skimmed the text for now, skipping any expose on meaning or wisdom hidden within vampirism as a religious practice. He was focused on how to actually use it.

    <blockquote>

    Lesser Vampirism within the Heart summons within oneself the spirit of this wisdom, that his Glory may enter the flesh and feast upon it in accordance to his Will. While bringing the Blessing of Fatigue, this spirit Consumes the growth of Ailments of the Weakness of Flesh, but gloriously does not cure them. It may be layered thrice, increasing both Blessing and Consumption. As this spirit gorges, it will generate a feeling of minor discomfort for the host.

    </blockquote>

    Later in the text:

    <blockquote>

    Upon unsummoning these spirits, it returns its blessed Bounty to the Heart and, thereby, disengorges his Blessing within the host.

    </blockquote>

    Harding blessed the riders with, "Huh."

    "Kasagonian writing is as putrid as their beliefs," Rent commiserated.

    "Listen to this," suggested Harding, then read the entry out loud to them.

    Rent translated, "So it is not a movement ability at all, but a boon that consumes the propagation of negative effects."

    "You make as much sense as this book," Harding accused.

    Rancher chuckled.

    "It''s simple really, if you''re bleeding and you summon it, you stop bleeding but you''re still cut. You unsummoning it, it returns spirit energy it generated by consuming your blood back to the Heart gate."

    "It doesn''t say if the bleeding comes back after though," Harding pointed out.

    "That''s easy enough to figure out.¡±

    Harding didn''t find much enthusiasm in himself for that kind of testing. He did wonder how this particular book was at the bookstore, or even if it was.

    Maybe it just spawned what I needed when the clerk went in the back.

    By the time they''d arrived back at the ranch, Harding had read the full entry for lesser vampire three times, and then had turned to the front of the book to start reading their theory and doctrine. When the buckboard pulled up though he had to stop and help unload the supplies into the barn and house.

    After quickly taking care of the animals and putting the equipment away, Harding was told he was free to do as he pleased until dinner, but that the two of them would be busy.

    Harding went back to the bunk house and kept reading. The Kasagosian text was difficult to work through and made a lot of references to concepts and forces that Harding couldn''t readily understand. Giving up for now, he headed out of the cabin in search of Rent with a head full of questions.

    Instead, he saw Rancher and Rent both kneeling at a tree, fifty yards from everything. In front of them, Rent''s purchased flower laid on the ground. Harding realized he didn''t come close to understanding the relationship of the two.

 Chapter 18

    As the days passed, Harding became accustomed to the schedule. Every morning would be breakfast followed by ranch work where Rent would do the skilled labor and he would do time consuming menial tasks. Then they''d have lunch and a nap, more than one hour and less than two.

    After would be the training of the day and while the exact activities would be variable, the order wasn''t. Sunday and Wednesday would be education on biomechanics and how to use that knowledge in striking and grappling. Monday and Thursday were the wing dummy and sparring sessions. Tuesday and Friday were meditations and strength training. Saturday, they would return to Tamis Cross. On those days the two would skip lunch and stay at the base of that tree until supper.

    While the schedule was a full day, he was left alone for much except the instruction. He had many small opportunities to cycle and even found that if he cycled doing a task, the task¡¯s progress continued while he was offline to the same standards.

    It''s like Life makes sure I get the work done as long as I work when I can.

    Weeks went by, until their time at the ranch was coming towards the close as Rent had plans for travel before CombO. What passed as talk between the men turned gradually to preparing for that looming departure. Harding felt like something special should happen, some monumental breakthrough in his ability as a grand culmination of his training.

    But instead, all was quiet.

    They stayed for the Saturday, rode to town and back instead of the wagon. Rent spent the afternoon with his father under that tree, Harding never understood why. So much seemed unspoken between the two, some shared grief too jagged to heal. Harding felt like he wanted to join them, but that it was not his place to be under that tree with them.

    Some things are not mine.

    That last night it stormed. Nothing terrible or dangerous, but it meant a muddy trek for the day ahead. Harding''s nightly ritual of testing the leech had morphed into sitting in the same spot in the dark, holding the leech active, and doing his spirit meditations under its oppression. Reductionists were a serious lot with more than an underpinning of zealous intentional suffering. As much as they creeped Harding out, he also saw a deep wisdom in their madness. It was certain to be a rare approach for other players.

    Tonight, though, he couldn''t sit his nightly ritual as lightning lit the farm in thunderous cracks of burning light.

    Instead, with a long day ahead, they prepared their packs before bed. Harding had stuffed all his belongings in his pack, except his work clothes which he was leaving out to wear. He had slowly chewed through his supply of Howie bars and all that was left was the little sack, rolled up tight. With his Eight-Up empty as well, there was even enough room for his new book.

    He had reloaded his repaired bandolier and medic bag from the box. There were too few vials left to make the box efficient, so he stashed the few extra spares under the bandages in the bottom. He was out of the bruise ointment, so he stashed that tin in the box and left it on the shelf above the workbench for the next visitor. It seemed a shame to throw away the containers.

    Having prepared, they slept early. It was late into the night when Harding woke. The rain outside fell steadily, but he didn''t hear any more thunder. He just laid there, trying not to move and wake the person beside hi-

    Harding''s heart thundered. He could feel the form of a person laying in bed with him, the way the bed depressed it almost rolled him into that spot. The weight and shape of the covers bent, lifting up and over. He heard no breathing other than Rent''s from below.

    Heavy with dread, he turned his head to look. He didn''t want to, but he felt compelled. He could see nothing though, in that dark. Which seemed logical. Yet the more he stared, the lighter the darkness became until there was a deep purple haze in the darkness beside him. He tried to reach out and touch it but his body wouldn''t move. The light glittered before him, the vaguest suggestion of a small humanoid shape. In his ear there came a whisper, drawn out slowly with a hardened sawtooth edge, "No."

    Harding bolted upright in bed. He reached out, but nothing was beside him. No indentation felt. No voice heard. All was calm, except his heart. Then he felt with spirit.

    The room was flooded with energy. He didn''t know if he''d been pumping energy while he dreamed or if the storm had brought something other to bear. Whatever the cause, there was a lot of energy in the air. He struggled with himself to not assign it some sinister meaning.

    Could it be that such things just are?

    Not ready to sleep again, Harding just closed his mind and looked inward. He practiced breath control with his spirit body, pulling in the ambient energy. It tasted of water, of pollen, of mud. Thinking about his old way of casting his spirit out, he tried combining the two. Instead of creating a hollow sphere though, he stretched himself open, making his spirit full of pockets. Then collapsing it rapidly and firing it all up his spirit channel.

    Harding''s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head.

    The amount of power that shot through him was more than he could handle and he could feel it venting out through the top of his head like a geyser. His head throbbed, between his eyes and up through the top of him. He focused on just breathing, letting himself recover. Then before attempting it again, he pushed out all stored energy in him. Like exhaling sharply before a deep inhale, he pushed to the Throat, with that gate closed, then he opened that one too and pushed to the Mind. A slow, staged boost through the system to vacate and cleanse. At the end was the simple voidseed and he pushed everything into it. It quivered in his mind, boiling with unrealized potential.

    Slowly, it dissipated as it leaked through the conceptual space of his mind.

    Then he took that spongy, deep spirit breath again. Instead of pulling it straight into the channel though, he brought it into his abdomen where it compacted against the resistance of his flesh, before spraying through like a burst hole in a dam. The energy blew through him like a gale, hit that voidseed in his Mind and crushed into itself, packing tight before bleeding off through his brain back into the room once more.

    It felt, for a while, like he¡¯d taken some brain with it.

    Investigating himself he found there seemed to be a little flaw in his spirit body. It was like the channel had torn a little hole through it. Undeterred, he again gave himself a minute of clear breathing, then exhaled the loose energy and did the expansive breath technique he was developing. The energy came rocketing through him and some pushed into the voidseed, the excess escaping a little more slowly.

    He repeated this process several times, being able to capture less power each time as the ambient energy decreased. As well, each time less energy was inserted into the seed. When the room was at a little less than normal level, Harding realized he was becoming fatigued. Both from the effort as well as the return of sleepiness. He laid back down, and thought about what had happened.

    He had discovered something, he was sure, but its actual usefulness was in question. Using this ''big breath'' he could intake more energy in a high energy environment, but he wasn''t sure if it held true in low energy density areas. The higher energy was more power, but so far he couldn''t utilize it. It just blew through him, causing both discomfort and increased fatigue. Intellectually stimulating perhaps, but maybe everyone already knew this and had determined it to be inefficient for actual use.

    Still, he was a little proud of himself. Harding relaxed once more toward sleep. As he did, he cast his mind over his spirit body. The hole above his Mind gate was slightly larger, but just barely. He entered his Heart gate and swam his consciousness against the current of energy downwards in the channel. The binding that closed it off was frayed at the edges.

    Whether he was closer to driving himself from his body or nearer to some enlightenment, he did not know. Repeatedly handling too much power seemed to have had very little subsequent effect. Whatever this effect was, be it permanent or not, it had stabilized.

    Harding relaxed his mind and let it drift with the soft pump of energy that naturally occurred. It was like floating in a river inside himself, while he listened to the steady rain outside. As he floated into his Heart gate with the leech, his consciousness defused and he dropped into a deep sleep. His last thoughts that the Reductionists were right, vampire did sound cooler than leech.

    Harding woke in the morning, it was dark as the rain still fell steadily. He fell out of bed, not in tiredness but in a spat of irrational silliness. Child-like joy brought him to grin widely. Harding could hear that Rent was still sleeping. In all his time with Rent, this was the sole morning he had been first to wake.

    The rooster crowed, trumpeting loudly his claim over his kingdom as Harding went to the table. He heard Rent startle awake behind him, then be still.

    "You''re up. Hope you slept alright," Rent said from the bunk a moment later.

    "I''m rested and ready."

    "Huh. Well great. Wear your Winter Robe today, but keep the summer unders on. The winters help with the rain, but it is too hot for them."

    "Good to know," Harding said and sparked the lamp on the table. Rent had already told him that last night. For some reason, despite being simulated, Harding took comfort that the monk wasn¡¯t always sharp either.

    They were both silent as their eyes adjusted to the dim morning. Rent came to the table and stretched, heavy robes in hand. Harding barely noticed, he was staring at the table and the book open in it.

    "You read last night and didn''t wake me," Rent marveled.

    "I did not."

    "I don''t remember you out here reading before bed."

    "I did not."

    Rent paused, looking at the pages exposed. Then he carefully asked, "Did you open this book this morning?"

    "No."

    They both started at the illustration and beginning of the thirteenth chapter of ''The Blade that Hones''. The left page was a woodcut depiction of the death, the right the beginning of the thirteenth chapter, "Fundamental Forces of Being".

    Harding closed the book and put it back into his bag, which was still closed as he had left it. He looked to Rent for some assurance, but Rent just shrugged. Both dressed in the waterproof winter cyan robes, then donned their packs. Harding turned out the lamp and they went to the main cabin for breakfast.

    Nothing was said during the meal, instead after they had finished Rancher just thanked him for coming. Rent thanked him, in return, for the hospitality. It was cold and mechanical, this unsaid cluster of things between the two a stone wall. Harding felt nothing but discomfort watching the two awkwardly avoid it.

    The monks stepped into the lightened rain without fanfare. They took the cart path because the night''s storm would have left the treacherously steep footpath slick with mud. Because of this, it took longer to get to Tamis Cross. Once again, they didn''t go in but walked the edge to the portal. After a bit more than thirty minutes of standing in the drizzle, the portal flared to life and took them, a handful of travelers and a column of rain to Bresham.

    There it was dry, sunny and nearly noon. The rain crashed down on the dry portal circle a moment after they arrived. Rent set off down the road, away from Bresham, commenting, "And now¡­ we walk."

    And walk they did.

    They walked until they dried, then paused and swapped robes along the side of the road. They kept walking, always east though there was a bit of northern wandering in the road itself. When night began to settle itself upon the world, they stopped at a small farming community. Beyond its offering commercial support for local farmers, the town had two inns along the road. There was nothing notable about the place except for the lack of anything else. Harding didn''t catch the little hamlet''s name, nor even the inn''s.

    They spent the night and ate a breakfast of porridge and fruit. Then they walked again all day. The mornings were starting to be chilly before the sun warmed up the land. Harding tried to use leech to warm himself up. It did help some with function, but it didn''t remove the feeling of chill. Still, Harding spent the morning using the parasites intermittently despite the discomfort.

    Typical Kasagos.

    With little else to do, Harding started trying to watch for the mechanism of how the spirit parasites could interact with the flesh of the body. It seemed to be some kind of energy transfer, perhaps similar to the Heart gates over-time effect on the body. By no means though did Harding come to an understanding.

    They slept when it was dark only to repeat the experience the next day. They slept and walked. And all the while they talked relatively little. They did not stop for training. The road had been angling up for the past day as the elevation rose, but now it changed and everything was slightly down hill.

    Harding began dreading the days.

    What did I think a wandering monk did?

    Then they walked into a little town called Nandhem, and everything changed for Harding. He could see the ocean, in the distance still, but with the land''s gentle downward sloo he could see it.

    "We''re in Eastrun?"

    ¡°A bit ago."

    "There''s no portal out here?"

    "Nothing. There are only two portals in the Ayr kingdom, and the one at Wotenhed fell to the Taaka. So, practically speaking, only Breshem has a functional portal."

    Harding was floored.

    "Are you telling me that a force of Taaka could take the portal to anywhere and at any time?"

    "And now you start to see the issue. If you''re near a portal, you better be able to handle a hundred Taaka an hour."

    "Shit."

    "Yes. And that''s not even addressing the loss of a major border town, which was the Empire''s premier logging source."

    "I thought they didn''t ship much through portals."

    "They don''t. They lost the whole town. The town grew round the portal. All the timber trade and neighboring villages were lost too."

    "I can see why the people are pissed about that then¡­"

    "Mhm," Rent confirmed.

    They stopped and picked up a fresh collection of bread, fruit and dried meat. Harding was not shocked when Rent led them out of the village and back on the road. He couldn''t imagine the monk wasting a half-day''s travel. They slept that night in what amounted to a public camp. There was no town or inn, just a cluster of solidly built lean-tos along the road.

    Harding, though, felt oddly vulnerable while there.

    "House Garnet has these little camps between towns to ease travel,¡± explained Rent as they sat by the fire ring. ¡°The land is fertile and farmed, but beyond agriculture there isn''t much in the north of Eastrun."

    "How long until we pass into their estate?"

    "House Garnet?¡±

    Harding confirmed nonverbally.

    ¡°Their estate sits on a high hill overlooking the port of Sanborn o''Harbour, better known as Sanborn. Really, there is also Sanborn o''Hih, about half a day''s walk up the hills and inland. That was the original Sanborn, but the growth from becoming one of the major ports of the duchy relegated the original into obscurity for all but the locals."

    "That''s super interesting, but how long?"

    "Tomorrow afternoon."

    The next day was uneventful except for brief drizzles. Practicing leech helped a little to pass the time, but Harding felt there wasn''t much more to learn without a wound to target. Anticipation of their destination and the lessening gains of practice, led to Harding being more interested in their surroundings. The heavier wood of the area started to break into dense, but more intermittent copses and windbreaks around farmer fields. The road turned, following a small runoff creek towards the ocean, through a brief flare of woodlands and then crossed a bridge. In the distance sat a couple dozen buildings with a light wall in its midst.

    "Sanborn o''hey?"

    "Sanborn o''Hih," Rent corrected. "But no, what''s ahead is the House Garnet Estate."

    "That whole thing? It looks like a small hamlet."

    "Most of it, mind you, is housing for staff, guards, and the like. They''ve got a small market farmers bring their goods to, and even a small store."

    Harding eyed the many peaks of buildings. It was clearly a cluster of buildings, added onto over time, until a sprawling, asymmetrical compound. Around it were other buildings, yards, and gardens. Enclosing all of that were low walls, more focused on security than siege. Outside the walls, squatted a small village, distanced from the walls. Harding quirked his mouth as he studied it, then admitted, "I kinda expected a castle."

    "Castles aren''t comfortable, nor are they cheap. There are a couple forts in Eastrun, minimal things though, that are only used in times of war. In general, since the Empire, the only martial concern is the Taaka far to the north."

    "What about the pirates?"

    "Those too. They''re a ways south of here though, and they only really target defenseless villages. All the guards and the wall are enough, besides touching actual nobility would bring too much wrath."

    They walked on.

    The whole pirate angle bothered Harding. He remembered reading about the increase in piracy, he had assumed it was players living adventure on the high seas. He had no idea why it would be a long standing issue, and Duke Garnet did not seem a man to ignore his duty.

    "Doesn''t the Duke have a navy?"

    "A small one, not enough to hunt them.¡±

    ¡°But they could stop some.¡±

    ¡°They do, but they''ll never get them all.¡±

    ¡°And then they respawn.¡±

    ¡°They can''t eliminate them, only diminish them for the season. They focus on interdiction, but pirates tend to sail small vessels and raid inland hamlets and farmers.¡±

    Harding scowled, "That''s cowardly."

    "It''s strategic. Tragic, but strategic. They come in numbers that the scouts can''t fight, then flee before the heavy cavalry arrives. You''ll find the topic more complex than you would originally think."

    "How so?"

    "We could spend all day on it. For instance, the reason they don''t have enough men to raid the camps is the terrible losses at the Battle of Wotenhed. The armsmen of the entire Empire are depleted."

    "Don''t they come back from death?"

    "Sure, eventually, usually¡­ but, who do you think are the pirates?"

    "Oh, ex-soldiers?"

    "Mhm."

    No wonder the duke doesn''t seal seeds.

    The road led them to the village, where they turned off onto the short lane leading to the estate. The village was well maintained, with children playing in the grass and adults doing chores like hanging laundry and tending small gardens. The place felt peaceful and unified, more like a close knit neighborhood than the villages they had traveled through.

    The pair walked up to the gates of the estate. Rent greeted the guard force, "Good Day gentlemen, we should be on the list. I am-¡±

    ¡±Hey Harding," interrupted Holtz, leaning his mass on the halberd he held.

    "Heya Holtz, what are you doing out front?"The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Before Holtz could answer the other guard laughed, "He got drunk and-"

    "Was sick," Holtz corrected.

    "I heard he was drunk," said the other guard firmly. "And he got caught out in the night naked."

    "I was trying to cool off from the fever.¡±

    "Cool off after an encounter with the missus¡­"

    "No such thing occurred."

    Harding chuckled.

    The first guard continued, "So, he''s up here being punished for a week."

    "It''s only a punishment when it''s with this dolt."

    "Hey now, that any way to-"

    "Shut it, Kenneth, they don''t care."

    Holtz stretched a smile at the monks, "You have been expected, let me announce you." He leaned over and clanged a bell on a post, then gestured to the open gate. "If you would enter, someone from the house will arrive to greet you."

    Harding thanked Holtz and the two monks walked through a gate. The grass grew tall near and around the wide open door, instead of bent under it.

    The Garnets lived in security.

    The estate gate opened into a long yard, bisected by a worn-down dirt path fringed with tufts of grass in the shade of the surrounding utilitarian buildings. Barns and barracks, stables and smiths; the Garnets had built for function over opulence and they''d packed it in snug. At the end of the long yard though, was the sprawling manor. There were decorative gardens and well kept lawns, all the horticultural affectations of nobility. But only as small accents and lacking the luxury of the Green Hills estate gardens. To Harding¡¯s untrained eye the lower levels looked hardened with protected windows. As they passed through the yard a woman exited the house. A moment after, from behind her and quickly overtaking her, came Jarred. He ran out laughing, "Save me!"

    The woman stopped at a respectful distance, giving Jarred the space to personally greet them. Or, possibly, to avoid the rambunctious Jarred colliding with her.

    She must be Stocke¡¯s student. What''s with these severe women?

    Harding looked around, "From what?"

    "My family," Jarred blurted with a grin. "And boredom. Mostly boredom. Oh, and pointless training. I practice fencing against a dummy, while Jasika actually spars."

    "I don''t know how you do it," quipped Harding as he looked over the fortified manor.

    "Nobility is a life of sacrifice."

    "Suffering is the wrappings of the gift of opportunity," opined Rent interjection. It sounded decidedly Reductionist to Harding. Maybe that book merchant was onto something.

    ¡°He,¡± Harding pointed at Rent while looking at Jarred, ¡°is the wrapper in my life."

    "Yeah, well that is what a good teacher is. Mine feels like the distant parent my distant parents hired to replace themselves with," lamented Jarred.

    Harding winced.

    Jarred retreated slightly from his assertion,  "Not really. Dad''s there for me, if I can hunt him down. And Instructor Simone is knowledgeable, but disengaged. His techniques are more club fencing than reality though, which is probably why dad made sure we went on the, ah-" Jarred glanced at Rent, "outing."

    Harding looked past Jarred as Jasika slipped out and stood next to the door, watching and judging. Stocke, back from the dead, was standing in the open door. Returned to live once more in Jasika''s shade.

    She probably haunted Jasika to make sure she did her drills and didn''t smile.

    Harding waved.

    Jarred glanced back at the house,  "Oh, right. We should go in."

    They went to the top of the steps, where Harding gave a slight bow with a playful smile. "My Lady, it is my pleasure as always."

    Jasika stared.

    Harding was learning her stares though and this one was on the warmer side of things. It might even melt snow in the right conditions.

    "The honorable Brother Rent is greeted by House Garnet," she intoned in an official voice and with a stoic face.

    Rent bowed in return, "Thanks to you and your family for your gracious hospitality, Maid Jasika."

    Stocke nodded slightly in approval of her charge.

    "My mother, the Lady Johanna, has requested that you attend her in the Tea garden. Instructor Stocke can escort you."

    "I am most honored," Rent assured her.

    Jasika''s eyes drifted over to Harding and the corners of her mouth crept up a little bit. She added, "Your acolyte though, may I use him as a training partner while you attend Lady Johanna?"

    Stocke went stiff. Rent, however, smiled mischievously, "He has been excessively energetic today, allow him no excuse in needing rest."

    Rent tilted his head and gestured to Stocke who hesitated before leading him off.

    Jasika continued family business, "Helga, they have no luggage. Please arrange for a room for each in the guest wing and be ready for laundry this evening."

    "Yes, my Lady," she bowed and left.

    "She seemed like a-¡±

    Harding was interrupted by Helga roaring at some servants in the next room, a pause, then the sound of faint sobs and the pattering of feet.

    Jasika looked from Harding to Jarred, "Come, you two."

    Jasika led them, not to a practice hall but back out of the entry gate. While they walked, Harding was interrogated by both as to what he had been up to with Rent. He told them of their travels, their fight against the bandits and the stay at the ranch. Harding was led around the wall and along a narrow creek a short way to the shade of a large tree. Harding looked around, the trees were sparse here, just a few small surviving copses in a small pitch of low grass. At about a hundred yards from the wall, the area turned to farm fields.

    "No training then?"

    "Oh no, we are doing training," she said, climbing up a small boulder to perch on top. "You''re a Spiritualist. I receive excellent training, but my authority is not increasing. The variety of my experiences does not change. I need a change in my training."

    "I thought you were just going to beat on me."

    Jasika stared coldly. Then the corner of her lip curled up slightly. ¡°But I have my beloved brother for that.¡±

    Harding was aghast, she seemed to be developing humor.

    "Hey,¡± Jarred started, paused, then admitted, ¡°That''s actually accurate.¡±

    Nodding to herself, everything being in what she deemed order, she began, "First, I want you to try to do spirit attacks on me. I''ve read about it, but have not experienced it."

    Hurting switched his awareness to sensing in spirit and felt her inhale and harden her spirit. He realized she was lightly pushing her power against her spirit body to harden it to outside influence. The area around seemed a bit fuller than usual, but by no means preternatural in spirit density.

    It seemed to be a rudimentary form of defense, one he had once done instinctually himself. He clarified, "Are you asking me to prevent you getting more energy, disrupt your spirit body or knock you out?"

    "You can do that?"

    "To be honest, ah, I¡¯ve no clue.¡±

    Disappointment leaked across her face before being covered up.

    Harding hastily added, ¡°There are a few things I could try though, but pressure against your spirit body to intimidate you probably wouldn''t work. You''re too strong. We can still try it though. But less common usage, like enveloping you to steal your ability to draw spirit might work?¡±

    Jasika was unresponsive briefly before querying, "If you were fighting me, what would you do?"

    "Die quickly, probably as a smoking pile of ash."

    She smirked, "To attack me. Spirit only."

    "To be honest, I''ve never seen a technique that''s useful enough in terms of speed and effect, but I''ll try."

    "That may be but I want to know and experience what a Spiritualist and maybe a mage with specialist training could do."

    "Oh, ok, I get what you want. What about you Jarred?"

    The large teen held up his hand and begged off, "Huh, no. I don''t know. I haven''t learned how to do this stuff."

    Harding nodded. "This one is spirit domination, all Spiritualists should be able to do it. I''ve never really done it aggressively though?¡± Harding realized that amounted to essentially having never truly done it. He resolved to give it his all, if that meant anything. ¡°I think it will feel uncomfortable, but if I understand the mechanics right it might actually also increase your energy flow slightly."

    "Do it," she urged.

    Harding threw his spirit body in a tight wedge, pushing it against and over Jasika. Constricting. She scrunched her face up, her hands slid to the rock, but she was not in any way impaired. Harding felt her dump a large amount of energy just as a loud crack assaulted his ears. Her lightning strike off to the side completely unimpaired. He focused his intent, trying to subdue her but she didn¡¯t react any differently.

    He waited a few more moments and stopped.

    "It did indeed feel weird,¡± determined Jasika. She wrinkled her nose and then took a deep breath, refilling her spirit. ¡°Almost as if you were eroding my sense of self, though probably my awareness of my own spirit? It would not be enough to stop me though, but I might have hesitated at a critical moment.¡± She didn¡¯t sound convinced. Harding shrugged. Jasika had pulled some serious spellcraft in battle, he doubted he could actually destabilize her concentration. He wasn''t going to argue it with her though.

    ¡°I think you''re right too,¡± offered Jasika as an afterthought, ¡°it did feel like there was slightly more energy available. It was not enough to try to collaborate in battle though."

    Harding nodded. When he had read about the technique, it was illustrated as a way to impose psychologically on someone. He didn''t get the impression it was useful inside combat. The methodology though seemed like an inefficient push of spirit. In effect, the opposite of his drawing.

    "We should practice having you doing that while I am sparring to help me get used to having my senses blocked mid-attack." Jasika leaned back slightly, reclining against both hands. It was a more open position than he had ever seen from her. Her expression was still cold, "What else can you do?"

    Harding arched an eyebrow at Jasika. The behavior seemed unnatural to him, but he didn''t really know her. "No name for this one as it''s just a theory I¡¯m developing. I''m going to try and stop your intake of new spirit energy, so dump out what you have and then try to get more."

    Jasika dropped a massive lightning strike with a casual flick of her wrist, and Harding enveloped her entirely with his spirit body. Instead of trying to dominate though, he pulled heavily from the energy around her.

    Jasika dropped lightning strike after lightning strike until finally stopping. She looked skeptical, "How much effort does that take?"

    "I have got to concentrate to maintain it,¡± he admitted. ¡°It was my first time actually trying it, but I don''t think I could do it and defend myself with reasonable practice.¡±

    She shook her head, "It reduced my recharge by maybe a quarter to a third of the usual. It would be terrible in a fight then. Perhaps, though, against a heavy magic-using tyrant it would make a difference? With what I carry though in my body, I could easily have killed you before I even felt the effect."

    Harding had feared as much, "Well then, I won''t try that one in a fight."

    There was one thing he hadn''t tried. He doubted any of it would have an effect, Spiritualism seemed to have only subtle benefits. Still, he felt some urge to demonstrate competency, even to a couple of NPCs. "I can do an attack, but it''s experimental. I''ve never done it to a living being and I don''t know how bad it will be¡­"

    Jasika shook her head, dismissing his worries and potency, "These have been pretty weak. Just something that might make you miss a parry could be significant. What do I need to do?"

    "Nothing really," Harding said. "You''ll know when."

    Harding stretched out into his spiraled spirit lance, hardening the edge to make it impermeable to spirit. He took a deep spirit draw, but instead of contacting it into himself, he blew it all down the lance while simultaneously ramming it up through Jasika''s channel.

    Jasika let out half of a startled chirp and fell backwards off the stone, hitting her head hard on the ground. To Harding''s horror, she laid there unmoving. Both Harding and Jarred surged to her side, but she was almost instantly awake again and groaning. Her eyes looked up at them and then she rolled away from them and puked clear bile in the grass.

    "Shit, Harding, what did you do," exclaimed Jarred in panic.

    "I''m ok," Jasika squeaked and then spit the remnants out. She sat up, swayed, then wiped her mouth and turned back to the boys.

    "Fuck," she stated absently, as if discussing the weather.

    Harding and Jarred both watched agape at her absent-minded vulgarity.

    "That''s exactly what I was looking for Jarred,¡± she exhaled at her brother a few moments later. The boys were still looking at her like she was a changeling, but she was oblivious. ¡°I cannot have something exactly like that happen during a fight. Neither can you, honestly."

    "I''m sorry," managed Harding, unsure what else to say.

    Jasika reached back and gingerly probed the back of her head, wincing. "I was not ready for it, for- that, and would not have been while fighting.¡±

    Jasika gently prodded the tender spot on the back of her head while Jarred looked at Harding wordlessly. It took Harding a second to realize it wasn''t blame, but desperation for help. Jasika interrupted their silent debate, ¡°Hitting my head seems to be the worst of it. Better here than in front of a blade.¡±

    She looked, now more clearly focused, at Harding and demanded, ¡°What did you do?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± he began, trying to figure out how to explain it politely. ¡°I formed a hardened cone of spirit and used it to cause a sudden overpressure of spirit through your channel until it overloaded your Mind gate. I think?¡±

    Jasika nodded absently, clearly attempting to deconstruct the experience. ¡°It felt like my brain just turned into light for a moment. This unseen but blinding flash of thought that made my spirit body sag.¡±

    Harding thought about it as a kind of catatonic response of the spirit system to overpressurization. What was more intriguing would be if the response was defensive, was it possible to bypass someone''s automatic protection. He offered, "No clue how many people would even think to try that, but it''s a combination of a couple of my practices at once that''s kind of come together?."

    They both watched him, waiting for more.

    ¡°It''s a supercharged version of what I did to remove those evil roots.¡±

    They waited for more, clearly unsatisfied with his attempt to not get into the tangle of jargon and concepts he anticipated.

    Harding sighed, "Are you familiar with spirit breathing?"

    Jasika shook her head.

    "Might just be a name difference. You know how your spirit body pumps energy into you from your surroundings?"

    Nods from both this time.

    "If you think of that as your lungs, you can take a deeper breath to push more energy. You probably do it as part of boosting a seed?"

    Again, both nodded.

    "I used an external boosting technique combined with a hardened spirit body appendage and drove all the free spirit I collected, as well as what was in her, hard into her Mind gate.¡±

    Jasika grimaced and Jarred goggled.

    Jasika tried to piece it together out loud, ¡°You forced an involuntary and incomplete Mind gate activation?¡±

    Harding shook his head, closed his eyes and really thought through the mechanics. ¡°Uhm, most likely- and I''m not entirely positive on this, I¡­ vented it around and through the top of the Mind gate and out of you?¡±

    "I need to learn this," decided Jasika, leaving no doubt in the possibility of Harding¡¯s escape.

    "Me too," piped Jarred.

    Jasika stood up and brushed herself down quickly. It left Harding looking out at the distant sea below. The grassy higher elevation dropped into a flat valley of agriculture. Against the shore was nestled a small town, the details obscured by the distance.

    Jarred hovered near Jasika, as if afraid she''d fall over. It was a strange dichotomy, the knowledge of her affliction with the witnessing of her power. Jarred wore his emotions, his concern evident as he towered over his sister. Harding sought to reassure him, ¡°She''ll be fine. I''ve done that to myself several times, it gives you a bit of a brain freeze is all. Even if I pack a voidseed with it.¡±

    Jarred¡¯s face scrunched up in confusion, ¡°Why would you do that to yourself?¡±

    Jasika reached out and gave her brother a light push. Smiling, she redirected it, ¡°What he should be asking is what you mean by ¡®packing¡¯ a voidseed?¡±

    ¡°Uh, yeah, that too,¡± he mumbled.

    ¡°You can push spirit into a voidseed just like a regular seed. Fill it up the same,¡± Harding offered, uncomfortable with the topic. It wasn''t anything forbidden, but he was uncertain and certainly at odds with the prevailing understanding thoughts on voidseeds. The fact the voidseed held spirit like a normal seed was accepted, but anything beyond that was unsupported and unproven.

    ¡°You mean when it''s in your hand,¡± asked Jarred.

    "No. Actually, maybe. You might be able to redirect it through the Throat. But, I have a voidseed in my Mind gate. The one Yhavat traded me, actually. So I push excess energy in there."

    "I didn''t know you could use one like that, what''s that do for you?"

    "So far, no clue, other than a place to store extra energy."

    ¡°Yeah, but why,¡± puzzled Jarred. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to do with it, you can only boost up.¡±

    All Harding could do was shrug, ¡°I don''t have fancy teachers, I have to figure it out on my own.¡±

    Jasika sniffed and looked back towards the village. Stocke had showed up. She stood off like a silent monument to the inevitability of responsibility. After a few moments of ignoring her, Jasika signed. ¡°Time to head back.¡± As they walked back, Harding wondered about how he was always being led around by NPCs.

    I''m just following the story.

    Jarred started talking about his excitement for CombO and his expectations. Jasika chimed along occasionally, as she led them through the village being stalked by Stocke. Harding didn''t ask and Jasika hadn''t really interacted with the villagers, but he wondered if she was trying to follow her father¡¯s advice about being known to the people. As they walked the long yard to the estate house, she decided, ¡°You should do that overpressure to me again when we train.¡±

    ¡°Mmm,¡± hedged Harding, "I will, but not today? I want Brother Rent to make sure there wasn''t any damage first."

    Jasika conceded reluctantly and looked to Stocke, "Back to training, then."

    Uncomfortable with it, Harding requested, "Lady Jasika, please have Brother Rent examine your spirit body first."

    "Hmm. Very well, but you two are coming with me then." Jasika stooped and picked a red wild flower from the garden by the door. As they walked through the halls, she snapped the stem and tucked it in her hair behind her ear. Brother Rent was sitting with Duchess Johanna in the shade of the back veranda. The setting of tea on the table was well used and the garden scene well crafted.

    Jasika came to a halt a few steps away and waited for her mother''s attention. "Please excuse us, Mother. My brother''s Spiritualist urges me to request that Brother Rent check the health of my spirit."

    "What did he do," demanded Duchess Johanna. Harding winced.

    "Nothing of concern, we were discussing training and he thought it might be warranted."

    The duchess scowled at the deception, eyed Harding a moment, then nodded assent. It was a clear dodge by Jasika, but it seemed to have earned her favor instead of reproval.

    Nobles.

    The duchess languidly turned her head to the sitting monk, "Brother Rent, we would be most appreciative if you could perform such a service."

    Rent smiled and waved his hand dismissively, "Duchess, it''s barely worth a mention. Here, I''ll check both your children to make sure they''re completely healthy. "

    Rent turned and gave Jasika a soft look, reassuring her, "This will only take a few moments."

    Harding watched in spirit sense, untrained in this and attempting to learn. Rent threw out his spirit to cover hers, then gently pumped energy against her. After ten pulses, he switched over to Jarred. Jarred shuddered at what was a light, but still smothering, spirit domination. Rent began to press energy to him. Ten pulses, then ten more before stopping.

    "Lady Jasika has an excellent spirit, powerful and healthy though showing some fatigue from overchanneling,¡± diagnosed Rent. ¡°My acolyte will teach her a meditation technique to restore health to the spirit body and that, coupled with avoiding overtaxing herself, will see her completely restored in under a week."

    Duchess Johanna opened her mouth, then closed it and waited for him to continue.

    "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for your son. While his spirit body is well formed and responsive, his energy channel is damaged,¡± Rent informed them. Duchess Johanna¡¯s face froze, her countenance and the memory of Jarred bragging about her martial prowess putting her well into the category of ¡®avoid at all costs¡¯ for Harding.

    Jasika makes so much more sense now.

    Rent, understanding the concern, addressed the obvious questions. ¡°There can be a number of causes, but most likely either an early sickness or very poor training combined with overuse of the Heart gate. He will require some restorative techniques, which can be self-administered. And, perhaps, some alchemy aides. Along with that, the same meditation technique that Maid Jasika will learn and possibly some retraining in Gate use is warranted."

    The duchess was a dangerous quiet as she watched Jarred struggle with what he''d been told. He was trying to be brave, but not wholly successful.

    "Is the damage permanent," she asked quietly. ¡°Or, will that regimen¡¯s effect be absolute?¡±

    "I should think so, the spirit body is remarkably resilient, especially with his healthy soul.¡± The monk paused, ¡°The majority should clear up in about a month, but any retraining will take longer."

    "Stocke, please fetch my husband,¡± was the steely command. There was no doubt to any there that she meant immediately. ¡°When the duke tells you he''s too busy, tell him that I strongly insist. Use those words exactly, then return with him."

    Stocke bowed and hurried off.

    "Brother Rent, while I must discuss it with my husband, I fear we will be in great need of assistance with caring for our son. I am aware of your calling as a wanderer, but I believe you are attending the coming exposition as a guest of our House?"

    Rent spoke carefully, "That was my understanding, Duchess."

    The duchess'' focus on Rent made even Harding feel uncomfortable. He well understood her fearsome reputation.

    She continued, icy and hard edged, "When I discuss with my husband our needs and options for the well-being of our son, I would like to know the cost of retaining you to act as healer and interim instructor to my son."

    "My Lady, I am-¡±

    Duchess Johanna held up a staying hand. "I do not doubt the capabilities of the healers in Sanborn. I am sure they would adequately see to our needs. However, I want immediate relief from this disagreeable situation. I am not satisfied with adequate at this point. Since we will be hosting you again in under two months, your service to right an injustice and relieve my heart would align well with events. At least until we can find a proper long-term solution."

    Rent slid his tea saucer slightly with his fingertip, clearly thinking hard on it. "Duchess Johanna, as far as forgoing our planned route and assisting your family instead, we would be delighted. Our only requirement would be for room and board."

    Rent paused then, taking a deep breath. "I am, however, bound by the Laws of my Order, having signed contracts no less, to take on no student until my current acolyte is trained and inducted. He''s nowhere near trained."

    This time Rent held up a staying hand to the forming duchess¡¯ objection, something that shocked her as much as it did Harding.

    "There is a stipulation that I may hire outside trainers for aspects of his functional education that I feel are better sources than myself. He must agree though, to the trainer. He did it with my father, as such I foresee no issue here."

    The duchess cocked her head, "I''m not sure I follow the exact lines of your scheme."

    "Ah. Yes, well. We are not prevented from selling our services so long as it does not interfere with our sworn functions.¡± Rent shared a conspiratorial smirk with the duchess, as if he were bringing her into his confidences. ¡°If my acolyte is busy receiving training here, then I would be available while he is training.¡±

    ¡°He has already been recognized by my husband as a retainer,¡± the duchess added, coming to warmth with the direction of Rent¡¯s rule-bending scheme.

    Rent pressed forward, ¡°My acolyte is a promising specialist, a natural even. But, unfortunately, as a mage he is woefully inadequate. As a specialist, he could teach them some in exchange. Supervised, of course.¡±

    The duchess smiled, a predatory thing, "I think I see a path here, but I will need to confer with my husband."

    Rent¡¯s tone made clear his expectation, "Harding, you would be overwhelmed with gratitude if the young Master deigned to correct your uneducated status, wouldn''t you."

    Harding rolled his eyes, slipping into sardonicism, "It would be my honor to be taught by such."

    "Absolutely splendid,¡± exclaimed Rent, overly enjoying his drama. ¡°Now, Duchess, as much as your company is as breathtaking as your beauty, perhaps I could beg my leave as you will assuredly be too busy for me in short order. If you would be so kind, may we have the use of your training hall, so that I might teach my acolyte another lesson on restoring the spirit body?"

    "The House would be delighted to loan you the use of the hall, so long as others might also use the hall," she acquiesced.

    I need to check what kind of books Rent has been reading¡­

    The monk pushed back his chair and stood. "Of course, Duchess, of course. We will only need a small corner."

    The duchess gave a curt nod, as if cutting the conversation to an end. "Then you are excused. Please though, have a servant deliver to me forthwith a list of recommended alchemies and their expected market values."

    Brother Rent bowed low to the duchess and gathered together Harding, Jarred and Jasika. He looked to Jasika, "Please, would you be so kind as to lead us?"

    Jasika looked at Jarred and seeing that his panic from the diagnosis was subsiding, then offered her arm. He took it instinctually and then the two led the monks off to the training hall.

 Chapter 19

    By that day''s evening meal a lot had changed in Harding''s life. The simplest was that he found out that part of what he had been doing as spirit meditation was actually a restorative practice. Energizing the passageways of the spirit body with focus on structure helped activate its natural restoration to the genetic ideal. His focus had been on discovery, but the exercise utilized visualization of the ideal as a guide to the reformation and perfection. What Harding realized he understood, but didn''t know, was that there was a subsystem beyond the channel. Pathways of energy sprouting from each gate. He simply had to solidify his understanding, then reinforce it with his mind.

    The second change was that instead of returning to Gremuth and traveling with the Eights to the Expo, he would stay with House Garnet once more. A large change in action, if a comfortable and friendly one. It meant he would miss out on returning to his friends and his meetings with Gregor, but instead live in quiet luxury with a relaxed cycle schedule.

    There was a subtle complexity to it though that challenged him. He was unsure what to think of Jarred and Jasika being auxiliary instructors. He saw them as friends to some extent and to suddenly have a hierarchy bothered him for the night. The next morning though, Brother Rent pointed out that while he was friendly with the family, they could also have him jailed and tried with a casual command. There already was a greater hierarchy, one he blatantly ignored.

    Harding was just being blind to reality.

    The trio studied spirit body restoration in both acute therapy and regular maintenance methods. They worked with alchemical medicines and directed restoration. They, collectively, watched Jarred¡¯s condition slowly improve as a class project. Strangely, the hole in Harding''s spirit did not close, but he had kept that issue from Rent and he kept secret the lack of repair too.

    He couldn''t explain why, so he avoided the internal topic of his avoidance. Something that applied to outside of Life too. His time in game had reduced and stabilized, but he was still sleeping under the augmented dreams of the system.

    Part of his training included teaching the Garnets. With Jasika in particular, Harding practiced spirit domination as well as taught it. He became so proficient with it, that a quick nudge was barely different in effort than flicking a finger. The one thing he feared he lacked was true, vicious intent.

    With Jarred he learned proper etiquette. Harding groaned about how propriety was mostly just him not talking. In actuality, Harding found the lessons eye opening in terms of what had to be accounted for in behavior. More important though was learning how houses and villages operated, who was in charge of what and under what structure of authority they operated. Despite each being somewhat unique, the system of power and how to get things done was fairly consistent.

    Brother Rent instructed Harding in combat, using Jarred as a sparring opponent. They both learned from Rent, though Jarred was far more advanced. Occasionally, Rent would spar with Jasika and make suggestions to her, but he was careful to make Stocke a part of it to avoid any friction.

    To force him to learn, Harding was made to teach his own techniques on spirit body manipulation and attacks. The group worked on improving the concepts and made some headway, though the increase of efficacy and effect was relatively minor.

    If anything the greatest benefit was clarifying in his mind how the system functioned.

    Every night after dinner they studied their own topics, Stocke included, then shared what they''d learned before spending a half hour meditating together. After that was social time until they went to bed.

    Overall, Harding''s combat ability advanced. Jarred was mostly healed. Jasika got her experience being attacked and distracted in combat. And they all learned a bit about the spirit body.

    Harding did feel like he had lost opportunities by not wandering, but he knew he learned a lot more by spending the time concentrated on training. Some things cannot be learned from a book. Or, through training.

    After a little less than four weeks, it came time to travel to the Combat & Arms Expo. The House traveled back to Gremuth by portal, where they spent two days meeting friends, gathering last minute provisions and coordinating with the remaining Eights force in the city.

    The majority of the Big Three had already packed up the soulnet, which shut down all but the vendor section of the Grinder. A load of wagons had carried it, and the majority of the future camp, to the location a week earlier. It was accompanied by a virtual army, who now lived and practiced there. Harding wondered how nervous the rulers had been with such a force traveling through their territories.

    The first afternoon in Gremuth, Harding set off on a little adventure in town. Jarred wanted to go too, but was required by his father to be part of the coordination with the Eights. As far as Harding understood it, there was one more procession of guild people headed out and some of House Garnet was going to travel with them. Harding didn''t understand why, but it wasn''t his concern.

    "I will attend you," declared Jasika. Despite their increasing familiarity, they never did something without Jarred. Stocke looked as shocked as Harding was.

    "That would be a pleasure, Lady Jasika," Harding responded with a bow.

    Jasika stuck out her arm as she often did with her brother, indicating Harding should take it. He did, and though he had wrestled with, fought and mediated with her, it still felt awkward to be close and in contact.

    She seemed to ignore it, as usual.

    They had taken a few steps forward when Jasika stopped. Harding stopped with her, looking down at her.

    "Instructor Stocke, you''ll remain here."

    Jarred laughed in the background.

    "But, Lady Jasika, your safety is-¡±

    "I''m perfectly fine. You are my brother''s instructor too for the time being, see to it that he is ready for the journey. We both know he''s not."

    Jarred protested, "Hey, I''m ready, mostly."

    "The duchess-¡±

    "I will not repeat myself. If you wish to concern mother in this, you should go and report to her."

    Jasika started walking again, Harding quick to match her shortened gait. By the time they got to the gate though, Harding was leading and she was following without Harding realizing when the roles had changed.

    They walked across the bridge in silence, as was her way. Only when they got to the main city did she ask, "Where are we going?"

    "Oh, all over I guess, but let''s head to Old Market first. I need to check in with the Guard association. Apparently, Jarred got around to notifying them I completed my assignment."

    "That was months ago."

    "Yeah, well¡­ Jarred."

    They strolled together, in the early day sun, and chatted idly about CombO. They shared knowledge on who was going to be there and rumors about important people who weren''t. Jasika talked of things she wanted to see, do, and explore. It wasn''t just a tournament, a lot of known and upcoming craftsmen would be there. Which included some of the leading alchemists and inventors. Noble Houses from across the empire, guilds, and even royalty would also be in attendance.

    Jasika had no interest in the entertainers.

    Harding eventually pointed out, "No one''s really said who from House Garnet is competing, just that your family is attending."

    Jasika evidenced a scowl before the reaction was covered up, "There''s a disagreement on that. We have enough people back to have a team, but none are competing individually."

    "How is it that no one is doing the individual brackets?"

    "That''s the disagreement,¡± she wryly elucidated. ¡°I want to fight. None of our men are, so there is no internal conflict."

    Harding could already imagine the rest of it.

    Jasika pulled her hand free of his arm and started gesticulating as she spoke, one hand and then the other separating the sides. "Father said it was ok, but mother said no. Father says it''s good to show House power. Mother says if I lose to another House or I am¡­ disrespected¡­ in the arena, that will cause political issues greater than showing strength."

    "That''s tough."

    "And registration is closed, except for the open bracket. To fight, I would have to start in the qualifying bracket.¡±

    Harding frowned to himself, ¡°The nobles get a pass into the ranked fights?¡±

    "It sounds unfair,¡± she admitted, ¡°but I''ve been privately trained all my life. I was a pure by age seven. Would it be fair to others in the open bracket to face me?¡±

    Harding scratched his cheek, rubbing the old scars. "I guess not, there''s a- I don''t know, lower bracket for them?¡±

    Jasika affirmed curtly, focused on the walk to avoid a loose stone. The wear on the city caused by the surge in population from going live was noticeable.

    ¡°So currently House Garnet isn''t represented in the individual competition?"

    "Not unless I can change mother''s mind. What about you?"

    "Me," asked Harding incredulously. "I''d get humiliated."

    "You''d make it farther than you think. Maybe even a good little run if you''re lucky. The big guilds, associations and houses are already seated."

    Harding felt shame and indignation at the insinuation that he would do well only among the inexperienced. However, she was being realistic. As sharp as Jasika could be, as detached and superior as she acted, she did not bully. Even that was beneath her.

    "I''ll think about it¡­"

    He figured he had lied. He already knew he wouldn''t and doubted anything could change his mind. They spoke of little things until they entered the trade hall. Harding walked up to the desk, dealt with the paperwork and got paid one-crown-four for the job.

    As they left, Jasika asked, "That''s what you got for a days work for Jarred?"

    "And the night with Rhett."

    She wrinkled her nose but made no further comment. It always shocked Harding how much the Garnet kids didn''t understand the world for all their teachings. It wasn''t until they were outside again before she stopped. She looked up at him with a strange curiosity, "And what were you paid for the rest of it?"

    "Paid?¡± Harding thought a moment, about his struggles with money and gear. How there was such great inertia to getting started he didn''t see how Life would make it. Everyone wanted to be competent and rewarded. In Life you were nothing until you proved it.

    ¡°I got experiences I wouldn''t have otherwise. Associations, learning, friendships too. With good people like you¡­"

    Jasika looked up at him, her face in conflict. He could see her struggling with something even though her face was emotionless, her eyes betrayed. And then, from behind Harding, an all too familiar voice said, "You certainly do have the nose for it, Miss Bluejay."

    Harding turned, shifting partially in front of Jasika, reflexively protective. There, before him, stood Ricasso and Bluejay.

    "No, no madame, I am not commenting on the proportions of your nose," exclaimed an exasperated Ricasso. "My meaning is that you are most adept at being aware of presences."

    Bluejay smirked and turned to look at Harding. She looked him up and down, then eyed Jasika.

    "I do not know her either," agreed Ricasso. "Harding, be a gentleman and introduce us to your young companion."

    "Look, ah," Harding fumbled for a polite way to address them collectively, "Fair folk. I don''t know what our connection is, but she decidedly is not a part of it."

    Bluejay sniffed. Ricasso told her, "Yes, I agree. Strange company indeed for your little monk."

    Bluejay stepped forward and jabbed a finger into Harding''s sternum while making an "ahh" sound. It sounded like the dying moments of a woman with her throat slit.

    "Miss Bluejay would remind you,¡± Ricasso explained crisply, ¡°that she claims you."

    Harding protested, "Ho-"

    Jasika slipped around him, brushing away Bluejays finger, and stood with her back pressed to Harding. She glared up at Bluejay, the two locked in each other''s eyes. In her firm, albeit little, voice, she addressed Bluejay, "I am Lady Garnet. He is in my attendance. You had best leave."

    Bluejay looked down at Jasika, a slight expression of distaste, then back at Harding. She wore her displeasure plainly. Ricasso opened his mouth, closed it, opened and closed it, then said, "Forgive me Lady Garnet, I am but the conduit. Harding, Miss Bluejay wishes you to know that she doesn''t care about your inadvisable romances, she claims you."

    Harding acted out of instinct, putting a hand over Jasika''s mouth and another around her waist. The grab was just in time as he felt Jasika start forward with violence. What he had done froze her in shock. Harding slid his spirit body over Jasika in spirit domination, but pushed emotional calmness. He had no idea of it would work and hadn''t ever thought about it, it was instinct. All he wanted was to avoid Jasika being hurt. Somehow, to Harding''s surprise, she remained still and pressed hard to him.

    Bluejay cocked her head to the side in a very birdlike motion and watched him with interest. "I do not know," responded Ricasso. "As far as I''m aware, he''s not, but yes I saw it too."

    Harding didn''t care. "Miss Bluejay, I mean no disrespect. However, I know Okkor claimed me. I study as an acolyte in his temple. If there is an issue with claim, then that is an issue with him. I don''t have a choice in the matter."

    Bluejay laughed, a ghastly hollow sound.

    Ricasso relayed, "Choice is an illusion hiding an illusion."

    "What?"

    "Her words, not mine. Direct quote," Ricasso shrugged and actually looked a little apologetic. These two left Harding feeling as though he was drowning in weirdness.

    "Ok,¡± he agreed noncommittally. ¡°I''m going to turn around and the Lady and I will be in our way. I wish you both a good day."

    Bluejay thrust her chin as if to motion him away, then stood watching with a slight scowl. Harding took his hand from Jasika''s mouth, and gently swung her around with him, escorting her away from danger. As they walked away he heard Ricasso speak to Bluejay, "It is a development. Perhaps the price has been increased?"

    Harding just kept walking, firmly gripping Jasika''s far shoulder. They walked stiffly and in silence through the remainder of New Market and further until they came to the bookstore he had wanted to visit.

    Inside, Harding nodded to the clerk and moved into a back section on philosophy. A topic usually reserved for the darker and emptier places in a bookstore. Still a moment longer, then Jasika rounded on him suddenly and stared up angrily.

    "Don''t you ever do that again."

    "I''m sorry, but-¡±

    "Don''t you ever do that again."

    "Alright."

    She turned her back to him, but kept so close Harding could feel her presence. She remained still and silent. Unsure what to do, Harding kept on task looking for what he had set out for all along. He read the titles of the first shelf, then the second. He couldn''t read the lower shelves past Jasika, and was unsure what to do with her staying in front of him. He was about to give up when she said in a whisper, "Unless I say to."

    Harding smiled a little, thinking maybe he was out of trouble. "Yes, Lady Jasika." He waited but nothing changed. Eventually he softly commented, "I need to read the lower shelves."

    "Ok," she said, and stepped away. He crouched, peering at the dusty spines. "Would you like to help?"

    "Sure,¡± she got down on her knees and sat on her feet, keeping her dress about her. After a moment she inquired, "What are we looking for?"

    "That''s the hard part,¡± Harding explained. ¡°I''m not sure. I''m looking for information on something called principles. They''re some kind of natural force or being?¡±

    Jasika eyed him in askance and he mouthed, ¡°Yhavat.¡±

    They scanned book titles in silence, occasionally pulling a book to investigate one with either promise or obfuscated purpose. Harding found nothing on the first bookshelf. He rocked back onto his feet about to stand up.

    "Who were they," asked Jasika.

    "Hmm? Oh. I don''t know.¡± He explained, ¡°My first night in Gremuth, they killed my friend and I think she was going to kill me too, but they were interrupted. Ever since then they keep showing up, playing their weird games."

    "I''d kill her."

    "When she killed my friend, she ate his tongue."

    "Eew."

    "I don''t think they''re human. I''ve seen enough archons fight that I know they¡¯re similar, but not that. Something else, something other. At least she is, all he seems to do is talk for her."

    "I''d still melt her like a cheap candle," growled Jasika quietly.

    "Can I help you?"

    Both of them looked up to see the clerk standing there, watching them sit and whisper. Harding bit back a chuckle and asked, "Yeah, I''m looking for a book on a topic, but I don''t know the right book to look for."

    "I see. What is the topic of concern?"

    "The Principles?"

    "Economics are three rows over."

    "I mean forces of nature, the principles of energy and nature, not market investments."

    "Ah, homophones, right. That''s¡­ hmm. Let me check with the owner."

    The clerk disappeared and Jasika giggled. It didn''t seem like a sound she would make.

    "What," he asked.

    She settled to sit aside her legs. "Is this what regular life is like? All I do is train and be proper. I have no friends, except Jarred and, I guess¡­ you. I don''t go to the socials anymore. I do the same thing every day over and over. Everything regimented, controlled and isolated."

    Harding didn''t respond. He just remained crouched, listening.

    Jasika looked at him earnestly and confessed, "I got sick of it so I changed things. Started thinking about what else there might be. Now I feel so¡­ off balanced. It''s terrifying. I have no idea what will happen next. I feel hyper and anxious. I want to run home and yet I want to not go home again. What happens next?"

    Harding stood up and stretched his back. "Probably, the clerk will come back and tell us he didn''t have anything."

    Jasika hid her smile with a scowl, "That''s not what I meant at all, and you know it."

    The returning clerk interrupted, "The owner says what you''re looking for is a topic that is considered heretical by the church. No book store will carry such."

    Harding looked at Jasika. "See, I told you didn''t I? I said ''Benedict has lost his mind, what he''s arguing is crazy.'' And here we are, there aren''t any books on the idea because there''s no foundation to the idea."The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Jasika stared, confused. Harding offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet when she took it. "Thank you so much for your help," he told the clerk cheerfully and walked Jasika out to the street.

    From there, he gave up his other plans and set off for Green Hills. After a bit of waking, Harding explained to Jasika, "I didn''t want to risk them knowing who you were and gossiping about heresy."

    "Protecting me, again."

    "Protecting both of us."

    "You wouldn''t even slow me in a fight."

    "True. But you can''t lightning every situation."

    "Bet I can¡­"

    "Politics?"

    "Lightning."

    "Finances?"

    "Lightning."

    "Romance?"

    "Extra lightning."

    "Well, I have to admire your commitment and consistency," Harding stated in jokingly seriousness.

    Jasika smiled and asked, "Are we going home?"

    "Yeah."

    She held out her arm to be held again, and they walked back to the estate.

    They left Green Hills midmorning, a small wagon train of House guard and supplies. While the blades were plentiful and eager, the goods being brought seemed too few. Harding trusted that Lieutenant Green knew what he was doing though as the House had been a part of war campaigns. Surely, they could visit a faire.

    Instead of traversing the exterior district gate, they turned inward and crossed the bridge to Gremuth proper. There, a collection of Big Three stragglers met them and joined the procession. By noon they found themselves at the Bresham portal.

    A unit of blades, supply wagons and several portal mages went when their destination lit up in the portal runes. That left the rest to sit around waiting for their destination to be active again.

    "Where are we going again," Harding asked Jarred. The young noble sat across from him in the carriage, along with Rent. Jasika sat next to him, Stocke on the other side of her.

    "The Combat and Arms Exposition¡­"

    Rent chuckled. Rent and Jarred got along great as they shared the same sense of humor.

    "Yes, but where¡­"

    "Gatton Heights."

    "Yes, but where is that."

    "Oh, it was an old pre-Empire castle. It was sacked and all but razed during the Unification Wars. The town too, actually. Now it is just an unimportant ruin without strategic value to justify reclaiming it."

    Harding looked to Rent for help.

    "Gatton Heights is in the kingdom of Capris, it''s a good way west, about two and a half kingdoms over."

    "A half Kingdom," Jarred questioned. He clearly knew the geography, Harding presumed he was questioning Rent''s terminology.

    "It''s south of Pardis, but not fully past it."

    "I take your meaning then."

    Harding gave up.

    Buy more maps.

    The group sat for a while longer, Harding watching the painfully slow progression of the automatic portal circle. He had a newfound appreciation on just how limiting it actually was despite being free and instantaneous travel.

    The chat was light and lighthearted, mostly Rent and Jarred talking about side events and shopping desires. Jasika unsnapped her travel tome and started reading. Harding watched her. Stocke watched him. Eventually he asked what he was thinking, ¡°Is that¡­ helping?¡±

    ¡°Hmm? Oh. Not on the reason it was given, but I am starting to think it might have been an object lesson?¡± Jasika started a shrug, but released it. ¡°There is no way to know this, no matter how much I absorb.¡±

    ¡°But you keep reading.¡±

    ¡°I do.¡±

    Rent and Jarred were watching now.

    ¡°Even though you get nothing.¡±

    ¡°It is not nothing. It just happens to be not what I was looking for.¡±

    ¡°And you keep hoping it will be?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ accept that it is what it is. I am still exercising my mind. And it has value besides knowledge, the tome increases authority.¡±

    Harding''s eye twitched.

    ¡°And authority is?¡±

    Jasika, unsurprised, handed the topic off to Rent.

    ¡°Authority is the weight of the Will-¡±

    Harding had stopped him with a raised hand.

    ¡°She brought it up,¡± he pointed out. ¡°Let her explain it.¡±

    Jasika hid a smile. ¡°It is what determines the power of a person, spell or ability. A burn seed can consume curses, but only with adequate authority. It''s what gauges which spell wins out.¡±

    Harding rubbed the back of his thumb against the bridge of his nose. Yet another mechanic he didn''t know. Though it made sense. If he boosted leech what would happen? It didn''t generate more leeches, so it had to do something else. He suspected he now knew. Harding suspected greater authority would probably relate to the severity of wounds the leeches could handle too. Testing that though didn''t seem inviting. He admitted, ¡°Ok. I think I get it.¡±

    With some time still left before the portal worked itself around again to their destination, Rent had them get out and meditate on the nature of spirit. He challenged them to put emphasis on awareness of how spirit behaved differently near portals.

    Rent wandered off, leaving Stocke to watch over the students, and went to talk to the Garnets in the other carriage. Rent was correct though, it did behave differently here. Harding had previously noted that the energy slowly drained towards the portal, then burst like a geyser up into the air when it activated. Harding focused on the nature of it, how it seemingly chose its behavior.

    It didn''t feel random.

    On the surface, the portal was just a sink of energy that had a violent reaction when it filled and activated. However, the energy that burst out was not the same that went in. To Harding, it had a subtly different taste, like how one cut of meat tastes different than another even though they''re the same animal.

    ¡®Why do you go up, instead of out?¡¯

    It is my nature.

    Harding started. He looked around, but found no source. Jasika and Jarred sat shoulder to shoulder, cross-legged on the blanket. Their eyes were closed.

    ''Do you wish to fly?''

    There was no response.

    Harding took a massive, deep spirit breath and shot the entire thing up into the air, using the throat gate in a silent, gargling song. He couldn''t be sure, but he swore he heard childlike laughter.

    "What was that," asked Jarred quietly. Jasika shushed him.

    "Life is vibrant, if you must meditate in silence then you are not living it," Jarred playfully quoted Rent at her. Jasika kept her eyes closed, but stuck out her tongue at her brother for a moment in retort.

    The next time the portal geysered, Harding did it again at the same moment. The transition after, Jarred joined him. On the next one, all three joined in.

    "Did you guys hear a giggle," asked Jasika.

    Neither of the boys had. Jarred looked around, a collection of loitering blades and wagoneers surrounded them. There were no children in sight. No one seemed aware of anything unusual.

    He tested, "No. Why?"

    "Nevermind," she whispered.

    The portal began the signaling process for their destination. The porters stood by individual loads, still leaving behind a pile of goods with guards resting around it. All the guilders lined up though, along with the Garnets and a small force of blades. Harding had learned it was frowned upon to take a carriage through, especially in the day. They were leaving them behind, to be driven back to the estate. The portal could handle it, but it was just too inefficient of usage for the limited portal circle.

    Harding had traveled by portal circle several times now, but there was a new anticipation to this. Rent came back and addressed the group, ¡°On the other side will be two sets of portal stanchions, you''ll take the red flagged one."

    They signaled they understood and went back to waiting. Harding had wanted to ask, but instead remained silent. Now wasn''t the time, and for the first time he hesitated to tell Rent his experience and it weighed heavily on Harding.

    He waited, silent.

    When the portal flashed and the income travelers cleared, some slow from gawking at the crowd gathered, everyone piled into the circle. Dignity and decorum have little meaning when packing a circle. The majority fit, but another cycle would be needed to get the remnant supplies and guards. Harding realized that the previous round of porters would arrive as they left for those goods.

    There was no voice.

    Instead, they arrived without the existence of travel or commentary. Harding dropped to one knee and gave thanks silently. He wasn''t sure if he was losing his mind. Some subtle flicker of reality acknowledged him, but if that was the system of his own madness he could not tell. Yet there was something. Something new, something different, something not spirit.

    Maybe Joshua is going mad.

    Am I still Joshua?

    Harding caved to the demands of simulated reality and chose etiquette over introspection. He left the circle as the crowd was marshaled along to the red-flagged stanchions. A ways away was a striped green flag set, marking a portal to some unknown destination.

    Not for me.

    Coming out of the portal, there was a gap of open space barely fifty feet. Several attendant blades stood around as the travelers were marched forward into a new set of portal stanchions. Several other sets of stanchions existed, each with walkways marked towards the new portal. He followed the flow.

    Harding emerged on the other side. Due to the quick succession of jumps, he could easily compare the subtle feelings of each. They both moved you, but they felt different. The cast portal was a slower transference, if only by a second. It tasted different to him too.

    Lemon and lime.

    He couldn''t complete the inspection. Walking forward immediately was highly recommended after exiting a portal, so Harding kept moving into an overwhelming view. Around him were tents. They weren''t little field tents or even the larger ones used on campaigns, these were massive. Each several times bigger than the bunkhouse he''d stayed in. Some of them were vermilion with carmine trim and flags fluttering. There was a great twin row of them, encircling a small yard. The ground was uneven and a bit rocky, but cleared of any loose stones.

    The wind swirled above, cool air occasionally curling down, but the press of tents sheltered him from the touch of unfettered wind. Most impressive though, were the tall mountains surrounding the northern half of the view. The southern half was obscured by tents, not even trees could be seen. To the east and a little north, a stone tower and the tops of a wall hung above the tents.

    Someone bumped into Harding from behind, nearly knocking him down. He turned to see Rent wearing a face of faux innocence. "Sorry, didn''t see you standing there in the middle of portal traffic."

    "Pfft."

    Moments later the two monks were guided by camp staff to where they would be staying. They ditched their gear in that tent. Before they settled, Rent announced, "I''ve got to go to the Brotherhood presence, check us in and do some politicking.¡±

    ¡°Like what, a traveling temple?¡±

    Rent grunted, face sour.

    ¡°There''s that many Okkor monks here?¡±

    ¡°Non-denominational.¡±

    Harding scowled too.

    He actually wanted to talk to a Reductionist. On the other hand, it sounded like a bunch of organizational nonsense by a bunch of NPCs.

    Rent helped, ¡°You could come along, but you don''t need to. Not yet, at least. It might be good for you to be seen, but you''ll end up standing around silently for hours."

    "Sounds delightful."

    "You could go find a spot out of the way and do your training. Just because we are at the biggest fair to have ever existed doesn''t mean you don''t train."

    Harding wanted to argue it, but he couldn''t. He took every opportunity he had to push his Spiritualism further ahead. He was definitely becoming aware that despite his protestations, his quiet and solitary life was of his own making.

    Life saw and adjusted.

    Rent misinterpreted his pause, mistakenly consoling him, "The expo isn''t officially open to the public until tomorrow. I''m sure the Garnets will be busy with their noble duties. Go do it now so you can be a nuisance to everyone later."

    I''m glad the AI can misunderstand too.

    Hang frowned at his thoughts but then nodded to Rent. "I will meditate on your positivity," Harding promised and ducked out of the tent quickly. Something soft hit the flap behind him and he smiled to himself as he walked out of the Garnet camp. Harding savored Rent''s ire.

    There was an entire row of cordoned off mobile house camps, each a mass of massive tents. As he traveled the row further he realized each group of noble houses was organized by kingdom.

    Are there any nobles not here?

    Past the noble row, he discovered why he had seen only the horizon beyond the tent tops. The road turned and dropped in a switchback down the hillside. Before him  sprawled a city of tents. It looked big against the backdrop, but he reasoned it was probably about the size of a city district. In their midst stood a ruined stadium shackled with new lumber. A monstrous amalgamation of scorched stone, fresh paint and new lumber.

    It was impressive. A small city propped up on poles. Markets, sanitation to a degree and even a sort of suburban campground for competitors, workers and spectators. The degree of construction and even city planning suggested to Harding there may be efforts to construct a permanent city.

    Or, reconstruct.

    To the west of the tent city, the ground was a field of jagged stone teeth. The bones of what had once been a modest town. The site of the horrors of war, a grave to the pre-empirical past. Even knowing its artificial origins, it left Harding with unease.

    Looking back up the switchback, he saw that to the west of the noble encampment was a castle. Unlike the other castles he had seen so far, this one had huge walls that nearly obscured the small structures within. It looked more of a building of war than a protected place of power. The walls in several places were torn down into piles of rubble. Its skeleton still bore the trauma of fire and war.

    The only other thing of note was a long section on the east of the coliseum of open ground lined with bleachers. Harding could only presume these were for other events that he didn''t know.

    I know there''s some archery, maybe some jousting too?

    While he had said he would train, he decided a bite to eat wouldn''t hurt first. He walked into the first CombO market he could find with his nobility pass around his neck. Everywhere were vendors, from tinsmiths to alchemists, picklemongers to brewers. Great sections of tables and benches lined the way, crude and hasty in construction and placement. The crowd was constant and moving, but nowhere near capacity. Harding imagined that in the peak times the press would be near immobile.

    Harding looked for food, dodging street performers and overflowing crowds of random stages. He found a vendor selling rarebit and sausage links and went to buy some. The discovery that the food was free due to his pass was appreciated, though he noted the number from his id was written down. Harding was too embarrassed to ask if it would be charged to the Garnets and instead vowed to himself to keep his purchases light. He also discovered that you needed your own plate. The vendor happily added a charge for the tin plate and suddenly the prevalence of tinsmiths in the market made much more sense.

    Instead of eating it there within the crowd, he walked out of the city and back up to the castle ruins. Castles were always interesting to him and so far he''d not been allowed into one, let alone been free to explore. Surely there would be a grand spot to sit, eat and meditate.

    There was no one in sight on the approach, but he found a small group had set up a picnic at its gates. Harding avoided them and entered through a collapsed portion of the wall, then wandered the outer ward. Up a staircase he went, high up to the top of the walls. The wall towers were open and the sun came in making them sheltered and warmer. He set down his food and went to the other side to peer over the wall. It was a sheer fall for hundreds of feet, the wall giving way to the cliff face. Far below, a small mountain stream that was deeply cut into the stone lazily trickled between the drop and the village remains. Beyond that the land was flatter and green. It was picturesque if he didn''t look at the tent city.

    When Harding came back to the tower a small figure sat on a fallen stone, eating from his plate. Peeved, he asked, "Hello?"

    The figure looked up. It was plain and thin. Long, black hair and big, dark eyes, but ambiguous in gender. Odd enough looking that Harding wondered if it was malnourished.

    It finished its bite of sausage while watching him.

    Harding looked at his plate. Half the food was missing. "That was my food!"

    "Tax," it said, quiet but firm.

    "You''re a thief."

    "Am not."

    "You''re eating my food."

    "Was your food, but you owed. I helped you pay. I did the tax for you."

    "You took it, you''re a thief."

    "I didn''t run away."

    "What difference does that make?"

    "If you take with a knife out and then run away, you''re a bandit. If you take with the knife hidden and then eat it in front of them, you''re a government."

    "So you''re a government?"

    "Yep."

    "Which?"

    "Kingdom of Mika."

    "Where''s that?"

    "Here."

    "So you own this land?"

    "Yep."

    "For how long?"

    "Maybe an hour?"

    Despite its bold, if confused, answers, its posture seemed to be waiting for reprisal. Strange, bold, small and scared. Its clothes were clean but threadbare. Harding felt a mix of emotions that he couldn''t define looking at it while it nervously kept trying to eat.

    "It''s fine."

    Harding sat down and ate his half, sharing the meager meal with it. The sausage was still a little warm, pleasant and fatty but a little mild in spice. The rarebit would have been good, but the bread hadn¡¯t picked up a little moisture as it cooled and the cheese had fully congealed. That was really his fault and had nothing to do with his visitor. He pulled out his waterskin and drank.

    It watched him.

    Harding sighed, then held out the waterskin. "Tax," it asked.

    "Tax," Harding agreed.

    As it gulped down his water, Harding asked, "Are you Mika?"

    It nodded, not relinquishing its oral grip on the nozzle.

    "How''d you come here?"

    It pulled away and said, "I followed. Everyone comes here now. Where people go, there is opportunity."

    "For a Kingdom?"

    "Yes."

    "Aren''t you worried others might be upset by that? I don''t know, declare war or something."

    "They do, then I fight. Or, I run. Sometimes, I just get hurt."

    It shrugged at him, sadness dwelling in its eyes.

    "Why are you up here?"

    "I don''t have a tent and I''m no whore. No blankets yet, but I''ll make a home."

    "Castles are cold though, I suspect night will be cold."

    "It is, but I tell Ka to be warm and Ka is."

    Harding blinked, trying to process its reasoning, "Enduring cold isn''t the same as being warm. You get cold enough and you''ll die."

    "Died before," Mika shrugged with false indifference. "But Ka gets warm when I tell Ka too. Then Mika is fine. Just takes El to let Ka be."

    "Ok," Harding said, realizing he couldn''t really do anything about any of this insanity. It held a certain tension in its body. It took Handing a few moments to realize it was expecting violence. Harding had seen poverty in game, even abuse. Now he was witnessing mental affliction. Life didn''t ignore, it just didn''t shelter either. He offered in peace, "I was going to do my practicing here, is it ok since I paid the tax?"

    Mika nodded firmly, the decree of a fresh sovereign.

    Harding turned partially away and tried to clear his mind. Mika was clearly unpredictable and maybe entirely mad, yet he didn''t feel threatened. Next time, he decided, he would bring blankets. The wind passed by, murmuring as it flowed through the arrow slits and between the merlons. He let go of his body, withdrawing his awareness into his spirit and joined the flow.

    Okkor is the concept of flow, not the water itself.

    When Harding came out of his meditation on spirit, Mika was sitting next to him, mimicking him. It was a little concerning that he hadn''t heard Mika move, nor felt its spirit against his. But the feeling he got was still one of strangeness and not of danger. He carefully stood up, moved a bit away and began the kinetic meditations of Rancher''s bird-styles.

    Mika watched, but Harding ignored it. His teachers, Rancher especially, would tell him that if he could be disrupted by an observer then he was failing. Still, he was very aware of its intense gaze. To overcome the feeling, he pushed his awareness further down into his spirit body. As Harding moved, he could feel his spirit body breathe. The energy flowed as his body did, both directly through him and circulating around within him. As he pressed deeper, he started to realize something that had always been self-evident.

    His spirit body was separate from his physical body. The rudimentary teaching he had been given was that the two joined at the Heart gate. But he now suspected that the three body model was incomplete. He thought it was a probability that intermediate bodies existed that handled transfer. Probably with some slight spatial overlap, but the connection was possibly even more.

    Harding couldn''t find the edges.

    He could touch the physical world with his physical body and the spirit world with his spirit body. He could not touch his spirit body with his physical body. Yet, in some way he did not fully grasp, spirit could touch the physical. This implied something unclear to him, but which spawned a thought be it epiphany or error.

    Physical should be able to touch Spirit.

    "Your Ka speaks, but you do not listen."

    Harding turned and looked at Mika. It sat there, a large eyed innocent without exhibited guile. Or, with such deviousness as to appear the opposite. He wasn''t sure yet.

    "You''re Ka."

    "No, Ka is Ka. Mi has Ka. You have Ka."

    "Mi? Me?

    It put its index finger to its bone-thin chest. "Mi Ka El."

    "Mikael?"

    "Yes."

    Harding out his finger to his chest. "Harding."

    "No. Mikael."

    Harding pointed at it. "Mi Ka El"

    It nodded.

    Harding put his finger to his chest, "Mi Ka El?"

    It nodded.

    "My name is Harding."

    "Yes. You are Harding. Harding is of Mi Ka El. Harding is not Mi Ka El."

    ¡°So what''s your name?"

    "Sam."

    "What happened to Mika?"

    Sam rolled is eyes. "I am made of Mi, Ka, and El. I am Mi Ka. I am Ka El. I am Mi El. Sam is made of Mi Ka El."

    It hurt Harding''s brain and attempting to untangle it left him unsure in thought. He reached out with spirit and touched Sam. "Ka?"

    Sam rolled it''s eyes. "El," Sam said with exasperation. "Don''t know why he wants you, you''re a little slow. "

    "Who?"

    Sam laughed, "Who? Him. He stands next to you."

    Harding turned and saw no one, sensed nothing in spirit. When he turned back he saw that Sam had started spinning counterclockwise while singing in a language he had never heard. After three rotations, Sam fell into a seating position and was motionless.

    Things were getting a little too weird for Harding. The whole thing cut too close. Entirely to close, both to his contemplation of the bodies and his concerns about his own sanity. Sheltering his sleep in Life, hearing voices that weren''t there and strange beings that babbled madness. Beneath that surface simmered some pool of rotting bits of self that he was ignoring.

    I''m hiding here.

    But Harding couldn''t hide in the castle, it no longer defended its people. It had fallen and failed, them then and him now.

    ¡°Ah, you gonna be around for a while?¡±

    Sam smiled softly, ¡°Always I am, except when I am not.¡±

    Harding nodded, as if such a thing were expected. He paused, feeling awkward. He hadn''t finished all of his meditations and had more to experiment with, yet he felt a great urge to leave. He offered in parting, ¡°I need to get back to my duties. It was a pleasure to meet you Sam.¡±

    ¡°Again.¡±

    ¡°Again?¡±

    ¡°Yes, to do something already done.¡±

    It looked at him with an expression bordering on pity. This thing, homeless and thieving food, this creature both human and twisted, pitied him.

    ¡°Again, then,¡± agreed Harding. Sam just eyed him, head tilted slightly down before shaking it gently. Harding didn''t understand, he just needed to leave. He left the tin plate, he could get a new one easier than it would be to get near to Sam again.

    Harding worked hard at not looking like he was running away.

    Who stands beside me?

 Chapter 20

    Harding went back to the House Garnet camp, finding his tent among the identical others with minimal difficulty. While it was populated with other house staff, Rent had not returned yet. The tent held nothing for him but uneased thoughts on his encounter with Sam. He exited and strolled past the Garnet tents. A minor chat with Holtz, let him know Garnets were still doing their nobility thing. He also suspected Holtz wasn''t being forthcoming about the reasons for his increased guard duty. Harding wandered their camp for a bit, not wanting to be a pest he avoided instigating conversation. It bothered him. He didn''t want to be dependent on others. Yet, every time he went off on his own, things seemed to collapse into madness. And yet still, that uneasy need for others was easier to feed than fend off.

    He set out in search of the Divine Eights'' camp.

    It wasn''t challenging to find. As participating sponsors of CombO, the Big Three had their choice of location in the campgrounds. Which meant that the prime location for them was near the arena and not the market. The Eights'' camp was set up in straight rows with a two tent gap every ten tents. There seemed to be no rank or organization that Harding could decipher as to whose tent each was though. Harding was starting to think these camps weren''t random and instead he just didn''t understand the scheme.

    Harding immediately looked for Randal and Alexci. Alexci¡¯s popularity proved helpful, Harding quickly found someone who knew where she was. Unsurprisingly, she was at the arena. He could only assume Randal was with her. He asked about Howie, discovering that he was in town selling products at the guild booth. While there were smiles and waves from known members, and even a brief chat with Albert the bodyguard, Harding was left without anyone to share the adventure with.

    While Harding considered whether he should find the temple first or head to Gregor¡¯s booth, he felt a presence hover in his spirit. He looked to his left, then down beside him. Crouched next to him was Runild and she was investigating his boots of all things.

    "Uhm?"

    "How are the socks?"

    "Oh, they''ve been great. A little warm on the ranch, but great otherwise."

    "Ranch? I thought you were traveling."

    "I just go where Rent goes, and apparently being a traveling monk means trying to go home again."

    "Interesting."

    "I guess."

    "Would you like another pair?"

    "Yes please."

    Runild produced from her slung bag a pair of yellow, knit socks. Embroidered in them, along the top, was a white duck wearing a green bowler and necktie.

    "What''s with ducks and hats?"

    Runild eyed him suspiciously. "Who told you?"

    "Uh, told me what?"

    "Exactly,¡± she agreed. ¡°I''m going into town and you are coming with me, I need an assistant."

    Runild walked off, not bothering to check if he followed. Harding watched her for a moment, entranced. It wasn''t a seductive sway, it was more like something hypnotic that distracted him from the voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to run away.

    Harding assumed her reference to town was synonymous with the expo, but quickly learned it was actually the ruins. Runild slid from one building to the next, knocking on things and touching walls. Anything still sturdy or buried was suspect. She even tasted a few things which Harding found both gross and engrossing.

    "What are we looking for," he asked, shuffling a rusted out pan across the rotted floor with his foot.

    "A throne."

    Harding went dead still. Carefully he asked, "Why do we think we should look here?"

    "Oh, there''s definitely a throne here."

    "How can you tell?"

    "Scenic vista of ancient city ruins with an ominous castle,¡± she pointed for emphasis through the missing roof. ¡°Proximity to the World Pillar, but no civilization about. Rumors of hauntings, and even one of the early site workers going missing."

    Runild swept her hand, indicating the jagged ruins full of things that were once civilization, but now rotted to soil, as further proof. Harding couldn''t argue.

    ¡°So¡­ we know what thrones are now?¡±

    She just grinned wide. She wasn''t the cat that ate the canary, she was the monster that ate that cat.

    Cait-sidhe had nothing on her.

    "There is no way the demiurges didn''t put one around here."

    Demiurges?

    "Why not the castle," Harding asked, in hope. Sam would leave him be with her around and these ruins were creepy. At first it had been nothing obvious, just your typical ruins. Standard fare. Then bits of lost life, the lack of nature reclaiming things, an occasional bone not yet scavenged. All nice attention to details. It was the more subtle things, the way the wind blew over but not through, that really got him. The lack of animal life. The fact his spirit senses felt like he was in a thick fog, constantly feeling strange movements nearby in it.

    He was meant to want to leave.

    "Too obvious," she said offhandedly, then paused. "Is it too obvious? It''s too obvious right?"

    "I don''t know."

    "Yes you do, open your senses and feel the flow of spirit here."

    Harding knew she was right, and he hated it. "You''re right. This place has me on edge.¡±

    "Yeah," she agreed, as though she was aware but it didn''t concern her. She stood still for a brief moment, lips slightly parted. Harding watched her breath in the totality of the place. "The spirit here is way too thick for some rocky soil and burned buildings. How''s about you start being a good Spiritualist and find it for me?"

    Harding rolled his eyes.

    "This was a setup¡­"

    "Think of it as a small, but growing, appreciation of your talents."

    Harding snorted quietly. He hoped.

    ¡°So what''s our working theory here? That thrones leak spirit? Or do they absorb it, like a drain? That there is going to be some cliche trap door or sewer vent that leads us to a hidden dungeon?"

    Runild amused, "They wouldn''t have."

    Harding climbed up onto a rock pile that managed to be taller than the remaining floor of the nearest building. From there he was able to pull himself up onto the remnants of a wall. The choice was questionable. Pieces of cut stone slid off, mortar breaking free in concerning quantities.

    Once stabilized on top of his latest bad decision, he took a spirit breath and then blew outward, both with energy and body, pushing spirit away from him. Like the portal circles, when he thought about it. Then he kept still and felt for variation in the way it all settled back in.

    He repeated it a couple more times to be sure, then pointed west by northwest. "It fills faster from that way."

    The two walked through the ghost town and every hundred feet or so they''d stop for Harding to probe again. With several corrections they''d found the  source of positive spirit pressure that was filling town.

    "You''re kidding me,¡± muttered Runild.

    Harding¡¯s face dropped, "The butcher''s shop."

    Runild paced around the small building. She ran her fingers along the walls, leaving streaks in the char. Inside, she got on her knees and felt the floor for secrets. Harding just watched her stroke the bloodstained wood, somehow resistant to the ancient burning. He had no knowledge, expertise, or even concept of what to look for or how to find it. But, he didn''t like sitting there.

    Runild kept searching.

    Harding shifted about, half-heartedly poking at things. He paced around the building, happier to be out of the building than in it. Strangely, the place was mostly intact. There were holes in some of the walls and the roof had collapsed in one corner, but that was still much better condition than the rest of the town.

    It was too obvious, he argued to himself. The butcher''s shop in a butchered town. His unease was dissatisfaction with that, not concern for his safety. Harding took a seat on the countertop, after testing it to make sure it was sturdy. It was dim in the shop, other than the glow of Runild¡¯s alchemical light wand. The weather was comfy enough even with the slight chill of the coming evening in the foothills. Harding watched the shadows in the street through the front of the building.

    The sun would go down eventually.

    Eventually she would have to stop. And so far she hadn''t got on him for not looking. This close in, the whole place felt like a spring of energy. Everything was washed out.

    He didn''t have to wait long.

    "Take a look at this and tell me your opinion," requested Runild. Harding¡¯s drifting awareness surfaced and he sought her visually. She was crouched in a thick walled walk in closet, having excavated some burned debris.

    "Looks like a closet," said Harding, suppressing a smile.

    "No. Come here and use your spirit vision on this point," Runild instructed, finger jabbed on the floor in the back of the closest.

    Harding hopped down, entered the closet with her and examined near her finger-target with his spirit.

    "It''s, there''s metal beneath and¡­ it''s conductive. Charged and flowing," said Harding.

    "Yeah and follow it without keying it¡­"

    Hating let his senses flow along it, through the wood and around the metal until he felt the complex resistance of mechanisms. He would guess they were hinges. "I''m standing on a trap door."

    Runild expounded, "In a butcher''s dry room, above a dungeon."

    "We don''t know it''s a dungeon down there¡­"

    "What else could it be putting off spirit?"

    "A d site?"

    "Ok, maybe, but something with power is down there."

    Harding nodded, he couldn''t argue that as much as it already gave him anxiety. What kind of holy site that would be under a burned out butcher¡¯s shop was not something he was keen on discovering. It might fit Kasagos, which would be intriguing, but not all things were of the prism. The nightmares under Black Barrow had given testament to that.

    Black Barrow? Black Burrow? Black Burrough? There hadn''t been signs.

    The shadows had darkened as the sun had begun to settle behind the trees.

    "Let''s go," suggested Harding.

    "I want to know," demanded Runild.

    "Then what? Say it''s a dungeon, are we going to clear it with the two of us?"

    "No."

    "And if it''s a throne, can you claim it?"

    "No."

    "So let it be. We can come back when you have the people. It hasn''t been found yet, it can wait awhile."

    "There''s never been this many people here, and we just left a trail through the dust and ash."

    "True. Nothing we can do about that, is there?"

    "Not really, though we could walk all over town and disrupt everything."

    "In the dark?"

    "Could be fun?"

    "No."

    "Fine, let''s go back. We can figure out some kind of group."

    As they passed through the markets, Harding found himself eyeing the food vendors again. When put to Runild, she agreed to find something on the way back to camp. They split to different vendors and rejoined at one of the random long tables. She sat across from him ingesting some weird fried tuber medley topped with apples and cheese. Runild wasn''t much for conversation during their hasty meal as she seemed to take eating seriously. Harding sat at a table watching the crowd and eating a meat pie. Harding actually found himself contemplating his fork. There was an ongoing struggle between wanting another bite and having capacity to fit it inside of him when Runild swore.

    "Shit."

    "I''m gonna¡­"

    She looked at him, uncomprehending. Blinked several times and scowled. ¡°I mean I''m frustrated. People won''t risk this until they''re eliminated.¡±

    Harding felt a little lethargic, but more so wasn¡¯t fully invested into her need for urgency. Then again, he could think of no reason they''d include him if they had a full team available.

    Maybe that''s for the better.

    Harding went back to staring at his loaded fork. This was Runild''s deal and he didn''t really care much either way. The thing he had learned was when you aren''t in an organization, you aren''t benefited from working with one unless you bring something they need. Also, just having a seed doesn''t mean you won''t end up chopped up and bleeding out in a couple seconds without training.

    Runild wondered aloud, "Is that Garnet girl fighting?"

    "Probably not, there''s a whole family thing there. She''d have to sign up by tomorrow though, right?"

    "Yeah."

    Runild went suddenly still. Harding looked up to see three men standing at the end of their table. Behind the men was a collection of rough looking characters who looked extremely suspicious standing still in the constantly moving crowd. A secondary set of roughs.

    "She said you keep odd company, but Runild the Serpent? No wonder she''s interested."

    "What do you want here Grub," Runild asked in a threatening rasp.

    Grub tossed a small envelope of waxed paper on the table. It landed too heavy to just paper. "Bluejay sends greetings and a reminder."

    "Why," Runild asked, genuinely confused.

    Grub seemed equally confused, then cracked a smile. "Not for you, for the monk."

    Runild stared down Grub, the tension between them making Harding believe they would end it with violence. She stiffly commanded, "It''s delivered then, leave."

    "I''ve got no issue with that," Grub casually replied, but he didn''t look away from Runild. He backed up a few steps, turned, and left with his henchmen. Others converged with Grub from the crowd, proving Harding right about it being a whole gang. He''d missed a few in his quick scan.

    Runild sat there, looking down at her plate with a blank expression. Her default bearing was inscrutable, which somehow made her current blank affect all the more expressive. Harding felt like she was there in physical presence only and dared not to speak. He was certainly no longer hungry. He set down his fork with care.

    After a bit she relaxed slightly and looked up at him, a complex mask of indecipherable worry and inexplicable anger. She demanded quietly, "What are you doing with the Society?"

    "The what,¡± asked Harding in his standard eloquence.

    "The Society of Gentlemen. The Noble Society of Friends. Friends of Society. You''ll never get a consistent name."

    "I honestly don''t know what that is, Runild."

    Runild reached out her long and feminine hand and pushed the envelope towards him. She kept her pinkie on its corner and taped the wax seal with her index finger. The seal was a fairly circular glob of royal blue wax, pressed with a crude symbol of a bird. She paused for a breath and then explained, "She wouldn''t send someone a marker unless they''re involved."

    "Bluejay?"

    "Any of them."

    "I don''t know what her problem is, but she''s always stalking me. Ever since I watched her murder someone."

    Runild sniffed, mouth slightly open, before shaking her head ever so slightly. "Don''t tell people what you saw. Ever. But, that doesn''t seem enough for her to be this interested."

    "Uhm, she cut me, licked the blood¡­ then a group of samurai showed up and ran her off," he explained.

    "She licked your blood?"

    "Yeah, why?"

    Runild covered her eyes with her hand, leaning into that elbow on the table. "Normally,¡± she explained with eyes still covered, ¡°it wouldn''t mean anything. But, with her it''s different. And with the result being her continued interest in a no-name naught-monk?¡±

    Harding nodded his understanding.

    She spread her hands in exasperation, ¡°Also, what the hell are you doing with the Deathless?"

    "Who?"

    "You''re really clueless aren''t you? The ''samurai'', they''re the Deathless. They''re hardcore. Zealots. They''ve even got follower guilds that try to mimic them. How did you end up between-¡±

    Runild stopped talking. She sat there with unfocused eyes, mouth open for several heartbeats. "Grab the envelope and your stuff, we are going somewhere safer," she decided.

    "What''s going-¡±

    "Harding," she said with a strained smile, "Please, do as I say without delay."

    Harding knew he was helpless.

    He picked up the letter, slipping into his bag before dumping his garbage and stowing the tin. She led him through the crowd and back to the Eights'' camp. They walked the rows of identical tents until they came to a tent indistinguishable from the rest. She led him in. The place was a ring of cots along the edges and a crude, circular table in the middle sounded by camp chairs. A couple alchemical lanterns hung, their blinds shut down to limit the light to a soft haze.

    "Sit."

    He did.

    "Buckley," she said and nudged a mound of blankets on one of the cots. That mound then moved, before a young lady rose sleepily and rubbed her eyes. She was younger, maybe Jarred''s age and ever so slightly chubby. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    "What," she whined in complaint.

    Runild scoffed. "Go get Aleister. He''ll be in the mess tent, watching the party from the edge like the sourpuss he is. Tell him that we have a threat and it needs an immediate reading. Bring him here."

    The young woman swung her legs over her bed and stepped into low shoes. "Yes, Auntie."

    Auntie?

    She got up and gave Harding a blaming glare before leaving. Harding arched an eyebrow at Runild after the girl had left. Runild blew upwards out the corner of her mouth, sending an unruly strand of hair sideways. She eyed him with the same patience, "Just sit there and don''t say anything."

    Harding smirked but kept quiet. These overblown theatrics had all the flavor of family or guild drama. He needed no part of either. He slipped into passing his mind through his spirit.

    Harding had no idea how much time had passed, but he was suddenly aware of people around him. Looking up he saw Runild, Aleister, and a guy he''d seen around the Eights¡¯ events but hadn''t really had occasion to meet. The guy was so average as to be easily forgettable. If anything, he stood out with the Eights because he wasn''t exceptional looking in some way. Which actually made him a lot like Aleister.

    "Harding," said Aleister, slow and calm, "Runild tells me you''re experiencing some unwanted visitors."

    Harding snorted.

    "That''s my life, you guys are the only ones I originally chose to associate with.¡± He paused and amended, ¡°well you and the temple.¡± The group waited, so he continued, ¡°Don''t get me wrong, the Garnets are very good to me and my friends. But this society, the samurai guys, the faeries, the ghosts, the nightmares, the voices¡­ I didn''t initiate any of that."

    They watched him.

    Aleister eventually scratched his chin, wrinkling his nose in thought, before casually quipping to Runild, "I don''t need a reading to know he''s contaminated."

    Runild blew air upward at the troublesome bangs again. ¡°Let me do a reading so we know the guild¡¯s exposure. This is what you have me for."

    Aliester shook his head solemnly, his fingers extending slightly on his right hand as if he almost held it up to stop her. "You''re with us because you''re a valued member, Runild. I don''t care about your past, or your involvement in other¡­ things. You always keep that separate. Kid¡¯s been involved with us, the guild will cover costs. Do a full read, but unless I need to do something else I trust you to handle it the rest."

    Aleister and Runild held eye contact for a moment and then both nodded simultaneously. Harding¡¯s anxiety had been on the rise since Grub showed up, but it seemed like everyone had lost their minds. Bluejay was annoying, the other stuff was weird, but it was just Life being Life. He was certain they were overreacting.

    Aleister briefly met Harding¡¯s eyes, then turned to the tent exit and said, "Goodnight, everyone," before leaving. Aleister had clearly washed his hands of it.

    At least for now.

    "Buckley, go get two members of the circle," Runild ordered. Buckley glared, sighed, and started putting her shoes back on again.

    "Come, Harding, I''ll need to taste your blood."

    "What," he objected, but complied as she guided him to stand in the small open area between the tent flap and table.

    She attempted to explain, "If that''s what she did, then I need to. Though, admittedly, I''m far less of a hemomancer than her." She said it as if it was obvious logic.

    Hemomancer? What is going on!

    She leaned towards him slightly with a concerning smile, looking like comfort stretched thin over canines. "Preference," she asked as she pulled a dagger from seemingly nowhere.

    "Wait a sec-¡±

    Harding found out that the question of preference was only a distraction as the blade snicked his arm. "Owe," he objected as she grabbed the arm and squeezed just below the wound, blood flowing onto her finger. Then she wiped it up with the finger and licked the finger clean. Runild''s face went slack, eyes rolled up.

    Then she was fine.

    "Weird," she said, clarifying nothing.

    Harding triggered leech and let them eat the minor bleeding. Runild reacted to his cast and examined him intently, eyes squinting reflexively. He breathed the parasites back in, feeling a slight rush of spirit. "What," he complained at her silence. It felt to him like everything he did with her was being attacked.

    "Didn''t realize you were carrying a seed,¡± she muttered, ¡°let alone a vampire.¡±

    "Yeah, got it a few months ago¡­" Harding trailed off. Runild, of all people, hadn¡¯t realized he was carrying.

    Carrying?

    Runild nodded, more blowing him off than conveying any interest in his story. She took the opening of his hesitation and said, "You''re human.¡±

    "Obviously, there isn''t any other-," then Harding stopped. She still wasn''t listening to him. And if there wasn''t any other choice besides human, then what she said wouldn''t make sense. Runild caused chaos, but she was not chaotic in thought. She always had a purpose.

    "Your spirit is mixed into your anima to a ridiculous degree."

    "My what?"

    "Ssh. That''s too be expected though, seeing what you''ve done,¡± she waved lazily at him, in a vertical line up his chest to his head. ¡°And then you went with a vampire in your Heart of all things."

    Harding opened his mouth and then gave up. He might as well just talk to himself, for all the good it did him.

    What''s wrong with leech in the heart, and why is she using Reductionist terms?

    "Blood''s all tainted though. Something¡¯s in there, beneath all that. Some flavor that I don''t know, must be rare."

    "But she knows?"

    "I told you, she''s the most accomplished hemomancer I''ve ever heard of. When Buckley gets back, we will do a ritual and look."

    "A ritual?"

    Runild scowled softly. "You ask too many questions. Accept your confusion with grace," she reprimanded. After a pause, though, she relented. "You really think seeds are the only magic? That they only work one way? You, who practices non-seeded magic daily?"

    "I guess not," Harding admitted, feeling more than a little shame. He''d been working with the idea that learning Spiritualism was learning a technique to apply to seeds later. He had seen it as a caster specialization. It was a completely separate discipline, but one that happened to work with some of the same forces. He had just blown off whether it was all of magic and focused on seeds because he''d never seen someone do anything he thought was important with anything else. He rubbed his face with his offhand, suddenly feeling exhausted.

    Runild¡¯s face softened a little and she partially raised her hands towards him. "Harding, you''re a natural. You just don''t know what it is you''re gifted at. None of this stuff is really new, you''ve even seen a ritual before. An absurd one-handed display to be fair, but the same in principle.¡±

    Buckley came in with two others and they spread around the circle with Runild and the quiet man that had come with Aleister.

    ¡°Use Kerrigan''s Minor Fifth," she told them."

    They had Harding sit in a chair one had dragged to where he had been standing. They all stood around him, left hand towards him and their right hand towards the person next to him. They hadn''t started yet, but already Harding found it socially awkward. Runild began chanting in a language Harding didn''t recognize, each of the others chanting singular words or phrases under her chant. Runild would then incorporate and renew her verse with them added in. Smoothly, she wove all of their cadences together.

    Harding was aware of a power present almost from the beginning, but dismissed it as anxiety. It would not be banished so easily, growing to with each addition of a mage. Spirit resonated around him. Each phrase made his spirit body hum to that frequency until he felt like he was going to come so apart in the magic. By the fourth mage, his spirit body felt physically separated from his body but still connected effectively. His awareness floated slowly out of his body, then Runild changed the chant and built on the other four again and everything was gone. He was floating in blackness, stripped bare of all his selves until only the fundamental core of his awareness remained.

    *SLEEP."

    All was nothingness.

    Harding woke up choking sometime later. He laid on the ground in Runild''s tent in the soft bath of light of a few candles placed around his body. Strange scents hung in the air. Buckley handed him a small cup with water. She smiled warmly as he drank, amused, and opined, "Rough stuff, huh?"

    "I don''t remember anything."

    "Huh? Oh, yeah, no. You wouldn''t remember anything. You weren''t in your body, that¡¯s the whole point is to remove you."

    "What¡¯d you find?"

    "Uh, that''s Runild''s to tell really. She''s off talking to Aleister. Discussing just that, or something. Never know."

    Harding handed the emptied cup back. He couldn''t remember anything. He didn''t think he had even been in the system, it was an absolute nothingness. ¡°It didn''t even boot me from Life though. Just missing time. Is that ok?¡±

    "Yeah, I mean, the point was to remove you from inadvertently interfering with the rest of it. Like putting your patient out before surgery."

    "So, you did surgery on me?"

    "Eh. No. Kind of? That gets into how much she wants to tell you again, but you could think of it like psychic surgery."

    "And, am I fixed?"

    Buckley laughed. "Dude, if we could fix ourselves that easily we would all be monsters."

    Something registered with Harding, fixing internal parts to become a godling. People at Ghasatavaro''s death had a piece, but not the totality, of the requirements to become a godling. Was it really having a piece of something to become, or was it having repaired a piece to be fixed? Harding had a suspicion Runild knew way more, and if she did, Aleister probably did too. Yet they had acted clueless. He needed to have a real talk with Runild, but she was elusive in all things.

    And she wasn''t there.

    He got, slowly, and stretched. His body felt foreign; new. His mind, though, was still the same. "Do I stay here or¡­"

    Buckley shrugged and climbed back onto her cot. "She didn''t say, just said it was over and then walked out."

    Without really anything else pressing, Harding sat and mediated. It seemed wise to reset himself and he was getting close to solving this body energy question. The whole thing seemed to function as if there was an energy layer cooked with the physical flesh.

    How deep is Life in my brain?

    When leech was used, it injected parasites, or some active formation that appeared to his senses like parasites, of spirit into the body. They did not exist in the spirit body, they existed in the flesh. Yet there were not actual lumps under the tissue, so they had to exist as incorporeal while being directly affecting the corpus. To Harding, that meant that there was a coordinating energy body to the physical body. The only other option he saw was that the physical body could host spirit body aspects.

    The key with most of this stuff seemed to be at the edges. Harding exhaled leech. They swarmed out and he just let them disperse throughout him. He then found them, selected a single parasite and put spirit pressure on it. As it swelled, he slid his spirit along the edge of the parasite looking for its connection to the physical body. Finding that connection could be the gate to understanding how to truly control that body.

    "Good, you''re up," Runild said, interrupting his introspection.

    "Wha, ah, yeah¡­ so what''s the deal?"

    "You''re entirely human. That''s expected. You''re extremely spirit heavy, but that''s obvious. Your Fate has got nearly the whole pantheon in on it, which is weird. Okkor in the majority, but almost all of it is death-aspected. Your giant spirit is almost entirely putrefaction. That''s what she tasted, probably why she''s obsessed. You must taste like her master.¡±

    Harding blanched. He had nothing to grasp there, no framework to even begin to digest what she had said. He was pretty sure putrefaction was a bad thing.

    He frowned as all he could put into words came out sounding dumb, ¡°I thought she was a crime thug.¡±

    Runild laughed at him and tossed the sealed envelope at him, "Go ahead and open it.¡±

    Harding peeled it open, the wax popping free retaining some pliability. Inside was a medallion. Or a coin. He wasn''t sure of the difference. He dumped the contents out and examined it. It was a metal disc with stamped relief on each side. Perhaps it was silver, but he was no metallurgist. "What''s this?"

    "A marker."

    "Yeah, but, why¡­"

    "It claims you as theirs, but is also a kind of pass."

    Harding dropped it back in the envelope, "That''s a no."

    "I understand that. And trust me, when I say they''re hard to untangle from,¡± she began. ¡°But understand that while sending a marker unasked for is uncouth, so is she. Think about what message you are sending by discarding her token of favor. I''m not saying your instinct is wrong, but you better understand what you''re communicating."

    "Ok. I''ll think about it."

    "Do you know any of the Deathless?"

    "Not by name."

    "Too bad. Could use some fighters."

    Runild had switched topics on him. Realizing that was all he was getting, Harding followed, ¡°How many do you think we need?"

    "Ideally? A dozen or so. That''s probably overkill, but we are trying to not risk death."

    "And how many Eights could you get?"

    "I doubt more than four."

    ¡°So I have to find four or more?¡±

    Runild smiled, ¡°See, you¡¯ve come around.¡±

    Harding smirked half-heartedly, his mind still more on what had happened than getting together a team for a domain. Rubbing his face, he sighed and looked towards the tent flap.

    ¡°Get the kids to come,¡± Runild suggested, ¡°then others will follow.¡±

    Harding knew that if anyone would be eager to go, it would be Jarred. The young noble had an insatiable excitement to accomplish. Whether this was even a good idea hung in the background of his mind, but he was distracted. Too much to think about. He needed some action.

    ¡°Ok. No promises.¡±

    Harding got up and left and went back to the nobles section. What he passed, passed in a blur. Not only would he have to deal with Bluejay¡¯s group, but entire assumptions he¡¯d worked under for the past months were wrong. Or, potentially wrong. He certainly had witnessed and experienced things showing he was limited.

    He found himself in the House Garnet section. He looked back at the entrance, trying to remember going through, then gave up and shook his head. He entered the Garnet¡¯s tent antechamber. The duke was there with men he didn¡¯t know, but off to the side was Jarred. Jarred was standing with a lanky young man that Harding put as about five years older than Jarred. The guy wore armor casually, emblazoned with the Garnet¡¯s eastern sun emblem. He was clearly a House blade. The two stopped talking as Harding came near, watching him approach.

    ¡°Hey Harding, wondered where you''d gone,¡± Jarred greeted him before making the introduction. ¡°This is Thomas Styles, one of the house guards. His dad is one too, Will Styles? He was a part of the raid, so maybe you met him then.¡±

    ¡°Nice to meet you, Thomas,¡± Harding greeted.

    ¡°Call me Tommy,¡± the blade requested with an easy smile.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Harding promised. A pause left a void which Jarred easily filled it.

    ¡°What have you been up to while I¡¯ve been stuck in here,¡± Jarred inquired.

    ¡°Wandering around a bit, exploring the place. And eating.¡±

    ¡°Anything good?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I wanted to talk to you about¡­¡±

    Harding eyed the tent chamber for privacy. Jarred, forever without such luxury, just shrugged.

    ¡°I was asked by Runild if you¡¯re interested in doing a local domain,¡± Harding started, his voice a little lower in volume unconsciously.

    ¡°Here? At the camp,¡± asked Jarred.

    ¡°Yeah. So keep it quiet. It was hidden. If people find out it¡¯ll get swarmed.¡±

    ¡°Oh, yeah, keep it secret.¡±

    Jarred looked to Tommy who nodded in agreement. Harding honestly did not know if the blades would keep that from the duke over Jarred¡¯s wishes. That world was a confusing mix of loyalties. Harding eyed Tommy¡¯s saber.

    ¡°Actually, we probably need a few more,¡± Harding started, unsure of Tommy''s capability. It really was a challenge for him to recruit people when he did not know availability or capability of the blades.

    Jarred put a hand on Tommy¡¯s armored shoulder and pushed it lightly, ¡°You up for a domain crawl?¡± Several people nearby glanced over.

    Harding had already lost control.

    ¡°You can go then,¡± he asked Jarred.

    ¡°Sure. Though I need permission.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°And Tommy?¡±

    ¡°Where Jarred goes, I go.¡±

    Harding blinked.

    Have I been replaced?

    Jarred enthused, ¡°Tommy is the start of my own guard force.¡±

    The idea of the children having their own guard forces seemed obvious at some point. The adults had their own, the children with semi-permanent handlers. The expo was certainly busy and crowded, a time for heightened security. Which lent an opportunity. Harding, face open, asked, ¡°What about Jasika, does she have a guard now too?¡±

    Jarred beamed, ¡°No. I am finally being treated like the heir.¡±

    Harding hid most of his scowl, but voiced, ¡°Too bad, we could use more. Do you think she¡¯d go?¡±

    ¡°If I go,¡± predicted Jarred. ¡°Could you imagine her letting the two of us adventure without her?¡±

    It was such a strange statement to Harding. The way the three of them had changed over the past few months, they had come together as a core group in his mind. The Garnets¡¯ had effectively been his surrogate family in Life, even if he wasn''t one of them.

    Harding covered the rest of the details with Jarred, which were admittedly sparse. That they didn''t think the domain had overfilled yet and that they''d start sometime in the early morning. Jarred was skeptical others could join as most had assignments. Harding tried to engage socially, but he couldn''t shake the disturbance in his mind from being put to sleep in game. Uncomfortable, he begged off quickly and went back to his tent to cycle.

    There he found Rent, back from the traveling temple, sitting on his cot reading a book with a sterile cover. He gave Harding a glance but continued reading. It was several minutes later before Harding finally voiced, ¡°Do you know what rituals are?¡±

    Rent pulled the marking ribbon to his current page and closed the book. ¡°Yes. They''re fairly simple in theory, harder to execute. It is when a group uses unsubsidized seed powers woven together to create a larger effect. Why?¡±

    ¡°The Eights did one on me.¡±

    ¡°I''m surprised they can, but more surprised they would perform one on you.¡±

    ¡°It was some kind of Fate reading?¡±

    ¡°Mmm. That could be complex enough. What is your question?¡±

    Harding paused. He wasn''t sure what his question was, he just felt pressure in his thoughts. Or, maybe, it was the absence of pressure. It wasn''t immediately important to distinguish. ¡°Seeds,¡± he carefully started, ¡°aren''t the only magic?¡±

    ¡°Why would they be?¡±

    ¡°Because it''s all anyone wants.¡±

    ¡°That''s not true.¡±

    ¡°Ok. It''s the vast majority of what they want. It''s what they use to fight, what they place value in, what they hunt for.¡±

    Rent smiled in a familiar way to Harding, full of smug self-satisfaction signaling a pithy retort. ¡°They seek them because they''re the physical manifestations of power. Items of magic and magical items, but immediacy is not exclusion.¡±

    Harding snorted, ¡°Says a monk without a staff.¡±

    Rent smiled softly at his acolyte.

    ¡°I don''t suppose you can teach me rituals?¡±

    ¡°I can''t. Besides, you would need others.¡±

    Harding almost told him he was wrong, that they could be done solo, but caught himself questioning what he really knew. Instead, he changed topics.

    ¡°What about domains?¡±

    ¡°What is your question?¡±

    Harding looked around and lowered his voice further.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to do one tomorrow, can you come?¡±

    Rent grew a smile, ¡°It will be good to see you finally adventure out.¡±

    Harding became defensive, ¡°What do you mean finally? You¡¯re the one who decides what we do!¡±

    Realizing his volume, Harding confirmed that some in the tent had looked over to the commotion. He decided he didn¡¯t care. Rent though waved him down loosely with a hand, ¡°You choose your own path. I am not criticizing you, merely pointing out that you do not push beyond what I give.¡±

    ¡°Except, now I have.¡±

    ¡°You have.¡±

    Harding felt partially placated, though it was really Runild who was pushing this. He pushed those thoughts aside. Filling in Rent on the plans, he made for bed and logged.

    -Joshua-

    Joshua hesitated to return to Life, instead tasting residual fear from the memory of being put to sleep. Ruminating on it while absently straightening his apartment, he found himself in his bedroom again. An elongated stare later, he climbed into his forgotten bed. The sensations of it were now foreign to him. Driven more than enticed, he laid there in the dark and tried to sleep.

    Three hours later, he had woken four times. All he could remember was nothing, sleep to darkness to waking to troubled efforts to sleep once more. He gave up, went back to the living room and surrendered to the fade.

    -Loader-

    The nocturnal sounds of the loader were composed of the oscillating chirp of cicadas and meandering breeze through the shushing grass. The full moon hung brilliant, blazing against the populated night sky. Nothing disturbed the peace. His staff rested against the tree. The tree stood large against the undulating space, aglow in its lunar lumination. All was as it always was, welcoming with familiarity and peace. He eyed the spot against the tree, where Kioski had once sat waiting for him. Perhaps sitting there would offer a dreamless respite.

    He almost stayed.

    -Harding-

    The morning was nondescript. Waking, dressing, breakfast. For the adventure ahead, the day started drab. Harding and Rent waited nearly an hour for the Garnet¡¯s, mostly due to Jarred sleeping in. Harding spent the time meditating and running through his spirit exercises. Rent stayed around, but seemed more content to let Harding work through things himself. When Jarred finally appeared, Jasika and Tommy were at his side. Having received their last minute cautions and permissions, the trio were ready to depart.

    Harding led the group to the Eights camp and Runid¡¯s tent. He was unsure if he was expected to knock or somehow announce himself, but impatience led him to just open the tent. Inside sat a collection of Eights, waiting for them. Runild, as herself as ever, sent Buckley off with a charge to get the others and meet at the domain.

    Without concern, she turned to the Garnet group and smiled languidly, ¡°Shall we then?¡±

    Runild was moving before they could answer. Tommy was unaccustomed to Runild, but the rest knew her and followed along. None of the other Eights followed. They chatted along the way, but in a distracted sort avoiding discussion of their endeavour. Not until they made it into the ruins did any dare to speak of their goal.

    ¡°This place is worse than I thought,¡± Jarred offered, kicking at a lump of burned wood outside the butchers.

    Runild shaded her eyes against the morning sun and scanned the hillside.

    ¡°It creeps me out,¡± admitted Harding.

    Rent agreed, ¡°Foul.¡±

    ¡°Inside,¡± urged Runild.

    Jarred grumbled. Tommy laughed. They all went in though. Once in, Runild explained, ¡°We were too obvious, standing around out there.¡± Harding wasn''t sure what kind of explanation that was, or to whom they would be obvious too. They were in the middle of a dead city. Runild was Runild though, a package deal. He hopped onto the butcher counter and sat there. Time passed idly, with Jarred and Tommy quietly chatting, but in short order the rest of the troop marched in.

    Buckley led in a stout and stocky full-bearded fellow that Harding recognized from Black Barrow, his shield still slung over his back and his one-handed bec de corbin hung on his belt. Life had no dwarven race, but he was the closest Harding had seen. Behind him was Reggie, the Eights¡¯ repair caster that did most of the emergency healing. Reggie was well known to Harding, but only because Reggie was so prominent in the raid. Harding barely noticed them though, as the great mass of Howie filled the door behind Reggie.

    ¡°Howie,¡± he exclaimed.

    Jarred grinned.

    Jasika smiled.

    ¡°Hey, guys. Lady Jasika.¡±

    Jasika gave a small nod of proper acceptance.

    ¡°I didn''t expect you,¡± Harding admitted. ¡°I thought you were wrapped up in the sales booth.¡±

    ¡°Nah, others can do it.¡±

    Buckley giggled and poked him.

    ¡°Not because you''re short a seed?¡±

    Tommy chuckled, pointing out, ¡°I wouldn''t call him short.¡±

    ¡°This is Tommy.¡±

    ¡°He''s my new blade,¡± bragged Jarred.

    Tommy looked even prouder.

    Rent shuffled over the trap door and poked it with his copied staff. Harding looked back to Runild and saw that she was more interested in going forward than introductions. Buckley stepped in, the youngest being the adult, ¡°I think everyone knows each other, except Tommy?¡± The young man, all smiles and energy absently rubbed his forearm. Jarred gave Tommy a little nudge.

    ¡°Oh, I''m a velocity striker,¡± he offered. Jarred grinned broadly, proud of the older Tommy.

    Rent wrapped the trap door firmly, ¡°Shall we get down to business?¡±

    Harding groaned internally at the pun.