《The Price of Paradise [An Executioner LitRPG]》 Chapter 1: Do you want to change the world? The Court of Norwich had two floors. Given the option, I would have chosen to live on the ground floor. I lived on the top floor¡ªa room in the back corner away from the parking lot. Every day, when I stumbled out of my car and walked across the parking lot, my eyes flashed across the road. An old couple owned the house there, and the wooden fence had a neat row of sunflowers that ran the length of the wall. Sophie had always loved sunflowers. Each day, I heard her voice call out to me. ¡°Look, Dust-Bunny, how pretty and vibrant those flowers are!¡± Sophie¡¯s voice tickled my brain. I¡¯d have put a swift end to anyone else calling me something that ridiculous, but my little sister always could get away with anything¡ªbe it borrowing my car or calling me Dust-Bunny. The words of ghosts haunted me every day, and most days, that fleeting burst of memory was the highlight of my day. How fucking sad was that? It is as unfortunate as the state of my hometown. The metal stairs creaked under my weight. I wasn¡¯t fat, but I wasn¡¯t a tiny man. Five foot ten inches and a hundred and ninety pounds meant my neatly laced boots brought more pressure down the walkway than my next-door neighbor, Grace Cullen. Grace waved to me from the open front window of her apartment when I got near. ¡°G¡¯Evening, Dusty,¡± Grace coughed out as her tiny frame shook with smoker¡¯s cough. ¡°Have you got a cold again?¡± I asked. I stopped in front of her screenless window. The landlord had given up replacing the screens on Grace¡¯s window; she just took them out so she could smoke outside. ¡°Lots of that flu going around. My nephew¡¯s third-grade class was near on empty today!¡± Grace agreed. She snuffed the butt of her dead cigarette into an empty beer can before she cracked open a new can and fished a fresh cigarette from her pack. ¡°Beer?¡± Grace asked. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m fixing to be up early,¡± I declined politely. Even if Grace drank a slightly better brand of beer than Rustbucket Lager, I would always pass on a warm beer. But even if that shit were cold, I¡¯d pass. Rustbucket Lager tasted like horse piss that had simmered and fermented in a rusty bucket; you didn¡¯t drink it if you had friends¡ªor options. ¡°Maybe try these for your cold,¡± I suggested. I sunk my right hand into my coat and fished around in the inner pockets until I found a crinkly plastic bag with a few boujee pieces of fragrant lozenges. The only smell I recognized was green tea; who knew what else might be inside the damn things. ¡°Awful fancy,¡± Grace said suspiciously. ¡°Ran one of them, an influencer kid, to Binghamton today. That¡¯s what she thought would be a great tip,¡± I mumbled. ¡°Thanks for thinking of me anyway, Dusty.¡± Grace fell into an intense coughing fit. ¡°Least I can do, Gracie. Don¡¯t forget to shut your window tonight. It¡¯s supposed to be a cold one.¡± I took my leave while she coughed. We¡¯d already talked more than I wanted, and her cough''s miserable percussive sound sounded like a ringing bell to summon the Grim Reaper. My key ring only had two keys: my apartment and my car. The click of my door locking felt like a sigh of relief. The thin walls didn¡¯t stop the deathly sound of Grace¡¯s coughs, let alone her ancient box fan warbling on. If that were the only noise that made it through the walls, I wouldn¡¯t complain. Unfortunately, Grace only watched one network¡ªand always at full volume. ¡°Tonight, I want to talk about something the so-called ¡®experts¡¯ and the mainstream media refuse to address: the theft of life itself. That¡¯s right¡ªsunlight theft! The clean energy zealots want you to believe that solar panels are the future. They¡¯re sleek, shiny, and the way of the future. But let me ask: if solar panels are so harmless, why are they stealing sunlight from our crops?¡± The obnoxious voice of Carlton Smith burrowed through the shared wall of Grace¡¯s apartment and my own, then buzzed around my ears like a mayfly. No matter how often you swipe at one, they never leave you alone. If you do manage to squash one, another takes its place. Mayflies might not bite, but they are still pests. ¡°Think about it,¡± Carlton Smith continued. ¡°Our farmers¡ªthose noble stewards of the land¡ªrely on the sun to grow the food that feeds America. But every time a solar panel sucks up sunlight, that¡¯s less sunlight reaching the cornfields of Kansas and the tomato vines in your backyard. Is it any wonder crop yields are down? It¡¯s basic math, folks: sunlight going to solar panels is sunlight that¡¯s not going to food. Why doesn¡¯t anyone talk about it? Is it¡­ deliberate?¡± I stifled my groan. It wasn¡¯t like Mr. Smith''s head was as empty as my apartment; this was weaponized idiocy. I¡¯d be hearing people repeat the same talking points tomorrow, never mind that they didn¡¯t make a lick of sense.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Light crept in through the window next to the door. It flickered slightly every forty-five seconds. The gas station sign across the road¡ªthe origin of the light¡ªdid the same. Two months ago, I mentioned it to the manager over there. He laughed, madness in his eyes, that it was amazing how the light flickered every forty-six seconds. Then he stared at me, daring me to argue with him that it was every forty-five seconds. I quit buying gas there. I didn¡¯t bother to turn on the lights in my place. Technically, it was a one-bedroom apartment, but that bedroom barely fit a twin mattress. The doors between the bedroom and bathroom were recessed, ancient things constantly jammed inside on their inaccessible tracks. All you could do was kick and hit ¡®em until they righted themselves. You might think I¡¯d just moved into the apartment from how barren it was. A single folding chair, the metal kind with no padding for your ass, sat at the counter that separated the kitchenette and the living room. A dirty glass sat in my sink. I trudged past that all to the bedroom, where I fell face-first into the old quilt. It was a thick, ancient thing made by my grandma for my dad when he was young. The colors mainly faded but were still dense enough to make me turn my head slightly or risk suffocating. My phone beeped and buzzed to alert me to incoming text messages. I ignored it and breathed in the scent of home. Somehow, Dad¡¯s old quilt still smelled like childhood. My phone vibrated again and again. One-handed, I fished it out of my pockets and blearily glared at the screen. Jimmy: I got some bad news, brothers. Ramirez: What¡¯s going on? Jimmy: Harris passed away last night. His wife called me this afternoon. Charlie: What? Harris? No way. How? Jimmy: Lungs gave out. He¡¯d been struggling with breathing complications for years. Burn pit complications, I guess. Ramirez: Jesus Christ. He was only, what, 36? Dustin: 36, yeah. He¡¯s a year older than me. When I saw him last year, he seemed fine. Jimmy: Taryn said it hit hard and fast. He went from minor asthma to barely being able to breathe in a couple of months. The doc at the VA said his lungs were ¡°like a 100-year-old smoker.¡± Ramirez: We were all breathing that crap! Charlie: Fourth guy from our unit so far. What are we supposed to do? Should we just wait for it to catch up to us, too? Dustin: Feels like we¡¯re fighting another war¡ªthis time against our bodies. Mike: And bureaucracy. Harris fought for years to get VA coverage. It shouldn¡¯t be this hard. Ramirez: No, it shouldn¡¯t, man. But it is. Dustin: What¡¯s the plan for Harris? Funeral? Jimmy: Yeah, next Saturday. Taryn said it¡¯ll be small. She¡¯s putting on a brave face, but you can tell she¡¯s just¡­ broken. Ramirez: She shouldn¡¯t have to deal with this alone. Dustin: We need to be there for her, for Harris. Ramirez: Agreed. We owe him that much. Charlie: And more. In the meantime, make sure you get checked out by the VA guys. Mike: Already on it. I had rolled onto my back to read and respond to the group chat. Maybe it was the topic, but I grew up coughing as loud and hard as Grace did. It¡¯d been happening more and more lately. It¡¯s why the influencer kid gave me those lozenges. Only I never smoked in my life. Memories flipped through my mind. It was the fall of 2008 when I showed up at Fort Benning, Georgia. Fresh out of high school without a single goddamn opportunity to get out of Norwich other than the army, my story wasn¡¯t unique. Harris, though, was a year older than me. He¡¯d flirted with opportunity and found that education wasn¡¯t for him. He became the leader of our little group, covered our asses, and kept us out of trouble. Harris was tall and had a certain charisma. I remembered him as a 19-year-old, freshly buzzed kid, but years had passed since then. I tried to recall his appearance the last time I saw him, but it was blurry. Did he have a side part in his hair? Did he even have hair still, or had he gone bald? I set my phone down on the nightstand. The conversation had died. ¡°And now it¡¯s time for Heartland Headlines,¡± Carlton Smith said. Patriotic music swelled up after the announcement, and despite myself, I saw the montage of flags waving in the air over small towns. ¡°Good evening, friends. Welcome to another episode of Heartland Headlines with your old pal Frank O¡¯Flagg¡ªthat¡¯s me. This story hits close to home¡ªliterally. Across this great land, small-town farmers are facing a silent battle, one they didn¡¯t sign up for. I¡¯m talking about the quiet invasion of¡­. Solar farms.¡± Dramatic music played; I imagined they showed sweeping vistas of the same sprawling farms and idyllic rural towns they always did. ¡°Solar farms might look futuristic, but for hardworking folk like Bob Thompson of Oak Valley, they represent a growing threat. Tell me about it, Bob.¡± ¡°Well, Frank, these panels are eating up good farmland. I¡¯ve got neighbors selling off their fields because they can¡¯t keep up with rising taxes, disappearing subsidies, or new welfare programs that only benefit solar companies. What happens to the food supply? Who¡¯s looking out for us?¡± Bob Thompson sounded like an older man; it wasn¡¯t hard to picture a sturdy farmer with grey hair and a beard, maybe wearing a ball cap and overalls. ¡°Who, indeed, Bob? It doesn¡¯t stop in Oak Valley either, folks. These massive projects disrupt ecosystems, displacing wildlife, and some even say contribute to local heat increases. How do they do that, Bob?¡± Frank O¡¯Flagg would¡¯ve been at home selling snake oil, but disinformation suited him just as well. ¡°Well, Frank, can I call ya Frank? These solar panels suck up the sunlight, concentrating it away from the soil into their hot black panels. Ya ever touched a solar panel? They¡¯re awful warm.¡± Bob Thompson¡¯s attempt at aged wisdom fell flat for me, but I could hear Grace through the walls¡ªagreeing with the dumb son of a bitch. I closed my eyes and focused on the sound of the water heater in the utility closet next to my bedroom. The faint hiss of burning propane was a balm to my nerves and infinitely preferable to the sounds of Heartland Headlines. My eyes felt heavy and drifted, but a voice pulled me back awake. It was Sophie¡¯s voice. ¡°Do you wanna change the world, Dust-Bunny?¡± Chapter 2: The What? ¡°Do you want to change the world, Dust-Bunny?¡± Sophie asked me. ¡°Wha¡ª¡± I bit my tongue in surprise, and coupled with another fit of coughing, I jolted upright. I hacked and wheezed, nearly choking on my saliva. My phone emitted weird popping and cracking sounds, while the microwave in the kitchenette sounded like someone had tossed a dozen metal utensils into it. Yet I could hear Heartland Headlines playing fine in Grace¡¯s apartment, and despite my loud coughing, I heard Grace snoring as her unwatched television droned on. Like a ball of pure energy, something white floated above my phone. Brilliant particles fluttered toward it from electrical outlets, and the light above my bed, along with Sophie¡¯s old laptop in the corner, generated a line of retina-burning radiance that compelled me to look away¡ªbut more than looking away, I wanted to stare at it as if it were the most beautiful object in the world. We¡¯ve all seen pictures of those who stare at an eclipse without sunglasses, even though even children know not to stare at the sun. It was like that; it hurt to look at, but it was so bright and, I don¡¯t know, almost sacred-looking that I couldn¡¯t turn my head away. It formed a sphere the size of a tennis ball that floated before me. :: Dustin Carrow. The Time of Reckoning is at hand. Will you be the Harbinger of Paradise?:: The voice no longer sounded human. Maybe a hint of Sophie¡¯s voice lingered within the layers, but who could pinpoint a single voice in a chorus of a hundred thousand people all saying the same thing simultaneously? Motes of power drifted toward the object. The room vibrated like apartments next to train tracks in the movies. I didn¡¯t have tinnitus, but a low buzzing that grew louder by the second made me wonder if I had suddenly developed it. My retinas burned, my eardrums popped as if a profound pressure change had occurred, and the relentless humming rattled my brain. The ball had grown to the size of my head, and that¡¯s when it shifted. It split into dozens of shapes I couldn¡¯t name¡ªstrange geometric forms, impossible dimensions. The ball transformed into something resembling a person. ::Hello?:: it asked, and I realized it had directed a question at me. ¡°What the hell?¡± I stammered. ::Dustin Carrow, your society has reached the fulcrum. Only three futures lie before your planet now: Integration, Paradise, or Destruction. Will you be the hand that pivots the lever?:: ¡°What in the hell are you?¡± I asked. I regretted not having a gun in my bedroom, but would a bullet even damage this thing? I had a knife in my pocket, but would a sharp piece of metal even do anything against whatever this was? Wind buffeted the side of the Courts of Norwich, and rain slammed against the roof. ::I am Balance. I am the justice you could not create for yourselves. In a vast Universe of powers beyond your belief, I am the architect of equilibrium. Tonight, with this storm, the Factors are chosen. Fifty humans have been selected by fifty of the most influential organizations in the Universe. Their goals will align with their patrons. Most will push Earth into an Integration Event, although some will seek desolation to strip mine your planet when you are gone.:: An immense blast of thunder reverberated in my head. The loudness, the vibrations, the hair on the back of my neck and arms standing up. I could hear the explosives in Afghanistan again. I focused on the luminous thing in front of me, banishing memories. ¡°What¡¯s that got to do with me?¡± I demanded, a surge of anger rising from deep in my stomach. I was a gig driver most days; before that, I was just an infantryman grunt. What did some alien things want with me? ::You misunderstand, Dustin Carrow. This is not about what they want with you but about what you are. You see the world as it is: broken by inequity, corruption, and greed. You see the rot at its roots. Self-interest has been elevated to a defining cultural characteristic. You detest it, even as you endure it. We will restore the balance, and as my Harbinger, you will create a paradise of this lush planet¡ªan Eden forged in ash and blood.:: ::You understand sacrifice. You have lived the truth that change requires suffering. You have bled to preserve what others squander. You have lost what others take for granted. Even now, you die: toxins you once breathed in corrode your flesh and accelerate the mutagenic growth within. You are a man out of time, out of hope. And yet, that is precisely what makes you perfect.:: ::Your life has forged you into a brutal realist. You will die tonight, or you will be reborn. Will you become a force of reckoning, or have your will dissipate into the Aether, forgotten? Serve me, and Humanity will fear you, hate you, and perhaps even worship you. But you will live, and the fate of the fifty Factors will be left to your discretion while we shape Paradise. What will you choose, Dustin Carrow?:: ¡°I¡¯m going to die tonight?¡± I repeated what the thing said. Another set of savage coughs left me shaking, and spots of dark, nasty blood remained in my hand from covering my mouth. I guess Harris wasn¡¯t the only one who breathed in a few too many fumes from the burn pits. It figured.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ::Unless you accept the lifesaving power of the Harbinger, your demise is inevitable.:: ¡°What power do I get? And give me the real reason for why me?¡± :: As my Harbinger, you will wield Lumen Arbitris, Light of the Judges. This is no mere weapon, but a force of karmic reckoning. This light pierces falsehoods, sears through corruption, and binds the guilty to their sins. It does not discriminate¡ªit reflects the truth of what is and delivers justice with unflinching clarity.:: My mind generated many images¡ªmostly of fire and burning¡ªwhich seemed weird when talking about light. I thought lumen meant light, anyway. Maybe it was a translation error; there was no way this thing spoke English natively. ::Why you? You understand the cost of change. You know that mercy is a luxury the broken cannot afford. Your life is a testament to the hard truth: unchecked power must be torn down by any means necessary. You are unremarkable in the eyes of your kind, but that is precisely why you are perfect to be my Harbinger.:: I laughed, and more flecks of blood splattered against my lips and hand. The cheeky asshole wasn¡¯t pulling any punches, even though it spoke with a cold that made winter feel warm. ::You have no kingdom to lose, no wealth to guard, no ambition to cloud your purpose. Those you have loved are dead and gone. You are a man who has fought, bled, and endured, not for glory, but because survival left you no choice. Now, with death stalking your every breath, you are unshackled from all that once bound you. You will bring a reckoning to those who prosper at the expense of the innocent. You will weigh the fates of the fifty Factors. You will burn away the rot to make way for Paradise. Once more, you will kill.:: I laughed. ¡°Why would I do that? For power? Go fuck your power. To survive? What¡¯s living in this world even worth?¡± I asked genuinely. If I died tonight, I¡¯d be another Carrow in the ground, another text chain in the group chat, and then forgotten. Who would miss me? No one. Who would remember me? Not history. ::See.:: The figure of light told me and my head exploded. Not literally. It felt like I was in a dark theater, and they turned on the music and movie, and it was way too fucking loud. But the images were crisper than any I¡¯d ever seen, the sounds authentic, and they felt¡­ vibrant? I never noticed how washed out my perception of the world had become. John Lennon might have scored it as well, but there wasn¡¯t any music. Images of Norwich sprawled out before me. Norwich had been a quiet study in despair since my dad¡¯s time¡ªa place where peeling paint, sagging houses, and broken concrete whispered of long-forgotten dreams, and overgrown lots stood as gravestones for opportunities long buried. The air had hung heavy, filled with the quiet resignation of people who had learned to expect nothing more. For decades, poverty hadn¡¯t been a condition but an inheritance. That¡¯s the kind of place Norwich had been my whole life. Then it shifted. A local diner reopened its doors after years of darkness. Children laughed on a playground where rusted swings previously creaked in eerie silence. The sound of hammers and saws replaced the rotted porches of the houses on main street. Had a hidden switch been flipped? Homes that should have been condemned ages ago were repaired. Sun-baked siding got new coats of paint. The flickering sign at the gas station was restored. The broken windows had their glass repaired, and not with cardboard. Families who¡¯d lost it all returned¡ªthey walked the streets with cautious smiles, marveling at the impossible. All the systemic decay left behind by Raymond Hargrove¡¯s greed began to vanish. Wealth, redistributed by unseen hands, rebuilt more than roofs and walls; it rebuilt lives. Rent payments disappeared like a bad dream, replaced by ownership deeds handed out with quiet dignity. Imagine no landlords¡ªit wasn¡¯t a utopian fantasy anymore. It was real. Roads that once had foot-deep potholes ushered cars across Norwich without a single thud. Tarmarc, smooth like a fresh canvas, invited the people to begin a journey. The community center sprang up where drug dens had once stood, their doors wide open to any who needed help or just a place to belong. The local library¡ªonce shuttered and crumbling¡ªshone like a beacon. Books burst from its shelves, and the study rooms were filled with young minds eager to learn¡ªor at least to look at pictures of things. The streetlights cast soft, steady halos over clean streets at night. The town square buzzed with life. As if by magic, a farmer¡¯s market appeared, where fresh produce piled high in vibrant colors whispered promises of nourishment and renewal. A lone guitarist strummed a familiar tune that begged the gathered to think about how the world could be better. Not everything was perfect. The changes came quickly, too quickly for some, who whispered fears of strings attached to this newfound prosperity. Maybe someone had made a deal with the devil? Paradise, after all, never came without a cost. The images vanished. ¡°Real touching,¡± I muttered sarcastically, trying to feel like I had some power. But the truth of it was, it was touching. Why hadn¡¯t life been like that? Greed. Greed is why life hadn¡¯t been that way. ¡°What¡¯s a Harbinger do?¡± I asked the silence. The room had stopped vibrating, the hum had left my ears. The wind no longer slammed against the side of the building, and no rain pelted the roof. It was like time had frozen outside of my bedroom. ::Eradication of Corruption is your primary duty.:: It spoke, but images and data flowed into me. ::Your first target.:: Raymond Hargrove. Age: 54. Occupation: Owner of Hargrove Properties, LLC. Karmic Profile: Hoarded Wealth: Hargrove controls over 30% of rental properties in Norwich. Despite the town¡¯s economic decline, he has raised rents repeatedly, forcing many families into homelessness or poverty. Exploitative Practices: Known for neglecting property maintenance while pocketing government subsidies meant for affordable housing. Properties are riddled with mold, leaks, and safety hazards. Corruption: Regularly donates to local officials to avoid inspections and legal accountability, regular donations to state politicians to remain unbothered. Past Crimes: He is suspected of orchestrating a fire in one of his low-income buildings to collect insurance money. Two tenants, a single mother and her child, died in the blaze, though no charges were filed. Directive: Eliminate Raymond Hargrove. I laughed and tasted more blood. Hargrove owned my apartment building. ::You teeter on the precipice of death. Will you become my Harbinger, or do you choose death?:: I grinned a red, bloody grin at the strange being of light. ¡°I choose death¡ªtheirs.¡± ::Empowerment in progress. Welcome, Harbinger Dustin Carrow.:: Chapter 3: Harbinger 101 ::10% Empowerment reached.:: The world stood completely stock-still outside my apartment. The mother of all storms had been battering the apartment building until my new boss here froze time. I think it paused time, at least. Truth be told, my attention had fallen off from the wind, rain, and that dickhead Carlton Smith on Grace¡¯s tv. The process started when Mr. Light extended his hand and touched my shoulder. Pain is your body¡¯s way of telling you something is wrong. Pain ain¡¯t what I felt when it touched me. Sure, that white stuff that flowed from the boss-man into me looked an awful lot like light, but it also radiated heat like a big ol¡¯ bed of coals waiting to embrace a whole hog¡ªapple in its mouth and everything. Pain didn¡¯t enter into the equation in a meaningful way. It hurt some. It also felt good, better than a hand job but worse than good sex. Only the release wasn¡¯t from my dick, it was like Mr. Light stuck his hand into me as if I were a little doll, and somehow he reshaped what was inside of me. The pain in my chest went away. The aches in my hands and the scars from improvised explosive devices both vanished without a trace. It bubbled up into my mind that I¡¯d be able to hold a steering wheel without my hands aching, and I wanted to cry. There was an alien space god or whatever the fuck it was healing me and giving me the power to hunt down assholes, and the idea of driving without pain was tickling my fancy. Ridiculous shit. ::Hormonal rebalancing will take place during the last ninety percent. Endure.:: The chorus of voices provided an answer to my unspoken thoughts. Light as thick as my forearm flowed down my throat and up my nasal passages. I didn¡¯t know what it did to me then, but it felt revelatory¡ªin a real come-to-church way. I got hard, who knows why. It was like being a teenager again¡ªembarrassed about a bodily function you had no control over, especially not when your alien god monster had its forearm down your throat deep into your stomach while simultaneously up in your brain and sinuses. ::Harbinger Carrow, heed me. I have transferred you to a sealed location for the safety of your planet. You now become a Harbinger in truth with the essence of Lumen Arbitris. Expel excess energies if needed without concern for collateral damage.:: Everything seemed to be white. I felt my eyes widen when Balance told me that we¡¯d shifted location for the safety of my planet. How dangerous was this process, and were there chances of failure? I hadn¡¯t asked. This was like MEPS, finding out the recruiter had sold me a pile of garbage and half-truths to get me on the bus to basic. My eyes wept tears of moisture into the air, and then my eyes evaporated. I repeat, my eyes evaporated. They turned to dust and blew away on the slightest gust of air. The overwhelming, retina-searing white of the room vanished in an instant¡ªthe sounds¡ªmy groaning and moaning¡ªended in the climactic explosion of my eardrums. Sightless and without hearing, the room pulsed in and out of existence around me. A sense I¡¯d experienced before slipped into place like the beat of my heart. With each pulse of the chambers of my heart, information flowed into my brain. Details I¡¯d missed about the room crawled into my mind. It was a large rectangular room, over a hundred feet long and forty wide. Large columns separated the center of the room from the periphery. At the front, a giant scale rested in the grip of an imposing statue of a winged woman that loomed malevolently over a chair¡ªcorrection, a throne. The whiteness, with this new sense of mine, revealed the room to be a stark place. It appeared to be split in half, like a rectangular yin-yang, with the merging point of dark and light around the blocky throne. The room had a terrifying somberness that made going before a pissed-off Commanding Officer for Court-martial seem like a happy Sunday brunch. This wasn¡¯t the sort of place where good things happened; even the torture chamber of your garden-variety dictator lacked the ominous, ultimate sense of judgment of this place. That¡¯s how I realized it was a temple. ::This is the Room Without Mercy. It will serve as your office when we have finished.:: Mr. Light spoke to my thoughts but seemed to misunderstand my feelings about the room dramatically. ::75% Empowerment.:: My gaze swept across the boss-man. He wasn¡¯t a he. Man, woman, it shifted genders and shapes every few nanoseconds. Even with this elevated sense of perception, my mind couldn¡¯t keep up with the rapid flickering of who and what it was. Like the room, it was much more than white energy and geometric symbols. The breadth of colors and sensations spawned by and in it made me irrationally angry because I couldn¡¯t comprehend what I saw. It was like another language, and I only knew English, and English didn¡¯t have words for any of this shit. The anger felt like a fire burning in my gut, festering for a moment before it exploded like wildfire through my whole body. Like my eyes, the last bits of my flesh burned away and scattered on a current of heated air. I stood exposed to the Room Without Mercy¡ªonly a Dustin-shaped pillar of fiery light and the convoluted, multi-dimensional being that was my boss. ¡°What the fuck?¡± I screamed, or at least I tried to. I didn¡¯t have a mouth, lungs, or any of the usual equipment I spent my life communicating with. The roar of flames exploded outward and left scorched marks on the nearest columns. :: Empowerment complete. Now, the hard work begins. Harbinger Kaela shall oversee your training.::A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°Wait!¡± I shouted at the being of light and shapes, but it came out as more waves of scorching light. My attempt at communication either failed or was ignored because it vanished. There was no poof, no portal. It simply ceased to exist. This disappointed me for some reason, but my attention shifted when the wall where a section of dark stone spiraled open into a doorway, and a human-like figure entered. Human-like was the key part of that. The woman who entered wore what looked like a high-fashion gothic dress. Small slits in the strange black fabric revealed pale lavender skin that crimson flows of what might have been blood danced over, like liquid tattoos that flowed over her flesh. She wore a cloak that trailed dramatically behind her on nonexistent winds¡ªno ordinary cloak but a tattered thing that looked like aged and torn parchment, covered in foreign, no, alien languages. She had long, straight black hair with bangs that framed her face. Large, red orbs of the red liquid that flowed over her flesh made up her eyes. A black feather quill with droplets of red perpetually waiting to fall rested lazily in her right hand. The red liquid, like my flaming pillar of a body, was Lumen Arbitris, I somehow knew. Voices accompanied her into the room, but no other people did. Laments of the damned swirled around the woman; their purpose was lost on me¡ªmaybe they didn¡¯t even have a purpose beyond conveying the weight of tragedy this person carried upon her unbowed shoulders, but I doubted it. ¡°Stop gawking and reform your physical existence,¡± the dark-clad woman commanded. ¡°How?¡± I growled, simmering anger and resentment building inside my nonexistent belly. The woman rolled her eyes at me, then glared back at the door she had entered through. Whatever species she was, it was biologically close enough to humans that her face showed emotions like a human would. ¡°The Arbiter did not even teach you the basics before dumping you on me?¡± ¡°No.¡± I bellowed, and another wave of cascading power crashed around her. Interestingly, the wave of my expelled light-heat mixture parted around the woman without her even doing anything, as if my rage and confusion were unworthy of touching her. Still, a shower of blood-red sparks fanned off the tip of her quill when it happened. The woman pursed her lips and studied me. ¡°I am known as Kaela of the Crimson Quill. I originally came from the Sanguine Web galaxy. You may properly introduce yourself to me once we have given you corporeal form again.¡± Kaela said flatly. ¡°We start at the basics, then. Focus inwards. Close your eyes, if you had them. Feel the weight of your existence, the burden of your suffering, the tragedy of your world. Feel the core of your essence, the spark touched by the Arbiter to make you a Harbinger. You know, deep down, the truth and shape of your body. Let your soul guide your thoughts, as it guides the rhythm of your breath. Find it. Hold onto it. The you who is a pillar is a mere echo of the you who is a Harbinger. Feel the song from within.¡± Kaela spoke with a voice that enthralled a galaxy. I don¡¯t know how I knew, but I knew this woman had caused an interstellar war that obliterated entire systems. Maybe it was in the whispers around her, the lament of doom, or perhaps it was communicated to me through the Lumen Arbitris. Sure, she looked like a gothic poet out of a wet dream from that Byron guy, and she talked a little like a vampire, but her confidence and charisma made me feel inadequate. I was just a grunt, and I¡¯d never started any galactic wars. ¡°Not yet, you haven¡¯t,¡± Kaela laughed. ¡°Yes, I can sense your thoughts. We will get to that after you can reclaim your identity.¡± ¡°The Lumen obeys thought, not instinct. Imagine the shape you wish to take¡ªnot just limbs and sinew, but the idea of yourself. Who are you? What kind of man are you? Who is the Harbinger you will become? Let this image coalesce in your mind. Paint it with the broad strokes of a sketch. Let the light sculpt itself around this vision.¡± I wanted to flip Kaela the bird. I¡¯d never been much of one for taking things like envisioning who you want to be seriously; it sounded like self-help bullshit. Who did I want to be? What kind of man was I? What kind of Harbinger would I be? I imagined myself with a black trench-coat like Neo from the Matrix. I let my memory fill in the rough details of how I looked, of my favorite pair of combat boots I¡¯d never found after the commissary changed brands. A pair of billowy cargo pants and a black T-shirt. Simple. Comfortable. Dustin Carrow. I remained a pillar of fucking fire. ¡°The fire burns because you will it to. To extinguish it, draw the flame inward. Imagine the heat folding into itself. Think of your center as a star, only instead of billowing light and heat, it sucks it in and retains it. It will take it all greedily. Let the radiance soften and condense until it no longer scorches and burns. Let it be a gentle hum beneath your skin, flowing through your veins, powering your muscles and tendons.¡± Kaela spoke with certainty, leaving me with no qualms about her knowledge. How she communicated broke barriers, defenses both rational and irrational, that I didn¡¯t even know I¡¯d raised. ¡°Release yourself. The pillar is no longer a blaze¡ªit is a frame. A vessel. Pour your determination into it, as water flows into a mold. Each finger, each heartbeat, each breath is yours to reclaim. Do not fear the emptiness as the fire fades; it makes room for your humanity.¡± I did what Kaela said. I poured myself into the mold of light. Did I fall through it? Or maybe the dark, cold sensation crept into my mind as I flowed into the waiting concentration of power. Cold like death, like a lonely room, darkness from which a thousand eyes stared at me. It made me feel like a little kid jumping at ghosts, but¡­ if the Arbiter and Kaela were real, maybe ghosts were too? ¡°Try again,¡± Kaela commanded. ¡°From the start.¡± I tried, again and again, until eventually the mold of light looked like a shining Dustin Carrow, and I fell into it, the spark of my light dimming. I embraced the cold, trusting that Kaela and Lumen Arbitris would get me back to having a body. ¡°When the final spark dims, you will feel the weight of your body again¡ªskin cooling, your breath steadying. Open your eyes and see not the fire you were but the being you are. Lumen Arbitris is never lost; it waits, dormant, in the marrow of your soul, coursing through your blood, flesh, sinew, and bone. Call upon it, and it will blaze brighter than ever before.¡± I opened my eyes. My eyelids felt like a glove made specifically for my eyes, a sensation I had never noticed before. My body felt new, fresh, strong, and powerful, and within me, my heart felt full of scorching heat, and blinding light. Kaela clapped, twice, and laughed. ¡°Third try. Maybe you have potential, but there is no excuse for the mundanity of your mind interpreting Lumen Arbitris as mere fire and light.¡± Kaela¡¯s words held the sound of a whip cracking, and I wondered if her words had cut me. My stomach ached as if she¡¯d punched me in the gut. Words¡­ couldn¡¯t do that, could they? Avatar-1 physicality has been set. Would you like to add another form to your favorites? ¡°What the fuck was that voice?¡± I demanded. Chapter 4: Mental Commands ¡°You mean to tell me it responds to mental commands?¡± I asked Kaela, who arched a brow at my sour tone. ¡°Of course it does. That¡¯s common galactic technology. You¡¯re from a nascent world pending integration and don¡¯t even have rudimentary neural interfaces? I thought you said you were from a non-magical world. No wonder the Arbiter got involved. Your world must be a real clusterfuck to be on the brink of integration with no neural link and no magic.¡± ¡°Yeah, you could call it that,¡± I agreed. Multiple transparent screens floated in my sight as if I had a phone menu or one of those fancy hologram systems in the Iron Man movies. Unlike that stuff, I didn¡¯t have to make any gestures with my hands or fingers; it all responded to my thoughts. Scroll up, next page, index, search, everything flowed intuitively enough that even an old grandpa could figure it out. It put the clunkiness of my phone into perspective, and that wasn¡¯t because it was three years old. The first screen in front of me listed my basic information.
Stat Value Description
Lumen 12 Control and Power of Lumen Arbitris
Resolve 10 Mental Fortitude and resistance to psychological effects
Strength 10 Physical power and damage capability
Dexterity 11 Precision, agility, and evasion
Vitality 12 Physical Endurance and General Health
Judgment 8 Karmic enforcement modifier
Adaptability 9 Learning speed, versatility, and growth rate
My entire life had been boiled down to seven numbers as if I were some video game character, and some had no real bearing on my past life as a veteran, kid, or even gig worker. Sure, the life of an infantryman had left me a touch higher than most when it came to physical capabilities, but Lumen and Judgement weren¡¯t something anyone but Harbingers possessed. Apparently, in integrated worlds, ordinary folk had magic in place of lumen and tech in place of judgment. According to Kaela, harbingers could do nearly anything technology or magic could via Lumen. Judgment, on the other hand, sounded a bit wacko. It let you sense guilt and crimes and employ abilities related to them, but they weren¡¯t Lumen Arbitris specifically. ¡°Don¡¯t forget, you can¡¯t increase Judgment except by completing missions. Only the Arbiter can reward it, while the other stats can all be increased by doing what?¡± Kaela asked. ¡°Leveling up,¡± I echoed her previous answer. ¡°Good boy,¡± the lavender-skinned woman complimented me like a dog. She patted me on the head with her left hand''s long, delicate fingers. Jovial or not, she didn¡¯t seem to think much of me, and based on the weight she bore on her shoulders, I couldn¡¯t blame her. I¡¯d never been one of those recruits desperate for the older veteran''s favor or trust; I¡¯d seen enough before the military to know those were things you weren¡¯t given but that you had to earn. Acting entitled to them was a surefire way to show your entitlement, and it put a mark on your back. ¡°Now, read your abilities to me,¡± Kaela commanded. ¡°Ability: Halo Shift. Type: Transformation. Description: Harbinger Carrow channels the power of Lumen Arbitris, shedding his mortal form and taking on one of two modes: Radiant Wrath & Eclipsed Veil.¡± I read awkwardly, bumbling the words a little. Reading to the educated, wise, and charismatic Kaela felt like getting called on by a teacher to read a passage when I¡¯d been half asleep in class and was ten pages behind. ¡°And what do the modes do?¡± Kaela asked. One of her finely plucked brows arched at me, and her hands on her hips all but commanded me to answer her, swiftly, and without the blubbering this time. ¡°Radiant Wrath makes me into a blazing beacon and focuses on destructive power. Eclipsed Veil is silent, invisible, and for wet-work jobs where stealth is better than brute force.¡± I didn¡¯t read the entries in their entirety, instead, I summarized them. This got me an approving nod from Kaela. ¡°And your other Ability?¡± Kaela seemed to know exactly how many I had. ¡°Do all Harbingers start with two?¡± I asked. ¡°Yes,¡± Kaela answered, and her foot tapped impatiently against the hard floor. ¡°Judgement Beam. Offensive. The short to mid-range energy blast of Lumen Arbitris has high accuracy and is useful for burning through armor or barriers to strike the essence of a target¡¯s guilt. Strongest against those marked by Judgment.¡±This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Kaela laughed at my bare-bones description of the ability. I¡¯d left off all the effects, riders, and descriptive bullshit about the power. It all read like fluff to me. Of course, the beam briefly blinded enemies; it was a blast of light! ¡°You¡¯re off to a promising start: assassin mode, rampage mode, and a high-precision attack. That¡¯s a better start than most of us get, and as a Harbinger, any edge you can get is good. Maybe your story won¡¯t end in tragedy,¡± Kaela¡¯s bitter laugh made it seem very unlikely. ¡°You aren¡¯t pulsing; your form is stable, and your powers are basic. Go get your first kill.¡± Kaela¡¯s gruff dismissal came as she turned and stalked out of the room. The wall reverse-irised, sealing itself as if it had always been a solid wall. I stared after her. ¡°How the fuck do I leave?¡± I shouted at the walls. No answer came. I walked over and touched the wall where Kaela had made a door. It felt like every other wall in the room. I pushed against it¡ªnothing happened. ::The process is simple.:: The Arbiter spoke from all around me, or maybe directly into my mind? ¡°If it¡¯s so simple why am I trapped in this room?¡± I questioned. ::Your existence has reached a higher plane than that of an ordinary human. The Room Without Mercy is your foundation, your sanctum, a place to recuperate, re-arm, and strategize. It is not part of Earth, nor any world, but in a higher dimension. It does not move; no where leads to it, and time has no meaning in these halls. Yet, Harbingers may freely walk between here and there.:: ¡°You¡¯re trying to be mysterious, and it¡¯s annoying.¡± I growled out. The Arbiter ignored my displeasure with its embrace of attempting to be mysterious and dramatic. ::To create a doorway you must first acknowledge the two points as one. Space is no longer a barrier to you. Mortal reality is only partially applicable to you now, and when there is no door, you make one.:: I missed Kaela already. The Arbiter wasn¡¯t nearly as good of a teacher. ::Focus on where you wish to be. Not just an image, but sounds and tastes. Feel the touch of your rough sheets, smell the old rotten wood of the window frames, and hear the hum of your refrigerator¡¯s failing refrigerant pump.:: ::A door is nothing more than a threshold¡ªa moment of transition. Envision a door before you. It can take any shape: an ornate gilded door, a rippling portal of light, or even the battered wood of your childhood home¡¯s front porch. The form is irrelevant. It is the passage that matters.:: If the form didn¡¯t matter, why did I need to focus on the form of the door at all? It mattered at least a little, surely? ::Push your imagination onto reality. There is no travel, The Room Without Mercy will open to wherever you need to go. Be warned, you are not the one to decide if you need to go somewhere.:: I had a small flashback to when I was 8, or maybe 9 years old. I didn¡¯t want to remember it, or try to, but it floated up out of the back of my mind. ¡°You know better than that, Dusty,¡± Dad¡¯s voice had always been rough, and most of the time, if you did something wrong, he¡¯d yell real loud, but he hadn¡¯t been mad that day. He had a deep frown on his face as he stared at me, my hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my hoodie while I shuffled my feet awkwardly and stared at the scuffed linoleum of the kitchen. Young me hadn¡¯t escaped dad¡¯s disappointment there, but I sure looked for one. The wind rattled the front shutters, and fall leaves blew over the sidewalk, creating shadows from the porch light. Why didn¡¯t Dad ask me what prompted my actions? His indifference to my thoughts stung. It would have been simpler to dismiss his anger and yelling, but the deep disappointment clouding his face¡ªa failure of even the most straightforward expectations¡ªaffected young Dustin in ways that anger couldn¡¯t touch. I couldn¡¯t recall what I had done wrong. Perhaps I lied about my homework? Did I sneak out after curfew? Maybe it was a fistfight... that part of the memory eluded me, and just when I tried to concentrate, The Room Without Mercy devoured the memory. I found myself gazing at a black doorway, its paint flecked and marked by a crudely carved letter D in the center. I stifled a grimace and focused on recapturing my stoicism. I took a deep breath, turned the door handle, and entered my apartment. The door completely vanished once it closed behind me. Time flowed. Thunder roared, and the windows shook. I went to the front door, and sure enough, the worst storm I¡¯d ever seen in Norwich raged outside. I still had my clothes on and boots, too. I cracked the front door, and it took all my effort to push the door open in the face of powerful winds. Grace¡¯s window was open, but she¡¯d stood up to try and close it. I pushed it down from the outside and waved at the older woman. She mouthed a thank you, then gestured for me to get out of the rain. I gave her a little salute and turned back to my apartment. Wet leaves hit me in the face; other debris crashed into the railing and walls. I ran back inside. The door did almost nothing to lessen the noise of the wind. It also failed to keep all the water out. Beads of water, pushed inside through gaps in the weather stripping of the door, formed and ran down the inside of the door frame. I sighed. My clothes were drenched, and the storm only seemed to get worse. I threw a couple of towels at the bottom of the door¡ªbetter than nothing. After that I stripped, lit a candle, and spent a few minutes under the hot water of the shower. If the storm did knock out the power, at least I wouldn¡¯t be smelling myself until it came back on. Even in the tiny shower, I could hear the howling gale rip at the roof, and rumbling, booming reverberations of thunder shook the foundations of the building. Near, far, it sounded like multiple kids striking metal sheets purposefully out of beat. That¡¯s how the night went. The power went about ten minutes after I got out of the shower. After that, well, I fell asleep in bed. After a while, even the worst storm I¡¯d ever seen became tedious. My eyes grew heavy, and I drifted off. Beep. Beep. Beep. My alarm woke me. I stared at the ceiling. How much of last night had been a dream? I could hear Grace¡¯s television already. Power was back, then. ¡°Good morning, America. Or should I say¡­ what¡¯s left of it? The Global Super Storm¡ªwhich some scientists are calling the most destructive weather event in human history¡ªhas left entire cities without power, roads torn apart, and everything in absolute chaos. From New York to Tokyo, bridges have crumbled. But here¡¯s the real question, folks: was this just a freak act of nature? Or is something more sinister at play?¡± The voice belonged to an asshole named Johnny Sunrise. Imagine Ryan Seacrest without any charisma, add a spray tan, some botched plastic surgery, a terrible blonde dye job, and that was Johnny Sunrise. ¡°That¡¯s right, Johnny. We¡¯ve all seen hurricanes and tornadoes¡ªbut never anything like this. Meteorologists are baffled. The jet stream? Gone. Ocean currents? Reversed in some places! And get this¡ªthere¡¯s still some super lightning event in the upper atmosphere that we don¡¯t even have a name for yet!¡± Susie Dawn was the co-host for Mr. Sunrise. She looked like most women on Grace¡¯s favorite network¡ªblonde, fake, and eyes devoid of a soul. ¡°It¡¯s almost like the storm wanted to stay in place. It¡¯s eerie, folks. If that weren¡¯t enough, we¡¯re now getting reports of¡­ well, let¡¯s call them anomalies. Things happening that don¡¯t quite add up.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got some footage, don¡¯t we Johnny?¡± Susie set up Johnny. ¡°We sure do, now watch closely, folks. What we have here is cell footage from the station on Delancey St/Essex St. The mist you¡¯re seeing lingered there for three hours, and if you observe, the tendrils of mist pull that poor person to their death¡ªwe assume. The mist has since vanished, with no traces of the missing person to be found.¡± Susie laughed nervously. ¡°Here, we see footage from Kansas. A local weather reporter was in the field getting footage of the storm. See that? Good, American ground doesn¡¯t flow like water. Katee Ardale¡¯s been missing since that was recorded.¡± For once in my life, I sort of wished I was watching Grace¡¯s stupid show. What happened to the reporter? The Arbiter did mention that the fifty Factors were chosen last night, in addition to me becoming a Harbinger. Is that what caused the storm and all of these anomalies? ¡°Well! One thing¡¯s for sure, folks¡ªour government wants you to know everything is under control! President Hastings has issued a statement saying the storm was a ¡®rare but fully natural phenomenon¡¯ and that all these so-called anomalies are just the result of stress, misinformation, and mass delusion caused by the woke liberal agenda. Fake news! So don¡¯t worry, America! Drink your coffee and ignore the weirdness.¡± Johnny Sunrise sounded even more forced than usual. ¡°Right, Johnny. Because we all know nothing strange ever happens when the entire world¡¯s weather pattern collapses overnight!¡± Susie Dawn failed to spin it even worse than Johnny. I almost heard her sob hysterically between words. ¡°Nothing to se¡ª¡± the power went out again. Chapter 5: The Lights Went Out The power stayed off. Lacking anything better to occupy myself, I reviewed the information I knew about Ray Hargrove. He lived on the outskirts of town in a significant, fenced-in estate, and off-duty law enforcement provided security for him. I imagined he might have a generator, but seeing as my phone wouldn¡¯t turn on¡ªmaybe that didn¡¯t matter. Whatever the hell happened to the power grid after the storm, it wiped my phone''s battery. Even Sophie¡¯s old laptop wouldn¡¯t turn on, and my watch was useless, too. So, even if he had a generator, would it do anything? Maybe the storm broke the magnetic¡ªwell, I don¡¯t fucking know how power works, all I knew was this could be an opportunity. Law enforcement would be getting called in on overtime, and Ray would no doubt be in his big house, with fewer or no guards and no working security systems. Never take an opportunity for granted. When I left my apartment, there were no cars on the streets. All the electric vehicles were dead, and with a drained battery and nothing to jump-start them from, gas vehicles were equally lifeless. It was quiet in a way I wasn¡¯t familiar with¡ªno cars, electronics, or buzz from the power lines. People hid indoors, for or from what I didn¡¯t know. Norwich wasn¡¯t exactly the town that would devolve into looting after a single storm. Maybe survival instincts told them to hide, or the collective animal wisdom of our race somehow sensed that 50 Factors and a Harbinger now walked the earth. Trees blocked the road in numerous places¡ªa few large limbs here, entire adult oaks there. Many windows were broken, trash was everywhere, and it was a big mess. I had to clamber through some of the trees, and while in the thick foliage of one, I engaged Halo Shift. My body boiled away instantly, and I flowed into the ghostly form of Eclipsed Veil. The transition was instantaneous, yet within that brief instant, an agonizing shriek filled my mind, a terrifying blend of the world''s apparent torment and my own existential dread. My body broke down and dissolved into the energy fields known as Lumen Arbitris. Whatever esoteric physics ruled Lumen Arbitris were different from other forms of energy I¡¯d ever heard about. My new body flowed like water but had no substance. I looked like a shadow of the Grim Reaper, a blur of black that shot down the streets at speeds rivaling a car. I was a shimmer in the air, an absence, maybe a distortion rather than a presence. Again, that world of silence crept in, extra hard this time. I couldn¡¯t hear my breathing or heartbeat because I didn¡¯t have either. There was no crunch of boots, not even a misting of the cool morning air with my breath. I didn¡¯t even cast a shadow. Not that anyone could see me or catch more than a glimpse of darkness in my travels. Eclipsed Veil was for stealth. No one would catch more than a glimpse of me as long as I remained on the move and didn¡¯t make a show of myself¡ªat least, that¡¯s how it was supposed to work. I was prepared to be disappointed if things went sideways. That¡¯s why my Eclipsed Veil avatar was an empty set of Grim Reaper robes¡ªnothing could be linked to Dustin Carrow, even if someone watched me commit murder. The destruction caused by the storm grew worse the further outside of Norwich I went, as if the town itself had been shielded by a bubble or given a reprieve from whatever wrathful entity had controlled the strange storm. I had to stifle a laugh when I approached the Hargrove estate. The large ten-foot brick wall raised around the estate toppled into heaps in multiple locations, and the storm ripped the gates free from the wall. Apparently, in its wrath, the storm had hurled the dislodged iron gates at the mansion. I¡¯d never seen a storm commit this kind of targeted damage before¡ªdid that owe to the Arbiter, the Factors, or simply a coincidence? Dead security cameras regularly topped what was left of the wall. Two men in black stood at the missing gate, staring up and down the road that ran in front of it. They seemed desperate to leave; no doubt they were late for their real jobs. I paused in the wall''s shadow to listen to them momentarily. ¡°You ever think about how screwed up this is? We should be out there, doin¡¯ our actual jobs, y¡¯know? Instead, we¡¯re here. Playing watchdog for Hargrove because his big wall and gate got knocked down by a storm. He ain¡¯t the Governor!¡± The first man complained. ¡°You say that like we got a choice. The county budget¡¯s been slashed to hell, and he pays better than the station. ¡®Sides, who knows how many jobs they¡¯ll slash to pay for all this damage. Power is still out, cars are all dead, and even the generator¡¯s aint working. Maybe this is the end of the world? Remember that psychic who said President Hastings was the Antichrist and would lead us to damnation?¡± The younger deputy had a very different take than the older man. ¡°Don¡¯t remind me. I miss the cruiser, man. Standing in a driveway ain¡¯t the same as packing up and running the gun on people speeding out of town. The cruiser had heat, at least. I¡¯ll take keeping the peace anyday over sittin¡¯ out here in the cold, watching a rich asshole¡¯s house like a rent-a-cop.¡± The older man disagreed. ¡°Keep your voice down. If Hargrove hears that, he¡¯ll throw a big fit.¡± The younger man winced, and I watched him. Wasn¡¯t I supposed to have some kind of Judgment powers? I didn¡¯t like the younger guy, but he wasn¡¯t radiating any sensations that he needed to be smote. ¡°Let him. What¡¯s he gonna do, fire me? Good. Maybe then I can go back to real work instead of babysitting a guy with enough home security to fight off the fucking Predator.¡± The older man spat to the side after he rebutted the younger man.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Either way, we¡¯re stuck here, freezin¡¯ our asses off, guarding a guy who wouldn¡¯t piss on us if we were on fire. Maybe it ain¡¯t worth it,¡± the younger deputy mumbled. ¡°Damn straight it ain¡¯t. Hope there¡¯s still a town left to police by the time we get out of here,¡± the old man bitched. I didn¡¯t hang out to listen to it anymore. I floated along the driveway up to the estate. A few gusts of wind made a strange howling sound as they swept through the wrought iron gates that leaned against the mansion. I flowed through the wall, recalling the Arbiter¡¯s off hand comment that space was no longer a barrier to me. He was right. There was no point using a door when you could just flow through walls, although windows were much easier to slip through for some reason. All the lights were out inside, but my perceptions extended beyond the limited range of human sight. Still, it was a huge ass house, and I had no idea where anything was. Lacking intel, all I could do was float up and down the halls until I found Raymond Hargrove¡ªor one of his lackeys, who¡¯d lead me there eventually. I noticed the cameras, magnetic door sensors, and motion sensors liberally placed throughout the house. They were all offline due to the lack of power. If I were a normal assassin, the level of security Hargrove possessed would¡¯ve been annoying to circumvent. I probably would¡¯ve had to resort to camping out and hoping for a long-range shot. Circumstances, however, had presented me with the perfect opportunity and a pretty young gal in a maid outfit carrying a sandwich sure as hell seemed like a sign from above. I followed her, and she led me to a big ol¡¯ room on the back end of the house. Three of the walls, and the ceiling were glass. Tough glass, to have survived the storm with only a few nasty cracks throughout the whole room. The room had many houseplants and a few birds singing, all of which seemed tropical. Leave it to a rich asshole to fill his upstate New York house with plants from the fucking rain forests. They were pretty, I¡¯ll give him that. Raymond Hargrove sat at a big black wooden table, reading a book in the sunlight. He wore a pair of tidy whites, a bathrobe, and slippers. I felt terrible for his employees having to see that. Like many men in their 50s, Raymond had a lot of body hair and a pot belly, and most of his hair had fallen out. His saggy old-man balls tried constantly to escape the confines of his underwear. Standing near Ray made my non-existent skin crawl. He wasn¡¯t the scary kind of evil but the sad, disgusting kind. ¡°Your Hand-Gathered, Pasture-Raised Golden Yolk Egg Sandwich, with Shaved Black Truffle & White Truffle Aioli, Caviar Toasted Brioche, Wagyu Beef Bacon, garnished with golden leaf, sir.¡± The maid lifted the little silver lid. It looked like an egg sandwich to me, but that was an awful lot of words for a simple sandwich. ¡°In a sea of disappointment, you and Anton are my only solace, Milly,¡± Raymond complimented the maid, his eyes widening as she described his sandwich. ¡°Anton worries that he won¡¯t be able to maintain this quality of meal for long, sir. If the power isn¡¯t restored soon he¡¯s worried the walk-in¡¯s will be a total loss.¡± Milly shared the concerns of who I assumed to be the chef. A vein pulsed above Hargrove¡¯s left eye, and his face turned an ugly red. ¡°I¡¯ve already ordered that lazy fuck Jamil to get down there and fix the generators. If a single filet goes bad I want it shoved down his useless throat! Go!¡± Milly fled. I watched the asshole smirk in self-contentment at the fear exhibited by the maid. Real men, hell, real people, didn¡¯t need to make themselves feel bigger by making others smaller. I always hated assholes like this. I thought maybe I¡¯d be torn up about this or have some moral quandary. Watching Ray here, knowing what the Arbiter told me, and trusting my instincts? I knew this fucker didn¡¯t deserve to live. He didn¡¯t deserve any of the things he¡¯d gotten in life; he¡¯d obtained them through fraud, bribery, and blackmail. In a just society he¡¯d never have made it this far. The world wasn¡¯t a just world. Earth was, if anything, a Perverse world. Power was held in the hands of a real limited few, who clung to it in a self-reinforcing cycle of domination. The weak labored under the rationalization that this was just the way things were. Generation upon generation of oppression had resulted in the internalization of suffering, and many even defended their oppressors. That was the way the world works, they¡¯d say. I remember sorting out the estate that Sophie left behind. Medical debt forced me to sell off the family home. Dad had left it to Sophie, and when she died, the mountain of medical debt got called in. I followed the lawyer''s suggestion and sold the family home at auction. This asshole in front of me bought it and turned it into a rental for three times what the mortgage was. I lifted my hand and focused. Raymond Hargrove didn¡¯t deserve any benedictions, warnings, or goodbyes. I focused on creating the flow of Lumen Arbitris and for a brief second, a white bar of light with a luminous core of black connected my hand and Raymond Hargrove¡¯s left leg. I didn¡¯t know how powerful this would be, especially in Veiled Eclipse, which reduced my ranged powers. Hargrove¡¯s leg exploded in a fountain of blood, bone fragments, and loose pieces of flesh. It was like the Hulk hit a meat pinata with an unbreakable bat. I found myself nodding. I watched Hargrove. He fell to the ground, where he writhed in pain. I changed my aim, and the second blast hit him in the center of the chest. More pieces of flesh, bone, and hair filled the air. You have completed your mission! Elimination of Raymond Hargrove is complete! Return to the Room Without Mercy for your rewards. Given the circumstances, the voice was too cheery and a little out of place. Still, it seemed a bit easy. I just floated on in, exploded him, and now I could walk out. Anticlimactic, sure, but it was done. A man was dead, and I didn¡¯t feel guilty about it. Should I have? I debated with myself the three minutes it took me to get back to the road, and the conclusion I¡¯d come to was that I didn¡¯t feel guilty because Raymond Hargrove hadn¡¯t been a man at all, he¡¯d merely been a parasite in the shape of one. You didn¡¯t feel bad for killing mosquitos or leeches, after all. I couldn¡¯t get it unstuck from my mind, nonetheless. I felt like I should¡¯ve felt bad, and that I didn¡¯t made me feel a little broken inside. Not that broken, though. Maybe I¡¯d feel more on my next assignment.