《Burnout Reincarnation [SLOW BURN COZY KINGDOM BUILDING] (Progression + LitRPG elements)》 1 - The First 100 Days Archmund Granavale staggered to top of a hill on the Granavale Estate, overlooking fields of golden wheat maintained by their tenant farmers. He was barely nine-years-old, but his body had been weakened by the Crylaxan Plague, a nationwide pandemic that had consumed the nation for half a decade and killed his mother and siblings. He was the last hope of House Granavale, but the plague had weakened his body. So despite the gentle sun upon his face, filtered through the leaves of apple trees, he eased himself down a tree trunk and closed his eyes. And he dreamed. He sat in front of a bright, flat rectangle. There was a half-sphere in his right hand, cool to the touch, and his left hand danced over a strange abacus. Like a machine, he dragged the sphere, and highlighted a sentence on the screen. He stretched his hands ¡ª holding the mouse and keyboard for hours on end had strained them, and he would be here for many hours more. The world outside the window was dark, but hours of work remained on the computer. At least his office was brightly lit, so he wouldn¡¯t fall asleep. Another few months, and this bout of work would be over, only to return again in a year¡¯s time. This was his life ¡ª sitting at a computer at 10 pm, moving numbers around and building spreadsheets, doing nothing meaningful. Was this all life had to offer? Archmund Granavale jolted awake. The sun was still high in the sky. Yet now the clouds cast wide shadows upon the rolling fields. His heart hammered in his chest. He felt tense and restless ¡ª anxiety. And his stomach felt heavy as if he was going to throw up ¡ª despair. He¡¯d felt tragedy before, when his mother had died, so long ago he could barely remember her, but this was different. This was a lack of hope. Archmund Granavale had never wanted for anything in his life before. As the last heir of House Granavale, he had been spoiled by his father and their servants alike. He had never known lasting pain, for they immediately brought forth the Gems to heal him. He had never known boredom, for his days were filled with tutelage about the lands and titles he was to inherit. And he had never known a lack of purpose, because he was to rule as Lord Granavale once he came of age. And suddenly all of that was terrifying. ¡°Fuck,¡± he said under his breath. ¡°Fuck.¡± Then he paused. That word had been in English. The word ¡°fuck¡± had been in English, which was the language he used to know in that memory. It was a generic profanity for being frustrated or angry, but it also meant fornication ¡ª something that he was sure he hadn¡¯t been taught, yet made perfect sense as something that could happen. He didn¡¯t even know if any swears existed in his native tongue, though now that he thought about it they obviously did. He never used to think like this. Before, he¡¯d had proud yet simple thoughts about how great nobles were, or how good the harvest was, or how much he hated tutoring. But now his mind was expanding far beyond what it had been. If that had been a dream, it had been extraordinarily vivid and detailed. Now that he¡¯d pulled the thread, he began remembering more and more about English. It had a subject-object-verb grammar, which differed from his native language, and was very very liberal about borrowing loanwords from other languages, to the point where it¡¯d borrowed words from every language on Earth. And that was another thread. He¡¯d lived in another world, called Earth. Earth had so many languages, so many countries, its own systems of religion, power, and culture that were like nothing he¡¯d known. Yet he did know. If he tried to remember, he did, as easily as remembering yesterday''s dinner. This wasn¡¯t a normal way of thinking. His was a mind given to strange circuits and loops, that held onto strange trivia like a sponge and went places other minds would not. They had called him ¡°gifted¡± in his previous life. He was sure of it. He¡¯d studied Physics in college (which was like going to the Imperial Academy, but for commoners), and later more advanced math, and even some soft sciences like finance ¡ª and he¡¯d been a voracious reader, absorbing books and their trivia like a sponge in water ¡ª though strangely enough, in none of his memories did he actually use most of that knowledge for anything at all. And yet something didn¡¯t make sense. He had been ¡°gifted¡±. Earth had been a paradise world. Disease had been conquered. Famine was a thing of the past. War was a distant rumor. So why was he so sure he had been miserable?
Whenever the Lord Reginald Granavale was at his estate, as opposed to schmoozing in the Imperial Capital, he would share dinners with Archmund. On normal days, Archmund would eat alone, watched by the servants, after a day of tutelage in all the topics a young lord needed to know, with hardly any stimulating conversation. Until now, Archmund had always looked forward to talking with his father. Now, he wondered if he could hide his true self. ¡°Archie, my son,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°Father,¡± Archmund said. The dinner was elaborate yet oddly simple. Steamed greens with butter sauce, white bread, and steak, rare. Archmund had taken this at face value before; now, he had so many questions. This was a meal fit for a noble house that was comfortable but not extraordinarily rich. Butter took hours to churn by hand but much less by machine, which suggested the kitchen staff could spare the time to do this or that there was a centralized industrial butter factory. White bread, similarly, meant someone could separate germ from wheat or that there was a machine to do so. And steak? That was a dead cow. One that a peasant family could use to turn grass into milk reliably for years on end. The food was a bit lacking in salt, however ¡ª far less than the ultraprocessed snacks of his previous life. Salt had been valuable enough that the Roman Empire, which men in his old world thought about daily, had paid wages in it; he wondered if that was true of this world¡¯s Empire as well. The food was also unspiced. ¡°Are you enjoying the meal?¡± said his father. ¡°I spare no expense for you, my son.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Truly?¡± Archmund said. ¡°Archie?¡± Lord Granavale said, blinking, before breaking out into a beam. ¡°Whatever do you mean?¡± ¡°This amount of salt ¡ª I have no complaints with the flavor, but is this healthful or is this all we can afford?¡± ¡°Entirely health reasons,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°In the Capital, the meals are loaded with salt and lard. Far too rich for my simple country tastes.¡± Archmund realized this was the first time he¡¯d asked an actual question of his father in years. And, if he stopped to think about it, he had been on the path to being a spoiled, pampered brat. The last son of Lord Granavale, the last hope of House Granavale, given every privilege from birth, endowed with the burden of his clan. No one in this estate or the neighboring towns would ever have told him ¡°no.¡± ¡°Do you want more salt?¡± said Lord Granavale. ¡°Would that make you happy? I can get you more salt.¡± ¡°How much would it cost us?¡± Archmund said. ¡°Pennies. A trifle. It¡¯s no large matter.¡± ¡°And if I wanted it for the rest of the year? Until I go to the Academy?¡± ¡°It would be fine!¡± ¡°What if I started asking for extravagance? Cakes for dinner, meat for breakfast, exotic spices at every meal.¡± ¡°There comes a time in every dutiful lord¡¯s life,¡± said the Lord Granavale, ¡°where he must learn temperance. Temperance, the virtue of moderation¡ª¡± ¡°So it would bankrupt us if I did,¡± Archmund interjected. ¡°Was it the spices?¡± ¡°Why would you think that?¡± said the Lord Granavale. His voice wasn¡¯t reproaching or scornful. It was curious. ¡°Meat, sugar, and eggs we can levy as a tax. Perhaps unfairly, but life is good enough in our lands that it wouldn¡¯t cause mass unrest immediately. Spices we would have to import.¡± ¡°Did I teach you this?¡± said the Lord Granavale, in wonder. Archmund shut his mouth. Regardless of whether those memories had been delusions, they¡¯d given him instincts and intuitions that were correct. He wondered if he¡¯d said too much. He wondered if he¡¯d started talking like an unearthly child, someone far too wise for his years. It was certainly possible ¡ª perhaps those memories had been more than memories, but also behaviors, mannerisms, and tics. ¡°I¡¯ve always known you were a smart boy, Archie, but I¡¯m proud of you,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°You¡¯ve got a keen eye and a keener mind. You¡¯ll find the Academy a breeze. Gods above, I might be able to abdicate early and leave the hopes of Granavale to you. I¡¯ve known it all along, but you have a gift.¡± And a cold, creeping chill wrapped around Archmund¡¯s heart. Yes, this was the world that awaited him. This was the role he was born for. This was his original fate. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± said the Lord Granavale, unaware of Archmund¡¯s increasing agitation, ¡°we should begin your training in earnest. What it means to be a lord, the full account of our holdings, and matters of policy and politics.¡± Yes, this was his duty and his burden. To live a life being tutored in the ways of the lordship. To go to the academy to find a wife suitable to rule besides him. To bounce between the city and the country begging for money and military support in the bad times. To have sons or daughters capable of carrying on the family name. And to die, content, with nothing having changed. In this world, that was the duty of ¡°gifted children¡±.
He remembered what it meant to be gifted in that previous life. Only children were ever labeled as ¡°gifted¡±. Children who, for some reason or another, exceeded their peers. Who from some accident of birth seemed smarter or stronger than those around them, and for that brief period of strength got to live blessed lives. They didn¡¯t have to practice. They didn¡¯t have to study. They could just succeed. But that never lasted. The gifted grew up faster than their peers, but rarely further. One day, inevitably, their peers grew to meet them. And the gifted children, who never had to practice or study because of an accident of birth, suddenly were just average. And not long after that, they would be surpassed, because everyone else had learned how to study and practice and compensate for their own weaknesses. And then they would fail. The prophesied greatness of their early years would come to nothing. At best, they could hope to be normal. He had failed. By the time he¡¯d been an adult, he had been so deeply tired. Completely and utterly burned out, and disillusioned with the world. Archmund was under no delusions this time around. He might¡¯ve been ¡°gifted¡± in his last life and ended up burned out because of it. He was still as sharp as ever, but it was flagrantly obvious that he was in the same boat. His major advantage was decades of memories from a previous life. But by definition the advantages granted by aged memories wouldn¡¯t last. Sure, he had the life experiences of a thirty-something-year-old ¡ª but in three decades, so would all of his peers, and an extra thirty wouldn¡¯t mean much. To make something of this life, he needed to seize this early advantage of precocious knowledge, and use it to build a life that he truly wanted.
Archmund''s Journal:
Year 0, Day 0. I remember my past life. I hated it. The normal future for me means being the Lord Granavale. Having a loveless political marriage for status and a mistress if my wife permits it. Spending all my time begging for Imperial funding. I would hate that too. Before, duty would compel me to accept that life. Now, I can imagine another way might be possible. But to find that way, I need to know more. And to remember.
Yet deep within the Guts of Hell and the Arched Vaults of Heaven, along the Axis Mundi that speared this and all other worlds, an entry in a great cosmic ledger shifted. Think of it as a library if you wish, and the System guiding it. A ¡°people management system¡±. A vaguely classist cosmic mechanism for separating the haves from the have-nots. Here is how Archmund¡¯s entry changed He would be seeing it sooner than he realized.
Archmund Granavale Lifespan: 9/90
Stat Value Titles Achievements Bound Items Relationships Skills
Strength 5 Granavale Heir (*new*) Reincarnated Memories N/A Lord Reginald Granvale, Father N/A
Dexterity 5 Lady Sophia Granavale, Mother (deceased)
Constitution 5 Amelia Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Intelligence 5 Linus Granavale, elder brother (deceased)
Wisdom 5 Calla Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Charisma 5
Luck 5
2 - The Slow Road to Escape How do you keep your second chance at life from going the way of your first? For Archmund Granavale, that involved a temper tantrum and locking himself in his room. He was nine. He knew he could get away with it. Right now, he had one goal: Figure out what in the world was going on. Literally and metaphorically. He wrote as much as he could remember of his past life in English, so no one else could read it. He had to reconcile what he knew from his past life with the circumstances of this life. And somehow he had to turn that into avoiding ¡°bad ends¡±: loveless political marriage, dying in a pointless war, or worst of all, rotting away in mediocrity in Granavale County until the end of time.
What were his chances of an untimely early death? House Granavale was in a comfortable position, for a two-member house. Their holding, Granavale County, was an insignificant county outside of the imperial core. It was not a breadbasket, a trade hub, or a crucial border. Its existence may as well have been a formality. He had a few options here: play the game of status and wealth to elevate the Granavale name through diplomacy, marriage, or other avenues of prestige, or abandon the title entirely and let it be absorbed by some other noble family. He could go to the untamed lands and become a monster hunter, which was a lucrative but dangerous job. But he had no skill with a sword, bow, or Magic Gem, nor any understanding of what that job would entail ¡ª because the Granavale lands were so safe. The House Granavale had lasted hundreds of years, but they had nothing on the pedigree of the Imperial Family, House Omnio, and were far poorer than the upstart Venato, a merchant clan with several de facto trade monopolies and rumored underworld ties. House Omnio descended from Alexander Omnio I, more commonly known as Alexander the Conqueror. He¡¯d established the Omnio Empire, which was so successful that even now the country, continent, and known world were all called ¡®Omnio¡¯. Magic was real. In his old life it hadn¡¯t been. There was a University of Imperial Mages, which was insular, mysterious, and heavily regulated. He didn¡¯t know a lot about magic in this world. It could have been a party trick, a weapon of war, a closely guarded secret, or something utterly useless. It was annoying that he didn¡¯t know. That was something he had to change. One thing was for certain. He was not in a video game ¡ª at least not obviously. Magic spells didn¡¯t have clear ¡°mana costs¡±. He couldn¡¯t meditate to view a ¡°stat sheet¡± on the back of his eyelids. He couldn¡¯t clench his brain to open up an inventory screen. If he gazed up at the night sky, there was no ¡°perk tree¡± awaiting him in the constellations. If a System governed the world, it was hidden ¡ª for now. This was both comforting and frustrating. In his old world, he had no reason to believe that there was anything but random chaos governing everything. But this world had magic, which fundamentally changed the game. Even if he had to figure out how himself. In his past life he had studied financial markets. In those systems, you could make a lot of money by teasing out hidden patterns and making bets on them. Tease out the patterns well enough, and make the right bets, and you would end up rich. Suppose that physical strength, manual dexterity, innate intelligence, and wisdom, charisma, and luck were fundamental driving stats for every living creature in this universe ¡ª a common system in video games. It wouldn¡¯t make sense for a living, breathing world to function on a point-allocation system upon a discrete ¡°level up¡±. But it did make sense for one¡¯s skills and stats to increase naturally when used. Though perhaps he was just assuming this was how it should work given his knowledge of his old world. There was an extremely simple way to test if the world functioned on a game-like system where doing strength activities built strength, and intelligence-like activities built intelligence. Do a hundred push-ups a day to build strength, and if the world functioned on exponentially scaling game logic, over the course of a year he would become superheroically strong. If this didn¡¯t work, he would still be physically stronger from having done a hundred push-ups a day for a year. This was a strategy straight from the writings of an author in his old world, Cal Newport ¡ª a ¡°little bet¡±. Little bets were small, low-risk actions one could take with the possibility of huge payoffs if they were successful. He had heard that nobles were stronger and smarter than the peasantry. He¡¯d assumed this was natural before he¡¯d awoken, classist propaganda since he had, but now he wondered if it was simply an extension of resources and self-care. In his old world, the idle rich were able to take care of themselves, buying expensive cosmetics and health procedures and spending significantly more time in education. If this world functioned on the growth logic of games, then one would hear stories of impossible feats of strength by the nobility ¡ª unless they were deliberately repressed. He would have to track his personal progress. An untracked change could be illusory, wishful thinking of the mind. But he¡¯d remembered a framework from his last life called ¡°SMART goals¡± meant to make sure goals were achievable and not vague: specific, measurable, actionable, relevant, time-bound. Task #1: do 100 push-ups a day for a year. Track how long it takes to do them and how many are possible consecutively. Specific: 100 push-ups daily. Measurable: how long it takes to do them total and how many were possible consecutively. Actionable: it was, by definition, a physical action. Relevant: push-ups to train strength. Time-bound: he¡¯d do it for a year. That was a start.
The second major point of order was magic. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Magic pervaded society, yet hadn¡¯t transformed it into a post-scarcity utopia. Magic was rare if powerful yet common when weak. Magic was easy to use, hard to master. Magic was accessed through Gems. Archmund had one on his desk. It was about the size of his thumbnail, and it cost roughly a peasant''s yearly wage. It looked like a ruby, but was imperfectly cut like a platonic tetrahedron. He ran a finger over it. A faint electric hum, familiar yet novel, flowed from a deep place in his soul through his finger to the Gem, which lit up with an orange candlelight. The Gem had a complex official name, but this one he¡¯d always called the Red Gem of Light. He felt a little more tired than he had a moment before. Doing magic always drained him. His knowledge of magic was basic. As far as he knew, it was accessed solely through Gems. Gems came from the earth and the corpses of slain monsters. He didn¡¯t know what monsters were, just that they appeared in Dungeons and the Frontier Wilds, but it was probably worth learning more. Gems were rated on multiple dimensions. Density, size, and refinement of cut were the most basic, but Gemologists studied for decades to develop full understanding of Theoretical Gemology, which went entirely over his head. He didn¡¯t understand why when simple metrics were stunningly effective: A denser, larger Gem would be more powerful than a smaller Gem. Refinement and cut were nuanced, though. The more faces a Gem had, the more refined the cut. The more refined the cut, the more powerful the magic. A few chips or mis-cuts would weaken the magic, but not shatter it. In fact, sometimes intentional flaws would be introduced to create weaker spells. There was a basic geometric innovation here. A square, a pentagon, a hexagon, a heptagon, and an octagon were all regular polygons. There was an argument from calculus. If you had a polygon, and you added more sides to it, it became more and more like a circle. In that sense, the regular polygon with infinite sides was a circle ¡ª though, since infinities were ugly to work with, strictly speaking the circle was the polygon as the limit of the number of sides approached infinity. If you made the analogy, then a perfectly spherical and polished smoothed Gem might be immensely powerful. If it wasn¡¯t already being done, why not? The spell or enchantment associated with a Gem depended on three basic things. Its ¡°element¡±, its density, and how it was cut. Any human could touch a magic Gem and charge it to release the spell it was cut with, its Enchantment. That was the limit of his theoretical knowledge. Unfortunately, he didn¡¯t understand the practical side nearly as well either. Why did he feel more tired when he used Gems to cast spells? Was magic the normal kind of life energy that could be replenish food and was used for everyday tasks? Was magic drawn from a limited spiritual pool, and if he ran through it all would be never be able to use magic again? Or was magic something deeper, potentially tied to his soul, and could doing too much magic cause permanent damage? He didn¡¯t know and didn¡¯t know if anyone did. Magic was rare, even among lesser nobles ¡ª the comfortable House Granavale held maybe ten Gems in their estate, across all their holdings. There were maybe fifteen known Gems in their entire County. He only got to have one at all because of how spoiled he was. Rough and less dense Gems were probably obtainable from the mines, but dense and refined Gems dropped from monster corpses, which allowed adventurers and monster slayers to get richer and more powerful, which allowed them to hunt more monsters, and so on. Was monster hunting the path to true power and freedom in this world? Perhaps. But then again, there was an equal argument for pious ascetic study: There were legends that when sages and wise men died, they would leave behind no bodies, only perfect and dense Gems. Task #2: Charge the Red Gem of Light to personal exhaustion over the course of the 100 days. Track how long it stays bright. Track how many days it takes to recover. Do this after the daily push-ups. Archmund''s Journal:
Year 0, Day 1. Push-ups: 100 in 1.5 hours Magic: Light lasts for 10 minutes It¡¯s so odd how I never questioned magic before, yet now I see all sorts of holes in it. What is magic? Does everyone have magic, or are nobles actually a separate species that can use magic? Why hasn¡¯t magic revolutionized society beyond the pseudo-18th-19th century environment I find myself in? I¡¯ve set two goals: one physical, one magical. If this is a game, governed by a hidden system, I should find myself becoming immensely powerful through level-grinding. But who can say if this is a game? Perhaps this is true reincarnation, like in Buddhism, and this is the realm of the hungry ghosts or the gods. Perhaps this is a physics-based simulation instead of a game, so grinding won¡¯t work. Perhaps this is all a vivid delusion brought upon by surviving the Crylaxan plague ¡ª but that doesn¡¯t explain how my knowledge of ¡°English¡± is so internally self-consistent. Perhaps this is all a dream. The worst kind of literary cop-out imaginable. The Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi once dreamt of being a butterfly. When he woke up, he asked himself ¡°was I a philosopher dreaming of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming of being a philosopher?¡± I will never know, until the illusion breaks. Until then, I must live as if this is my last and final chance.
The day after Archmund began his exercises, his stats, in that distant and hidden sacred library, updated.
Archmund Granavale Lifespan: 9/91
Stat Value Titles Achievements Bound Items Relationships Skills
Strength 5->6 Granavale Heir Reincarnated Memories (*new*) Ruby of Light Lord Reginald Granvale, Father N/A
Dexterity 5 Lady Sophia Granavale, Mother (deceased)
Constitution 5->6 Amelia Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Intelligence 5 Linus Granavale, elder brother (deceased)
Wisdom 5->6 Calla Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Charisma 5
Luck 5
3 - The Mayonnaise Cliche Mayonnaise is a condiment made by emulsifying egg and oil, usually by drizzling the oil into eggs while whipping furiously. A small amount of acid, either lemon or vinegar, is added to stabilize the emulsion. Archmund Granavale had read no small number of reincarnation fantasy stories in his past life. He had read good ones. He had read bad ones. And in the bad ones the reincarnated protagonist, upon being sent from Earth (it was always Earth) to their (oftentimes derivative) fantasy world, would invent mayonnaise and become immensely rich by selling it. Because apparently people in fantasy worlds were too stupid to understand how to mix eggs, oil, and acid in order to make a sauce. And so having one basic commonplace piece of knowledge acted as a hack to wealth and power. Archmund really hated the idea that he was being a living cliche. If there was one thing he hated, it was hackery. Trying to get rich off of selling an extremely easy to replicate sauce seemed like genuine idiocy. When the idea first floated through his mind, about a week into his training regimen, he¡¯d dismissed it as ridiculous. Yet a part of him couldn¡¯t deny that if it was stupid but it worked, it wasn¡¯t stupid, and rather he would be the stupid one for not trying it at all. And becoming an independent entrepreneur ¡ª or merchant, really, in the parlance of this world ¡ª was a potential key to the freedom that could liberate him from the monotony of his normal life. Then the strength training had started paying off far too quickly than was sensible. On day one, he¡¯d needed a whole hour to do 100 push-ups. By day ten, he¡¯d only needed half an hour. That was an insane rate of growth, though he wasn¡¯t dumb enough to assume it would stay exponential. But 10 days to double his physical weakness strongly suggested that the world operated on different physical rules. A scientist in his old life, Carl Sagan, had a famous quote: ¡°If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.¡± Apples. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. These were ingredients that went into an apple pie. Each of them had a complex origin and supply chain. Plants had to evolve to convert sunlight to sugar, and then some plants had to evolve fruit that concentrated those sugars in a tasty bundle. Seed-bearing grasses had to be domesticated over generations to bear wheat grains. Mammals, with their live birth and milk production, had to evolve and be domesticated as sources of milk, which could be separated into whey and butterfat by churning. And, on the other end, egg-laying animals also had to evolve, with eggs that had a complex protein structure that set when heated. Mayonnaise was more than just the ingredients that went into it. The emulsion that made up mayonnaise was a complex physical process that involved the entangling of oil, egg protein, and water. It was an emergent property of the universe itself. So if the laws of physics were meaningfully different, mayonnaise might not be possible. If mayonnaise was possible, then the laws of physics still held. That was how Archmund Granavale justified spending an afternoon in his estate¡¯s kitchens, trying to recreate mayonnaise, instead of finding new and innovative ways to train. He felt a little bad for the servants, because they were not in the habit of telling him no to anything. And if dinner was late, they would be the ones blamed, even if it was all his fault. ¡°You¡¯re sure you want to do this, ¡®young master?¡¯¡± asked a maid, Mary. Mary was just two or three years older than him. She had joined the staff somewhat more recently than the other servants, who had been there for Archmund¡¯s whole life. Archmund ignored her and cracked two eggs into a mixing bowl. A servant gently placed a jug of seed oil on the counter; another, a pitcher of vinegar and box of salt. Archmund salted the eggs and added just a dash of vinegar. It was remarkable that chickens, or creatures indistinguishable from them, existed. It was remarkable that seed oils were easily obtainable by the nobility, as opposed to needing to rely on lard or tallow. The nobility could eat well; that said little about the rest of the world. ¡°Mary, help me whip this.¡± She rolled her eyes. ¡°You know, they usually don¡¯t even let me into the kitchen, ¡®young master Archie.¡¯¡± Her words were dripping with sarcasm. ¡°My arms are too bookish and weak to whip this egg with any effectiveness. I am a noble with a poor constitution, so I must humbly beg my maidservant for assistance.¡± She rolled her eyes. Then she pinched his bicep. ¡°Wha¡ª¡± ¡°Holy shit that¡¯s an actual muscle!¡± Mary said. ¡°I thought you¡¯d have flabby and useless arms but wow, you¡¯ve actually got something going on there.¡± He didn¡¯t feel obligated to tell her that he¡¯d somehow developed these muscles in the course of a single week. ¡°Will you help me?¡± ¡°Surely a noble of your stature can summon your great and powerful noble magic to whip the eggs yourself, or use those muscles which you apparently have.¡± ¡°A noble¡¯s magic is to serve the Emperor and Heaven, not to whip some eggs to make sauce.¡± ¡°So that¡¯s what we¡¯re making, huh. I think you can manage. Unless¡­¡± Archmund wondered whether Mary was a harbinger of bigger changes. Foreshadowing, he would¡¯ve called it. The Crylaxan Plague had killed a lot of people, and in the aftermath of great plagues, like the Black Death, there were often radical societal changes. The older servants were never lippy with him. Either that, or she was just young. ¡°I¡¯ll read Ardur to you. ¡®The Imp and the Well,¡¯ maybe.¡± Faery tales. Mary loved those. Unfortunately, she wasn¡¯t fully literate, so she needed people like him to read them out loud. ¡°Throw in ¡®The Voice from the Highest Hill¡¯ and you¡¯ve got yourself a deal.¡± ¡°Deal.¡± The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Though now that Archmund thought about it, this might be an interesting test whether skill acquisition operated on the same underlying game logic that personal attributes seemed to. Would it be possible to power-level someone in literacy? Or was it possible that power-leveling was only possible for the rare and privileged few? Either way, he liked Mary. She was about six inches taller than him, mostly because of age. Her skin was smooth for a member of the working class, but she had fading calluses on her hands. He recalled that she had worked for her aunt and uncle doing manual labor before being sent to join his household. She had straight dark hair that came to her shoulders, pale skin, and gray eyes. Archmund knew he would miss her terribly once he had to formally enter high society and she realized it was no longer appropriate for her to be sarcastic with him. But that was at least five years in the future. As Mary whipped the eggs, Archmund drizzled in the oil. The mayonnaise came together as fast as he¡¯d expected. It was a modest amount, but more than enough for ten sandwiches. He tasted it, and it was as rich and creamy as he¡¯d remembered. ¡°Would you like a taste, Mary?¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather not. Raw eggs.¡± Oh, he was such an idiot. He¡¯d been spoiled by the hygiene of his old world. ¡°There¡¯s no need to worry about that,¡± said a booming voice from behind them. It was Willem Barst, an old friend and trusted servant of the Lord Granavale. They had been together for years ¡ª since the elder Granavale¡¯s time in the Imperial Academy, in fact. Chef Barst had been trained in Imperial culinary traditions, and his service was one of the few ostentatious luxuries retained by House Granavale. ¡°We run all the eggs through hygiene spells. Have ever since the start of the Plague,¡± Barst continued. ¡°I¡¯m glad I won¡¯t catch ill again,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Chef Barst, what do you think?¡± Barst swiped a finger through the concoction and tasted it. ¡°Ah, you¡¯ve made mayonnaise! Where¡¯d you¡¯d learn about this?¡± (He didn¡¯t literally say the word mayonnaise, but it undeniably a proper noun. Upon hearing it, Archmund instantly understood that whatever name it was under, mayonnaise already existed.) ¡°Damn, this wasn¡¯t just one of his fits of pique?¡± Mary said. ¡°This mayonnaise stuff already exists?¡± ¡°It¡¯s rarer, and not an obvious recipe,¡± said Barst. ¡°Is there any reason why?¡± Archmund asked. Barst¡¯s eyebrows knit together, and he pursed his lips in the way he always did when he was trying to hide something from Archmund. ¡°Young master, it¡¯s made from raw eggs, which perturbs the common man, especially since the start of the Plague.¡± ¡°What if we used sanitation spells?¡± Barst¡¯s eyebrows tensed even further. The servants had a habit of doing this, going to great lengths to hide just how rich the Granavales were from Archmund. It was obvious now, but he still hadn¡¯t figured out why they bothered at all. ¡°The average farmer doesn¡¯t have energy to cast a sanitation spell every morning to clean a few eggs when they could borrow the town¡¯s fire spell or some flint and steel once a month and cook the damn things,¡± Mary said. ¡°If it¡¯s a matter of scale, we could build a manufactory. Crack a few hundred eggs into a basin and cast the sanitation spell on all of them at the same time. We could add oil to the basin while swirling it with a rotation spell.¡± ¡°You¡¯d never find a noble willing to do magic in a manufactory.¡± ¡°Why does it have to be a noble?¡± ¡°Because commoners don¡¯t have enough innate magic to cast complex spells. Only nobles and heroes do.¡± And an alarm went off in Archmund¡¯s mind. Magical capacity could be grown and increased. He was almost certain of it. He had been practicing with his Red Gem of Light every day, and each time he was able to charge it for longer and longer. It had gotten to the point where he would be watching it in the mornings to see how long it had stayed lit, because he had enough power to keep it lit through the night. Something told him it would be a bad idea to claim, even if it wasn¡¯t fully proven, that commoners could use magic as much as nobles if only they had the time and opportunity to practice. That was the stuff of revolution, and it might lead to getting him killed. ¡°Say I did this myself,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Ignoring all the social obligations and such. Is there any other reason it wouldn¡¯t work?¡± Barst told Archmund how much the eggs and oil cost. It was about half a month of his allowance, which even considering his youth, was significant. Sighing, Archmund agreed to pay for the costs of the supplies. This world was just unfair.
¡°He wasn¡¯t in any position to refuse your offer to pay him off,¡± Mary said. ¡°I know.¡± They walked in silence towards Archmund¡¯s room. ¡°What didn¡¯t he tell me?¡± Archmund asked. ¡°A whole lot.¡± ¡°Did he cheat me?¡± Mary stopped walking. Archmund turned around. She was gazing through the window towards Granavale Town. ¡°I don¡¯t know. You gave him what I get in a month and a half of work. Two eggs is hard to get but not impossible. I couldn¡¯t say how much the oil would be. I only ever had lard or butter.¡± Archmund walked up besides her. ¡°I grew up with three siblings or cousins. My aunt and uncle only had enough for the one chicken. Before I started here, we¡¯d only get an egg once a month ¡ª and that was for the four of us. My aunt and uncle would skip, or be out hawking their wares. When they came back we¡¯d eat well for a few days or so, but then they¡¯d have to be off again.¡± Perhaps, Archmund reflected, he could¡¯ve put a higher priority on understanding the harshness of this world¡¯s poverty. Perhaps it could have avoided this conversation. Or perhaps this conversation was just what he needed. ¡°I worked for a year and a half here before I could save up enough for a second chicken. Now my siblings get two, maybe three eggs a month, though your generosity keeps me fed far better.¡± ¡°So for a factory where we cracked a few hundred eggs into a basis¡­¡± She laughed, not meanly, but as if on the verge of tears. ¡°Where would you get so many eggs? From all the poor workers who need their daily eggs to live? Even you couldn¡¯t buy up that many chickens, surely. It¡¯s silly, Arch. It¡¯s¡­ beneath you, young master.¡± The real issue with mayonnaise in fantasy worlds wasn¡¯t one of the ingenuity of the people, or for want of ingredients, or a lack of appetite for the condiment. It was logistics. If you wished to make mayonnaise en masse, you must¡¯ve first invented factory farming.
That evening, he wrote down a new task. A larger-scope, longer-term goal that would be necessary if he wanted true freedom. Task #3: Grow the Granavale Holdings and fortune to a point where he literally didn¡¯t have to do anything to maintain them, so he could do whatever he wanted. Task #4: Revise Task #3 to be specific, once he understood realistic economic power in this world.
Archmund¡¯s Journal:
Year 0, Day 11: Push-ups: 100 in 29 minutes Magic: Light lasts for 2 hours Mayonnaise won¡¯t lead to freedom unless I introduce factory farms. Would that even be allowed? They might not care about animal welfare here but maybe there are elves or beast people somewhere on the continent who would take that as an excuse for a total war? I think I should focus on magic. Something¡¯s bothering me: Servants can use Gems. All magic comes from Gems. Only nobles can use magic. I believed that all three of these are true. They can¡¯t be. Maybe everyone can use Gems, but only nobles can ¡°do magic¡± because ¡°doing magic¡± is something else that transcends ¡°using a Gem¡±. This is something I need to investigate to see if this is the path to true power (and freedom). Maybe ¡°noble blood¡± is what you need to ¡°use¡± Gems, and servants have ¡°noble blood¡±. I don¡¯t like the implications of this... wait. We get most of our servants from the County. If all of them have noble blood, then so does everyone in the Empire. Maybe everyone can use Gems, but only nobles get training, practice, and nutrition to actually ¡°use¡± Gems to their full potential. Classic classism. I wouldn¡¯t rule it out, but¡­ It¡¯s testable. Easily testable. Mary can activate Gems. She¡¯s reasonably well fed here. She¡¯s not exhausted in the evenings. I¡¯ll ask her to train the way I do.
4 - The Dungeon Storm It was a dark and stormy night. This phrase was a famous literary cliche from Archmund¡¯s previous life. He didn¡¯t know where it came from, only that it often indicated trite, hackish writing. And yet it fit ¡ª almost. The sky boiled with clouds, and lightning arced across the heavens ¡ª and yet it never struck the ground. And unlike anything he¡¯d seen in this life or the last, this lightning was hued violet. It was deeply atypical for the summer storms. Perhaps the skies wanted to purge all their pent-up tears in the last storm of the season? There was a knock at the door. ¡°Archie? Your lord father¡¯s calling for you,¡± said Mary, her voice muffled behind the wood. This was most irregular. Archmund opened the door to face her. ¡°I thought he was at the capital.¡± ¡°He returned not even an hour ago. And he wants to see you immediately.¡±
They met in his father¡¯s study. ¡°What do you think of tonight?¡± said the Lord Reginald Granavale, not turning to look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the roiling clouds outside the window. ¡°It¡¯s dark and stormy,¡± Archmund said. His father raised an eyebrow, not knowing what to make of it. Now that he had an opportunity to look, Archmund thought his father looked rather calm for someone who¡¯d rushed home from the Imperial Capital. And dry, for someone who¡¯d been traveling in a storm. Not a strand of hair out of place, not a drop of water in his beard. ¡°What¡¯s so special about this storm?¡± And now his father turned to him. His face was grave. ¡°It¡¯s a Dungeon Storm. Do you know what a Dungeon is?¡± Archmund suppressed a groan. The word ¡®Dungeon¡¯ had been spoken like a proper noun, heavy with import and connotation. There were lots of generic fantasy dungeons in the generic fantasy books he¡¯d read in his past life, but unfortunately this was reality and this world had displayed a certain level of internal consistency. This was going to be a whole ordeal. He shook his head. And his father began to explain. The Omnio Empire was not, despite Imperial messaging, fully tamed land. There were skirmishes on the frontier, entire ¡®provinces¡¯ that were nations in all but name, and there were Dungeons ¡ª dangerous labyrinths full of monsters that appeared after Dungeon Storms, that were an integral part of the Omnio Empire¡¯s economic system.. There were Four Great Dungeons. The first was the ancient Omnio Dungeon that lay beneath the Imperial Capital, kept exclusively for the use of House Omnio and their vassals. The second was the Arcane Dungeon at the westernmost point, held by the University of Imperial Mages, which they harvested extensively for Gems. The third was the Holy Dungeon, claimed by an ancient Saintess for the Church, and they claimed it was their sacred duty to purify the souls within, but mainly it was one of their sources of great wealth. And the last was the Wild Dungeon, on the Frontier, the final challenge of many an adventurer. Those were the Great Dungeons that had lasted for decades if not more; Lesser Dungeons could appear anywhere on the continent, at any time, but would often run dry within a decade. Dungeons were spawned from the wrath of the restless dead. The Church, the Empire, and the University of Imperial Mages agreed on this; Archmund wondered whether it was literally true or if it was highly coordinated propaganda. But when the restless dead grew wrathful, they would erupt from the ground, uniting the powers of hell to strike at heaven. As the strongest of the dead degassed from the depths of the earth, they carved a labyrinthine Dungeon that echoed the memories and regrets they¡¯d held in life. Lesser ghosts and spirits would emerge as Monsters, trapped in physical form, and haunt the halls of the Dungeon. Over time, the most vengeful dead with the deepest grudges would forsake disembodied form and materialize as truly fearsome Monsters. No one knew why. ¡°Is this common knowledge?¡± It was not; it was a state secret. House Granavale had been given the privilege of knowledge because the Dungeon was in their lands. Even then, Archmund suspected it could not be fully trusted; it was clear to him even then that the Church, the Empire, and the University had their own agendas and this agreement undoubtedly served them. ¡°But why here?¡± It was random, supposedly. Or rather, the driving mechanism was unknown, so it appeared random. Omnio was built on wars so ancient they were long forgotten, so legions of the restless dead were buried in unmarked graves below the whole continent. If someone had a way of detecting the next Dungeon Storm, they were keeping it secret. Two things struck Archmund about the mechanics of Dungeons. First, there were many, many inconsistencies in these explanations. Therefore, there was a fundamental truth that was unknown or, possibly, being concealed. Second, it seemed awfully like these Dungeons resembled generic dungeons (the common noun) from popular fantasy media in his past life. They could pop up anywhere, had a mechanism that caused monsters in deeper levels to be stronger than those in higher levels, and were just dangerous enough to necessitate force but not mundane enough to support an economy based on lone adventurers. It was either too convenient, or he was filtering his experience through his questionable past life memories and therefore missing many nuances. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. But now was not the time to investigate any of this. There were bigger priorities grounded in the socioeconomic reality of his current life. ¡°What happens now?¡± Legally, since the Dungeon appeared on Granavale land, it and its spoils were Granavale property. Practically, whenever a Dungeon appeared in a minor county, the local rulers were too poor to exploit it to its fullest. They didn¡¯t have the troops to subjugate the Monsters that spawned, so they couldn¡¯t harvest their resources and wealth. Because of that same weakness, Monsters risked breaching the walls of the Dungeons and becoming genuine threats to the safety of the people. So the only option for poorer nobles was to open their Dungeons up to the forces of the wider Empire and give up the vast majority of the spoils. The Venato Family had a stranglehold over trade. They could provide the necessary supplies to support the inevitable rush of treasure hunters and Dungeon delvers, but would keep the majority of the profits for themselves and their affiliates. Similarly, House Omnio had the strongest, most elite Dungeon subjugators, but taking their aid meant surrendering the easy spoils of the upper levels. Taking aid from the University of Imperial Mages or the Church had similar issues. In the long term, the only sustainable solution was the cultivation of dedicated local adventurers, but this almost never happened because Dungeons so often lasted only a few years, so any adventurers who "settled down" would pack up their bags and leave once the Dungeon ran dry. Archmund knew how this went from how it happened in his past life. There was a certain part of the world known as America. Broadly speaking, it could be divided into two cultural blocs: North America, which had been colonized by the seafaring British, and Latin America, which had been colonized by the Catholic Spaniards. The British had practiced a form of colonization later known as ¡°settling. Their primary interest was in claiming and developing the lands, while exiling some of their political dissidents in the process. The Spanish, however, had practiced something more akin to extraction. They were less interested in transplanting their people to this untamed landmass, and more interested in extracting wealth from the New World. At the peak of Spanish extraction, they had mined so much silver from the famed Cerro de Potosi that they crashed the market entirely in the Old World of Europe. But even hundreds of years later, North America thrived and was wealthy, while Latin American nations still suffered from the ¡°resource curse¡±: They were seen as a place where the ¡°developed¡± world could take and take and take, and the wealth of their lands rarely went to their own people. This was a fate Archmund wanted to avoid for his lands. And thankfully, his father agreed. The Lord Granavale had a plan to play the Empire, the Church, the University of Imperial Mages, and the Venato Family against each other, and in doing so keep wealth within Granavale County. The Lord Granavale had cultivated a reputation of being hopelessly and slavishly devoted to the whims of his spoiled son; it was a wonderful coincidence that said son had recently become wise beyond his years, but that no one knew it. Said son was perfectly entitled to sit in on meetings with these powerful and influential groups. And if he happened to make ridiculous, unreasonable demands, then the Lord Granavale¡¯s self-serving demands would look all the more reasonable in comparison. ¡°Any questions?¡± the Lord Granavale asked. ¡°Just one,¡± Archmund said. ¡°How will this change our plans for me?¡± The Lord Granavale stared out the window. ¡°If it works, none at all. You¡¯ll go to the Academy richer, and inherit a Granavale that¡¯s much healthier.¡± ¡°And if it doesn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Then the Granavale you inherit might be a ghost of its former self.¡± The carriages arrived. The dignitaries approached. It was time for his first steps onto the world stage.
Archmund¡¯s Journal:
Year 0, Day 95 (part 1??) Push-ups: 100 in 5 minutes Magic: Light lasts past dawn Dungeons? Seriously? The way Father talks about them, it¡¯s like striking oil. If Monsters are the spirits of the dead, and they drop Gems, does that mean Gems are the stuff of souls? Is this the secret to power? Have Omnio, the Church, and the Mages figured out how to successfully farm soul-stuff? What even is soul-stuff? If it¡¯s so powerful then how come I have some as a night light?? Those are questions I only have the luxury of asking once our economic situation is secure. Either this destroys us ¡ª or it¡¯s a way to establish Granavale as a world power. As much as I¡¯d like a free life, the second is preferable to the first.
He had prepared through study and exercise. His stats had changed without his knowledge. He would have to hope that it was enough.
Archmund Granavale Lifespan: 9/91
Stat Value Titles Achievements Bound Items Relationships Skills
Strength 7 Granavale Heir Reincarnated Memories Ruby of Light (Attuned) Lord Reginald Granvale, Father N/A
Dexterity 7 Lady Sophia Granavale, Mother (deceased)
Constitution 6 Amelia Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Intelligence 6 Linus Granavale, elder brother (deceased)
Wisdom 7 Calla Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Charisma 6
Luck 5
5 - Circling Vultures Truth be told, Archmund wasn¡¯t entirely on board with the plan. He thought ¡°My spoiled son is making excessive demands, so please agree to my slightly-less-excessive demands¡± was a stupid excuse. Maybe it was smart on a level Archmund wasn¡¯t considering. Maybe the Lord Granavale¡¯s actual plan was to seem like a sentimental fool and so get slightly better terms from his desired benefactors. Or maybe it was just stupid. But that was on paper. For the first time, Archmund got to watch his father work. ¡°When I was twenty, a Dungeon opened in Mistvalley County. When I was twenty-five, one opened in Greenwater. And when I was thirty, one opened in Stonepeak. And do you know how all of those places are doing today?¡± he asked, sweeping his hand grandly across their sitting room at the gathered audience. There was Mother Cera from the local Church, somehow representing the entirety of the clergy, a slick, slimy, and impeccably dressed merchant from the Venato family, a roughshod adventurer representing the adventurers¡¯ guilds, and a young boy slightly older than Archmund, who wore all black, his blond hair just barely visible under his hood, who represented House Omnio. ¡°I made my name in Mistvalley,¡± said the adventurer. Archmund actually hadn¡¯t caught his name, which bothered him. In a book from his past life, How to Win Friends and Influence People, one of the first and foremost tips for getting power over people was to remember and know their names. ¡°And Greenwater was bustling, lively, doing great when I left.¡± ¡°And how long ago was that?¡± asked Lord Granavale. ¡°Ten years? Twenty?¡± The adventurer scoffed. ¡°Look, I¡¯m just telling you what I saw.¡± ¡°Perhaps your travels don¡¯t bring you to the same place twice, but mine do,¡± the Lord Granavale said. ¡°I was there too in Mistvalley, seeking to make my fortune. I helped the push to the Lowest Tier, over the course of two years, but I saw Mistvalley transform from a quiet farming village to yes, a bustling, lively town. And with that came drunkenness, debauchery, increased appetites for lust, and with all of that, crime. All to support hundreds of adventurers, most of whom were far more concerned with adventure, stretched out over the course of decades, when a skilled team of ten heroes or nobles could have conquered Mistvalley Dungeon in a year.¡± ¡°Surely that is an inevitable result of any economic boom,¡± said the Venato merchant. ¡°Please, milord, consider the opportunities you¡¯re turning down in the long-term¡ª¡± ¡°Do you know what Mistvalley is like today?¡± said the Lord Granavale. The question hung in the air. ¡°It¡¯s dying,¡± said the Omnio representative quietly. He was gazing rather intently at his fingernails. ¡°What? No. No, of course not!¡± said the adventurer. ¡°The Mistvalley Dungeon was fruitful for the better part of ten to twenty years, as I recall,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°Enough for a generation of young men and women to view dungeon delving as the only career worth doing. An entire generation gave up plowshares for swords in order to chase the glory of the Mistvalley Dungeon. Except that Dungeon is now dwindling, and it¡¯s only a matter of time before it is sealed forever.¡± ¡°A job well done,¡± said the adventurer. ¡°The Goldwood Dungeon was sealed in a matter of months,¡± said the Lord Granavale, ¡°with no hint of adventurer involvement.¡± ¡°I see your concern,¡± said the Venato merchant, smoothly, nary a change in his voice. Archmund wondered whether his unflappable confidence was genuine or if it was an attempt to salvage the situation. ¡°Without the Dungeon, the young lack local opportunity or the skill to cultivate their lands. The previous economic core of Mistvalley, the orchards, is a dying industry, and I must confirm, as you already surely know, that trade with Mistvalley has been steadily dwindling as the Dungeon¡¯s spoils lessen.¡± ¡°What kind of lord are you?¡± scoffed the adventurer. His breath smelled of hangover. ¡°Thinking about ten, twenty years in the future when you¡¯ve got a gaping hole in the ground today that monsters are pouring out of. Your people need us. You need us. Let us at them!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll let the Dungeon ravage my lands before letting a single adventurer claim that Granavale Lands are ripe for the picking!¡± ¡°Father, no¡ª¡± ¡°Lord Granavale, that is beyond the realm of possibility¡ª¡± Mercy spoke at the same time as Archmund. Both fell silent. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Mercy recomposed himself. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point clear, I think, Lord Granavale. The Houses Mistvalley and Greenwater are already in talks for deeper alliance with Omnio given their decline in fortunes over the past decades. You walk a narrow line indeed.¡± ¡°My son is all I have left of my family. The least I can do is assure that he has the future I¡¯ve prepared for him.¡± ¡°Oh, come on! You¡¯re telling me you¡¯re going to listen to these brats¡ª¡± ¡°I am Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio, and I speak with the full authority of the Imperial Family,¡± said the boy in black. ¡°And, given how this discussion has gone south so quickly, I hereby revoke the Imperial Charter of the Adventurer¡¯s Guild to operate in Granavale County.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll lose on appeal!¡± ¡°After which point, the easy pickings of the upper levels will have been conquered, and the potential for Granavale to become a Dungeon Town shall be lost. House Omnio will be lending aid to House Granavale to clear the upper levels of the Granavale Dungeon, with further negotiations to come,¡± said Mercy. Mercy¡¯s full name tickled Archmund¡¯s brain. It was clearly Latinate in a way that seemed far too intentional to be coincidence ¡ª he could excuse the name ¡°Omnio¡± as a matter of linguistic convergence, but this was very obviously a Latin construction. And yet he had no idea what it meant. ¡°I¡¯m afraid, good adventurer,¡± said Archmund, ¡°that you have overstayed your welcome at this negotiation. We¡¯d love it if you stayed for dinner, though!¡± And he gave his most innocent smile. The adventurer gave him a condescending look. ¡°You¡¯ll regret this,¡± he said. ¡°All of you.¡± And he stormed out, servants directing him. ¡°The Church,¡± said Mother Cera, who had been silently watching the proceedings, ¡°can provide as much aid as needed for ongoing defensive measures.¡± ¡°Cera, that is most generous of you,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°It is no matter,¡± said Mother Cera. ¡°We love Granavale as much as you do and would hate to see it suffer.¡± ¡°I do wish to stress,¡± said Mercy, ¡°that the support of House Omnio is, at this current point in time, unconditional. You will have our aid without being obligated to our House in any way.¡± ¡°What are you getting out of this?¡± Archmund said. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± ¡°Why would you just help us?¡± Archmund said. He decided to play up the innocent child act. ¡°Ever since mother died, lots of people have offered to help, but they wanted her jewelry or our second house or our cows. If the Monsters got free and started killing us all, the Church would get killed too, but why are you helping us?¡± ¡°A stable Empire helps us all,¡± said Mercy, though his voice was a bit uneven. ¡°And, well, I assume you know of the First Salvage Rights. Dungeon loot belongs to those who take it.¡± ¡°If it isn¡¯t too much trouble,¡± said the Lord Granavale, stepping in gently, ¡°Could I get that promise of the aid being unconditional in writing?¡± Mercy swallowed. ¡°Okay. But if you think this is a trick you know it doesn¡¯t matter, right? If we really wanted to hurt you we could just declare it void to the courts.¡± ¡°Which would be plenty of time for us to strengthen our position one way or another,¡± said the Lord Granavale. ¡°House Omnio understands how the game is played, and I would be stupid not to play it as well. You understand.¡± ¡°I share your trepidations, my lord,¡± said Mother Cera. ¡°What good is staving off an eventual union with Omnio decades from now if it¡¯s achieved by submitting to them today?¡± ¡°Need I remind you that we are all loyal subjects of the Empire,¡± said Mercy crossly. ¡°And don¡¯t think your blatant attempts to curry favor for the Church are going unseen.¡± ¡°Allow an old crone her jests,¡± said Mother Cera. ¡°But don¡¯t you worry about the Church. The High Priestesses and the Hierophants won¡¯t want to dedicate any forces if they can help it, and they¡¯ll bitch and moan until we¡¯re all dead and Monsters are at the Holy City. But while I may be no spring chicken, I can bring plenty to bear when it comes to warding against a Dungeon.¡± Negotiations went smoothly after that. The Venato merchant had few complaints: ¡°There¡¯s always money to be made. For, ah, sophisticated customers, we can connect you with Gem appraisers and purchasers of high-value goods.¡± The Lord Granavale wheedled a promise out of him to work through local merchants to keep the economy flowing, and unsurprisingly he agreed, no doubt seeking to make as many connections as possible. It seemed everyone, sans the adventurers errant, would leave the negotiation satisfied. ¡°And one more thing, if you may,¡± said the Lord Granavale to Mercy. ¡°What?¡± ¡°My son has had awfully few opportunities to speak with children his age. Would you be so kind as to spend some time with him before you depart?¡±
Archmund¡¯s Journal:
Year 0, Day 95 (part 2) Push-ups: see previous entry Magic: it¡¯s still lit Writing this in the 5 minutes before I meet with Mercy Stirpsdecim de Omnio. ¡°Mercy¡± about captures the gist of his(?) name, but the local word isn¡¯t something that¡¯s commonly used as a name. A codename? Not translating the last name (a la Tolkein). It¡¯s honest to god Latinate structure. ¡°Stirps¡± means something. Tredecim ¡ª thirteen? ¡°De Omnio¡± ¡ª ¡°of Omnio¡±, but more of a Spanish or Italian construction than a Latin one (i.e. Leonardo da Vinci). Did Alexander the Conqueror use Latin for secret notes and messages in the same way I use English? Either way, not sure what to expect. But if anyone can answer my questions, it¡¯ll be an Omnio agent.
6 - The Prodigy Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio was graceful. Refined, lithe, angelic. He didn¡¯t walk so much as glide through space. Something about his face reminded Archmund of Sister Catherine from Granavale Town¡¯s Church, though he wasn¡¯t sure why. Perhaps it was simply the rarity of pale blue eyes and blonde hair in this part of the empire, which contrasted sharply with Mercy¡¯s all-black outfit with far too many straps and pouches. Of course, Sister Catherine would have never looked at him with such poorly-hidden contempt and pity. Frankly, Archmund wasn¡¯t sure Mercy even was a boy. It was a reasonable guess, since everyone had referred to him as ¡°milord¡±, but he didn¡¯t know if the term culturally mapped to his understanding of it from English. For all he knew, military commanders were called ¡°milord¡± regardless of gender. Mercy perfunctorily sipped at a cup of tea in the Granavale Tea Room, his legs crossed elegantly. His lips puckered, almost imperceptibly, in the slightest distaste, before he set it back before him. Mary came to refill the cup, but stopped upon seeing the liquid level had barely dropped. ¡°What are we supposed to be talking about?¡± Mercy asked. ¡°I¡¯m not a teacher.¡± ¡°Will you be entering the Dungeon?¡± ¡°Of course. I will be leading the expedition to clear the uppermost levels.¡± Archmund swallowed. ¡°Then I would like to accompany you.¡± ¡°Oh. Great. So it¡¯s like that,¡± said Mercy. Archmund sipped his own cup of tea. It was, inexplicably, genuine tea, not some herbal tisane, brewed to perfection. Frankly, he didn¡¯t care much for tea either way, but this was perfectly fine tea, complete with the slight hints of a caffeine buzz. Perhaps in Palace Omnio they had higher quality teas, but this hardly warranted disgust. ¡°I don¡¯t know how much you learn out here,¡± Mercy said, ¡°But there¡¯s nobles, and then there¡¯s Nobles. I don¡¯t expect you to care or even know about the distinction in this¡­ place.¡± Another tedious class distinction. Archmund found his mind wandering ¡ª a terrible habit, since this was likely to be important, but he found himself wondering where tea even came from in this world. In his old world, ¡°tea¡± was one of two words ¡ª well, cognate-groups, he supposed they could be called ¡ª for the same drink. The other was ¡°cha¡± or ¡°chai¡±. Many languages in that world adopted either ¡°cha¡± or ¡°tea¡± as the name for the drink. Which loanword was adopted depended on the various nuances of history, but generally ¡°cha¡± was used by those who traded overland and ¡°tea¡± was used by those who traded over sea. Mercy looked at him with contempt, or perhaps disgust, or perhaps even boredom. ¡°Granavale, send your maid out.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Unless she is prepared to be bound to you for life, send her out.¡± Archmund nodded to Mary. She raised an eyebrow and raised her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. He rolled her eyes and gestured at her with a shooing motion. Smirking, she left. Mercy waited until the door slammed firmly shut behind her. ¡°Shield,¡± Mercy muttered. A shimmering disc, the color of seafoam, extended from his hand. ¡°You know how I did this, yes?¡± Mercy said, as if lecturing a small, stupid child. ¡°A Gem,¡± said Archmund. ¡°But you¡¯re not holding any.¡± ¡°Because I¡¯ve used this one enough to become Attuned to it. Gods above, you don¡¯t even know the basics! Sphere.¡± The disc-like shield distended like a balloon, and it transformed into a thin sphere that protected Mercy from all directions, a bubble of translucent blue-green. Archmund raised his hand to the sphere. He touched it for only a moment before Mercy broke the enchantment. Even in that briefest moment, Archmund could feel the vast depths of Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio¡¯s magic, how it was layered and complex in a way that dwarfed his own. ¡°Just what do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± Mercy said. His voice had jumped to a girlish octave. Was he actually panicked? ¡°Apologies,¡± said Archmund. ¡°It¡¯s just ¡ª I haven¡¯t seen anyone do real magic ever before, so far out here in the country. Was that all one Gem?¡± ¡°Your maid isn¡¯t eavesdropping, is she?¡± Mercy said. ¡°I was serious, you know. If she isn¡¯t a noble and hears these secrets, she¡¯ll either have to die or serve you forever.¡± ¡°She takes these things seriously,¡± Archmund said. In truth, he wondered if it was already too late. She had, after some false starts, successfully activated the Red Gem of Light. When she¡¯d first started, she only could light it for a few minutes at most; now, she could channel enough of her magic to light it for almost an hour ¡ª not nearly as fast a growth curve as his own, but then again she spent much of the day housekeeping while he sat around and studied. That was enough to disprove that commoners innately couldn¡¯t use magic, and that their lack of ability was simply a matter of not having the time and opportunity to do so. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. If commoners weren¡¯t supposed to have magic, he¡¯d already put her life in danger. If that was the case, he might as well tell her everything anyways ¡ª or, barring that, swear her to secrecy and never speak of the matter again. ¡°Well, they¡¯ll teach you more at the Imperial Academy, so I¡¯ll just tell you enough to keep you alive,¡± Mercy said. So he did. Archmund¡¯s existing understanding of Gems and enchantments was basic but correct. Many different varieties of Gems could drop from Monsters, and though they weren¡¯t exactly equivalent to their geological counterparts, they had been given the same names ¡ª ruby, sapphire, topaz, emerald, diamond, and so forth. These colors indicated which elemental spells could most easily be enchanted into the Gems, though exceptions always existed. The cut of the Gem then determined which basic spell was enchanted into it. Denser or larger Gems could support more powerful and intricate spells. Those were the basics. ¡°So if I want to know more, what do I study?¡± Archmund asked. ¡°Advanced Gemology?¡± Mercy snorted. ¡°Advanced Gemology is a useless theoretical distraction meant to give half-wit mages and the noveau riche a sense of importance. You can¡¯t learn the true potential of Gems without properly using them.¡± For example, the Gem Mercy had used was not a ¡°Shield¡± Gem or a ¡°Protection Sphere¡± Gem. It was much simpler: a spell to harden the body against physical attacks. Mercy said its formal name was the Baogaddiamanta, but he preferred to call it the Diamond of Guard. Through years of vigorous training ¡ª another data point that supported Archmund¡¯s theory nobles could use magic because they had decades of practice with it ¡ª Mercy had become unbreakable, able to fall from high cliffs or block swords with his bare hands. ¡°That must have been dangerous training,¡± Archmund noted. ¡°House Omnio spares no expense; I always had healers nearby for any of my stunts.¡± ¡°Anything for the elite units, huh?¡± ¡°¡­Yes.¡± With mastery, Attunement had followed: Mercy¡¯s understanding and technique with the Diamond of Guard was so great that he could use it without needing to touch it. So much of his magical power had flowed into it that this Diamond of Guard would always, in some way, be an echo of Mercy himself. That was one of the few risks of using a single Gem to mastery. Habit. Lock-in. If you used one Gem exclusively, your magical flux would become Attuned to it just as the Gem became Attuned to you, and you would have great difficulty unlearning those habits to use other Gems. Nobles could afford the luxury of spending time unlearning a locked-in Attunement to learn anew. Others could not. His earlier fears that using too much magic frivolously would risk depleting his power forever, or permanently damage his soul were unwarranted. The one risk was lock-in. But Mercy didn¡¯t elaborate further on that point. In fact, his discussions of Attunement were rushed, clipped, closer to bullet point lists than anything else. It wasn¡¯t a lot to go off of. Had he even achieved Attunement with the Ruby of Light? The way Mercy had phrased things unnerved him. Gems became and held echoes of their users. And they became more specialized and more powerful the more they were used. He was reminded of a principle from his past life. There was a self-help book writer named Cal Newport, who¡¯d written a book called ¡°So Good They Can¡¯t Ignore You.¡± The central thesis of this book was that the best way to attain a life of freedom and luxury was to develop highly specialized, in-demand skills. It was better to become a potent specialist before generalizing, as opposed to starting as a generalist and meandering through skill acquisition and life. Gems were very much like that. If you could master them to develop superhuman feats, then they could evolve and become even more powerful and flexible. Even in a strange and unfamiliar world, he saw echoes of the past. But perhaps it was a poor assumption that this was a world where hard work and specialization were rewarded. Perhaps this was just a game, in which case Mercy was akin to an overpowered ¡°tutorial cheat character¡± meant to show him what he would one day be capable of. (That sounded almost just as delusional as believing the power of hard work could overcome class differences from birth.) ¡°If I haven¡¯t made myself clear enough by now,¡± Mercy said haughtily, ¡°The Shield. The Protection Sphere. These are the Awakening of my Diamond of Guard. I could feel your magic when you touched mine ¡ª you aren¡¯t as helpless as I¡¯d expected you to be, but you simply aren¡¯t near my level. Can you swing a sword?¡± He could not. ¡°Can you shoot a bow?¡± He had tried in his past life; in this body, he could not. ¡°Have you Awakened any Gems yet?¡± He had not. ¡°You would be a liability,¡± Mercy said. ¡°One day,¡± Archmund said. ¡°That¡¯s all I ask. One day in the Dungeon.¡± ¡°You can have plenty of days once I¡¯ve cleared the first levels.¡± If he did that, legally, House Omnio would get the full spoils and all the easy pickings of fresh Gems from the easiest monsters. And any future excursions would be tightly supervised by the coalition of stakeholders they were building through these meetings. He had to be in this first wave. Simply for the grim sober socioeconomic reality of it all. ¡°I need to see what it¡¯s really like,¡± Archmund said. ¡°I need to see the dirty, messed up combat. What adventurers really have to face, how dangerous it really gets. Otherwise, how could I possibly become a Lord who sends people to their deaths in a place like that?¡± And if he died, as much as he¡¯d prefer to avoid it, that was that. Death meant much less when you knew that reincarnation was real. Mercy looked at him. His face seemed inscrutable, almost contemptuous. But then he rolled his eyes. ¡°Tomorrow, at dawn, right outside the Dungeon. Don¡¯t be late or we¡¯ll leave without you.¡± ¡°I promise, I won¡¯t!¡± ¡°It¡¯s your funeral.¡±
Archmund¡¯s Journal (undated) I should really be more afraid of death. I¡¯ve already gone through it once, yet I don¡¯t remember it. Maybe it was just that bad.
7 - Awakening Power It was pretty fucked up that the world of Omnio just let nine-year-olds into Dungeons to fight Monsters if they were of noble-enough blood and begged loudly enough. And that if he didn¡¯t get his act together in one night, he might die. But this was progress, in a way. Archmund had helped set his House and County up for success, and he¡¯d also secured an opportunity to gain power through the Deepest Magics. If he lived, his future would be smooth sailing. Now he just had to figure out how to Not Die. He was in panic mode. The sun had set. His room was illuminated only by his Ruby of Light. He turned the Ruby around in his hand, feeling his magic he¡¯d flowing through it, casting shadows on the wall around him. He was frustrated. In his past life, he¡¯d loved fantasy stories. There was a split in the community about ¡°hard magic¡± and ¡°soft magic¡±. Hard magic systems were mechanistic and followed rules, being akin to solvable puzzle. Soft magic systems often aimed to set the tone or mood of the story, left unexplained to the reader. Video games treated the magic accessible to players as mechanistic, set spells that cost magic points and had predictable if pseudorandom effects, even if their lore described magic that was far more powerful and inscrutable. His life was not a story. He had no clear insights into the mechanisms. There was no full explanation of the magic system in his books. There was no convenient wiki where he could look up the lore of his life. He¡¯d pierced together his knowledge of magic from rumors and lies. He had reasons to believe that the laws of the universe adhered to some non-physical game-like logic: he¡¯d all but powerleveled his strength, endurance, and magical power. But he had no proof. Whenever he ever actually used the Ruby of Light, there was no guide or indicator or status bar. There may have been ¡°hard rules¡± and principles underlying magic, but actually doing it felt ¡°soft¡±. He supposed that this was a consequence of ¡°emergence¡±. He¡¯d studied physics in his past life. Physics that, at a macroscopic level, still held here, from his experiments in making mayonnaise. Individual elementary particles could only sit in certain quantized energy states, like steps on a staircase. Those interactions, when between different atoms, led to complex chemical reactions. From billions upon billions of chemical reactions, life could emerge, and to understand that, the study of biology, sociology, zoology, and thousands of other fields. But none of those conclusions could be drawn from understanding the fundamental rules of quantum physics alone. Oh, you could say that electricity was a result of electron interaction, and that electricity drove the human nervous system, and the random impulses of the human mind drove the irrational decisions that led to war, but it felt like utter sophistry to use that example to prove that quantum physics was the cause of all wars. The soft might have emerged from the hard, but the hard alone was insufficient to explain the soft. He held the Ruby up. Physics. He knew Physics. And he knew this Ruby. He¡¯d filled it with his power ¡ª which might¡¯ve explained why Mary had trouble using it properly, now that he thought about it. If he was Attuned to any Gem, this was the one. If this world truly followed the same laws of physics as Earth, then visible light, which this Gem created, was part of a spectrum. That spectrum spanned from 30-foot-wide radio waves to nanoscopic cancer-causing gamma rays. Archmund didn¡¯t know if Monsters, being the embodied spirits of the dead, were vulnerable to cancer or acute radiation poisoning. Mercy had asked if he could use a sword or bow; that suggested they¡¯d have physical form. Heat always was unreasonably effective. First, an assumption: Energy conservation held. Light wasn¡¯t coming out of nowhere when he used the Ruby, it was converting his magic. This was a big assumption, but if it was wrong, nothing he knew could work. Gamma rays carried much more energy than visible light. That had two implications: If shooting gamma rays didn¡¯t work as one-shot-kills on monsters, the technique would be far more wasteful. If shooting gamma rays drew more magic proportional to the amount of energy they carried, it would exhaust him much more quickly. Infrared radiation was much better. It was pure heat. It was less energetic than visible light, which might give him more lethality per magical power expended. It would burn things ¡ª an immediate way to see if his techniques were working. He hoped he wasn¡¯t too far off the mark. It had been literal decades since he¡¯d studied physics. That was the hard magic basis. Now, he had to determine the soft magic execution.
He went outside to the garden. Testing a method to turn light magic into fire magic in a very enclosed, very flammable study was one of the stupidest things he could imagine doing. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The stars peppered the night sky, uncountable. Were they balls of flaming gas in this world, or something magical? Maybe he¡¯d find out one day. Right now, he needed to turn his magical light trinket into something that could kill. In his old world, scientists knew how to realign all the rays from a light source in one direction, creating a potent beam known as a laser. His idea amounted to making a laser of pure heat. The question was not whether such a thing was imaginable, but possible within the limitations of magic. Of course, there was the worry about whether ¡°spell slots¡± was a concern ¡ª if he learned how to shift from light to heat, and how to shift from diffuse light to laser light, would that take up two ¡°spell slots¡± and render him unable to combine the techniques to a third ¡°heat laser¡± spell? The real answer was that he couldn¡¯t afford to worry; he¡¯d be as bad off not trying at all. He cupped the Ruby of Light in his hands, blocking its light so it wouldn¡¯t awaken the rest of the household. He could sense the magic he¡¯d poured into it over the past few months, surging and pooling in the facets of the Gem. It felt like his hand in an oven mitt, or perhaps the pressure of a weighted blanket, or perhaps the feeling of coffee after a long run ¡ª comfortable yet tempting. He knew this Gem, in and out, and how his power interacted with it, flowed through every cranny and flaw, agitating this crystallized soulstuff to set the world alight. He could feel his magic swirling within the Gem, like water through pipes or electrons in a circuit, the constant motion and vibration transforming into visible light. It flowed over a sense he didn¡¯t know he had, over his very feeling of self, tumbling and tickling. It was still his magic, even if it had been poured into the Gem, and even if there was a foreign magic mingling with it that he knew had to be Mary¡¯s. He could still feel it, reach out to it, and control it. Infrared radiation was less energetic than visible light. By physical analogy, it was as if it vibrated slower. He willed his magic to stop. Controlling it was like instinct, like swimming or walking or breathing. He had spent so long forcing the magic out that he knew how it should feel. The tumbling of magic over his spirit grew slower and slower until it was like water dripping out of a tap (oh, how glad he was this world had indoor plumbing). And then it ceased entirely, and the Ruby of Light grew dark. It had worked.
That was the easy part. The hard part was control. He hoped, desperately, that this wasn¡¯t a problem of ¡°discrete¡± vs ¡°continuous.¡± A light switch had two discrete states ¡ª on vs off. But sometimes there were dimmer switches, that could slide between various levels of dim to bright light bulbs. Computers in his past life seemed to be continuous, capable of having all sorts of states, but fundamentally at the heart of their architecture they were discrete ¡ª all data in computers, all programs, all instructions were stored at the fundamental level as either 1 or 0. They looked continuous to the end user because there were just so many of those fundamental 1s or 0s. The illusion of continuum emerged from the discrete. Hopefully magic was continuous and not discrete.
It was easy to relight the Ruby. It was instinct. He touched it, his magic surged, and it lit up. He could pull it back, stop the magic, dim the Gem. That too had become easy. This was all he could do. In, out. In, out. How much time had passed? The moon was starting to set; did that mean they were halfway through the night, or almost at dawn? In, out. In, out. He dropped the Gem on the grass before him. In, out. In, out. He no longer needed to touch it to make it pulse on and off with light. That meant he was Attuned, right? Or maybe he¡¯d been Attuned. He¡¯d just realized it. In, out. In, out. In, out. His breaths had slowed. The Gem was synced to his breaths. Light on the inhale. Dark on the exhale. Lighting slowly on the inhale, turning from red to orange to sunlit yellow, and fading the other way on the exhale. From red to orange to yellow. A chill ran through him. This was it. It was possible. He picked up the Gem. He took the deepest breath he could, so far that he felt his lungs might burst, and with it he pushed the color of the Gem to be as brilliant white as possible. And then he exhaled. The light dimmed, as expected, from white to yellow to orange to red. And still he exhaled, pushing out every last molecule of breath from his lungs. He felt the magic in the Ruby grinding to a halt in harmony with his breath. He focused on that motion, feeling through that unspeakable sense beyond the body. Slower and slower still¡­ yet still moving¡­ down the electromagnetic spectrum¡­ The Ruby burned.
Archmund Granavale Lifespan: 9/91
Stat Value Titles Achievements Bound Items Relationships Skills
Strength 7 Granavale Heir Reincarnated Memories Ruby of Light (Awakened) Lord Reginald Granvale, Father (*new*) Heat
Dexterity 7 Lady Sophia Granavale, Mother (deceased)
Constitution 6 Amelia Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Intelligence 6 Linus Granavale, elder brother (deceased)
Wisdom 7 Calla Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Charisma 6
Luck 5
8 - Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation He stomped at the grass of the garden frantically, putting out the fire he¡¯d set using the Ruby of Light and his newfound ability. This was an almost useless new ability. Even so, there was an adrenaline thrill running through him: he¡¯d achieved something! The past 100 days of grind hadn¡¯t been worthless; they¡¯d given him a genuine boost in power. But it wasn¡¯t enough. (It never was, nagged a little voice at the back of his head. In this life and the last, no matter what he did, it was never enough.) But, ignoring that little voice, practically speaking, this actually wasn¡¯t enough. He could make the Ruby of Light become hot and set flames from afar, but he had no way of projecting that power unless he wanted to throw the Gem at every foe he met and scramble to recover it ¡ª and he hadn¡¯t spent any time at all honing his aim. He didn¡¯t have the power to aim and throw true. Deliberate practice, a form of practice that was purposeful and focused on skill development, was a thousand times more effective in this world. If he¡¯d had a week, he could¡¯ve grinded that skill. But he didn¡¯t. He had the scant hours until dawn, and he hadn¡¯t kept track of the time. How hard could it be, really? He¡¯d learned control over his magic by converting light to heat, and in the process learned that the electromagnetic spectrum functioned the same way in this world as it had in the last. One day, gamma rays might be at his disposal. But if he didn¡¯t want to give himself cancer via radiation, he had to turn his manifested power from diffuse light into a direct, brilliant laser. The Ruby had cooled enough for him to pick up. He held it in front of his eye. And, on a whim, he nudged it with magic ¡ª and it started levitating above his palm, tumbling in the air, casting a faint warmth. It was the same tetrahedron it had always been, with slight flaws, which acted as grooves and channels for his power. It was these imperfections that shaped his raw magical outflow into visible light; to create heat and fire, he¡¯d had to overcome the instructions engraved in its heart. These same instructions told it to radiate the light outwards. He didn¡¯t even know if this world had a concept of laser beams or rays of light, and if corresponding instructions existed ¡ª so he would have to mimic the effect through brute force.
He didn¡¯t actually know how lasers in his old world worked in detail. There were mirrors involved, but he hadn¡¯t been an engineer. If his memories were right, he¡¯d studied Physics, not engineering. But hopefully that didn¡¯t matter. Because magic was neither physics nor engineering. The difference between a diffuse light source, like the sun or a candle, was that the light scattered in all directions. At the nanoscopic scale, light was a wave. It was also a particle, but for imagining the laser, he chose to think of it as a wave. And it behaved like waves on the ocean (which, he suddenly realized, he¡¯d never seen with these new eyes). Two waves coming from opposite directions or at an angle would break each other apart and weaken their force upon the waters, but two waves from the same direction would merge and add their strength. The Ruby ¡ª calling it the ¡°Ruby of Light¡± was inaccurate and mentally limiting ¡ª converted his magical power to electromagnetic waves. Left alone, all those waves went in every direction. He had to mentally will them to only go in one direction. Because what even was magic? He¡¯d had assumptions, and they were already falling apart. He¡¯d thought magic was governed by how much power you could pour into a Gem, and so his training exercises had focused on building up that power. But now it seemed that magic was holistic, that the Gems were just catalysts in the hands of those skilled and powerful enough, and that you could override their programming simply through Understanding of the Self and the World Around You. This reminded him of college admissions from his last life. He¡¯d gotten very good grades on all of his tests, but it turned out colleges also wanted people to show they were well-rounded through extracurriculars and things that were harder to measure. Holistic admissions, they¡¯d called it. He couldn¡¯t afford to dwell on this. All of that was from a literal lifetime ago. Why the hell did he still care? He only had a few hours left. Were there less stars now? Was the sky getting lighter? Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. He lit the Ruby. It glowed a dim red. A minimal drain on his magical power, not hot enough to burn his hand, soft enough to not disturb anyone, but enough to test his power. Why did light naturally radiate in all directions, as opposed to being a single laser beam? Because natural examples of light did. The sun. Fire. The moon. Fireflies. And Gems were cut based on what their designers knew. But there was no reason that light couldn¡¯t manifest as directed bursts. The Ruby tumbled in the air above his hand, and with but a thought he made it rotate counterclockwise. It almost looked like a brown dwarf, the last remnant of a star that had burned through all of its fuel and was now slowly fading to nothing. But that wasn¡¯t the only way that stars could die. Bigger stars would explode, scattering their starstuff throughout the cosmos, in supernovae so bright they could be seen in the daylight sky. And even bigger stars would collapse upon themselves, the fusion pressures of their cores unable to support the gravitational force of their mass, becoming infinitesimally dense, inescapable black holes. Those black holes would rotate, drawing in matter. As that matter fell towards the black hole¡¯s event horizon, that final barrier after which there was no hope of escape, it would be compressed by the sheer gravity. It would glow bright. It would turn hot. And, if matter somehow managed to avoid getting sucked into the event horizon, it might shoot out along the black hole¡¯s axis of rotation, jets of superheated ionized plasma and X-rays and gamma rays blasting trillions of miles into the void of space. Like a laser. There was no reason magic should work along these lines of naturalistic inference. He was analogizing magic to physical systems he¡¯d studied a lifetime ago ¡ª and yet wasn¡¯t that just natural in itself? Electrons in a circuit didn¡¯t really behave like water in pipes, but the analogy worked for most applications. But he was desperate. If he wasn¡¯t on the front lines, he wouldn¡¯t get any of the spoils or any of the experience. If he didn¡¯t get any experience on the easy battles, he wouldn¡¯t be able to challenge the harder battles at all. If he didn¡¯t challenge the harder battles, no one in House Granavale would gain any loot from Granavale Dungeon. And if House Granavale didn¡¯t benefit from Granavale Dungeon, it would become a metaphorical quarry, stripped of all its resources, wrung dry by adventure and wanderlust. He would inherit a broken husk and could only hope for a political marriage to save him from a life of slow decay. Was he spiraling? It didn¡¯t matter if he was catastrophizing, if it worked to alter his magic. He stabilized the Ruby¡¯s rotation as he let his magic flow into it, so that one of the faces was parallel to his palm and one corner pointed skywards. He lit it up, keeping it a faint red. He felt his magic marshaling with the rotation. Faster and faster it spun. And as it did so, he willed his magic to move closer and closer to the center, resisting the urge to suffuse the Gem. The light of the Ruby narrowed, becoming a single straight line along the axis of rotation. And still it spun, faster and faster, until it was a blur. There was an itch inside of him, a bursting irritation, a breath he hadn¡¯t meant to be holding ¡ª and he let it out. And with it came the light. A single, blinding beam, brilliant red piercing into the night sky. A burst of laser. He stumbled back, fell to his knees, dropped the Ruby in surprise. That had been more tiring than he¡¯d expected. But he drew the Ruby to his hand with his magic. He was only halfway done. Now he had to train until it was as natural as breathing.
When dawn broke, Archmund beheld the fruits of his labors. Patches of burnt grass. Dead flowers. Ashes upon the garden path. He floated the Ruby in front of him and pointed it at a rock. His magic flowed. The Ruby spun. A point on the rock glowed bright red from invisible beams of pure, concentrated heat. And then it melted into slag.
Archmund Granavale Lifespan: 9/91
Stat Value Titles Achievements Bound Items Relationships Skills
Strength 7 Granavale Heir Reincarnated Memories Ruby of Light (Awakened) Lord Reginald Granvale, Father Heat
Dexterity 7 Lady Sophia Granavale, Mother (deceased) "Infrared Lance"
Constitution 6 Amelia Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Intelligence 6 Linus Granavale, elder brother (deceased)
Wisdom 7 Calla Granavale, elder sister (deceased)
Charisma 6
Luck 5
9 - They Who Are About To Die The first rays of sun were just peeking over the horizon when Archmund amade their way to the opening of the Granavale Dungeon, to the army camp of Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio. ¡°Gods above, man, did you sleep?¡± Mercy said when he saw Archmund. ¡°I slept enough,¡± Archmund said, suppressing a yawn. He had ¡°pulled an allnighter¡± to ¡°cram¡± for a new magical technique. He was tired, yes, but nowhere near as tired as when he¡¯d done it in his previous life. Being young again was wonderful. ¡°If you¡¯re not taking care of yourself, you can just stay up here,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Come back for the second wave and recovery efforts tomorrow.¡± That would let Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio get the first crack at everything in the Granavale Dungeon. Utterly unacceptable. Unfortunately, the fatigue dulled Archmund¡¯s wit. He pulled the Ruby of Light out from his pocket to buy some time to think. As if by instinct, it hovered over his open palm. Mercy stared. Then he placed one palm on Archmund¡¯s forehead, gripped his shoulder with the other, and stared intently into his eyes. Archmund tried to escape, but Mercy¡¯s grip was surprisingly strong. He could feel the other boy¡¯s magic through the physical touch, alien to his own. Surprisingly light and pleasant for someone so serious and dangerous ¡ª almost girlish, if magic could be said to be girlish. And Mercy himself ¡ª was Mercy even a boy? Because up this close, with his perfectly neutral face, in the dim light of dawn and the fading firelight, Mercy was put together like a porcelain doll. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m surprised,¡± Mercy said, as even as ever. ¡°The way you look, I¡¯d expected you to have done something immensely stupid and spent all night draining your magical reserves. But you barely seem any weaker than you did yesterday afternoon.¡± Archmund had in fact spent all night draining his magical reserves. And yes, it was surprising he was barely weaker than he had been yesterday afternoon. Mentally, he was tired, and he knew that missing a night of sleep was equivalent to losing 20 IQ points, as pseudoscientific as IQ was. Though there were some sacrifices worth making. ¡°You can come along then,¡± Mercy said, releasing him. ¡°I suppose you won¡¯t be a total liability.¡± ¡°Wait, don¡¯t you need to know what my power is?¡± Archmund said. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ve got an idea,¡± Mercy said smugly. Perhaps he¡¯d learned through touch alone. Archmund shuddered.
In short order, they stood before Mercy¡¯s forces. There were about two hundred men ¡ª no, some of them were much younger than that, Archmund realized with a chill. Through the eyes of a child, even twelve-year-olds looked ancient, but he had adult memories. Some of these kids looked fourteen. ¡°Today, we break first ground on the Granavale Dungeon,¡± Mercy said, voice clear in the morning air. ¡°Some of you have faced Dungeons before. Some of you have lost comrades and found glory. Most of you will not survive.¡± The men yelled ¡ª the usual macho we-who-are-about-to-die type posturing. Surely it wouldn¡¯t be that bad, right? ¡°All of you knew the stakes when you joined the Omnio Sacred Guard. You will die a hundred times before you let a single drop of noble blood be spilled. You will die a thousand times before you let a Hand of the Omnio fall. You will die a million times before a single drop of Omnio blood ever dreams of a blade!¡± Archmund¡¯s stomach turned at the idea that these men ¡ª these boys ¡ª were expected to die for him. But they did not share his nausea. The men roared. They pounded their chests and shook their fists. They wanted this death and glory. ¡°But those of you who do will be remembered for the ages. And for the lucky few, these will be your first steps as heroes!¡± The men raised their swords and spears and let out a resounding cheer. Their weapons glistened, capturing the morning light in a way that plain metal could not. As the sun rose, it illuminated their armor, setting it ablaze with kaleidoscopic light ¡ª pale pinks and teals and limes. His breath caught in his throat. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°First time seeing Gemstone Gear?¡± Mercy said, voice low. ¡°Beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°I thought Gems were too expensive to forge into¡­ full-body armor.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what has you surprised? Maybe you¡¯re not a total idiot,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll see how they¡¯re made soon enough. One last round of preparations, first.¡±
Mercy¡¯s tent was made of extremely practical tarp on the outside but emblazoned with rare furs on the inside. Archmund saw the usual tiger, lion, and ¡ª was that komodo dragon? Their furniture was no less ornate ¡ª there were four proper chairs with cushions, and an actual tablecloth on the round table in the center of the room. Mary had rushed over first thing in the morning upon realizing that Archmund wasn¡¯t in his room. She fretted over him like a mother hen ¡ª a small mercy that could be allowed for one who was going to his death, Mercy had declared, with a shit-eating grin that suggested he was fully aware of the pun. Mary was aghast that he¡¯d spent all night practicing magic, practically besides herself ¡ª ¡°It¡¯ll stunt your growth, young master!¡± she¡¯d screamed. But she wasn¡¯t formally working, moreso just there for emotional support. Mercy¡¯s servants were the ones responsible for their final preparations. And when it came to the greater conversation, servants were supposed to be seen and not heard. Mercy¡¯s head servant, a tall, slim girl with short dark hair, poured them both two large mugs of a thin dark liquid. There was a familiar warm and comforting scent wafting from it, so familiar that Archmund instinctively took a sip. He almost spat it out. It was coffee, or something very much like it. In his old life, he¡¯d had more than his share of coffee. Some days, at the worst of his job, he¡¯d drunk ten cups a day, some as late as three in the morning, just to stay awake and work. A part of his mind wondered just how much convergent evolution this world had gone, to have both coffee and tea cultures. But he forced himself to stay focused. Had coffee always been this bitter? It tasted horrid. Maybe the coffee in this world was worse, or maybe his taste buds were younger and more selective. He forced himself to swallow, only to see Mercy and her servant staring at him. ¡°You drank it black?¡± Mercy said. His composure broke completely for a second there, his mouth hanging open, before he gestured to his servant. His servant dropped a handful of white cubes into both cups, along with a thick yellow-white paste, before swirling until smooth with a spoon. ¡°If it¡¯s meant to be drunken with that extra stuff, why don¡¯t you just make it like that?¡± ¡°The butter will split if it¡¯s added at the wrong time,¡± Mercy said. ¡°It¡¯s part of the ceremony.¡± Archmund took a sip. It was good, but it felt more like the dessert drinks from popular coffee chains than actual coffee. In his past life, he¡¯d liked drinking coffee black, because he¡¯d drunk so much of it that if he added milk and sugar every time he would¡¯ve been thirty pounds heavier. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you would have preferred it without the sugar and butter?¡± Mercy said. Archmund said nothing. He supposed he must have flinched. ¡°Well, you¡¯ll be glad for it once we¡¯re in there. We¡¯ll need the energy, and you absolutely need it. It will keep you awake.¡± Mercy said. ¡°If you don¡¯t have any questions, I can explain our tactics.¡± ¡°Just one,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Will those men truly die for me?¡± ¡°Without question.¡± ¡°That¡¯s horrific.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± Archmund hadn¡¯t meant to say that out loud. It had just slipped out, an unfortunate side effect of transmigrating from a world with the concept of ¡°inalienable human rights¡±, no matter what social class you were born into. ¡°Nothing.¡± ¡°No, Archmund Granavale, I want to hear it,¡± said Mercy Stirpstridecim de Omnio. ¡°What exactly about my Sacred Guard and their vows do you find so horrific?¡± ¡°A hundred of them are supposed to sacrifice themselves so I don¡¯t get cut?¡± ¡°It¡¯s metaphorical, but yes. That is what they agreed to when they chose to join the guard. This is the life they chose. What¡¯s wrong with that?¡± Material conditions. Being forced into a terrible job by the threat of poverty. Risking your life to chase glory because it was the only choice you had. Archmund knew he couldn¡¯t say any of this outright. Not to a representative of the Imperial Family. ¡°What about their dreams? Their loved ones? How can you live knowing that you¡¯ll send them to their deaths to serve yourself?¡± ¡°Because I am a scion of the Omnio.¡± Mercy¡¯s eyes were cold. His voice, colder, yet lilting. There was the faintest quavering ¡ª or perhaps Archmund was imagining it, because the only hints of warmth from Mercy had been when he¡¯d told his men to embrace their deaths. ¡°I am a descendant of his Eternity, Alexander I. I was born blessed. I was born better. And no amount of handwringing from a minor noble will change who I am and what I deserve.¡± ¡°Can you honestly say that not a single member of your Sacred Guard has the potential to surpass us?¡± ¡°No!¡± Mercy said. ¡°How could you even suggest that? Did the plague wipe out your memory? If there was any sign of that happening ¡ª never mind that it couldn¡¯t, as far as you¡¯re concerned ¡ª any sign of an unauthorized commoner using true magic is high treason, and is grounds for a full-scale invasion of the land.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Archmund said, leaning back on the plush chair. He was acutely aware of Mary¡¯s presence at his side, and how he¡¯d asked her to try using the same magic that he had. ¡°Any sign that a commoner can use ¡®true magic¡¯, which is¡ª¡± ¡°Drawing out the power of Gems¡ªnot Gemstone Gear, Gems¡ªbeyond the purpose cut into them. Like what you or I do.¡± ¡°That¡¯s high treason.¡± Mercy nodded. Archmund hated this. There was an entire army all but meant to die for him. He would be joined at the hip with someone who didn¡¯t care about throwing their lives away. And he had no choice but to do it. If he didn¡¯t, House Granavale and Granavale County would suffer, and it would be his fault. He was getting vibes of his old life, when he forced himself to work jobs he hated because they were the promised ¡°success¡± he¡¯d once aspired for. Mercy downed the rest of his coffee. ¡°Drink up, Granavale. We¡¯ll be going in real soon. And like it or not, my men won¡¯t let you die.¡± 10 - Into Darkness From all the politicking and tedious negotiation, Archmund had expected something scarier from the gateway to Granavale Dungeon. Distant red flames. Echoing inhuman screams. The scent of sulfur, perhaps. ¡°Nothing special,¡± Mercy said casually from his side. Archmund had to agree. Granavale Dungeon was an unassuming hole in the ground, rather anticlimactic given the explosive power of the Dungeon Storm. It looked like a regular cave, naturally carved into the surrounding gray stone. A cool draft wafted from the cave mouth, carrying a mineral scent and cave dampness. ¡°General Alaktor, give us a guard. Four should be enough.¡± ¡°Only four?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll be scouting ahead. The corridors are narrow. Any more would get in our way.¡± ¡°Then why have them?¡± ¡°Once we see a bigger room the six of us can¡¯t handle, we¡¯ll call the rest. It¡¯s a standard practice,¡± Mercy said. ¡°And then, I presume, we¡¯ll use human wave tactics,¡± Archmund said. He couldn¡¯t keep the contempt from slipping into his voice. ¡°Zankto! Wrest! Yald! Vurl! You four assist Mercy!¡± Mercy glanced at the General as he called the names of their four escorts. They were excitedly gathering their equipment, so they only had a few more moments alone. They carried rucksacks outside of their Gemstone armor ¡ª there was no way that was comfortable ¡ª which had their provisions for their meal. Mercy, in contrast, only had a satchel covered in pouches. Archmund had brought nothing. ¡°You still disapprove.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a senseless waste of life.¡± The men were approaching. They were on the younger side, likely in their twenties. Mercy leaned to whisper in Archmund¡¯s eear. ¡°Even if was a waste ¡ª and it¡¯s not ¡ª a single piece of Gemstone armor starts a commoner¡¯s journey to becoming a Hero. A full set basically guarantees them becoming a legend. Would you deny that to them?¡± ¡°How do you keep them from killing each other for a full set?¡± ¡°Goddess, you are a horrible person. They teach you nothing out here in the countryside, do they?¡± Zankto, Wrest, Yald, and Vurl had drawn close, but they gave no indication of having overheard. Each was clad in multiple pieces of glittering Gemstone armor, though none had a full set. Mercy inhaled, eyes narrowed, before pointing at Zankto. ¡°Granavale, touch his breastplate.¡± Archmund looked at Zankto for consent, but got stony silence. Mercy sighed. ¡°It¡¯s my order. He won¡¯t refuse. Do it.¡± Archmund did and understood immediately. ¡°His magic¡­ it¡¯s in it. It¡¯s like he¡¯s Attuned to the armor?¡± ¡°Glad you can tell that much,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Gemstone armor might be pre-formed, but it¡¯s still Gem. And you can tell when someone¡¯s using Gem that¡¯s Attuned to someone else. It would be extremely obvious.¡± ¡°What if someone tried?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know¡ª keep asking stupid questions and maybe I¡¯ll show you.¡± In his past life, Archmund had been raised to think there were no stupid questions, so this dismissal didn¡¯t bother him much. It came with the territory. ¡°You¡¯re actually¡­ nervous about this.¡± ¡°What? Of course I am,¡± Mercy said. ¡°I¡¯ll breathe easy once we see how hard Tier 1 is. You never know at first.¡± It made more sense, then. Mercy¡¯s short-temper was from nerves or that natural fear of death, which wasn¡¯t helped by having to babysit him.
Mercy stepped into the cave and took a few exploratory sniffs. He nodded to the guards. ¡°Guard him.¡± The four guards took point around Archmund. ¡°What, you don¡¯t need them?¡± ¡°I need them far less than you will,¡± Mercy said. ¡°I am a veteran Dungeoneer. You are an insolent nine-year-old.¡± ¡°You¡¯re barely older than me.¡± ¡°And yet I¡¯ve lived twice your lifetimes.¡± Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. With that, Mercy twirled and stalked into the cave, black cloak fluttering behind him. Archmund suppressed a chuckle. Oh, if only Mercy knew how wrong he was. Then he realized that Mercy was fading rapidly into the dark of the Dungeon and scrambled to catch up.
They examined each path, every branching intersection. Most were dead ends. For the few that weren¡¯t, they painted an arrow of bright red to highlight the path forward. The guards were able to keep pace, though he could just barely keep an eye on Mercy¡¯s backside. ¡°Wait. Can you slow down a second here?¡± ¡°I suppose it would reflect badly on me if you got injured,¡± Mercy said. He slowed down, but only barely. The Dungeon was shrouded in darkness. ¡°How can you see anything?¡± ¡°I have an Attunement,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Oh, come on,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Do Attunements let you do everything?¡± ¡°Only for those of noble blood.¡± Mercy sighed. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d be at least somewhat prepared. Not this frantic flailing. Didn¡¯t you bring any sources of light? I suppose we¡¯ll have to share our provisions with you as well.¡± ¡°You could have mentioned any of this during our multiple talks.¡± ¡°I thought you weren¡¯t¡ªactually, you¡¯re right. This is entirely my own fault for assuming you were an imbecile, talking as if you were one, and then not treating you like one.¡± If Archmund was mentally nine, this would have gotten under his skin, but he had been talked to sternly by bosses with the power to fire him, so really this was actually kind of quaint. ¡°At least you¡¯re not a coward,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Which will be a wonderful epitaph.¡± Archmund pulled out his Ruby. He cupped his left hand in front of himself, letting the tetrahedral Ruby float above it, and let the slimmest trickle of his magic into it, emitting a comforting orange light. ¡°You¡¯re good for something after all.¡± Was that approval in Mercy¡¯s voice? Archmund understood. He really, really did. Mercy was on a routine Dungeon subjugation or whatever jargon they used, when the adventurer¡¯s guild made a mess, the local Lord whined about long-term economic prospects, the local lord¡¯s son started crying about his dead mother, and then to top it all off he¡¯d been handed an escort mission of that same son into an extremely dangerous Dungeon. So Archmund could excuse a little snippiness. Honestly he was more concerned about how quickly everyone had just let him go for it. He frowned. ¡°This¡­ looks like a cellar.¡± Now that he could actually see, Tier 1 of the Dungeon could have been indistinguishable from Granavale Manor¡¯s wine cellar. The walls and floor were made of stone and lumber and compacted dirt. Mercy kept moving as he spoke. ¡°Tier 1 of any Dungeon looks ¡®natural¡¯, like it could be part of the upper world. That means caves, basements, or cellars. Every one I¡¯ve seen reflects the local world. It¡¯s the subtiers you have to worry about.¡± ¡°Subtiers?¡± Mercy stopped at a keg of wine and opened the tap to fill a flask. He held it up for Archmund to smell; it was wine. ¡°In the highest part of a Tier, everything still makes sense. Corridors and rooms look like they could actually be part of the outside world. Books will be readable, food will be edible, and drinks will be real. See, this is wine.¡± He wafted a bottle under Archmund¡¯s nose. Archmund didn¡¯t remember the socially acceptable drinking age and wasn¡¯t sure if this was bait. Thankfully, Mercy pressed forward instead of testing him. ¡°Get a bit deeper into the middle subtiers, and things stop making sense. Books will be smeared text, food will be made of sand, and bottles will have urine or whale oil. And at the deepest subtier, before you move to the next Tier, it¡¯s real but creepy. The books are in ancient languages, the food will be rotten, and the bottles will be blood or vinegar.¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­ odd. Why are Dungeons like that?¡± ¡°Go join the University of Imperial Mages if you want to find out. I just loot the things. Grab as much food as you can carry, we don¡¯t want to be caught without as we go down.¡±
A corridor leading to more rooms resembling wine cellars. A corridor leading to storehouses with nothing valuable in them. A corridor leading to a room full of chests ¡ª but they were filled with empty glass bottles. ¡°Is any of this stuff real?¡± Archmund asked. ¡°It¡¯s safe to eat. It¡¯s safe to use.¡± ¡°But where did it come from?¡± ¡°The Dungeon Storm did it, I think. If you really want to know¡­¡± ¡°Join the University of Imperial Mages. Yeah, yeah.¡± Another wine cellar. An empty stable. A dining room. ¡°Stop,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Is this it? Do we call the others, milord?¡± Zankto said. Mercy shook his head. ¡°Not yet. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s time. What do you make of this, Granavale?¡± He could guess many things about it. The dining room looked similar to his own as opposed to any grand ballrooms. Perhaps the restless dead had been influenced by their proximity to Granavale Manor, or perhaps his own ancestors were among them? But if he said any of that he would look like a psychotic overthinker. ¡°The, uh, restless dead wish to feast once more?¡± ¡°I meant tactically.¡± Mercy pointed into the room. ¡°Suspicious darkness under the table. Suspicious darkness on the chandelier. Five exits not counting the one we¡¯re in, all cloaked in¡ª¡± ¡°Suspicious darkness.¡± ¡°Good job at matching basic patterns.¡± ¡°Thanks, I heard that¡¯s what intelligence really is.¡± One of the guards ¡ª Vurl, if he remembered right ¡ª suppressed a snort. ¡°All told that¡¯s enough darkness for ten Monsters, but this high up they should be fairly weak.¡± ¡°Should? This seems ripe for tragic overestimation.¡± Mercy¡¯s face froze for a second before the cool, collected mask resumed. ¡°I¡¯m sure. Even if it was twenty, I could take them if I was alone. It¡¯s you I¡¯m concerned about. Men, keep him from killing himself.¡± Mercy drew a different Gem , cut into a dodecahedron, from his black robes. It glinted yellow in the light of Archmund¡¯s Ruby ¡ª probably a Topaz. ¡°What are Monsters, anyways?¡± Archmund said. ¡°If they¡¯re the restless spirits of the dead, why aren¡¯t they just ghosts?¡± Mercy didn¡¯t seem to hear him. All his focus was completely on the Topaz. Archmund realized that the soldiers were covering their ears, so he did the same ¡ª a sonic attack? Then the hair on his head stood up (it felt so odd, realizing that in the past he would¡¯ve had hair on his arms and legs too). With a dramatic buzz, somewhere between a bee and a jackhammer, a violent discharge of electricity, brilliant white, arced from Mercy¡¯s Topaz onto the chandelier, lightning streamers breaking away to shatter the dining table and strike at the shadows in the exits. The air smelled of ozone. Three small round objects fell from the chandelier. Archmund wouldn¡¯t have even noticed them if not for some hidden sense he didn¡¯t realize he had. The remaining shadows did not rest. They pulled together, pooling into six dense masses. They condensed further and further, taking a more and more defined shape. Six rotting skeletons, the flesh sloughing off their bones, stood before them. ¡°Those,¡± Mercy said, ¡°are Monsters.¡± 11 - Spooky Skeletons Six skeletons faced them, graying flesh sloughing off of blackened bone. It wasn¡¯t rot but imitation. Their movements were unnatural, not muscle pulling on bone but condensed shadows phasing through space in the forms they believed made sense. That was what Archmund thought, at least. Mercy smirked. ¡°This¡¯ll be easy.¡± As the skeletons staggered towards Mercy, drawn by the shock and awe of his lightning, the shadows pooled denser in their hands, as if shrouded in dark clouds of black mist. And from the darkness they formed daggers made of gleaming pink crystal. The Topaz floated in front of Mercy. A lightning bolt, direct and efficient, struck the nearest Monster. Electricity, bright and lethal, surged through it, making it look like one of those cartoon effects of people getting struck by lightning, mainly because they already didn¡¯t have flesh. The Monster fell to its knees. And then, though it tried to maintain the semblance of human form, it dissolved into ephemeral black mist that dissipated into nothing. Only its dagger remained, dropping to the ground with the sound of tinkling glass. That¡¯s it? Archmund thought to himself. Those are Monsters? They had been provoked. They lumbered towards Mercy, just a hair faster than before. Those knives would hurt, but¡­ they had to reach their targets first. They wouldn¡¯t get the chance. Mercy¡¯s smirk had only grown wider. He jumped atop the dining table, chortling with battle-lust, kicking plates and goblets onto the floor. The Topaz gleamed, shining like a beacon, before it lashed out with lethal lightning at all the remaining monsters. And were the shadows darker than before. Was that because of the brilliance of the light? Mercy¡¯s lightning danced across the five remaining skeletons, not lingering too long on each one. He was toying with them. The shadows beneath the dining table had grown deep. Something felt wrong. Mercy directed the lightning into concussive blast. With the sound of thunder, one skeleton was thrown back violently into a wall, its bones shattering into mist as it hit, dropping its crystal dagger. The shadows beneath the dining table grew dense as well. Archmund¡¯s Ruby grew hot before him. Mercy twisted his hand. His power turned from electric to magnetic. Two of the skeletons were thrown into each other, false bone against false bone, before being wrenched apart. Then again, and again, until they fell apart into bone piles without distinction. And then mist, and then nothing at all. The shadows grew harsh, and a skeletal hand clenched the table right next to Mercy¡¯s foot. Mercy didn¡¯t notice. He drew his power into the Topaz, gathering it for one final blast against the two skeletons he remaining before him. That unnoticed skeleton drew itself to its full height ¡ª easily eight feet tall. No dagger graced its hands, but a gleaming Gemstone Greatsword. And still Mercy did not notice. He was too busy gleefully toying with the two lesser skeletons, convinced they were the only ¡°threat¡±, as they lumbered towards him. And Archmund moved faster than thought. A surge of magic from that place beyond his senses; his Ruby thrummed, and it spun before him, like a drill bit going a thousand times a second. And the grand skeleton drew its sword back, aiming for Mercy¡¯s neck. And it swung. And Mercy unleashed the lightning in a blast of drums and ozone. And Archmund pushed forward, his magic channeling through his Ruby, into a single glowing beam, as orange as the sun ¡ª not the sun seen from Earth, but through telescopes in outer space, fierce and roiling with nuclear fusion. Mercy¡¯s lightning struck the two lesser skeletons. They turned into dark mist instantly, leaving behind only their Gemstone daggers. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Archmund¡¯s laser struck the grand skeleton in the head. The shadows melted in the heat. Where the laser touched, false flesh and blackened bone became fleeting, dispersing mist. The heat was radiating more than he¡¯d expected ¡ª he¡¯d put more power into it than he¡¯d ever practiced with, and his control was less precise in the heat of battle. It had been invisible when he¡¯d practiced last night, not this orange-red like the sun. And it had always been precise. But now the heat radiated outwards, dissolving not just the skull but the shoulders, the ribcage, the arms, until the grand skeleton was nothing more than a pair of collapsing leg bones. And did that even make sense, he wondered, for infrared light to transmit heat around itself instead of to whatever it hit, but that didn¡¯t really matter, since it had worked. The Gemstone sword flew past Mercy to smash into the wall, its wielder vaporized. The laser hit the chain of the chandelier, melting it. It fell straight onto Mercy¡¯s head. Crystal and metal splintered everywhere, but Mercy barely moved. Though it finally got his attention. Mercy turned around. ¡°Huh.¡± All of that, in under three seconds. Archmund¡¯s blood was pulsing through his veins he felt his skin would burst rather than hold it. Suddenly he felt as if in shock and very cold. He remembered, distantly, an odd fact: in his old life, he¡¯d never believed he¡¯d had stage fright, yet whenever he took the stage, his socks ended up stinking to high heaven with all the sweat and must he¡¯d shed. How odd. Mercy, face blank, walked up to Archmund. ¡°Milord¡ª¡± said Zankto, his voice uncertain, but Mercy waved him off. Perhaps this was the end of it all. Despite his best intentions, he¡¯d dropped a chandelier on a scion of House Omnio. And no matter how distant the relation, House Omnio took care of its own. Archmund didn¡¯t know what the penalty for attacking a distant imperial relation was, but he was glad that he knew that death was not the end. Then Mercy clasped him on the shoulder. ¡°Not bad at all. Does that move have a name?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I assume this was why you were so tired this morning,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Practicing this technique. Since if you had something so impressive, you would have shown me instead of telling me how you¡¯d never seen someone do real magic before.¡± Archmund chuckled nervously. ¡°Are you telling me that you named those techniques you showed me ¡®shield¡¯ and ¡®sphere¡¯? Very straightforward.¡± Mercy huffed. Was he pouting? ¡°I was five when I named them, thank you.¡± ¡°A true prodigy.¡± ¡°I am indeed.¡± Archmund was starting to calm down, and now the idea of naming his attacks felt rather silly. ¡°Do I have to?¡± ¡°You should. My teachers always told me that if you give your Skill a name it becomes far more consistent and much more easy to use.¡± He said Skill like it was a proper noun. Another game-like element to this world. Wonderful. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°No one knows.¡± Archmund frowned. This felt oddly reminiscent. ¡°And there isn¡¯t a spirit dwelling in each Gem that¡¯ll speak to me and tell me what the names of all my skills are?¡± ¡°What? No. Where would you get an idea like that?¡± Mercy said with a giggle. He vaguely remembered a show or comic about that sort of thing, except it was swords and not Gems, and there was also something about self-actualization? ¡°I¡¯ll call it ¡®Infrared Lance¡¯,¡± he decided. ¡°Below-red? Interesting.¡±
Mercy nodded to the soldiers. ¡°Check the exits. I think we¡¯re clear, but make sure before we start looting.¡± The men fanned out in pairs ¡ª Zantko with Wrest, Vurl with Yald. ¡°So,¡± Archmund said, watching as they checked each door for further shadows. ¡°Those were Monsters.¡± ¡°First time seeing them? What¡¯d you think?¡± Truthfully? He was a bit underwhelmed. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting them to be¡­ I mean, skeletons?¡± ¡°They are the restless spirits of the dead,¡± Mercy said. He picked up a goblet from the floor, which had been knocked off during the battle. ¡°Uncl¡ªthe Grand Commander thinks that the weakest of them cling to their humanity as hard as they can. So they try to keep their human form, but they can¡¯t. Something¡¯s missing, so they end up as ghosts or skeletons or animated corpses. And if they end up really weak, they end up taking the shapes of animals.¡± There was something vaguely Buddhist about that, but Archmund didn¡¯t remember enough about Buddhism to know for sure. Mercy sniffed the goblet and recoiled at whatever it had contained. ¡°That¡¯s why upper Tier 1 looks so much like the outside world ¡ª another attempt by the pitiful dead to cling to life, in a way that makes sense to them. It¡¯s close to the surface, so it¡¯s cellars.¡± ¡°What about the big skeleton?¡± Archmund asked. ¡°What was that? You¡¯re not going to tell me that giants used to walk this world, are you?¡± He meant it as a joke, but Mercy shrugged. ¡°Who knows? I wouldn¡¯t rule it out. But no, this one was probably just a spirit that¡¯s stronger than the others. Had more power than you¡¯d think, so it mimicked a legendary Monster it remembered from life.¡± A soldier walked up to them; they had finished securing the area and so had collected the spoils of war. ¡°Your spoils, milord.¡± He presented to Mercy six Gemstone daggers, three smooth spheres each the size of a marble, and the Gemstone sword. ¡°Each one of you gets a dagger as payment for being advance guards. The sword¡¯s his by right of conquest,¡± Mercy said, gesturing to Archmund. ¡°Wow. Wow. I can¡¯t use this,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Then strap it to your back.¡± Privately, there was something he thought was much more valuable. When he¡¯d started his magical training, he hadn¡¯t been aware of Attunement. Gems became Attuned to their users, but users also became Attuned to their Gems. If he had to describe it, it was like an addiction. Physiological. Psychological. It didn¡¯t matter. He could feel how his magic had worn a rut into the idea of ¡°only being used to produce light¡±, and how only a tremendous amount of strain and a great deal of psychological self-trickery had managed to turn that into focused heat. And that shaping had been caused in part by the way his Ruby had been cut. He needed one of those smooth, unshaped Gems. Something he could pour his power into without following an existing path. He heavily suspected there was a the potential for great power there. ¡°How about I trade you?¡± he said. ¡°This for one of those marbles.¡± ¡°Absolutely not,¡± Mercy said, his earlier warmth gone. That only confirmed Archmund¡¯s suspicions. ¡°Sorry. I mean¡­ wow, you really are a bumpkin,¡± Mercy said, pulling back. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ these are mine. If you want unshaped Gems of your own, you¡¯ll have to win them through the right of conquest.¡± 12 - A Matter of Economics The next time they saw a Monster, cloaked and formless in suspicious darkness, Archmund immediately raised his Ruby and blasted it with his Infrared Lance. It vaporized instantly, and a spherical Gem, larger than those of the skeletons, dropped to the floor with a tinkle. ¡°Damn,¡± Mercy said. ¡°I wasn¡¯t expecting you to get one that quickly. How¡¯d you even do that? I didn¡¯t see anything.¡± ¡°It¡¯s Infrared,¡± Archmund said. ¡°The color below red is hot, but invisible.¡± ¡°Hmmf. One of my tutors tried to demonstrate that once, I think. Using a prism. I didn¡¯t understand, then.¡± So this world had the ability to make reliable prisms ¡ª unsurprising for a culture with such an emphasis on gemcutting ¡ª but the value of a prism was presumably more than the modest Granavale County could afford. Which meant Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio was probably rich. Oh, and that this world had advanced its natural sciences enough to understand optics. His knowledge was at best a few hundred years ahead, not a few thousand. It was highly unlikely he could make massive economic improvements from basic innovations like crop rotation. But then again these things depended heavily on cultural context. Something obvious to the goose was nuts to the gander. He picked up the dropped Gem. It wasn¡¯t perfectly spherical: there was a slight deformation. It was small - smaller than his thumb. It felt cold to the touch, as if it wanted to drink his energy and his magic. ¡°So, what are you going to do with it?¡± Mercy said. ¡°Something so raw could buy enough grain to feed my Sacred Guard for a week.¡± Archmund probed the unshaped Gem with his magic. It accepted him instantly, drinking of his essence, as if it were a bottomless pit he could pour endlessly into. There were no cuts to direct and shape his magic, nor any outlets for transforming raw magic into light or heat or sound ¡ª only a blank canvas, a tabula rasa, on which he could create. ¡°Or you could do that,¡± Mercy said disapprovingly. ¡°You just made it almost worthless.¡± Archmund stopped pouring his magic into the unshaped Gem, albeit reluctantly. ¡°How does that make it worthless?¡± ¡°Because you¡¯ve started Attuning it to yourself!¡± It always came back to Attunement. ¡°How much is it worth now?¡± Mercy shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know, maybe about as much as one of those un-Attuned daggers?¡± Archmund turned to Zankto. He seemed to be the most senior of the four guards. ¡°How much is an un-Attuned dagger worth?¡± ¡°About a month¡¯s wage, milord.¡± ¡°Including room and board?¡± Vurl snorted. ¡°Who counts field provisions and tents as not room and board?¡­ Milord.¡± Archmund kind of liked this guy. Sarcastic despite the overwhelming difference in status and power. He could relate, though not in this life. ¡°Well, if I¡¯ve already ruined it, there¡¯s no reason not to keep going.¡± Archmund poured his magic into the unshaped Gem again. Mercy sighed. ¡°I suppose I did the same, once. But don¡¯t do too much.¡± He could feel his own magic clashing against the natural limitless possibility of the uncut sphere. Where once he had been as blank a slate as this, through practice and grind his magic had narrowed, constraining his prospective futures. That was simply a fact of life. The better you got at something, the harder it became to change to anything else.
He kept feeding the Gem as they kept moving through the Dungeon¡¯s corridors, which hadn¡¯t changed. They were the same mockery of the living world as before. He¡¯d proven himself, so he walked just a few steps behind Mercy, with the guards trailing them from five paces. Monster hunting had become a competition between the two of them. Whenever a lumbering mockery of an animated corpse appeared before them, they competed to destroy it and claim its Gem. So far, not counting the initial seven in the dining chamber, the count was seventeen for Mercy and ten for Archmund. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. These Gems were valuable and would certainly boost his family¡¯s fortunes, but they were too small to cut into anything practical. His Ruby dwarfed them in size. Frankly, he still didn¡¯t fully understand the economics of this. ¡°I really thought there would be more,¡± Archmund mused. ¡°With how dangerous everyone thought this place would be.¡± ¡°We¡¯re here early,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Dungeons get more dangerous with time, as the Monsters from the depths make their way upwards. The ones up here expended most of their power building a pathway up.¡± They walked in near silence when they weren¡¯t slaying monsters, and Mercy kept glancing back to check on him. ¡°You¡¯re not still pouring your magic into that unshaped Gem, are you?¡± Archmund stopped in his tracks. So did everyone else. ¡°What else would I be doing?¡± ¡°My tutors told me that pouring magic into a blank Gem is bad for your progress with other Gems. Which is especially bad if it¡¯s a small one that you can¡¯t repurpose for something else.¡± ¡°By how much?¡± ¡°Much less than it takes to make progress. Why does it feel like you¡¯re trying to negotiate with the fundamental Systems of the Universe?¡± Archmund shrugged haplessly. This was something to review later. He pulled out his Ruby and shot an Infrared Lance into the wall. The Ruby gladly accepted his magic, and without the heat of battle his control was fine. He burned a smiley face into the wall of the dungeon, barely creating any ambient heat, a much more controlled use than the fire-and-fury laser cannon he¡¯d unleashed in battle. ¡°Should I be impressed?¡± Mercy said. ¡°How could I possibly know?¡± Archmund said. ¡°I¡¯m from a backwater. Practically a country bumpkin.¡± They kept walking. ¡°I¡¯m just saying. If you keep doing that, you¡¯ll undo all of your progress,¡± Mercy said. ¡°The way you¡¯re talking, it¡¯s like most people only ever pick up one Gem in their lives and master it.¡± He¡¯d seen Mercy use two Gems, after all. The Gem of shielding, and the Topaz of Lightning. ¡°For a minor noble like Granavale? That¡¯s quite likely. If you want my advice, get so good at using your Ruby that you¡¯ve mastered light or heat or below-red. Then it won¡¯t matter how poor the Dungeon leaves Granavale County¡ª you¡¯ll be able to be a courtier or the mage of some other noble family. There¡¯s always a place for specialized mages.¡± Archmund didn¡¯t like how that sounded. This was what he got for comparing this new second chance at life to ¡°So Good They Can¡¯t Ignore You¡± by Cal Newport. Obviously the way to not being tied to the fortunes of the land was to get so good at magic the world couldn¡¯t ignore you. Obviously there was no way to live both a quiet, humble, peaceful life and one spent delving into the deep powers of the universe. Obviously not. Mercy held up a hand. ¡°You see that?¡± He pointed at an engraving on the wall. It looked like Zalgo text, or maybe Wingdings font. Archmund frowned. ¡°Can you read it?¡± Mercy snorted. ¡°No. It means we¡¯ve transitioned into the Middle Subtier. The Monsters here aren¡¯t as pitifully tied to the idea of the outside world.¡± ¡°Meaning?¡± ¡°The Monsters in the Upper Subtier are the ones that tried to escape the hardest, because they value life no matter what it means, which is why they take on the most humanoid forms and wasted the most power. Here, though, the Monsters have abandoned their aspirations for mortality, which is why they¡¯ll look more¡­ inhuman. But because they¡¯ve given up wasting energy on climbing impossibly to the surface¡­ they¡¯ll be stronger. ¡± ¡°Stronger in that¡­¡± ¡°They¡¯ll be able to manifest more Gemstone gear, of different purposes and causes, much of it worthless. The shapes they adopt are¡­ alien, to be frank. You or I wouldn¡¯t be able to make any sense of them, for they¡¯ve abandoned human form. And they have greater power to draw on. You understand what I¡¯m saying?¡± ¡°Kill them faster, and they¡¯ll drop bigger Gems,¡± Archmund said. Mercy smirked. ¡°You really think it will be that easy?¡± They pressed onwards. Archmund paid close attention to the structure of the Dungeon around them. The stone and compacted dirt of the uppermost subtier gave way to rougher, more natural looking stone. He ran a hand over the wall. ¡°Feels natural.¡± ¡°Might as well be,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Usually Monsters burrow out of the ground searching for a way up. The Upper Monsters expend their power trying to break into real basements and shape the world around them. The Lower Monsters try to preserve what they once had in life, and they have the power to do so. But Middle Monsters don¡¯t really care. So they just wander around aimlessly like ants or termites. This part is the worst kind of maze you could possibly stumble into.¡± Archmund walked for a bit. He supposed it made sense. Already, his mind was drawing analogies and connections to attitudes towards death, or perhaps society. Some clung to the familiar so hard that they created mimicries and mockeries of it. Some knew what they wanted and the power to achieve it and made everyone else¡¯s life a pain when they did so. But many people just didn¡¯t care. They wandered through life and then wasted away. Like the silent shades in the Fields of Asphodel, in Greek myth. It all felt a little too clean, a little too convenient. Frankly, it lent credence to his fear that this whole world was his dying dream, which meant he fell into the category of people who clung to the familiar far too hard. ¡°How do you know all of this?¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m a genius prodigy,¡± said Mercy, a bit too quickly. ¡°That explains why you remember it. Not why you¡¯d be told it in the first place,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Honestly, seriously, who are you? Why are you here, really? If you¡¯re this smart and this powerful why the hell are you going on suicide missions into opened Dungeons instead of sitting up there with the Omnio elite¡ª¡± ¡°I am letting you come along with me as a courtesy¡ª¡± There was a high-pitched screech, bearing sorrow and terror. Their four guards rushed before them, raising their arms in defense. There was a Monster. But it wasn¡¯t like the skeletons from before. No, this one hurt to look at. It had tentacles in sevenfold symmetry, a writhing star, made of shadow that mimicked rot around a pitch-black hole rimmed with knife-like teeth. It screeched again, latched its tentacles to the walls, and lunged towards them. 13 - Seven-Fingered Starbeast Archmund panicked. ¡°SPHERE!¡± Mercy shouted. He raised his hand, and a sea-green bubble enveloped the both of them, just in time to stop the Monster from choking Archmund¡¯s spoke. ¡°You shout your Skill names?¡± ¡°We have bigger problems right now,¡± Mercy said sourly. ¡°Like this Seven-Fingered Starbeast.¡± The Seven-Fingered Starbeast ¡ª a name that felt made up on the spot ¡ª wrapped its tendrils around their shield, trying to break in. The soldiers fell upon it. All four had drawn their swords, with blades of solid blue crystal that pulsed gently with magic. They hacked at the Starbeast¡¯s tendrils, making slight gashes in the blackened rubbery flesh. ¡°Are they going to be okay? Being out there?¡± ¡°It¡¯s what they¡¯re there for,¡± Mercy said, though his eyes tracked all the soldiers carefully. He reached into his waistpouch, feeling each tinkling Gem, until he pulled out his Topaz. The Seven-Finger Starbeast still stood strong. One tentacle fought each of the soldiers, while three slammed and slammed and slammed against Mercy¡¯s protective sphere. ¡°I¡¯m going to drop this on three,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Get ready.¡± Archmund was fucking terrified. Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio had mastered the Diamond of Guard before ten years of age. The soldiers were clad in Gemstone armor that made them closer to heroes than men. He had a heat gun. ¡°I¡¯ll die!¡± ¡°Oh, right,¡± Mercy said with his back turned to Archmund. Archmund swore he could hear his eyes roll. ¡°I¡¯ll guard you myself and keep those tentacles from squeezing you in half.¡± ¡°Wonderful. Thanks a bunch.¡± The Starbeast had grabbed two of the soldiers around the waist and was squeezing hard. The other two soldiers were too busy fending off their own tentacles to help. The Gemstone armor held strong, keeping them alive, but they were immobilized. ¡°One, two, three.¡± The Protective Sphere dropped, slithering back into Mercy¡¯s hand. Mercy grabbed Archmund by the shirt collar and threw both of them to the floor, rolling. Three of the Starbeast¡¯s tentacles smashed into the ground where they¡¯d just stood. Mercy¡¯s Topaz floated independently in the air. ¡°Lightning Lance!¡± Mercy shouted. Once more the air smelled of ozone. A bolt of lightning traced a path through the air, from the floating Topaz to core of the Starbeast. It spasmed, its limbs going wild. The two soldiers in its grasp cried in pain as its grip clenched, before breaking free as it relaxed. But they barely had a second to rest. As Archmund watched, darkness pooled upon the skin of the Starbeast, swirling and pulsating until it took form. Its skin became tacky and nonreflective, thick and sticky and pliant. Its hide had become rubber. ¡°It¡¯s mindless,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Draws on its Gem to resist what hurts it hardest. Seen its ilk before! Men, strike!¡± The four soldiers slashed at the now-rubber Starbeast with their Gemstone swords. Their cuts welted its skin; it bleated in pain, its cry between a sheep and a screaming child. And in response the darkness pooled further; its hide grew thicker and thicker layers of rubber. They kept cutting at it, and it kept regenerating. Mercifully, they were keeping it occupied enough for it not to lash out at them with its tentacles. Were those tentacles getting smaller and weaker? And that implied¡­ ¡°What about its Gem? Are we depleting it?¡± ¡°You have strange priorities, Granavale.¡± Mercy¡¯s breathing had steadied; this plan was working. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°It¡¯s going to kill us if we don¡¯t kill it first. If you wouldn¡¯t mind helping¡­?¡± ¡°Get your men out of there.¡± Mercy nodded, and the soldiers fell back to guard them. He raised his own Ruby and fed it his magic. The impulse, though he had learned it just that morning, felt like reflex. ¡°Infrared Lance.¡± The Seven-Fingered Starbeast thrashed ¡ª Mercy grabbed Archmund by the collar again and jerked him back, as the soldiers held the line as they hacked at the incoming flailing tentacles. There was no flash of light, which would have been wasteful. There was a squeal, a sizzle, and the acrid smell of burning rubber. There was a pinpoint hole through the heart of the Starbeast where the Infrared Lance had pierced. ¡°Did I kill it?¡± He knew he spoke too soon. As they watched, the hole knit back together, shadows clotting and congealing like tar. Then more shadows gathered over its body, the rubber distorting, transforming, transmuting ¡ª ¡°Ceramic,¡± Archmund said, recognizing the distinct dull albedo, like the pottery industry of Granavale County. ¡°Ceramic armor plates.¡± Inwardly he was cursing. Ceramic could be very heat resistant ¡ª it was the reason NASA used it for plating Space Shuttles, to protect against the immense friction heat upon reentering from outer space. (Outer space, Starbeast ¡ª in another context, in another time, these thoughts would have inspired him. But now, he regretfully was focused on staying alive.) ¡°Like clay?¡± Mercy said. He threw his Topaz into the air, and when it reached the apex of its climb, it released a lightning bolt at the Starbeast. Its tentacles spasmed, but its core remained steady. Then, ceramic armor plates calcified upon the Starbeast¡¯s tentacles as well. They would hit harder, would resist the lightning, but unless Archmund¡¯s eyes were playing tricks on them they seemed to move slower. Still far faster than him, though. ¡°Shit,¡± Mercy said. He pulled Archmund out of the way of an erstwhile tentacle. Archmund rubbed his neck. It was starting to hurt from all the whiplash. Mercy took notice, and gestured at the soldiers. The four soldiers returned to a defensive stance, like a turtle¡¯s shell guarding Mercy and Archmund. They parried the tentacles as they lashed, far more effectively than before. ¡°Why didn¡¯t we start with that?¡± ¡°Because I wanted clear shots at it. Maybe if you tried to burn off its arms¡­¡± Never mind that those clear shots would¡¯ve gotten Archmund killed. But then again, he supposed that if they¡¯d killed the damn thing they wouldn¡¯t have to keep dodging. ¡°How real is it?¡± Archmund asked. ¡°What kind of question is that supposed to be?¡± He wasn¡¯t asking if this was real life as opposed to a dream or a simulation, but he wasn¡¯t sure how to word it in a way that didn¡¯t make him sound completely insane. ¡°Does a Monster¡¯s body obey physical laws¡± seemed like a straightforward question, but it bore millennia of assumptions. On Earth, ancient Greek philosophers like Aristotle understood that there must have been some rules that governed the physical world, but Sir Isaac Newton only formalized the Laws of Motion two millennia later. This world had magic rocks that let ten year olds shoot invisible lasers and lightning bolts, which possibly led to problems in developing an internally-consistent understanding of physics. ¡°I¡¯m waiting!¡± Mercy shouted, as the soldiers let out a battlecry as they beat away another barrage from the tentacles. Every other second or so a spare tentacle would burst free from the mass, and the soldiers would reflexively fall upon it. ¡°Doesthemonster¡¯sbodyobeyphysicallaws,¡± he spat out hurriedly as the soldiers staggered back. ¡°Yes! Of course it does!¡± shouted Mercy, his Topaz levitating just above his shoulder. It gleamed with unearthly magical light. ¡°How else would it move?¡± He resisted the urge to retort ¡°by phasing through space in a way that it thought made sense.¡± That was just his assumption; he¡¯d sound crazy if he said it. ¡°What do you want me to say, Granavale? If you set a Monster on fire, it burns. If you cut it, it bleeds. If you break it, it shatters. What more could you want? They¡¯re creatures of instinct and memory. They act like the world they remember.¡± That was good enough for him. All living things needed water to live. Water filled every cell in a body. A Monster that mimicked the living would mimic its water. If the dead sought to live, they would drink, and store the water. That water could be boiled. Crudely, by his Infrared Laser. But what if he drew his power back even further? Stretched the wavelength even farther than infrared? What might that do? In his past life, a ubiquitous invention in kitchens the world over was the microwave oven. This had many knock-on effects on society, like reduced labor in the kitchen, worsened diet from highly processed foods, and the infantilization of generations from the presence of a magic box that could produce hot food at will. Had he been a misanthrope in his prior life? More applicable to the current moment, a microwave oven emitted ¡°microwaves¡± ¡ª electromagnetic radiation that vibrated at an even longer wavelength than infrared rays. Infrared light had wavelengths less than the head of a pin; microwaves, despite their name, had wavelengths the size of his fist. Microwaves were just the right size to vibrate water molecules directly. They dumped energy into water molecules extremely effectively. With enough microwave radiation, water could get so hot it would boil. And it was lower energy than infrared. He knew how magic flowed through his Ruby; he knew the snap as the flux was interrupted, the bulbing of his magic into a parcel, and the flow of the energy let loose when he cast his Infrared Lance. He threw his Ruby into the air and fired off a quick shot. It did nothing, barely warming the Starbeast¡¯s ceramic armor plating. That wasn¡¯t the point. He focused on how his power flowed through the spinning Ruby, how it flowed into the channels that converted magic to light, how it slowed down from visible light to infrared, and then how it was twisted to fire in a single laser. He knew what to do to slow it down even further. And he fired a burst of microwave energy. 14 - Slaying the Starbeast The Seven-Fingered Starbeast screeched in agony, its bellowing voice somehow like a crying baby and a howling wolf and a she-goat all at once. Archmund¡¯s Ruby floated above him, Mercy, and the four soldiers, emitting a eerie drone. An awfully familiar one, that sounded like a¡ª ¡°Microwave,¡± he muttered. This spell wasn¡¯t a ¡®lance¡¯, by any means, but an ongoing pulse, his magic thrumming and ebbing and thrumming. A channeled spell. Mercy¡¯s face was gravely neutral, which Archmund was starting to suspect was a result of a focused effort to suppress emotions. The soldiers were muttering. This was probably a very disturbing sight. Microwaves were invisible, so from their perspective he was twirling his Ruby in the air and causing a Monster unimaginable pain. ¡°What are you doing, Granavale?¡± Mercy asked, voice honeyed. Now that Archmund thought about it, at no point had Mercy introduced himself as male. Not that it mattered. ¡°I think I¡¯m boiling it from within?¡± Mercy blinked very deliberately. The soldiers blanched and started backing away. ¡°That won¡¯t hit us, will it?¡± Yald said. ¡°It shouldn¡¯t,¡± Archmund said with a frown. ¡°As long as you don¡¯t stand between the Gem and the Starbeast.¡± The soldiers adjusted themselves so Archmund was a little more exposed to the danger of the tentacles, and they were less exposed to his death ray. With every passing moment, the Starbeast¡¯s tentacles shrank visibly as it drew its power towards its core to regenerate itself. Soon they were nothing more than stubs, and then, gone. Mercy let out a puff of breath. It seemed he really had wanted to harvest those tentacles. And still Archmund kept his attack going. There were ways to shield against microwaves, of course. Otherwise microwave ovens couldn¡¯t exist because their emitted waves wouldn¡¯t remain contained in one space. Metal could trap the waves, concentrate them, and block them entirely. A sufficiently large reservoir of water could absorb the energy, blunting its impact, though it would heat and boil if the power was great enough. But as he watched the beast thrash to and fro, now reduced to a stubby point of a head and seven nubby tendrils, he doubted it could ever imagine such possibilities. You could stop electricity and heat from coursing your skin by turning them to an insulating substance. Physical blows you stopped by regenerating, or becoming durable, or becoming flexible, or ¡ª if you were confident ¡ª becoming immune to pain. But pain was a valuable signal. It told you that something was wrong. How did you stop an invisible beam that caused you pain you could not understand, that seared your flesh right below your skin and boiled your organs? What instinct, what reflex could possibly make a pain so deep and profound it could only be a curse go away? The Starbeast gave one final, whining keen ¡ª and kept giving it. Screaming in pain, like lobsters being boiled. But it had expended so much of its power on useless adaptive defense that it could no longer move. ¡°Granavale, stop casting your spell,¡± Mercy said. ¡°I don¡¯t want that to happen to my men.¡± Archmund did so, and his Ruby dropped into his palm. It wasn¡¯t at all warm to the touch. Mercy nodded, and the soldiers strode forward. Together, they raised their mighty Gemstone swords and sliced the Starbeast apart. The sundered pieces twitched one last time before falling still forever. At their core was a Gem. The adrenaline faded, and Archmund suddenly became very aware of his blood roaring in his ears, the shakiness of his knees, and the dryness of his mouth. The air smelled like microwaved shrimp. Was it odd that was why he wanted to throw up? ¡°If you can help it,¡± Mercy said, nose wrinkled, ¡°Don¡¯t use that skill for Monster hunting.¡±
They had broken the Starbeast in two, but now they had to butcher it and make use of its corpse. More precisely, the soldiers did the grisly work ¡ª Wrest took the lead ¡ª while Mercy and Archmund assessed the spoils. ¡°So¡­ a ¡®Seven-Fingered Starbeast¡¯,¡± said Archmund. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve heard of one of those before. They¡¯re not in the Holy Books, nor in Ardur¡¯s Fables.¡± ¡°I made the name up,¡± said Mercy, matter-of-factly. ¡°Are there Five-Fingered Starbeasts or Eight-Fingered Starbeasts?¡± ¡°There could be. It depends on how common the impulse is in Monsters.¡± Archmund frowned. This was very unsatisfying. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°This is one of the amorphous-types,¡± Mercy said. ¡°We get a lot of those in Tier 1 Mid Subtier. Beasts driven on instinct. Once you get to the Lower Tier, the Monsters start mimicking beasts of myth and legend. Dragons. Chimeras. Cerberoses.¡± ¡°And¡­ do those beasts actually exist, or are they always being mimicked by Monsters?¡± ¡°What would the difference be?¡± What would the difference be, between a dragon that hatched from an egg and grew up to fly, breath fire, and hoard treasure, against a restless spirit mimicking a dragon in that it flew, breathed fire, and hoarded treasure? Other than the origin, if a dragon broke out of a Dungeon and terrorized the countryside, who could know the difference? But where did the myths and legends come from, then? Were there true dragons once, or were there only ever stories being played out by restless ghosts? His thoughts were interrupted by a cry from the soldiers. ¡°Milord!¡± Zankto said. The butchery was halfway done. They had dug out the Starbeast¡¯s Gem; now, they were dissecting its carapace, which fell apart in layers. Zankto presented the Starbeast¡¯s Gem to them. Mercy raised it to his eye, squeezed with his black-gloved hand, and gave a long, disappointed sigh. ¡°You can have this one, Granavale.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t want it? It looks perfectly round to me.¡± The soldiers were picking apart the Starbeast¡¯s corpse. Strictly speaking, the kill had been a team effort, which in practice meant that the final distribution was up to Mercy and Archmund. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ flaccid, is the word I would use.¡± ¡°Flaccid.¡± ¡°Lacking in volume of spirit. Empty. Deflated¡ª¡± ¡°I know what flaccid means¡­ for things that aren¡¯t Gems.¡± Mercy¡¯s face scrunched up. ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain to someone who¡¯s only ever used one Gem,¡± he said. ¡°You corrupted it.¡± ¡°I corrupted it?¡± ¡°You remember the basic rule of how big the Gems are.¡± ¡°The faster you kill a Monster, the less power it uses on adapting, and the larger its Gem is.¡± ¡°Right. And you saw how those skeletons manifested their Gem as daggers.¡± ¡°And you can¡¯t melt down Gem gear because¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s horribly wasteful. Why bother melting and recasting, when a dropped piece of Gem gear¡ª¡± ¡°Can catapult a peasant to a hero without needing modifications. Right, right.¡± There was probably a similar reason why you couldn¡¯t melt down many small gems to forge or cast a larger Gem that could actually be useful. But then again maybe it was possible, and this was just a marker of status. In his old life, diamonds had a status as the most valuable gemstones. It was possible to make synthetic diamonds in laboratories, but because of massive propagandized advertisement campaigns from the natural diamond industry, the masses preferred to buy diamonds mined from the earth using slave labor. This was just like that. ¡°Well, anyways,¡± Mercy said, dropping the Starbeast¡¯s Gem into Archmund¡¯s outstretched hand, ¡°This is closer to Gem gear than a raw Gem. Your magic should be strong enough to know what I mean.¡± The instant the Starbeast Gem touched his skin, he felt its foreign magic. It wasn¡¯t a blank slate, an untapped well of power that he could pour his own over and shape and be shaped by. There was an indelible essence, wisps of instinct and memory and feeling, but more prominently was an echo of a searing, boiling pain, that wormed beneath the skin and heated it, just below, just below, just below, and no matter how much armor, how much thickness, how much shield grew, how much the skin went to shadow and was remade anew, the pain wouldn¡¯t go away¡ª He dropped the Gem. ¡°You felt it.¡± ¡°Its death throes?¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t heard it described like that before,¡± Mercy said, ¡°but it fits. That Gem isn¡¯t raw, despite how it looks. It¡¯s changed to push back against whatever you did to it. If it has any power now, it¡¯ll be related to that.¡± Archmund was surprised that his microwaves hadn¡¯t penetrated deeper. Immense, debilitating pain at the skin level was one thing, but honestly he¡¯d hoped to boil the Starbeast from within entirely. The damage had been skin-deep, and the only reason it had worked¡ª ¡°It was an animal,¡± Archmund said, ¡°and its primary instinct was to avoid pain.¡± He¡¯d read a novel about this once. ¡°An animal caught in a trap would gnaw its own leg off to avoid pain.¡± A human being transcended. Then later on in the novel the protagonist became a messiah, killed billions of people across a vast and unknowable universe, and died ignobly as a vagrant in the desert. He didn¡¯t want to do that part. The Starbeast had killed itself, cannibalizing its power to try to make the pain stop. A smarter creature wouldn¡¯t be nearly as susceptible to pure pain. ¡°That Gem will only be good for whatever that Monster tried to do to save its life. It¡¯s useless to me.¡± ¡°Milord,¡± said Wrest in frustration. ¡°Nothing of use.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± ¡°Nothing recognizable.¡± Archmund turned his gaze towards the butchered corpse of the Starbeast. It was a boneless creature. It struck him that by the time it died, it had become just ineffective protective shell ¡ª a thick carapace and barely anything that could be described as flesh. ¡°Is it safe to touch?¡± he asked. ¡°Should be, milord,¡± said Wrest. Zantko smacked him on the back, and Wrest straightened up. ¡°I mean yes, milord. Definitely safe.¡± Archmund touched the shredded carapace. It was an odd mixture of ceramic and rubber, somehow. Sticky and flexible like rubber, yet cool and durable like ceramic. Not too heavy to the touch. He pointed his Ruby at a flat spot and fired an Infrared Lance at it; it didn¡¯t burn, and the heat didn¡¯t conduct far. ¡°Could I make clothes out of this?¡± he wondered out loud, mostly to himself. ¡°Clothes. Well. Goddess, who knows?¡± Mercy said. ¡°I would¡¯ve thought it was useless.¡± Archmund gathered as much as he could hold, and the soldiers helpfully grabbed it for their own packs. Hopefully, it would be enough for at least a cape, which would protect him from electricity and heat. He lightly probed it with his magic and found it rebuffed; the Monster had permanently transmuted the material from Gemstuff. ¡°I guess that¡¯s a silver lining. You can use it,¡± Mercy said, with a fair amount of grumbling. ¡°You have to kill Monsters that don¡¯t die easily in specific ways. Hit them with ice magic and they¡¯ll grow heat glands. Hit them with strong physical strikes and they¡¯ll make very strong armor plating. And if you can shock them hard enough with electricity, you can get rubber out of them. It¡¯s a very rare resource.¡± ¡°I thought it literally grew on trees.¡± ¡°Where under heaven would you get that idea from?¡± In his old world, rubber literally had grown on trees.
The rest of their journey through the Middle Subtier was uneventful. This time, they didn¡¯t bicker, and so they avoided drawing the attention of any Monsters. Archmund was hopeful that if he practiced a bit more and came down with one or two allies as backup, he could take out the rest himself. ¡°Is this how it usually goes?¡± ¡°It always depends on the Dungeon. Your Granavale lands have always been peaceful. True danger is in the depths.¡± And soon enough, they came to a clearing. ¡°Shhhh.¡± Mercy held up a fist to stop. Beyond the opening, there was a grand hall, with twin staircases running up to a balcony. It looked much like Granavale Manor. ¡°That¡¯s the threshold,¡± Mercy said. ¡°When we go from the middle subtier to the lower subtier. The instant we cross into that room, there will be Monsters. I hope you¡¯re ready.¡± 15 - Through the Looking Glass A luxurious red carpet. A crystal chandelier. Twin staircases running up to a balcony with large windows that looked out into stone darkness. Deep in the Dungeon, there was a manor. But not just any manor ¡ª it was the grand entrance to Granavale Manor, down to the number of balusters on the staircases and the pattern of the chandelier. All visible through a hole in the wall. Archmund took a pebble from the ground and threw it into the manor. It bounced ¡ª just once, before thudding to a stop on the carpet. Then a shadow rushed across his field of vision and whisked it away into nothingness. ¡°What was that for?¡± Mercy said, with a cruel smirk. ¡°I wanted to know what we were up against,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Throwing a pebble won¡¯t help with that,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Zankto, I think we set up base here. I¡¯ll contact the men and tell them to come straight here. No point clearing the upper subtiers.¡± ¡°Yes, sir!¡± Mercy pulled out yet another crystal. He spoke a short, clipped message into it, too low for Archmund to overhear. Meanwhile, the men made camp, pulling out sleeping rolls from their bags. They didn¡¯t set a fire, which was probably healthier, though they pulled out their waterskins and packs of dried crackers. The sight of the food made him take pause. He¡¯d lost track of the time, down here in this lightless Dungeon, but surely it had been several hours. And yet he wasn¡¯t tired, hungry or thirsty, and he didn¡¯t need to piss. ¡°Why aren¡¯t I tired? Why aren¡¯t any of you tired?¡± Mercy gave him a one-over. ¡°You aren¡¯t. I hadn¡¯t realized. You¡¯re more of a natural than I thought.¡± ¡°That¡­ doesn¡¯t sound right.¡± ¡°If I may interject, how much have you practiced with that Gem, milord?¡± said Zankto. ¡°Quite a bit.¡± ¡°I reckon it¡¯s like this Gem armor. When you first get it, it sucks you dry, makes you feel slow, but then once you¡¯ve got the hang of it, it keeps you strong.¡± Archmund nodded. It made sense; each of the soldiers was Attuned to their armor, after all. Gems took your magic and stored it, and then that magic could feed back into you to compensate for fatigue or hunger. It seemed a little overpowered, but he wasn¡¯t complaining. ¡°So why bring food?¡± ¡°It¡¯s still better to eat, milord,¡± Vurl said. ¡°Otherwise you¡¯ll be sick as all hell for a week after a Dungeon delve.¡± He tossed a biscuit to Archmund. It was barely salty, dry, and almost cracked his teeth. ¡°You¡¯ll want to soak it, milord,¡± Vurl said, his voice amused. It was hardtack, and it was inedible unless wet. ¡°Alright,¡± Mercy said. ¡°With the path we¡¯ve blazed, it should take them about eight hours to get here. I suggest we get some rest.¡±
He genuinely couldn¡¯t sleep. Eight hours until the men would get here, four of which had passed. Considering how much they¡¯d backtracked, they¡¯d been in the Dungeon for twelve. Though the adrenaline had surged and then abated, and his nervous shakes had calmed, there was still an agitation in the bit of his stomach, a tightness in his chest, that kept his mind sharp. And a backflow of energy ¡ª his magic passively sustaining him from his Ruby. He couldn¡¯t draw it out at will for a sudden wind, like a spurt from a hose. No, it was like the tides surging backwards up a river delta. ¡°You should sleep,¡± Mercy said. Archmund hadn¡¯t heard him approach. ¡°Can¡¯t.¡± ¡°You should rest at least,¡± Mercy said, and his voice wasn¡¯t harsh or sarcastic for once. ¡°You might feel awake, but¡­¡± This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Archmund waited. ¡°Those men are sworn to protect us, Granavale. To die for us. A thousand of their lives for even one drop of noble blood.¡± His voice was sad. He pulled his hood down, revealing his hair in a bun. He undid the bun, and Archmund was shocked to see the long blonde hair fall to Mercy¡¯s waist. ¡°What do you think of them?¡± Mercy said, voice neutral. ¡°They¡¯re good men,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Zankto¡¯s got a good head on his shoulders. Vurl¡¯s funny. I think he has contempt towards the whole idea of nobles.¡± ¡°Yeah. I hope he doesn¡¯t slip up when he¡¯s around anyone who would care.¡± ¡°You really care about them,¡± Archmund said, slowly. ¡°Every commander cares about her men,¡± Mercy said. ¡°It would be monstrous not to.¡± ¡°You thought I would get them killed.¡± ¡°I always get one of them killed,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Not the small group, but in what¡¯s to come. They take their vows seriously. They¡¯d rather throw away their lives for their vows of honor rather than let their commander be hurt.¡± ¡°Who knew Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio could command such loyalty.¡± ¡°Who knew, indeed,¡± said Mercy, voice somber. ¡°Who knew.¡± ¡°Do you wish they wouldn¡¯t do that?¡± Mercy looked at him. ¡°I was closer to my first cohort of soldiers. It would have been two or three years ago.¡± ¡°You were going into Dungeons when you were seven?¡± ¡°Right about.¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­ very young.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not like this backwater. For the Imperial family, competition is fierce and starts at birth.¡± Imperial family. Stirpstredecim de Omnio. Thirteenth branch of Omnio. Of course. His suspicion was confirmed. ¡°Which tutors your parents choose, your early childhood achievements, your magical prowess, your class rank ¡ª if you don¡¯t have everything, you¡¯ll never be taken seriously as a contender for the Imperial Throne.¡± That changed the equation. Of course the men of the Sacred Guard were willing to die for a contender to the throne. If an Imperial Prince ¡ª or, it was seeming increasingly likely, Imperial Princess ¡ª were to die on an increasingly dangerous quest, their lives would be forfeit anyways. He wondered if Mercy knew that. But it galled him. Conspicuous consumption. In his past life, the way the rich showed off their status was through buying and using luxuries that they didn¡¯t need. Mansions, yachts, private personal planes. The game of status was so vital and necessary that many of the ¡°middle class¡± would go into debt to pay for their unnecessary symbols of status and power. Yet this world was even worse. Branches of the Imperial Family needed so badly to show that their scions, their offspring were the worthy contender to the title of Emperor or Empress that they were willing to throw away lives. And those men gladly agreed, because they could gain superhuman strength and power and luxury in the process. ¡°Sometimes I¡¯m jealous,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Getting to grow up out here, and not knowing about any of that. Not knowing what any of that¡¯s like. Not having the ghosts of your ancestors scream knowledge into your brain when you¡¯re four years old.¡± ¡°Is that why you don¡¯t speak like a kid?¡± She gave him a strange look. ¡°I guess so. But you don¡¯t speak like a kid either, really.¡± ¡°Oh, yeah, uh, it was the Crylaxan Plague.¡± Technically, that was true. Mercy seemed to buy it and gave a long sigh. ¡°Sometimes I wonder if I could¡¯ve turned away from that, chose to live a different life, maybe settled down on a farm with a nice husband.¡± ¡°Husband¡­?¡± ¡°Yes¡­? Oh.¡± Mercy let out a long, belabored sigh. ¡°You thought I was a boy.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to explain it. I imagine a squad of men take your commands more seriously if they think you¡¯re a boy.¡± ¡°They die for you more recklessly if they think you¡¯re a girl.¡± Her voice was hard and gloomy. It was clear she wouldn¡¯t say any more. ¡°You could still¡­ change where your life is going?¡± Archmund said, feeling like the world¡¯s biggest hypocrite. It was advice he wished he¡¯d been given in his old life, in that world of cubicles and screens and spreadsheets. To change his life, turn away from the rat race, and live a life he¡¯d dreamed of. Whatever that was. ¡°And let down everyone? My sponsors, my parents, and my men? It¡¯s just a dream for a reason, Granavale. It¡¯s a nice dream from a country boy out here in the sticks. But for an Imperial heir it¡¯s literal suicide.¡±
Mercy said she wouldn¡¯t sleep. Instead, she meditated, sitting cross-legged with Gems in each hand. Archmund watched her. He admired her for being able to meditate for two hours straight, though her head was starting to droop sideways in the haze of sleep, and she might¡¯ve been drooling. She had been cold, the logic of an elitist and the necessary cruelty of a battlefield commander, but those roles had been forced upon her, even if she was good at them. He couldn¡¯t, in good conscience, let good men die because of him. If Zankto, Vurl, Wrest or Yald died saving him, he¡¯d never shake off the guilt. What burdens did she carry? If he was being honest, he feared death less than was healthy. This was his second life. If he died, there might well be another. And he wasn¡¯t nearly as valued or loved as her. The men would die for her out of love. They would die for him out of duty. He hated that idea. He remembered what it was like to live life a certain way because he held to a duty given by someone else. If he could take out as many Monsters as possible, then he might save a great many lives. His Infrared Lance was lethally efficient, a one-shot kill on most Monsters on this floor. Mercy¡¯s power was undeniably great. Zankto, Wrest, Yald, and Vurl could hold their own, because they were the elite, the cream of the crop. Each had almost a full set of Gem gear, compared to some of the Sacred Guard who still used leather and metal. This wouldn¡¯t be a last stand. It would be tactical culling. He threw another pebble through the corridor into the Dungeon manor. Again, it bounced once on the carpet. Again, a shadow surged, and the pebble vanished. He threw another. Again, it bounced before thudding to a stop. Again, the shadow took it. He readied his Ruby. The tetrahedral Gem levitated before him, idly rotating with the passive currents of his power. He threw one final pebble. A single bounce. The thud. The slightest stirring of shadow. He fired an Infrared Lance. A smooth Gem dropped onto the carpet, as a Monster fell. As its shadows dissipated, a hundred other shadows amassed. 16 - The Creeping Hands of the Dead Archmund swept his Infrared Lance through the narrow opening of the tunnel into the grand hall of the underground manor. Formless Monsters popped like balloons as they were speared by invisible rays of pure heat, their shadows turning to dark mist and fading into the air. Their Gems dropped like gentle raindrops onto the padded carpet. Was he imagining things, or was the air growing darker with their miasma? A gloved hand gripped his arm. ¡°What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing,¡± Mercy said from behind him. She whirled him around and grabbed him by the shoulders. Her hair and hood were up, and her voice was half an octave lower. The kindred spirit from the Omnio was gone; in her place was the battlefield commander. ¡°I suppose you¡¯ll have me court martialed for insubordination?¡± Archmund said glibly. No, far more likely she¡¯d just execute him, either legally or on the spot. An Imperial heir could definitely get away with it. ¡°I thought you were smarter than this, asshole,¡± she growled. ¡°And yet I wake up to hear you provoking the Lower Subtier, farming some Gems, doing the same glory-hound bullshit I see from every other noble that I have to deal with¡ª¡± ¡°That¡¯s not¡ª¡± ¡°I thought you understood the gravity of going through a Dungeon. That they would die for us. I don¡¯t expect a spoiled noble brat like you to understand sacrifice or tragedy¡ª¡± ¡°My mother is dead,¡± Archmund said. ¡°My brothers and sisters too.¡± ¡°It¡¯s different!¡± Mercy spat. ¡°They died of the plague. There was nothing you could have done to save them! This is¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t let them die for me. If I die, say that you killed me because you had to,¡± Archmund snapped. ¡°¡­What?¡± Mercy said, releasing her arms. Beyond the tunnel, the shadows undulated. They shift from formlessness to halfway manlike shapes. Mercy gave them a quick glance and struck them down with sharp shocks of lightning, the ozone byproduct wafting into Archmund¡¯s nostrils. ¡°I wanted to cull them,¡± Archmund said. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone to die for me. If that means I die, so be it. You¡¯re an Imperial heir. You¡¯ll get away with it.¡± ¡°So stupid,¡± Mercy said, though her words less angry and more disappointed. ¡°I¡¯ll get away with my life, but a failure this big? Ten soldiers or heroes are acceptable losses, but killing a noble for getting in the way? If I could get away with that I would¡¯ve done it to the stupider ones! The scandal! The scandal would destroy me. They¡¯d probably marry me off to your father as compensation.¡± Archmund¡¯s face twisted in disgust. ¡°He¡¯s like three times our age. He likes adult women, like a normal person.¡± ¡°Well, they¡¯d have me replace you as Granavale heir one way or another. They¡¯d make your dad adopt me. Either way I¡¯d be out of the way, and you¡¯d be dead. What were you thinking?¡± Still the shadows coalesced. Casually, as they spoke, Mercy summoned the lightning and blasted Monsters as they formed. ¡°I just didn¡¯t want anyone to die,¡± Archmund said. Well, he would¡¯ve been fine with his own death. Though now that he thought about it, such a desire was desperately and thoroughly irrational. Perhaps it had been triggered by Mercy¡¯s stories of how her life was doomed to go. The constant competition and jockeying for status from a young age. Being compared one¡¯s peers, and grinding down countless others to sustain that. Perhaps that reminded him too much of what he had once lived, and that constant screaming need for escape. Mercy glanced over to the soldiers. Somehow, they were all still asleep, despite the booms and sizzles coming from the manor hall. ¡°Those boys can sleep for hours if things have gone hard enough. Meanwhile you¡¯ve been up for what, two days straight? No wonder you did something so stupid.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Yeah, He could blame sleep deprivation for this one. Maybe going down off of the coffee high. Maybe a sugar crash. Maybe unresolved trauma from his previous life. ¡°But Granavale, I¡¯ll be counting on you.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± She smirked, her eyes flashing with challenge. ¡°If you don¡¯t want anyone to die, then you¡¯d better pull your own weight.¡± If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Alone, he had felt far safer sniping at the Monsters from afar. With the two of them, Mercy felt they could handle stepping in. Once they stepped in, she flicked her finger at the passage behind them. A chip of her fingernail flew off, and transmuted by her Diamond of Guard, became a seafoam-green barrier that blocked their exit and stopped others from joining them. Once again he surveyed the room. It was a wide open entrance hall. There were two sets of curved stairs that went up to a balcony. There were exits on all three walls, but they would stay here and kill as many as possible. ¡°We¡¯ve got about an hour and a half until the rest of the men get here,¡± Mercy said. ¡°You¡¯ve provoked the Monsters already so I¡¯d only feel safe letting 1-Gem or above soldiers joining.¡± It was easy enough to guess what she meant from context clues ¡ª soldiers with at least one piece of Gemgear, which made them stronger and set them on the path to Heroism, whatever that meant. Archmund was going into this effectively naked. Even if he could¡¯ve used the Gem of the Seven-Fingered Starbeast, he wouldn¡¯t have been nearly as proficient with it as his Ruby, which he¡¯d spent 100 days practicing with. He was, at the moment, a glass cannon. All offense, no defense. And for now, that was enough. Mercy was moderating her power. Short, directed electrical blasts as the places of deepest shadow, wiping out Monsters before they could fully form. She covered the right half of the room; Archmund covered the left, standing at a 90-degree angle from her. He followed her lead with his Infrared Lance, blasting through the deepest shadows as fast as he could. As they fought, they¡¯d struck sparks and lit fires, and so the curtains and finery of the false manor had started to burn. The ground was littered with spherical Gems, sizes ranging from dewdrops to golf balls. In a way, they were pinned in place ¡ª if they walked, they would almost certainly slip and fall. The Monsters were getting stronger. When Archmund had first started slaying them from afar, he had burned through formless shadows. But now some took the shape of men and women ¡ª humans, though some stood taller than any mortal soul, before he was able to cut them down. ¡°They¡¯re getting faster,¡± Archmund said. ¡°Still one-shot kills for you?¡± ¡°Honestly, I was surprised that my Infrared Lance killed them as formless shadows, before they were mimicking real things.¡± ¡°Even whacking them hard enough with a sword works. I really wouldn¡¯t worry about it right now,¡± she said somewhat sarcastically as she released another bolt of lightning. Was it the transfer of energy in any form? That would depend on whether ¡®ice magic¡¯ worked as well. Maybe it was more metaphysical, in an Aristotelian motion sense ¡ª the shadows had a telos, a final purpose they wanted to follow, and any disruption to that could release their Gem? None of that mattered if he didn¡¯t live to see the light of day. ¡°Why is this happening?¡± ¡°It¡¯s the miasma,¡± Mercy said. ¡°You kill a Monster and most of its power goes into its Gem, but a little goes into the air. And that goes into the other shadows. If they¡¯re the ghosts of the same kind of grudge or memory, they Amalgamate.¡± Another piece of jargon he¡¯d have to remember. ¡°Their powers get combined or something?¡± ¡°In this case, yes. It¡¯s like when a peasant uses a Gem. The dead Monster¡¯s the Gem, the living one¡¯s the peasant.¡± ¡°How cheerful.¡± He fired Infrared Lance after Infrared Lance. He still didn¡¯t feel tired, even if he knew his decision-making was getting worse. The Monsters were more and more human now that there were more of them, they could form faster, and the soulstuff of their grudges was dense enough to survive an Infrared Lance. He could almost recognize them from his memories of grand balls and social events before the Crylaxan Plague ¡ª noblemen in fineries with Gemstone Rapiers, noblewomen in glimmering dresses and Gemstone Hand fans held before their mouths. They weren¡¯t skeletal, with their flesh sloughing off their bones and their movements staggering. No, they moved with the elegance and grace of the gentry, and their skin was pale yet whole. ¡°They look like undead nobles,¡± he said. ¡°Pretty common. Most Dungeons have some Undead Nobles somewhere. Target their heads ¡ª they might not look like much, but they remember having magic.¡± If he aimed his Infrared Lance at their heads, they died in a single blow, their Gem weapons clattering to the ground. Yet he could no longer kill them before they had heads, which was frustrating. ¡°Is this how it keeps going?¡± he asked. ¡°We just hold off wave after wave of Monsters as they get stronger and stronger? If they¡¯re too strong, once your men get here the only thing they could do is pull us out.¡± Mercy released a thunderbolt, brighter and sharper than the quick bursts of electricity she¡¯d been using. It leapt between several of the Monsters. Some, now, looked like suits of armor ¡ª ghostly knights in Gemstone carapaces. It was easier to boil their heads using his Microwave, and they burst like balloons, their Gemstone armor falling to the ground with a thud. ¡°It¡¯s more like the Lowest Subtier is awakening.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound good at all.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not so bad,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Less risk of getting knifed in the back.¡± Archmund didn¡¯t like how that sounded. ¡°Why?¡± Mercy pointed towards the balcony of the false manor. The miasma had thickened; it could no longer be mistaken for imagination. Even as she spoke, she released blasts of lightning at lesser shadows, her eyes constantly darting across the battlefield. ¡°It concentrates. Pools into one, a representation of what this place is. You think it¡¯s a coincidence that this final subtier looks like a manor?¡± The shadows became layered upon themselves, no longer the absence of light, but black upon black. They formed into the shape of a man, taller than the rest, with slicked-back hair. ¡°Why are they all humans?¡± Archmund muttered. ¡°Because of where we are. People have lived in your lands for a long, long time ¡ª and that Monster over there?¡± The shadows receded; no other Monsters spawned, as if all the power of the Dungeon had been concentrated into this one final defender. ¡°It¡¯s the spirits of nobles that once ruled these lands, that once owned this manor. If I had to guess, the souls of your ancestors.¡± 17 - The Shadow Archetype The miasma gathered and gathered and gathered into one final Monster, a slim and distended mockery of man. It would have stood ten feet tall straight, if it had uncoiled its spine from his wavelike hunch. Its skin was pale as ivory, and its hair was black and slicked back with oil. It wore an opera mask that obscured much of its face, yet in those pale cheeks was the echo of rich red, and in its eyes was a hunger born from wealth and ambition. It looked like his father, if his father gave up all that he believed in. It was an Undead Noble, yet that description felt wholly inadequate, too generic. For it was the Ghost of All Granavale, every noble who had died unsatisfied in this land, and so in this twisted afterlife had constructed an echo of their former glory. He glanced at Mercy to see her take, but she was wholly transfixed on it, watching its slightest movements. It gazed scornfully down at them from the balcony of the twisted echo of Granavale Manor. Then, it raised a spindly hand. Three Gems materialized, rotating above its palm. ¡°Move!¡± Mercy shouted. That was the only warning Archmund had. He dodged left; Mercy dodged right. An explosion¡¯s shockwave blew him forward as it hit where they had been standing. His hands rolled against the thick layer of ovoid Gems that had dropped from all the Monsters they¡¯d slain, and he slid forward three feet more than he¡¯d expected. Miraculously, nothing was broken. The place where they¡¯d stood burned. The Ghost of All Granavale had launched a fireball. Now a charred-through patch marred the carpet, revealing the checkered tile beneath. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there!¡± Mercy shouted. ¡°Keep moving! Hit it back!¡± She threw her Topaz above her head and fired a quick, probing arc of lightning. The Ghost of All Granavale parried with one of its three Gems, a speckled grey cube that flew into the path, and split the electrical arc into a thousand fingers that splashed harmlessly upon the ground. It retaliated with a fireball cast through a red octahedron ¡ª a Ruby ¡ª but by then Mercy had already vanished, fleeing somewhere else. Archmund gripped his Ruby so tightly its tetrahedral edges imprinted his palm. The Ghost of All Granavale was focusing on Mercy, but in no way was it ignoring him. It was firing smaller bolts of flame at him every minute or so ¡ª easy enough to see coming, and easy enough to dodge. But the room was quickly become a field of fire as more and more patches of the carpet burned. Dimly he was aware of the heat and the smoke; dimly, he was aware that he was in grave danger. But much more strongly he could feel his magic in the Ruby flowing back into him and strengthening him ¡ª and resonating with the burning magic of the Ghost of All Granavale. He ran and dodged, the smoke touching his nostrils and burning his lungs, yet he did not fall ¡ª not from heat exhaustion nor from poison. It was harder than he¡¯d expected. All the Gems on the ground had become a serious hazard, and whenever he had half a second out of danger he swept them towards the walls. And across the room was Mercy, light on her feet, resplendent, unleashing a constant barrage of white-blue lightning arcs like a human Tesla coil, more and more with every passing second. Each danced and struck at the Ghost of All Granavale, who easily deflected the bolts with its speckled cube, flying about like a hummingbird to its mere wrist twitches. And all the while it launched fireball after fireball at Mercy and Archmund both. It was a dance between two equal partners, a living lightning and a ghost of burning resentment. And there was him. Just sort of there, leaping and jumping and stumbling through this echo of his ancestral home. Mercy was enjoying this. Every few moments she unleashed a warcry, and her lightning glowed hotter and whiter. Yet soon it became clear that direct attacks were ineffectual. She somersaulted back to dodge a continuous gout of flame, kicking Gems into the air with every touch of the floor as if they weren¡¯t there, before swatting the fire aside with her Shield Gem. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. She was impressive. His training had brought him this far. It had helped him through the Dungeon. But it wasn¡¯t enough to bring him to the level of Mercy Stirpstridecim de Omnio, or of the Ghost of All Granavale. No amount of push-ups, even with an exponential growth curve, could match the endurance training of military exercise or the endless listlessness of the dead. Mercy didn¡¯t give up despite the inefficacy of her lightning. She gathered her power into a thick, concussive blast that vibrated with the sound of thunder, a cylinder of lightning traveling like a wave. In the back of Archmund¡¯s mind, in some small corner not hyperfocused on survival, he yearned to figure out just what science made such a thing possible. The Ghost of All Granavale raised an onyx cube, which jittered wildly with the formless magic of the dead. Its defensive magic broke the concussive cylinder of lightning, shearing it into a come, which passed around its body harmlessly ¡ª yet thin wisps of black miasma blew off of its form. Mercy clicked her tongue from across the room. She barely seemed winded, and if anything her fervor was renewed. Archmund had some sense of how much of his magic he¡¯d pumped into his Ruby; there was at least thirty day¡¯s of normal power left. In twelve hours he¡¯d burned through power stored in almost seventy days of training. He could feel spirit drawing on the power to sustain his body in this horrifically hostile place. Mercy stretched out her hands. ¡°Down!¡± she yelled. Archmund¡¯s hair stood up as the air suddenly grew sharp and harsh with electromagnetic power. He threw himself to the floor, cold Gems pushing into his cheeks and palms. Metallic furnishings ¡ª the curtain rods, candlesticks, the chandelier, the handles on small tables and cupboards ¡ª all flew towards the Ghost of All Granavale, a sharp hailstorm. He¡¯d been able to keep up with Mercy in the regular Dungeon, when Monsters were just things to kill, but in a fight like this? Where the fighting wasn¡¯t just magic against magic or sword against sorcery, but with the environment itself? It was becoming clearer and clearer to him how great the gap between them was. The Ghost of All Granavale raised its own Ruby and was cocooned in swirling fire. Briefly Archmund thought that couldn¡¯t possibly work, if the metal got melted you¡¯d still be pelted with turning hot slag, but evidently the fire itself carried some momentum that buffeted and deflected the metal; burning slag splattered throughout the manor hall. ¡°Shit!¡± he heard Mercy cry. He felt the energies of the air shift, felt the magnetic flux change as she tried to seize control of the molten metal, but to no avail. Dimly, he thought she should save the effort. As metal heated up, it stopped being magnetic. Then he felt a sharp pain as a tiny bead of molten metal landed on the back of his neck. Instinctively he slapped it off, and it cooled even though the air was quite hot, but it left a welt on both his neck and his hand. He couldn¡¯t keep defending or running. Even if he was weak, even if it was risky, he had to do what he could. A hand was on his shoulder. Mercy had run over to him, shielding him from a fireball. ¡°I meant to kneel,¡± she muttered as she pulled him up. ¡°You¡¯re a sitting duck if you drop like that.¡± He nodded dumbly. His reflexes had always been a bit questionable. ¡°Can you fight?¡± she said. ¡°Or do I have to guard you?¡± Her voice was torn between the kindred spirit and the battlefield commander. He hated this feeling. That he¡¯d been a burden on her. That she¡¯d had to pull him along, doing all of the hard work of offense, as he danced and desperately tried not to die. Especially since this was all his fault, this noble attempt to save lives at the cost of his own. But all he could do was not die. Sure, he hadn¡¯t expected to face off against an angry ghost made of the grudges of all his ancestors, or whatever the Ghost of All Granavale was. But still. ¡°I can stay alive,¡± he said. ¡°See, that slag didn¡¯t burn me too badly.¡± Mercy looked at his neck and his hand. ¡°It¡¯s blistering. It¡¯ll hurt later.¡± ¡°But I¡¯ll be alive.¡± She didn¡¯t like that, but she accepted it. The Ghost of All Granavale had taken notice of their pause. It held its hands before itself, palms facing each other, its Ruby floating in-between. A fire sparked. ¡°I can wear it down,¡± Mercy said. ¡°You can?¡± The Ghost¡¯s fire grew larger, to the size of an orange, then a grapefruit, then a basketball. She pointed at the ceiling. ¡°Some dispersion into secondary miasma ¡ª that¡¯s power that¡¯s been sheared away, power that the Ghost can¡¯t use. It¡¯s mass without power. And whenever it uses its Gems it channels a bit of its essence affecting the physical world ¡ª and that¡¯s power it¡¯ll never get back, not without absorbing other Monsters.¡± That was the advantage of life, Archmund supposed. As long as you were alive, you could grow, change, and regenerate. But the restless dead could only spend. While they were speaking, the ghost had raised its spindly hands above its masked head, stretching its branch-like apart as the fireball grew larger and larger ¡ª like Atlas holding the Earth. ¡°Might be hard to dodge that,¡± Mercy said testily, ¡°and it¡¯ll hurt to block.¡± Archmund threw his Ruby into the air, and it hovered, borne about the currents of his magic. He wouldn¡¯t need to point to aim. He could aim with will alone. ¡°Infrared Lance,¡± he whispered, and an invisible beam of pure heat seared through the Ghost of All Granavale¡¯s head. 18 - Adaptation The Infrared Lance speared through the Ghost of All Granavale¡¯s head. The fireball above its head glowed with malice, a miniature sun that threatened to consume them all. For half a second, nothing happened. Then the Ghost of All Granavale screeched, a high pitch keening, clutching its smoking eyes as they burned from the highly concentrated infrared light. With its concentration broken, the massive fireball expanded. Yet in growing it became weaker, less hot, less dense. And then the Ghost of All Granavale grew back its pair of eyes, inky blackness smothering the smoking flames. But imperfectly. Its ivory mask had half burned off, and its face was covered in burn scarring. It reminded him of the Phantom of the Opera, a musical from his past life. Archmund hit it with another Infrared Lance. Again it screeched as its eyes burned with blindness. Its fireball expanded even larger, but its power was dissipating, wisping away into the air. Without fuel or the force of magic, fire didn¡¯t last. The Ghost of All Granavale might have been proficient at fighting multiple opponents, but evidently regenerating its own body and sustaining a killing fireball were too much for it. ¡°I¡¯m surprised that worked twice,¡± Archmund said out loud. ¡°It won¡¯t work a third,¡± Mercy said, pointing at the Ghost of All Granavale with a black-gloved hand. ¡°Look at its eyes now.¡± The Ghost of All Granavale had forgone regenerating normal eyes. Its eye sockets were filled with empty blackness, but speckled around its head was a wirey black gauze peppered with undulating eyestalks. Archmund fired another Infrared Lance. His beam hit the black gauze, and one of the eyes burst into flame, but the Ghost of All Granavale shed it, the afflicted eyestalk burning away to ash before it could hit the ground. And now that it had found an adaptation that could stall him¡­ Mercy grabbed him by the collar and pulled them both out of the way of a fireball. ¡°It was a good shot, Granavale, but¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m just not at its level. Yeah, I figured that one out already.¡± ¡°Not what I was about to say. No tactic works all the time, every time.¡± ¡°I was hoping I would blow up its head,¡± Archmund said. The Ghost of All Granavale had changed tactics. Perhaps it now viewed them as serious threats. It took a spindly hand and scratched four deep gouges into its own torso, excavating shadowstuff from its own body. Then, it flicked its fingernails towards the two of them. Four shadows formed upon the ground. From each an Undead Noble rose. Two bore Gemstone rapiers. Two bore Gemstone hand fans. All four had thick visors over their eyes. The Ghost of All Granavale scratched itself again, and cast its inner darkness into the outer world. Another four Undead Nobles arose. Then again, and another four. ¡°It¡¯s learning,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Not just for itself, but for any other Undead Nobles. They¡¯re all going to have those visors from now on.¡± ¡°Damn it,¡± Archmund said. ¡°How come it didn¡¯t bother adapting to your attacks?¡± Mercy unleashed a broad net of electrical bolts from her fingers, which danced across all twelve Undead Nobles. They jiggled lightly under its power but did not fully convulse. ¡°Oh, it did,¡± she said. ¡°Look at it.¡± The lightning grew brighter and hotter. ¡°Rubber clothes. Rubber bones.¡± The air split, oxygen to ozone. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°Rubber something. Who knows?¡± The bolts danced across the ground like the staccato tap-tap-tap of a drum. ¡°But that¡¯s a crutch,¡± she said, as her power crested. ¡°When Monsters try to be clever, overwhelm them.¡± Her power exploded, like power lines bursting, and seared through the Undead Nobles, leaving branching fractal burns across their rubber garments. Their Gemstone gear and rubber armor fell to the ground, emptied, leaving the putrid stench of burnt rubber. None of them dropped raw Gems. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you do that with the Starbeast?¡± ¡°Would¡¯ve taken too much. But these are small fry.¡± She said that, but her breath came out in pants and sweat was visible on her brow. The Ghost of All Granavale didn¡¯t stand idle. Again it scraped at its flesh, and again it cast the pools of darkness, and again twelve lesser Monsters arose. They looked like suits of armor, but the armor lacked a metallic sheen. If he wasn¡¯t wrong, it was made of rubber. For lack of a better word, he decided to call these Monsters Rubber Armors (maybe the smoke deprivation was getting to him). All carried Gemstone weapons ¡ª several swords, a few maces, and even one flail, all shining with the unearthly light of death. The Ghost of All Granavale also raised its hands once again above its head, pouring its magic into another fireball. Again, it went from the size of a marble, to an orange, to a basketball. Archmund really didn¡¯t like this. He¡¯d been a desk jockey in his past life. He was barely ten in this one. He lacked the reflexes for something as harsh as this. He hit all twelve Rubber Armors with an Infrared Lance to the face. They lumbered forward, raising their weapons, and he grimaced. ¡°You think that¡¯ll work?¡± Mercy said. ¡°That main ghost would have to be pretty stupid to not¡ª¡± He fired the Infrared Lance again, more concentrated this time, and the nearest Rubber Armor¡¯s helmet burst into flame. As its head was consumed, it collapsed, until it was hollowed out. ¡°Ah.¡± Mercy said. Truth was, Archmund did think the Ghost of All Granavale was stupid. At the very least, primitive and unlearned. Rubber was an organic material. It caught fire if you dumped enough energy into it. In his world, it came from trees, for heaven¡¯s sake. Frankly it was a bizarre, bizarre bit of convergent evolution that the restless dead naturally generated false rubber instead of metal or ceramic naturally ¡ª though, if they sought to mimic life, it almost made sense. Rubber was made of carbon, and so wasn¡¯t that different from skin. Metal or ceramic rarely congealed naturally in the bodies of living things. Now that he knew it worked, he hit all of the Rubber Armors with Infrared Lances. All of them burst into flames and collapsed, leaving their armor but again, no Gems. But it was still stupid. If you tried to resist an electrical current, you could be very successful for a time with a substance like rubber or wood or human flesh. But eventually, the current would overwhelm you, grounding itself through whatever the most efficient path was, even if it ran through your heart. Far wiser it was to intentionally create a path for the electricity, catching it before it caught you and guiding it harmlessly into the ground ¡ª the principle behind the lightning rod. Then again, lightning usually acted completely randomly instead of following the commands of a noble girl to kill the undead. Magic tended to have unpredictable effects on the laws of physics. The Ghost of All Granavale gouged its flesh again; its fireball still yet grew. Now it was the size of a large bear, or perhaps a small elephant. It was growing slower than it had before, but because they¡¯d been preoccupied with stopping the Monsters sent against them, they hadn¡¯t be able to interfere as easily. ¡°Shoot the shadows out of the air!¡± Archmund shouted. ¡°Now there¡¯s a thought.¡± Mercy¡¯s Topaz glowed; lightning electrified the air, striking the ceiling of the manor hall, almost like a cage. The blobs of shadow flew against the bars of that cage, split into bits by the dancing lightning. When they landed, they were negligible, far too small and thin for anything to form. ¡°How do we kill it?¡± Archmund said, wondering out loud. His Ruby floated before him, rotating serenely despite the chaos and destruction around them. He probed the Ghost of All Granavale with his Infrared Lance, shooting it across its hide. ¡°If my men were here,¡± Mercy said, ¡°They¡¯d throw themselves at it. They¡¯d cut it apart and cut it down with their swords, and they¡¯d stab each piece over and over again until nothing was left. Our job would be to stun it just long enough so someone could get in and start cutting. And if you get that wrong, someone dies.¡± ¡°There has to be another way.¡± The Ghost of All Granavale fixed its twisted eyestalks upon him. It wasn¡¯t educated, but it wasn¡¯t unintelligent either. It clearly knew there was some connection between its mysterious burning pains and him. It raised its onyx cube Gem, and pulsed magic into it. There was a brief wind, followed by a stillness. The fires throughout the manor hall quieted, only to roar up again. There was something in front of the Ghost of All Granavale. Archmund couldn¡¯t see it ¡ª if he squinted, he imagined he could see the air rippling, but then again that could easily just be the heat haze ¡ª but he felt it, in that sense beyond his senses from which his magic sprang. It was an odd feeling, this certainty. Knowing that there was a whole dimension of being in this world that his last had not had. The fireball was still growing, but much, much slower. Mercy jolted him out of his reverie by firing a stream of lightning towards the Ghost of All Granavale ¡ª and the bolt shattered, split into tendrils, outlining a large invisible wall that stretched across the entire balcony. ¡°There¡¯s no other way,¡± Mercy said. ¡°Not after this.¡± She pointed at the Ghost of All Granavale¡¯s fireball, which was about the size of a regular elephant now. ¡°It¡¯s still feeding that, but we¡¯ve only shown it magic so far. So it thinks it¡¯s safe to build up its fire behind that shield it has until it¡¯s strong enough to blow us to kingdom come.¡± She took a deep breath, and clasped him on the shoulder. ¡°We just have to prove it wrong.¡±