18 - 20

EIGHTEEN:

Imperial Rescue

I tracked the time out of the corner of my eye. Eighteen minutes and counting. God, but I hated time quests. And this felt simultaneously like a timed quest and some sort of bizarre escort quest, which made it even worst.

Full dark had already come and a sickly moon hung overhead, jeering down on the world with its weak, watery light. The corpseglow from Idruz drifted up, painting hazy streaks of green across the sky, blotting out most of the stars. Not that I could see a whole lot of the sky to begin with.

I was in a winding, narrow gorge which had been carved into the earth by some ancient river that had dried up long ago. The sheer walls of the gorge rose up, up, up, curving in near the top so only tiny patches of night peaked through. If not for my racial Night Eye ability, navigating the passage would’ve been impossible without a torch to light the way—and using a torch in a place like this would’ve drawn mobs to me like moths to a flame. A thin dusting of snow crunched softly beneath my boots as I padded forward, trailing one hand along the face of the gray stone wall to my right.

When I was sixteen my family had gone on a summer road trip to Arizona—my Dad was a camping fanatic and loved uprooting us at least a few weekends every year to go explore some new wonder of nature. That summer, the feat du jour had been the Antelope Canyons, situated on a Navajo reservation, due east of Page, Arizona. We’d explore of number of different canyon systems before, but the Antelope Canyons were in a league of their own. Twisting, sheer walls of red, orange, and yellow stone so smooth, flawless, and flowing they looked like they’d been sculpted by the hands of a giant. Twisting rock spire arches. Shafts of sunlight peeking through the shady passageway, creating pools of colored light along the dusty ground.

We’d spent a week there, tent camping at night—my dad playing an acoustic guitar and badly belting out old classic rock while we sat around a fire, roasting marshmallows. Whenever I saw something like this, I always thought of my parents and regretted that they hadn’t made the leap themselves. V.G.O. was a brutal place, at times, but it was also deeply beautiful. 

This place was the Antelope Canyon’s equal in every way, though, a tad creepier. There was also one other major difference between the two.

Antelope Canyon had been warm. This place? Yeah, not so much.

I wrapped my arms across my chest, hunching my shoulders, and curling in on myself. Didn’t help. I shivered, teeth chattering from the frosty fingers of cold clawing at every inch of exposed skin. Intellectually, I’d known full well that Morsheim was cold. But, apparently, I’d been spending too much time down in Yunnam, because I was utterly unprepared for exactly how cold it would be. Or exactly how miserable tramping through ice and snow in the dead of night would be. I’d equipped a heavy cloak and a pair of leather gloves, but the strangely silent wind cut through my feeble clothing like a wet towel. 

I was sorely missing Abby’s presence for a variety of reason, but foremost among them at the moment was that I was never cold when she was around—one of the many perks of having a Firebrand on the team. A wave of embarrassment and shame washed through me like the incoming tide as I thought about Abby and the way I’d just left her hanging back there. I felt like an utter asshole. But what option had I had? She wasn’t wrong—we did need to talk and work through things—but we were also in a warzone and I had Quests to run. 

Lives were on the line and every second mattered. There had to be a balance there, but damned if I knew where it was. What I knew for sure, however, was that I hadn’t handled the situation well. At all. She was going to be pissed at me and rightfully so. No use beating myself up about it now, though—what was done was done. With an effort of stubborn will, I pushed thoughts of Abby to the back of my head and picked up the pace, eager to get this mission over and done with.

I grit my teeth and tromped on at a near jog, working through the claustrophobic press of the walls as I kept one eye fixed on the timer. After another ten minutes, the gorge thinned dramatically, tapering into a craggy fissure, just wide enough for me to shimmy sideways through. Despite my high-flying antics with Devil, I wasn’t a huge fan of heights, but I was even less of a fan of constricting narrow passages where I might get stuck. Besides, this seemed like an awfully good place to stage an ambush. True, I hadn’t seen a single mob since entering the canyon, but that only made me more suspicions. 

I took a moment and pulled up my user interface, trying to catch my breath while I double checked my map. This place was in the absolute middle of nowhere, but, sure enough, a quest marker blazed not far off. Only seven minutes left, but I was in striking distance now.

Although I was exhausted from the day and highly unamused, I closed out of the map and forced me way deeper into the fissure. Sucking in my stomach, I pressed my back flat against the rough stone wall, and edged inward, inch by terrible inch. The passageway here was so tight in places I thought at times I’d have to turn back and call it quits. The stubborn gamer in me flatly refused. Not after smashing the self-destruction button on my personal life in order to be here. 

I was going to rescue Gnaeus Gessia even if I had to blast my way through this canyon with wave after wave of Umbra Fire. 

Like the rest of the gorge, the passage twisted and snaked, doubling back a number of times, before finally dumping me into a natural bowl shaped cavern. A crescent-shaped opening in the rocky ceiling overhead let in a brilliant shaft of moonlight, illuminating the cavern. Opal light painted the landscape and splashed over the derelict exterior of some ancient temple, gouged directly into the face of the far side of the cavern. I’d watched so many pulp classics with my Dad that it was impossible not to see the uncanny resemblance between this place and the Treasury Temple from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. 

There—among the rocks and stone and snow—was the lost platoon of Imperial soldiers I’d come searching for. And I’d made it with two-minutes to spare. Though, truthfully, I wasn’t sure this group had two minutes. They were locked in a deadly battle of survival against five hulking creatures, carved from the same pale gray stone as the cavern walls, and they were losing. Badly. The creatures—clearly temple guardians—were top heavy monstrosities, nine-feet tall, half as wide, and vaguely man-shaped. With arms and legs as thick as telephone poles, these things were built for strength not speed, and from the look of things, they were mean. 

[Keepers of the Lost]

Over half the Legionaries were already down, several laying on their backs with severe breaks or blood running freely from vicious lacerations or deep puncture wounds. One man, his face waxy and sweat-slick, had a broken leg, the limb jutting off at a queasy, unnatural angle. A woman in lorica clutched one arm to her chest, her forearm curved like an S, a shard of bone poking through the skin. A single Legionary—a kid, all of fifteen or sixteen—tended the wounded, hastily trying to patch them up with bandages, but it was obvious he was no healer. From the state of things, it was safe to assume they were out of Health Regen Potions.

Only three of the Imperial squad still fought, all of them decked out in custom gear that set them apart from the other Legion fighters who wore standard issue Imperial armor. 

Probably Travelers, then. 

A Dwarf in a shirt of heavy chain mail, so long it nearly brushed the ground, was acting as tank, taunting the creatures mercilessly, absorbing thunderous blows on a pair of kite shields, each as large as he was. A pure tank. I’d seen other Dwarves up north carrying dual shields, but I’d never seen one in action. 

“Come at me, stony boi!” The Dwarf bellowed, his voice oddly light coming from such a powerful, stocky frame. One of the Keepers lunged in; the crunch of gravel and the grating of boulders filled the air as it moved. The Keeper threw a wild haymaker, its enormous fist transforming midflight into a spike-covered wrecking ball. The Dwarf brought his shields together with a resonate clang just as the mace slammed into him. A hit like that should’ve bowled the Dwarf over like a set of pins, but a wall of silver force exploded out on impact, knocking the creature back by five or six feet. 

Meanwhile, the other two members fought to contain other four Keepers. 

A Wode, dressed in heavy furs and wearing an antler helm, chanted ceaselessly. Her hands wove complex patterns in the air, summoning a wall of wrist-thick black vines, studded with inch long spikes from the snow-sprinkled earth. The plants formed a flexible barrier, six feet high and three feet across, sequestering the stone golems from the injured party members. Safely behind the wall of conjured vines, a High Elf in tan and brown leather armor darted across the cavern, his bow a blur of motion as he let loose arrows tipped with marbled sized vials of green goop. The shafts exploded on impact, splattering the lumbering creatures with biting acid that chewed through stone with ease.

The Imperial fighters were holding the line—barely—but they weren’t dealing nearly enough damage to put the creatures down for good, especially since I knew for a fact that these things weren’t run of the mill Dungeon Mobs. For one, they weren’t inside the ruins—which is where you would expect to run across deadly monsters—but rather were trying to keep the invaders from entering altogether. Their name also sparked a dormant memory from my early days in V.G.O. I’d run across Keepers not so different from these before. 

But only once. 

Darkshard Keep hadn’t always been the seat of the Crimson Alliance; originally it had been a decrepit set of ruins, presided over by a fearful guardian so powerful the local Dokkalfar wouldn’t go within a mile of the place. Getting Chief Kolle and Amara to lead us there had been like pulling the teeth of an especially grumpy crocodile. And, admittedly, for good reason, since the Keepers and the Darkshard Guardian, Brewald, had almost turned our entire party into meat paste. Only having an unbound Faction Seal had saved us in the end. 

A lot had changed since then, however, and I figured I had a pretty good chance of leveling the playing field.

I pulled out my weapon, the metal and stone rasping along leather as it left my belt, and surged into action. Quick as a thought, I conjured Umbra Bog. Tentacles of lashing shadow reached up from stone and snow, hopelessly miring the creatures and buying me a few moments. A shocked mutter rose from the Legion troops who hadn’t noticed my arrival yet, but I paid them no mind. I sprinted toward the downed Imperials huddled against the cavern wall and fished four Health Potions from my inventory. 

“Gnaeus Gessia,” I yelled. “Which one of you is Gnaeus Gessia?”

The kid tending the other raised a tentative hand. “I am, sir,” he said, voice sure and steady despite the circumstances. 

“I don’t know who you are kid, but apparently you’ve got some friends in high places.” I tossed him the vials. “Get everyone patched up! Now!”  

“Yes, sir,” Gnaeus said, cool and collected, steady fingers prying cork tops loose. He was good under pressure, that was for sure.  

Turning away, I activated Shadow Stride and slipped from the Material Plane. Deep relief washed over me that everything was as it should be—no monsters lurking, waiting to ensnare me or munch on my limbs for an afternoon snack. After contending against the Idruz Gatehouse Horror, I was cautious about what other nasty surprises Morsheim had squirreled away up its sleeves. I hustled across the eerily still landscaping, phasing through the Wode Druid then bolting straight through the wall of thorns, which proved as insubstantial as everything else in the Shadowverse. 

Of the five stone Keepers, only one was remotely injured, while the rest seemed to be in nearly pristine health. Four of the creatures were hemmed in by the vine walls. The fifth was locked in combat with the Dwarf, who was doing a fine job of simultaneously drawing aggro and keeping the creature at bay. 

After a few seconds of thought, I picked the healthiest of the Keepers, and dropped into Stealth, posting up behind the creature’s hunched back. I wasn’t too worried about my chances of bringing this thing down, but the Gate Horror had proven to be uncannily difficult, so there was no point in risking things. These days, few creatures could withstand a direct hit from me, but throw my backstab multiplier into the mix and that number dropped to just shy of zero. With a deep breath I stepped back into the Material Plane and attacked, hammer tracing a wicked arc as I triggered every added effect I could muster in the process. 

The blunt face of my weapon connected with the solid thud of a jackhammer and the Keeper simply exploded from the force. Dust erupted in a cloud, chunks of rock shooting out as blocky oversized limbs dropped to the ground.

Quick and efficient.

Wasting no time, I moved in a blur, dispatching the next Keeper in line with a trio of rapid-fire Umbra Bolts, turning it into gravel. I pivoted hard left, blocking a clumsy overhand strike then unleashing a screaming Night Cyclone on the remaining three. The whirlwind wasn’t powerful enough to pick the heavy golems up and toss them around like ragdolls—they must’ve each weighed a literal ton—but it did rip off arms and legs, grinding much of their rocky bodies to fine dust. One survived the merciless onslaught, but a single swing from my hammer finished it off like a pinata after suffering a beating from a crowd of candy-fiending school kids. 

The entire battle had taken less than thirty seconds. 

When the swirling dust finally cleared, I found all of the Legionaries back on their feet, and clustered in a tight formation. Shields at the ready, weapons brandished, every eye locked on me as though I were a rabid monster that might just need killing.

“It’s okay,” I said with a tired smile, stowing my weapon at my side. “We’re on the same side.”

Still no one spoke. Instead they shared uneasy glances amongst themselves, a few licking chapped lips, others tensing even more. Finally, the Wode Druid spoke.

“How’d you do that, huh? We’ve been fighting those things for close to an hour, rotating our numbers, burning through ammo and potions. Then you come in and wipe the floor with ’em without breaking a sweat.” Her eyes narrowed, a grim expression—equal parts reverence and fear—on her face. “How?”

“I’m Grim Jack,” I said with a shrug, the only real explanation I needed. “Now, why don’t you guys collect the loot and cut loose. It’s been a long day and chances are you don’t want any part of what’s inside there.”

“But you killed them,” the Dwarf pointed out, one eyebrow raised. “You should get the loot.” 

I shook my head, “You guys did the hard part. You deserve whatever these things have—”

The world around me rumbled, tilting on edge, and all I saw was a look of utter shock—a look that quickly morphed to horror—on the Dwarf’s bearded face. Then something broadsided me like a runaway semi, pulverizing most of the bones in the left side of my body while I flipped and tumbled through the air.

NINETEEN:

Timely Intervention

My world was pain and agony: Bones, brittle glass. Skin, thin parchment paper. The blood flowing through my veins, red-hot magma. Everything below my waist was dead weight and oddly numb. Just pinpricks of sensation sprinting along my shins and dancing at the tips of my toes. I lay, partly propped up on my right side, arm pinned beneath my mangled body, my health strobing bright red, warning me of the critical danger I was in. I was at a paltry ten percent health, and that was thanks only to the passive Death’s Door Ability I’d picked up at level 49. 

<<<>>> 

Skill: Death’s Door

The Shadowmancer draws on the Shadow-Spark lingering deep inside their soul to stave off the final moment, even while standing at Death’s Door. When your Health drops below 5%, Umbral Power floods your body, restoring x% of your HP instantly, where x = Shadow-Spark level.  

Skill Type/Level: Passive, Level 1

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: 3 hours

Effect 1: When your Health drops below 5%, instantly regain x%, where x = Shadow-Spark level (Current Level: 10)

<<<>>> 

Although I couldn’t move, at least I had a good view of the cavern—though everything was hazy, distorted, and blanketed with a patchwork pattern of white starbursts. My head ached as though someone had just spent most of the day driving nails through my skull with a sledgehammer; every thought seemed to come in fits and starts. 

I blinked lazily trying to make sense of what the heck had happened, but nothing made sense. There were a number of alarming red notices blinking in the corner of my vision, demanding my immediate attention, and since I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I pulled them up. 

<<<>>> 

Debuffs Added

Serve Concussion: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 3 minutes. 

Blunt Trauma: You have sustained severe Blunt Trauma damage! Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; duration, 2 minutes.

Stunning Blow: You have sustained a stunning blow! Attack damage -15%; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; movement speed reduced by 35%; duration, 1 minute.

Fractured Jaw: You cannot speak and cannot cast mage spells; duration, 1 minutes.

Critical Spinal Trauma: You have suffered a debilitating spinal injury and are temporarily immobilized from the waist down! Warning! Portions of your spine have been pulverized; duration – the damage is too intense to heal naturally and requires the aid of either Restorative Magic or a Health Regeneration potion. 

Shattered Arm: All of the bones in your left arm have been shattered! You cannot use your left arm and cannot cast mage spells requiring hand gestures; duration – the damage is too intense to heal naturally and requires the aid of either Restorative Magic or a Health Regeneration potion. 

Fractured Leg: You cannot use your left leg! Movement Rate reduced by 65%; duration, 2 minutes.

Severe Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding: 3 HP/sec; duration, 2 minutes.

<<<>>> 

Well, that certainly explained a few things; now, I just needed to get the license plate number of the bus that had clobbered me.

“Run all of you!” came a sharp whip crack of command. “And forget this place. Forget what you saw here.” The voice was so familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

I heard the scuffle of feet and the clank of armor as the Imperials broke, then something enormous lurched into view. Another golem, though not one of the shapeless stone Keepers I’d tussled with a few moments ago. At a full fifteen-feet tall, this Golem had the face of a man—high cheekbones, a strong jaw line, covered by a short, well-kept beard, and a mop of curly chiseled hair. A pair of curling ram’s horns protruded from the tangle of hair, and a laurel rested lightly on top of its head. The creature had the torso of a man, but its legs were covered in what looked like terse fur, and instead of feet it sported broad hooves. 

It vaguely reminded me of the satyrs I’d seen while kicking around in the Realm of Order, hunting down Vox-Malum. 

The uber Satyr carried a truly ridiculous stone maul, one end stained with a splatter of blood. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the blood had come from, considering the mushed left side of my body. Looking at that monster, I could say for certain I was lucky to be alive, though it was stomping toward me, so chances were good I wouldn’t be alive for much longer.  A tag flashed briefly above its enormous head, but it was nearly impossible to read since the words kept swimming in my vision. After squinting for a long beat, I got the words to stay still just long enough to fully read them. 

[Guardian of the Lost]

“Only the Lorekeepers of Memory are allowed passage,” the Guardian bellowed, voice deep and steadfast. Unyielding and unreasoning. “Turn back or suffer destruction.”

I tried to choke out that I would be happy to turn back, just as soon as my legs were working again. Thanks to the busted jaw, however, all that came out was a muddled jumble of absolute gibberish.

“And how exactly do you propose he does that?” came the voice again. 

A man stepped into view. Instead of traditional armor, he wore a sleek black suit—vaguely Victorian in design—studded with brass gears and covered with holographic thread that created intricate patterns and complex sigils. A leather bandolier, short cape, and black top hat—perched on his head at a rakish angle—completed the look. Suddenly, it clicked into place. Osmark. Though why he was here or how he had found me was a mystery I couldn’t even begin to get my head around. Though that may have had something to do with the severe concussion. 

The Artificer held a repeater in one hand and in the other he clutched a number of small metallic orbs. 

“Only the Lorekeepers of Memory are allowed passage,” the Guardian repeated, unmoved by Osmark’s questions. “Turn back or suffer destruction.” Without waiting for Osmark to comply, the creature shambled into motion, charging like an enraged bull while winding up its massive war maul. 

Osmark moved in a flash, impossibly quick. 

He sprang back like an acrobat, the six orbs in his hand flying at once, all flicked with deadly precision. They landed in a semi-circle around the charging titan, exploding in a spray of gray smoke and black shrapnel, releasing thousands of quarter-sized metal spikes. Caltrops. I’d been on the receiving end of those little suckers more than once and they were agony—effortlessly slicing through armor, taking a hundred tiny bites out of your HP, and drastically slowing movement rate all in one fell swoop. Before the smoke had even cleared, Osmark had somehow fished three more orbs from his inventory, these gunmetal-gray and the size of cantaloupes. 

They landed on the stony ground with a hiss and a whirl, releasing a flash of electric-blue light; I had just enough presence of mind to press my eyes shut tight so I wouldn’t be momentarily blinded. When the light finally faded and I opened my eyes, the orbs were gone, replaced by a trio of mechanical turrets, each about waist high, balanced on spindly tripods, and constructed of copper tubing, a host of brass fixtures, and a bevy of gears, cogs, and gauges. 

The Guardian surveyed the three turrets, clearly trying to assess the threat and figure out which thing to pulverize first… Big mistake. 

All three turrets opened up at once, unleashing a barrage of deadly rounds and a cacophony that reverberated through the cavern. A steam-powered Gatling gun vomited a constant stream of bullets, brass cartridges raining down—a swarm of angry bees that chipped away at the stone. The other two didn’t shoot bullets at all. Instead, one fired rockets—arrow-tipped, jet-propelled missiles that exploded on impact—while the other hurled shrieking buzzsaws the size of dinner plates. The rockets were merciless, blasting holes out of the Guardian, while the buzzsaws sheared through rocky limbs as though they were made of paper mache.

The creature staggered under the onslaught, fighting to move forward. 

That lasted all of ten seconds before the guardian was a pile of smoking rubble and obliterated debris that could be hoovered up in a shop vac.

The display was a hell of a reminder that Osmark was not a man to be messed with. He might’ve looked soft around the edges but there was cold, hard steel lurking beneath his veneer of civility.

“Are you really here, or is my brain just bleeding?” I asked, since the broken jaw debuff had finally worn off. 

“Why does it have to be an either or?” He replied, stowing his pistol. He threaded his way toward me, carefully stepping around the chunks of smoking guardian. “As a point of fact, I am here and your brain is bleeding.” He pulled a health regen potion from the belt slung low around his hips and shoved into my working hand. My left arm was still shattered beyond the point of natural repair, but I’d managed to dislodge my right arm from beneath my body. Using one hand, I wiggled the bone cork from the top of the vial and downed the potion while Osmark watched on, arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask. 

Agony and sweet relief washed through my body as bones realigned themselves, torn muscle reknit itself, and pulped skin regrew in the span of seconds. The potion only brought my Health up to thirty percent, but with my naturally high Regen rate, another ten minutes or so would set me straight. I pitched the bottle to one side, the glass tinkling on the gritty ground, and sat up, feeling infinitely better. Although, the potion didn’t do anything to help ease the aches, pains, and general exhaustion from the day. As though to remind me that it had been ages since I’d last had a meal, my stomach chose that exact moment to issue a whining grumble.

I pulled up my remaining active debuffs, causally toggling through the lot of them. Crap. Level 4 Hungry, Level 3 Tired, Level 3 Thirsty, Level 4 Unwashed, and the worst of the lot, Level 2 Occupational Stress:

<<<>>> 

Current Debuffs:

Occupational Stress (Level 2): You’ve been laboring long at a profession that is not aligned with your persona, and the wear is beginning to show. Intelligence is decreased by 15%, Spirit by 2x character level, and Stamina by 5x character level.

Too much work and not enough play makes the citizens of Eldgard have a bad day.

<<<>>> 

That one hadn’t been such an issue in the beginning but had been creeping in over the past few weeks—cracks forming in my foundation, as more and more responsibility was heaped onto my shoulders. A constant reminder that I was woefully underequipped and unfit to deal with a major war effort like this. The actual fighting and questing, that came naturally to me, but dealing with watch shifts, casualty logs, and logistics reports, all while coordinating with generals and brow-beating lifelong politicians into action was really starting to take its toll.  

“Okay, so you’re really here,” I finally said. 

He rolled his eyes and offered me a hand, pulling me to my feet. 

“I guess my next two questions are one, how did you find me and, two, why are you here at all? It’s not that I’m not grateful, but I have to admit, the timing seems far too suspicious to be coincidence.”

He snorted and shook his head. “Coincidence?” he asked, amused. “Come now, Jack, you know better than that. Of course it isn’t coincidence. Do you honestly believe Sophia is the only Overmind taking a direct hand in this war? Enyo is just as conniving and manipulative, and these days, the pair of them are working together. I assume you received the same painfully unclear quest alert I did? Save Gnaeus Gessia. Come alone.” 

I grimaced and nodded as I scrubbed the grit and grim from my palms then fruitlessly tried to brush away the thick layer of gray dust coating my armor. 

“Well, there you have it. Our respective bosses apparently thought it was time we had that heart to heart you’ve been so insistent about.” He turned on his heel and I half expected him to make for the entrance of the mysterious ruins, but instead he headed over to a small alcove gouged into the cavern wall, pulled a pair of foldable canvas camp chairs from his inventory and plopped both down before taking one for himself. He bent forward without a word and busied himself with making a small fire—laying out a few logs, then setting the whole thing ablaze. 

In the space of a few seconds, a fire crackled and popped, inviting heat radiating out, the dancing light throwing dark shadows against the weather-slick canyon walls. 

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he called, waving to the second chair. “We’re both busy men, best to use our time wisely.”

TWENTY:

Campfire Chat

I hesitated for only a second before padding over. “Don’t you think we should maybe go explore those ruins?” I asked, hooking a thumb toward the temple carved into the rockface. “Seems like Sophia wouldn’t send us here unless she wanted us to take a peak inside.” 

“Did your quest mention investigating any ruins?” He replied with an easy grin, prodding the fire with a crooked stick. “Because my most certainly didn’t. Mine said save Gnaeus Gessia, which I did. And since it’s been a long day and an even longer month, I think this is plenty far enough for me. Besides”—he paused, grin slipping away, lips turning down in a frown as studied the ruins—“you don’t want any part of that place. Not yet, anyway. 

“You and I both know it’s no run of the mill dungeon, but it’s also not what you think either, Jack.” He bent forward, nudging one of the logs with the toe of his boot. “I saw places like this during my time in the Shattered Realms,” he offered after a long, thoughtful beat. “It’s a memory node, not a keep. And considering the location, this one probably revolves around Thanatos. Best leave it alone until we’re invited in, I think.” 

“What’s a memory node?” I asked, casting my mind back for any reference of the term. I couldn’t remember ever hearing the term or discussing it with anyone in the Alliance.

“It’s part of the deep V.G.O. memory bank system,” he said, stretching out his legs with a groan, then pulling free a silver flask from his pocket. “The Overminds are responsible for all of this,” he said, flapping one hand around, “but they aren’t omnipotent. Like their Aspects, they have to relinquish control in one area to gain control in another, and they only have so much processing power. That’s a large part of the reason why they have Champions and Priests. It doesn’t end there, though. They’ve set up Memory Nodes like these across the continent that act as information hubs. Which, is a very roundabout way of saying, they’re data storage points for essential parts of the game world that the Overminds have automated.”

He tipped back his flask, taking a long drink, which struck me as odd. I’d seen Osmark sip a beer a time or two, but he never struck me as a heavy drinker. He sure was hitting that flask awfully hard, though.

“The Empirical Library Core at the heart of the Necropolis is the single largest memory node, but there are plenty of others,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Usually, they’re in secured locations in the Divine Realms, though not always. Eldgard proper has more than its fair share. But they’re always well defended. Always. And not just by Guardians like those.” He nodded toward the various piles of rubble sprinkled about the cavern floor. “There are other things that sulk around nodes. The Failsafe. Even the Overminds have to step lightly around them. You and I might be fine, since you have the Reality Editor, but why risk it? Especially since I’m fairly certain, you’ll find a guide with access to this node eventually. Now, are you going to take a seat or not?”  

“Still leaning toward no,” I replied, moving closer, but refusing to sit. All of this seemed off somehow. 

“I’m not trying to lure you into some trap, Jack.” He screwed the lid to his flask back in place and stowed it in his breast pocket. “I thought we’d moved well beyond that.”

“Yeah, I thought we had too,” I shot back, a sharper edge in the words than I’d intended, “but that was before you slipped off into the Shattered Realms, then closed ranks and cut me out of the loop. For a guy with a less than staller track record about lying and manipulating, I think I have justifiable reason to be cautious.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a shrug, not trying to deny it or shift the blame. “But, if I wanted you gone, all I would’ve had to do was nothing. That Guardian had you dead to rights. The fact that I intervened should count for something.” He motioned to the open chair with his free hand. “For what it’s worth, Jack, you have my word. I’m not trying to pull anything here. I just need a break. And I think you do, too. It’s probably been a while since you’ve eaten, let me put something on—maybe that will change your mind.” 

He hunched over and rummaged around in his inventory before finally pulling free a pair of wooden skewers and two fist-sized slabs of red meat. 

“Grass Wolf filets,” he offered in explanation, spearing each piece, then carefully propping them up so the filets hung over the licking flames. Immediately, the aroma of grilling meat assaulted my nostrils, the scent both savory and gamy—conjuring images of tall grasses and marshy fields, teaming with life. The smell alone persuaded me into motion. Reluctantly, I took the other seat, leaning into the heat and drinking up the smell of cooking food. Osmark occasionally turned the spits until both sides were lightly charred, the grease sizzling and dripping into the flames.

“So, here we are,” he said, offering me a half-hearted grin. “Former enemies, sharing a fire and food in an inhospitable land where literally everything wants us dead. Certainly not how I would’ve imagined things a year ago, but then, such is life.”

He leaned forward, drawing our dinner from the fire, and handed me a skewer with a pleasant smile. 

“What happened to you?” I blurted out, snatching the skewer and ignoring his small talk. “You ghosted me. But now you want to pretend everything’s okay, when clearly it isn’t?”

He glanced away, and crossed his legs, one foot bobbing. “First, I didn’t ghost you. Sandra has been in contact on my behalf, working out essential logistics and answering your most important questions.” 

“Except questions about you,” I said. 

“Look, it’s complicated, Jack,” he said with a sigh. “I know what you experienced in the Realm of Order because I was along for the ride. But I can assure you, my time in the Shattered Realms wasn’t even remotely the same. It was far less… pleasant.”

“What happened?” I pressed, out of more than just curiosity. We weren’t friends exactly, but we were definitely more than enemies, and there was some small part of me that felt genuine concern for him. 

“Are you sure you really want to know?” he asked, sounding as mysterious as any Overmind. 

I nodded. 

Finally, he shrugged and set his food to the side. “Fine.” He stood primly and started undoing the buttons of his jacket. 

I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me with a look and a raised finger. “You asked,” he murmured. Osmark pulled off his outer jacket, carefully removed a vest covered with geometric shapes beneath, then pulled the billowy white shirt off over his head. 

The breath caught in my chest, and I instinctively flinched away.  

His whole torso was a patchwork quilt of faded white scars, metal plates riveted into place, and glass panels, which allowed me to see the softly whirling gears inside him where his organs should’ve been. Holy crap, he was more metal than flesh. His forearms were still mostly intact, but neon green bands of energy curled and spiraled across the skin, no different than the tattoos marring the Vogthar. Embedded directly in the center of his chest was a green malachite stone the size of half dollar, which pulsed with potent energy. 

The Reality Editor vibrated madly against my chest, thrumming with its own power. I couldn’t even begin to guess at how this happened or who had done it too him, but the ultimate weapon, built to destroy gods, wanted nothing more than to wipe Osmark off the face of the map.   

 “Traumatic, is an appropriate, though underwhelming word, for what happened to me in the Shattered Realms,” Osmark said softly. 

I wanted to throw up. He’d been tortured. Mutilated. 

“How is this even possible?” I choked out. “We’re travelers. We heal. We shouldn’t be able to sustain that kind of long-term damage.”

“So most people think,” he replied with a weary grin. “But there are ways, Jack. And, before you get the wrong impression, let me confess that I consented to this. To all of it. To the torture. To the mental scourging and the trips into the memory nodes scattered around the Shattered Realms. To the endless number of deaths and respawns.” 

Endless number of deaths and respawns. “Why?”

He didn’t speak, instead slipping on his shirt, then securing his vest and coat back in place with nimble fingers. “Eat,” he said, instead of answering, “it’s going to get cold otherwise, and Grass Wolf gets stringy once it cools too much.”

After seeing his butchered form, I didn’t think I would want to eat again for a week—but my stomach issued a mighty grumble, insisting that I should listen to him. I raised the skewer and sank into the filet, pulling away a mouthful of succulent meat. Even unseasoned, the flavor was heady and rich, and the meat was so tender it practically melted like butter along my tongue. We ate in a rather amicable silence for a while, both of us engrossed with the meal.

He finished first, setting the skewer to the side, then gently adding a new block of wood to the fire and blowing on the coals so they burned cherry red against the night.

“The reason why, Jack, is because I make the hard choices,” he offered as I finished my meal and wiped the grease away from my chin with the edge of my cloak. “It’s what I do. It’s who I am. I’m the man who will do the hard things no one else is willing to do. I’m willing to pay the price, even if the whole world condemns me for it. I always have and I always will. I will pay the price, no matter what it is.”

My mind conjured an image of me standing over Abby, driving that knife down into her throat. I could see the life flow out of her, face ashy, body limp as blood siphoned through the grooves in the altar—the final key to opening Khalkeús’ tomb. Sometimes there is no winning. To save the world, you must first give up that which matters most in your world.  I reached down, running a finger over the ring in my pocket. Could I be as cold as Osmark? Could I pay any price, even if it meant saving the world? Honestly, I wasn’t sure. Not anymore. 

Could I die for the world? Yes. 

But could I live forever in one where I had to kill the people I loved?    

“What’s wrong, Jack?” Osmark prodded.

I glanced up at him, realizing I’d been silent a lot longer than I’d intended to be.

“Nothing,” I lied, “just something personal.”

“Everything is personal, Jack. Business. Life. Relationships. Saving the world. It’s all personal because it’s all inescapably intertwined.” He lifted his hand and crossed his fingers in demonstration. “So what is it—and before you think about lying to me, remember that you’re terrible at it, while I, on the other hand, can lie like a fish breathes water.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ll know.”

I sighed, warring with myself. Eventually, I pulled the ring from my pocket, holding it up so the light from the fire glinted off the diamond. “It’s about Abby. That and the Doom Forge…” Slowly, I opened up, telling him about my time deep down below Stone Reach. About the Trials we’d been forced to undergo, and the very last test that had pushed me right to the edge. I told him about the nightmares I’d been having and my own fears that I was turning into a monster; turning into someone I didn’t particularly like anymore. Killing Abby had been necessary at the time—it had been the only way forward—but had it been the right thing? 

I told him how I’d been pushing her away ever since, trying to keep her at arm’s distance in a fruitless bid to protect her. To keep her safe from Thanatos, but also from me.  

Osmark listened without interrupting, nodding his head in the right places, focused like a laser while I spoke. He wasn’t just listening, though, he was weighing, analyzing, assessing—I could almost see the gears cranking away inside his head, just as I’d been able to see the gears cranking away inside his chest.

“So what should I do?” I finished weakly, feeling as wrung out as a dirty dish towel.

He crossed his legs again and folded his hands in his lap, a thoughtful expression painted on his face. “I have no idea what you should do,” he said with a shrug. “It’s ironic, since I’m probably the only one that can truly to relate to what you’re going through, but I’m probably also the single worst person to answer that question. Because, for me, the answer has always been anything and everything. In my mind, the good of the many always and forever outweighs the good of the few. Even when it hurts. But, in another ironic twist, I find myself in exactly the same position as you.

“This”—he motioned at his now-covered torso—“nearly broke me. The process was far more than just a strictly physical one and I’ve found myself pulling away from the few people I care about.” He paused, lips pursed, forehead creased. “Not unlike yourself, actually. I can’t sleep for more than an hour at a time without violent nightmares walking me up. I’m in constant pain. And, for perhaps the first time in my life, I’m fundamentally questioning my choices and wondering if this is all worth it. I’ve had some bleak valleys, but nothing quite like this.

“Worst of all, I can’t share my doubts or fears with anyone.” He took a deep breath and sunk more deeply into his chair. “People believe in me, Jack. They need to know that I’m rock solid, unflappable, and ruthless. If they suspected anything else, they’d never follow. The pack of jackals constantly circling around me would sense that kind of weakness and rip me to shreds, which would doom us all. It’s the same reason I avoided talking to you once I got back—I couldn’t risk anyone knowing, not before it was too late for them to do anything about it.”

“Do you think it was worth it?” I asked, after he’d fallen silent. “What happened to you?” 

“Was it worth it… Another question I can’t answer. But I can say, as painful and horrific as it was, I believe this was the only way.” 

“The only way to do what?”

“For us to win, Jack. We’re two sides to the same coin, you and I. You’ve unlocked the weapon capable of stopping Thanatos—and at great personal cost to you,” he said. “And I’ve learned how to use it—and at great personal cost to me.” He slipped his pocket watch out studying the clock face for a moment. “Apart, neither one of us would be capable of defeating Thanatos, but together we might just have a shot. 

“Whether you know it or not, Thanatos is like a glitch and you and the Reality Editor are a supercomputer that can put things right. But even the most powerful supercomputer on earth won’t do you no good if you don’t know how to use it. You also need to know how to code, you need to have a backdoor into the system, and you need to know exactly what the error is. That’s what we have here. You and the Reality Editor are both the computer and the backdoor into the system. Me? I’m everything else.”

For the first time since Osmark had returned from the Shattered Realms, something like hope stirred inside my chest. If he really knew how to use the Reality Editor, then maybe we had a slim chance after all. “Well, what’s the answer?” I asked, literally on the edge of my seat in anticipation. “How the hell do we kill him?”  

A haunted look briefly flashed across Osmark’s face, here than gone. “That… That is a more complicated matter still,” he said flatly. “But you’ll have your answer soon enough. The Overminds have been busy, weaving their webs behind the scenes, and the rest of the pieces are falling into place as we speak.” He surveyed the clock face once more, then snapped the lid closed and shoved it back into his vest pocket. “Come on. We’ve been gone long enough and we have a war to run.”