Life in the North: An Apocalyptic LitRPG

A half dozen and one individuals stand before me in the Erethran Honor Guard uniform, looking like a special effects wet dream. They’re dressed in the usual armored-pants-and-tunic ensemble, sporting the exclusive Erethran royal family’s colors—purple and silver. Different from my own sky-blue uniform.

Of the seven, two of them are Erethrans, just like Ayuri, standing seven feet tall with their coral-like ears and slitted eyes whose giant yellow pupils seem particularly startling next to the almost non-existent nose and beak-like overhang of their face.

Another guard is a rock creature, all granite and brown rock, hands on his hips and laughing with a roach-like flying figure that hovers next to him, wings beating a low drone. There’s a Movanna, all pale and thin and pretty, hands on the bladeless hilts of basket swords strung on his belt, sneering at everyone as he looks around. And lastly, rounding out the non-Erethran group is a short, snappy, and furred Pooskeen chatting with a just-as-short Grimsar-dwarf.

Even if the entire group looks pretty relaxed, they face us the moment we arrive, conversations dying like a roach on a fireball.

“Attention!” one of the Erethrans shouts, and the group falls in with precision.

They stand there staring at me, chins and chests jutted out, feet together, wings folded, arms by their sides. It isn’t the kind of stare you give to people you like, but a challenging gaze, a weighing observation. They’re here to see who I am, what I am. I glower back as the planet’s giant sun beats down on us and wispy white-pink clouds drift past.

“Your initiates, Paladin,” Ayuri says. There’s a tone of quiet amusement in her voice, almost gloating as she looks over the group.

My lips twist, while Ali finally pops up the series of blue notification boxes about their Statuses. I ignore the group while I read.

Once I get past the third, I realize most of them are the same. Max Level or close to it. It’s bloody annoying that there are so many of them, but then again, they’ve got an entire damn Empire with hundreds of billions of individuals to draw from. Finding seven people who are dumb enough to want to be a Paladin should be simple.

I let my gaze run over the group one last time, gauging their stiff backs, the jut of their chins. As I’m about to speak, the memory of a voice comes back.

It’s languid. Lazy. Each word is drawled out, as if there’s great effort in speaking. The voice hints at the pain, the weariness and burden of its speaker with every word. Or maybe that’s just how I remember it after all the time I was on that planet, after all I remembered and learned. “Everyone thinks they know what a Paladin does. But few are willing to pay the real price. Are you, child?”

“Paladin?” Ayuri’s voice rises, as if she’s called my Title a couple of times.

I blink, my senses returning fully.

“You might want to drop the creepy smile, boy-o,” Ali sends to me urgently.

I realize I’m smiling, a toothy pull of the lips and cheeks as I stare at the group. It probably veers into crazy or savage, and I’m not particularly sure which one. One of the Erethran soldiers has dropped out of standing at attention, the woman going into a bladed stance with her backhand down by her side and front hand raised slightly. The others are all tense, but no one else has broken ranks, even if Roach flares its wings a little. When I wipe my smile, she relaxes slowly.

“All right, you bunch of loli-loving wannabes, let’s get something clear here. Being a Paladin isn’t a picnic, nor is it just another promotion. If that’s what you’re looking for, I suggest you become an Erethran Commander or General or whatever else Master Class you’ve got available.” Rather than insult them or make them annoyed, I’m surprised to see the soldiers relax. Maybe all soldiers, alien or human, are masochists? “To become a Paladin, you have to do two things.”

I let the silence stretch out, just ‘cause I can. When Ayuri glares at me, I continue, letting my voice project. “You need to prove to me you have what it takes to become a Paladin. And then, you’re going to have to fulfill the Class-change Quest.”

Ayuri twitches at the blatant repetition of what has got to be obvious information.

For a moment, I consider warning them that they could lose their lives, that the Quest I have to give can’t be made easier—or at least, not by much—because the System has its tenterhooks in it. Like all Class quests, like all System quests, there’s only so much I’d be allowed to change.

***

Another memory, another slew of data. Of tests, of attempts to change the System. Class-change Quests, System Quests generated from a Settlement sphere, Guild Quests, Dungeon Quests, on and on. Every type, every kind. Questors, with their Skills, attempting to manipulate them from outside, pitting themselves and their will against the System. And failing, with the backlash tearing apart Skills, pulling away health and experience. And sometimes, lives.

Questors on the inside manipulating the Quest itself, using the same Skills, adjusting the ratios, the payouts, the risk and details of Quests as they offer them to others. Fighting the System to offer more than the System wants. More than it is programmed to do. And some, a few, succeeding. Data, recorded, noted, parsed down, and then, another experiment. And another. Till, they fall.

But the information, always kept. Always recorded. For another Questor, another researcher willing to pit themselves against the System.

All to get another percent in their System Quest.

I shudder, seeing my own completion rate tick up. I get the flood of experience as memory goes away, leaving me reeling internally. But I can’t let them see it, so I don’t.

And I focus. Into the silence, as the group stares at me, waiting to hear what else I have to say. These people standing before me, they’re not likely to turn away because there’s a small chance of death. At least, not if I know anything about the Erethrans and the Honor Guard.

“You’re dismissed, for now. I’m sure Ayuri has a bunch of documentation to send me about you. After which, I’ll speak with each of you.” I pause. “Personally.”

“In the meantime, while I read, I want you to keep an eye on them. Talk to them, make friends if you think they’ll find you spying. I want your in-person judgment.” I send the last to Ali.

And then, turning on the balls of my feet, I walk back out the way I came. It takes Ayuri a few moments to catch up and follow, letting me stride off down the corridor for a bit and nearly out of the building itself before she speaks.

“You do know we’re going the wrong way to get to the offices, right?”

I grunt. A man has to make a good exit.

***

Luckily for my image and self-esteem, a simple Portal by Ayuri gets me to the right location. The office I take over consists of boring-ass pale blue walls, a single kidney-shaped table, and a pair of all-too-comfortable office chairs facing one another. A central door opens into the room, directly opposite the big window. Lighting in here is slightly off, just like the rest of the hallways— just a little too bright, just a little too hot.

Weird alien lighting schemes is an ongoing issue in the Galaxy. It’s one reason why most people dump some points into Perception and Intelligence, even if they aren’t going to use them for combat. The System helps us adjust across a broad range. The enhanced Perception offers us the ability to see and interpret light—and other senses—in a wider range than human—or alien—normal. The higher Intelligence points allow us to retranslate that back into our norms, or close enough that it doesn’t frag our brains.

And trust me, I’ve seen the results of lopsided Status attributes. It’s not that you need a lot of points—and for those who can’t afford the attribute increases, there are tech solutions—but at the Master Class Level, very few keep their exclusive and super-specialized builds, just to head off potential problems.

Once we’re in, Ayuri walks over to one corner and pulls a small circular cone from her Inventory, triggering the mobile hard light furniture creator. A moment later, a hard light lounging chair appears, onto which she flops. I mostly ignore her, for in the corner of my vision, a more interesting piece of information has appeared.

The full military records of our volunteers.

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk, I start reading. There’s a lot of information to get through. Everything from their full Status Sheets as of the last week to their battle records, their commendations, previous commander notes, build recommendations, and even a full psych profile. It’s kind of disturbing how detailed the information is, even though I know it’s routine for the Honor Guard. Maybe it’s disturbing because it’s routine. Either way, I learn more about these people, their families, and relationship situations than I know about my own companions. Which is rather sad, if you think about it.

Maybe I should ask a few more questions of my friends…

Chapter 3

A couple of hours later, I’m finally ready to see people in that little office of mine. In the meantime, I’ve adjusted the lighting to the human visible wavelength, transformed the Erethran-sized chair and desk to human norms—which make it just a little shorter than what they’re used to—and put up a nice outdoor vista on the walls. It’s a Pacific Northwest rainforest, a scene taken from the archives of the System. Peaceful and normal—and not at all filled with hungry monsters and mutated trees that produce carbon monoxide or eat you when you fall asleep beneath them.

My first visitor is Freif, one of the two native Erethrans. Can you even call them natives, when they abandoned their homeworld thousands of years ago to the System? Something for the alien anthropologists out there to answer. When he marches in and stands at attention, I’m idly reviewing his file again.

Freif’s build and personal weapon choice is clear. He’s the guy who sits on the rooftop somewhere, watching out for bad guys, or is sent far away, deep into enemy territory, to deal with enemy commanders. Outside of the basic Erethran Soldier and Honor Guard build, he’s got a few Class Skills that emphasize aimed and single shot damage. Of them all, Freif has the least number of “Slayer” titles, because outside of routine operations, he isn’t meant to be mixing it up directly.

Once again, I flick my gaze over his Status screen, lips pursed.

Freif T’raoor, Slayer of Kobolds, Trolls, Goblins, (more), Marksman Champion IV, Krismat Pathfinder, Chaumi Desert Survivor, … (Erethran Honor Guard Level 50)

HP: 2780/ 2780

MP: 2510/2510

Conditions: Life Suppression, Scentless, Not the Droids, Ten Steps Closer, Mana Drip, Anchored Return

But that’s his Status screen, his sheet. That’s not him. And as I stare at the man standing at parade rest before me, hands clasped behind his back, I can’t help but wonder if he has what it takes. His psych profile reminds me he’s a loner on duty, but a people person—a crowd pleaser and joker—when he’s with his peers. On top of that…

“You’ve been through three separate physical cleanses, all because you’ve not been able to keep clean.” I don’t recognize the names of the drugs, but I don’t need to. Their effects are clear enough from the report. “Can’t handle the pressure?”

“The incidents were twenty years ago. Paladin Sir,” Freif answers me with a tight tone.

“We’ll see.” When my pronouncement gets a flat-faced return stare, I go on. “Why do you want to be a Paladin?”

“I was ordered to show up for this recruitment process. Paladin Sir.”

“Drop the Paladin Sir nonsense.” I point a finger at him “I didn’t ask why you were here. I asked why you wanted to be a Paladin.”

“Because they are linchpins of the Empire. Paladin Sir.” Freif barks out the answer, his gaze fixed on my face but not meeting my eyes. It’s a trick I’ve used before, to seem respectful but not.

I snort and wave him out. It’s not much of an answer, but it’s an answer I’ll take.

For now.

***

“Ropo Dhagmath. Master Brewer. Poison Master. Slayer.” I flick the Status Screen to stay right above the bearded Grimsar. Unlike our fantasy Dwarfs, he’s got a small beard, neatly trimmed to ensure it doesn’t get in the way of putting on a battle suit. The beard is streaked with white and gray, mirrored in his braided hair that covers his head in tight bundles. He’s the oldest in the bunch, nearly hitting a hundred eighty, and it shows in the hair and lines on his face. “Not your usual secondary build and occupation for an Honor Guard member.”

Ropo Dhagmath, Silver Axe Thrower of the Sixth Deep Warren, Master Brewer, Poison Master, Slayer of Trolls, Goblins, Hakarta, (more), … (Erethran Honor Guard Level 49 / Poison Specialist Level 38)

HP: 4180/4180

MP: 2340/2340

Conditions: Loved by Poisons, Venoms & Toxins, Necrotic Damage Resistant, Serve them Twice, Tip the ‘Tender, Potions to Mana Siphon, Alchemist’s Inventory, Stand my Ground

“Poisons and toxins are a major source of fatalities among our forces, Paladin.” Ropo’s deep voice rumbles as he speaks. “Some of our enemies and dungeons are toxin-filled. Training to gain resistances to join the Guard is required. Not all of us were able to skip such training.”

My eyes narrow slightly while Ayuri’s close-eyed grin widens. Of course, Ropo can’t see her grinning since she’s behind him, but she’s obviously amused. I do wonder if this kind of backtalk is normal for the Guard. Then again, I’m not in their direct chain of command. Or am I?

For that matter, are they even using the correct forms for talking to a superior officer? They are talking in Erethran, which is distinct from Galactic itself. But the details sometimes get lost when you buy language packs from the Store. Blindspots you never knew you had until they hit you in the face like a falling tree.

“So you were the medic before you joined the Guard. And during. And, of course, having someone able to treat poison as an Honor Guard is a good idea. Which is why you’re specialising in bodyguard Skills, like Sanctum.” I watch Ropo nod at my words. “Comfy, stable job. So why do you want to be a Paladin?”

“A Grimsar has dreams.”

I raise an eyebrow and dismiss the dwarf. That’s an interesting choice of words. He’s old, but stable. A family man, though all his kids are grown. Grandkids abound, and even some great-grandkids. That’s an obvious weakness, compared to the other candidates. A leverage point. I wonder if he’s willing and able to sacrifice them, if it came to it.

More to the point, he’s a dreamer. Aren’t they supposed to die early?

***

Next up is the rock man, whose very movements send miniscule shocks through the floor. I’m surprised, because the floor itself is reinforced. And even if I’m extremely sensitive to motion these days, it’s still one heck of a feat. Unlike the usual full-sleeve-and-pants uniform rig of the others, the rockman’s uniform is made up of short-sleeves and cargo shorts.

“How come Rocky’s playing rock and roll with his feet?” I shoot the thought to Ali, while I study the Status Screen hanging above Rocky’s head.

Kino Kaan, Last Survivor (II), Medallion of the Kozma, Bearer of the Yellow Flame, Sapper, Slayer of Goblins, Yerrick, the Deep Lovers, Wendigo, Enfields, … (Erethran Honor Guard Level 50)

HP: 4500/4500

MP: 2140/2140

Conditions: Increased density, Juggernaut, Resistance to All, Stand My Ground, Geopositioned, Triple Health Regeneration Nanites, Memorised Form

“The Risen are all denser than they appear. Makes them the perfect tanks because they’ve naturally got a physical defense resistance over a hundred plus percent,” Ali sends back. “Increased density and weight is just one of the side-effects. Of course, most get a Light Foot Skill or two to off-set that.”

I grunt, recalling the Skill in Rocky’s notations. That means he’s either choosing to make a point by stomping in here or he’s so dense, his Skills are still not enough. I’m not entirely sure which option I like more.

“So, Rocky, you’re the tank. The perfect bodyguard who stands in front of the Queen until everyone else gets her out. Or the guy who lets the battleship fire upon him while his platoon preps the anti-ship artillery.”

I’m not great at reading rock, but the slight shiver that sends rock dust floating to the floor shows I’ve scored a hit. I’ve been hit by that kind of fire. Even if you survive, it still hurts. Rocky’s granite face makes him look like a less expressive Uncle Ben from the Fantastic Four, which isn’t useful. I’d rather have Jessica Alba myself.

“So what makes you want to be a Paladin?”

“Because I can survive it.”

“We’ll see about that.” I gesture Rocky away, watching as he tromps off.

Solid. Quiet. Your typical tank. Except the Risen are few in number, almost all of them joining the army at some point. Their family system is weird, with children born when a Risen decides it’s time to split. They shatter themselves, creating a mini them that then hibernates for a century or two before rising. Weird, but it means every child is precious and taken care of by the entire race. And the loss of a single one is to be mourned.

No easy handles at least.

***

“Are you just calling them in to ask that single question?” Ayuri says while we wait for my next victim. Sending them down to the courtyard and back without teleporting means we’ve got time to wait. Not as much as you’d think, since the higher Dexterity in all their abilities means they’re basically hot-footing their way back and forth.

“Pretty much.”

“Why?”

I grin at Ayuri’s question.

“Seriously, Redeemer. Why?”

“You’ve trained them too well,” I say, gesturing to the window and the courtyard behind me. “Other questions won’t get a proper response. So. One question. Then I’ll figure out a way to tease out the truth.”

“Oh? And how would you do that?”

I shrug, not having found an answer yet. Though I have hints.

Before we can speak further, the door chimes and slides open, leaving me to regard the horror-inducing appearance of my next speaker.

My next victim-volunteer arrives, wings flaring a little as he steps through the door. I lean back, eying the roach-flyer—a Che’dah from a Dungeon Planet just like me—as he regards me with its compound eyes. I shudder a little, an atavistic instinct making me want to squish the bug. Preferably with a ten-foot hammer.

And I know exactly where to find one.

“Redeemer.”

I cock my head at the greeting. It’s a breach of protocol in a way. But not really.

The usage of Titles is a social construct of System-created society. Titles that matter more to specific cultures are always used first, in front of other Titles. So the usage of Titles varies depending on social standing.

As an example, the Hakarta are more likely to use my Monster Bane Title over a general Slayer Title—if I ever get one. In turn, they’d discount my rank of Paladin entirely, since that’s a Class and only Erethran. Redeemer of the Dead is the Title most commonly used, because it’s a unique Title, even if it has no other direct benefits like Monster Slayer.

Other cultures might see social rank Titles—like Lord and Lady or Duke—as more important. It’s a little bit of a mess, but the big thing is that rather than using the “correct” Title—in this case, my rank as a Paladin for their armed forces—the roach has decided to use my Redeemer Title. It says something about the society the Roach lives in, though what, I’m not sure yet.

Smo’kana Sa’l’a’la, Monster Slayer, Slayer of Goblins, Isooma, Yerrick, Nuckelavee, (more), 12891^th^ Spawn Survivor, Multi-Classed,… (Erethran Honor Guard Level 47)

HP: 2940/2940

MP: 2840/2840

Conditions: Multi-Classed (Shadow Stalker), Fire Resistant, Ablative Impact Resistance, Fountain of Mana, Shadow Consort

“So, Smo, you’re a fellow Dungeon World survivor. Don’t meet many of you guys,” I say. “How come?”

“Swarm perish. Mother Brood Die. Sixth Cycle of Rebirth of the Third Line.” Smo’s got a clicking, buzzing tone to his voice, as if he’s a bad transistor radio that has never been tuned properly.

I dart a look at the lounging Ayuri for clarification.

Silence stretches out until she finally cracks an eye open and replies, “Sargent Sa’l’a’la’s race is birthed from eggs, produced by queen Che’dah. Their race is one that was uplifted by the System integration, but during the process of integration, the majority of uplifted queens were lost. There are now three remaining queens on the planet, leaving them vastly undermanned.” Ayuri pauses then adds, “It doesn’t help that each birth swarm goes through a period of intense cannibalism. It does mean survivors have a headstart on Levels though.”

“Oh.” I eye his title, realizing it wasn’t just a throwaway note. Then again, most Titles aren’t. They’re gained due to either Galactic Council or System intervention for notable achievements. Which is kind of disturbing when you consider how many siblings he probably ate that the System felt it worthy of a Title.

Ugh.

I suddenly decide I need a bath. “So why do you want to be a Paladin?”

“First in Line. Power. Consume. Rebirth.”

I glare at Smo while Ayuri explains. “One of the powers of the queen’s class is the consumption of their brood to pass on Skills to the next generation. Greatly weakened, of course, but it can allow the development of unique Classes. The queen is quite interested to see what the consumption of a high-Level Paladin would engender.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s just messed up.” I shake my head and point at the door. “Out. And send in the next.”

I get a click and buzz, the Che’dal’s wings flaring as he turns and flies off.

Cannibalism. Fun for all Galactics.

Not.

***

She’s cute. That’s my first thought now that I’m able to look closer at the female Erethran. Slim, muscular in the athletic and active way, the Erethran Honor Guard stands at rest with a wariness in her eyes. As I flick my gaze over her, I note the rather extensive list of buffs she has on. Unlike many of the others, she’s nerfed her passive regeneration like Bolo in return for ongoing Skill effects, including a wide range of buffs.

Anayton Nichortin, the Everlasting Light, Winner of the 185^th^ Cross-World Bollman Race, Mana Fount, Flesh Golem, Slayer of Goblins, Leoucroucta, Nuckelavee, (more), … (Level 50 Honor Guard)

HP: 3140/3140

MP: 3230/3230

Conditions: Time Compression, Double the Gain, Double the Pain, Greater Regeneration, Save Point, Greater Mana Regeneration, Battle Flow, Strength of the One, Agility of the One, Mind of the One, When the End Comes, (more)

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. What do you guys have against Goblins?” Every single Honor Guard I’ve met thus far has had that Title.

“They are a common pest and one that we need to deal with across all our planets, sir. Basic Units are sent to deal with growing nests as training. They are an easy source of Level Ups while fulfilling our ongoing peacekeeping efforts,” Anayton replies.

“Oh. Huh,” I say. “You guys send entire units to wipe out a Goblin nest?”

When she nods, I can’t help but feel somewhat sympathetic for the poor Goblins. My team managed to take out a Goblin nest by ourselves—and we were all pretty much Basic Classers back then. For them to send a whole unit seems a tad overkill.

“Goblins are a pest. No matter how many you kill, they always return. Like ants, in your world. Or your Common Cold.”

My eyes narrow again, curiosity pinging. She’s the first to show any indication that they’ve done research on me. Not to say the others didn’t, but she’s blatant about it. “Fair enough. So tell me. Why do you want to be a Paladin?”

“Is answering your question an order?”

“Not yet,” I say.

When she clamps her mouth shut and continues to not answer me, I gesture her out.

The moment the door closes, Ayuri drawls, “I know you’re no military man, but allowing your subordinates to defy you is bad for discipline.”

“Good thing I’m not in the military. Or training a military unit.” I flash her a grin, then ignore her inquisitive glance as I focus on the next Status screen. Let her mull over that.

As for Anayton, I remember how she flowed into a combat stance. Her reports all indicate a level of minor insubordination coupled with extremely high marks for performance. Her background as a commoner from a Restricted World. She’s mouthy, without any real ties to those outside of the Guard. And few close ones within.

A loner.

***

“Don’t see many of your kind in the Empire,” I say, my gaze roaming over the Pooskeen. Long snout, short ears, short hair with traces of stripes that make me think of a hyena more than a real dog. Especially with the reddish-brown-clay fur that covers the creature. “And you’re the first non-Honor Guard.”

“I’m grateful for the chance,” the Pooskeen yips, its voice high and grating. I kind of want to rub at my ears, the way it speaks.

“Not chance. You earned the spot, from what I can see. Ancillary support Shaman for the fire teams. You’ve been forced to work with them, but not be part of their actual command and payment structure. Hard living, not being paid your full rate and still facing the same—if not more—dangers. Though I’m a little puzzled by your Skills.” My gaze rakes over his Status Screen again, picking out his buffs.

Gheisnan of the Two Palms, Minor Seer, Cassandra, Rebel Marked, Slayer of Goblins, Uyyi, Qawe, (more), … (Four Eyed Shaman Level 50)

HP: 2640/2640

MP: 2380/2380

Conditions: Eyes of the Future, Twisted Destiny, Scion of the Fates, Personal Timeline, Fate Siphon, Greater Mana Regeneration

“Cassandra?” I send to Ali. He’s a distance away, but I can still talk to him, though I’m trying not to bother his spying. But this is a new one.

“Greek mythology. I figured it’d be more fun than ‘Forecaster of doom that no one listened to.’”

“Prophecy and foretelling,” Gheisnan says. “My people have much Skill at that.”

“Your people…” I flick my hand sideways.

A notification floats in front of him, stolen and replicated to Ayuri’s side by a twitch of her finger. It’s a recording, a piece of data I’ve kept stored in my implant. Sent years ago by the team to inform me of what was happening in another part of my then domain. A small town where bones and other unmentionables lay gnawed upon and discarded as humans whimpered in the corner, staked to the ground in their own refuse. Pooskeen bodies lie, weapons drawn, facing out—slain by the team sent to liberate the town while we fought through Alberta.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kick you out right now,” I say.

“Those are not my people,” Gheisnan yips, his fur bristling, that short stubby tail flicking so agitatedly that I can spot it behind his body. “Fallen clans. A twisted kingdom.”

“Pretty sure they’re from your main planet.”

“Twisted and fallen.” Gheisnan snarls, fish clenching. A green, sickly light radiates from his body as he speaks, his entire body leaning forward from his hips as if he could shove the truth, along with his words, down my throat. “My people are the true heirs of the Pooskeen heritage. We are nothing like the twisted creatures the Oynaci Dynasty have created. They have destroyed our culture, our heritage. All to keep themselves on top.” Gheisnan almost froths at the mouth as he speaks, having taken an inadvertent pair of steps closer. “Paladin or not, I will not let you declare us the same as those things.”

“Touchy, are we?” I can’t help but admire the fire though. If there’s one thing a Paladin needs, it’s fire. Passion. Because when the chips are down, when things are at the worst, you can’t just back off. Not now, not ever. “I’m curious what makes you think you can become a Paladin. Pretty sure it was only open to me because I was an Honor Guard.”

Ayuri speaks first, well before Gheisnan can say anything. “It’s uncommon. But there have been cases of non-Honor Guards being elevated to the Class. It requires a Prestige Class at the minimum, which the adjunct has. The Quest itself grows significantly harder. And, of course, it requires the agreement of a Paladin. That is rare enough to get.”

“I see.” I fall silent, eyeing the short dog-like creature. My own Quest had been a simple one—if you could consider killing over-Leveled monsters in a Forbidden World simple. Still, the first step was having me agree to give them the quest. Which leads me to… “Why do you want to be a Paladin?”

“For the honor of my people. My real people.” And when he finishes speaking, Gheisnan glares, daring me to challenge his words.

I decline and send him off.

***

Lastly, we have the pretty little duelist Movanna. All elf ears, long hair, and beauty. The annoying part is, I can tell he’s not even put points into his Charisma on purpose. He’s just that pretty naturally. Makes me want to gag at the unfairness of genetics.

As he saunters in, all cat-like grace and the arrogance to match, I can’t help but check out his Status information again. Of them all, the Movanna has the longest and most in-depth documentation. I’m curious why he got the Title for Century Guard when Ropo didn’t. System-centric racism?

Magine a Clarson, Century Guard, Monster Slayer, Loadah Champion Duelist (VIIX and VIX) & (more), Slayer of Goblins, Kraska, Wexlix, Frakin, (more), Dueling Addict,…(Erethran Honor Guard Level 50)

HP: 2740/2740

MP: 2540/2540

Conditions: Blitzed, Face Me, Aura of the Duelist, Burst Attack, Greater Resistance, Ablative Shield

“I didn’t expect to see a Movanna in Erethra,” I say, showing that I’ve yet to learn to not stereotype the races. Or I have, but I kind of want to see what he has to say.

“There’s a small community.” Magine shrugs. “Live a few hundred years, and you start wanting to travel a little. My parents found their way to Erethra before they were killed by pirates. But you know that.” His gaze flicks upward to where my notification screens hang.

“I do. I also noted that your stated goal was to become a Champion. So why give that up now?”

“Because the option is no longer viable.”

“Paladin’s your second choice,” I say.

I can understand that. The Champion sub-Class is a unique Class, one that can only be held by a single person at a time. Not to say there aren’t other types of Champions, but the Champion of Erethra Class Ayuri has is unique.

It’s part of why her Skills are so insanely powerful. Or not. That’s the double-edged sword of being a “Champion.” Many of the Skills scale according to the strength of whatever you’re linked to. A failing Empire could nerf the Class significantly. Of course, there are also other restrictions on the Class—like being forced to be subservient to another. Which, I’m guessing, is why he’s given up on the other Champion options.

“A distant, if respectable second. But the Champion has shown her mettle,” Magine says, turning his head slightly to take in the lounging form of Ayuri. “She will stand for the Empire. In turn, I must find another form of service, and returning honor to the Class is a worthy task.”

I wonder if that last line is a barb against me. Or how much of a barb. “Well, that’s clear enough.”

I dismiss Magine, leaving me to stare at the closed doors. I’ve got my answers, an idea of who these people are. And soon, I’ll get an idea of what they are like when I’m not around, when Ali is watching them. Even so…

“Are you satisfied?” Ayuri says, sitting up from her chair. “Or do I have to find others for you?”

“You guys really want more Paladins, don’t you?”

“They are a pillar of the Empire, and their lack shows.” She gestures to the door. “They are the best we have, of what we believe should work. Others, at lower Levels, might be suitable but…”

“But you don’t think I have enough time to Level them.”

Ayuri inclines her head in acknowledgement.

“I don’t know what you expected to happen, but I’m not about to wave my hands and just give them my assent to acquire the Class.”

“Why not?” Ayuri raises a carefully plucked, graceful eyebrow. “Would it not simplify the matter? If you’re worried if they are suitably loyal, that was our first criteria.”

“Loyal to your Queen, perhaps.” I shake my head. “But being a Paladin is more than loyalty to your Queen. Or, hell, loyalty to your Empire.” I put a hand over my heart. “Case in point.”

Ayuri’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying you’re a threat to us?”

“No.” I shake my head. “At least, not in the way you think.” I kick back, putting my feet on the desk. I stare at the ceiling, memories of my time in the Forbidden Zone coming back to me. “Did you ever wonder why Suhargur never came back? Why she’s putting the lives of an entire planet over that of the Empire?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“We’re here to protect the Empire—its citizens and what your Empire is supposed to be. Not what you think it is,” I say, looking at her through parted feet. Ayuri’s lips thin through the V of my crossed legs, and I wonder if she’s going to hit me. I’m giving her the best shot she’ll get.

But taunt or not, she doesn’t rise to the bait. “So. You’re not going to rubber stamp our choices.”

“Not without running a couple of tests,” I say.

“And what would those be?”

“Well, funny thing you should ask…” My grin widens behind my feet. “I’m going to need to make a call. Or two.”

Chapter 4

Ali finds me in my quarters a while later, the personnel files of my recruits spread all around me. I have my feet up in the air—literally as force wards cushion me as I lounge—while scanning through the documents and accompanying videos. I’m still waiting for my call to be put through, but I’m not worried. It’s only been a few days since I was yanked all the way here, and my last message to my friends cautioned them that I’d be busy. They’re probably doing their own things and not in any hurry to speak to me.

On the other side of the window—plain, reinforced glass windows backed with a nearly invisible force shield—the sun is setting. I haven’t been around long enough to figure out their seasons, but in this world, days are long and nights short. With a pair of moons hanging overhead and light filtered to make the sky purple at this time of day, it’s a strange and unsettlingly beautiful sight.

“So?” I ask the Spirit.

“The Poos found me,” Ali says, floating over. The brown-skinned, goateed Spirit floats along in his favorite orange jumpsuit, flicking his gaze over my datasets before turning to me fully. “But I listened in for a bit. They’re a pretty buttoned-up group.”

No surprise, if they’re the elites. Ali keeps talking, filling me in on his impressions. For the most part, it confirms much of what I gathered. The group is generally well-mannered, grouping into small clusters along the lines of previous engagements and missions fought together. They talked about past missions, old friends, and quietly measured each other up.

No one showcased any real notable Skills, but most considered Freif—the marksman—the most dangerous of the lot. Well, either him or Magine, from the way they interacted. Ali couldn’t tell for sure, but those two were the snarling male lions of the pack. It’s a subtle thing though, no giant posturing by either.

“Fun. I got another question for you,” I say when Ali finishes by relaying a horrible story that he overheard about an Erethran pangolin, a stick of dynamite, and a latrine.

“Of course you do. What is it?”

“Why is Ayuri letting me scupper their plans?”

“Scupper?”

“Mess with. Destroy. They want Paladins. All I really have to do is give them my blessings and… whoosh. Off they go.”

“Ah.” Ali scratches his nose. “You still need me to answer the question?”

“Obviously.”

“Surprised. But it might be a little too political and obvious,” Ali says. “Good to know I’m not completely useless.”

“Blah, blah, blah. I hear a lot of talking, not a lot of answers.” I wave for him to hurry it along, then I have to reposition my windows when they follow my hand motions. Most of the time, the System is fine, but occasionally, it messes with me. Or it could be Ali doing the messing.

“You got to remember. You’re a separate organization in their hierarchy. Ayuri can’t exactly order you to do what she wants. Even the Queen has to be careful. Secondly, if you read your data pack, you’d remember that the picking of Paladins is a time-honored internal tradition. Messing with that—”

“Could mess with the first point.” I say, catching on. Right. If you let people—and in this case, that includes the Queen—interfere with how Paladins get picked, you’d end up with not an independent organization but an extra arm in their armed forces. “Still, it’s not as if I knew that. So if they pushed me…”

“That brings me to point two. Advanced Master Classes—prestige Classes—all have restrictions on their creation and their development. Mess with the requirements or details of Classes too much and the System can just as easily take away the Class,” Ali says.

“It can do—”

Before I can finish my sentence, information blooms. Data. So much data. It rips through my mind, makes me tense and twist in my chair so much that I fall. The kiss of the floor is so distant, it might as well be a kitten’s first nuzzle. I’m distracted as videos, articles, and voice recordings decrypt themselves in my mind.

“I will not!” The voice is panicked, loud. So close to breaking, so close to insanity.

A chainsaw grates, cutting into another tentacle. The speaker writhes, purple and white limbs thrashing. The attacker doesn’t stop until the limbs are lopped off entirely. And the alien thrashes, health falling and falling. Until a glow encompasses the thrashing alien, healing and sealing off wounds. And then, they regrow.

“Sign. We can do this all year.”

Such a cold voice. Clinical. I can’t see the speaker, I can only sense them, through the recording. Sense them, and see, feel, the limbs, all the limbs that twist and twitch beneath his feet that tell a tale. A shortened, grotesque tale of how long they’ve done this. How often.

“I’ll sign…” the alien sobs.

Memory breaks. The video speeds up or maybe my memory of the video blips.

The alien is thrashing, its one tentacled-hand raised toward the notification. The one where it rescinds heritage rights to its own family. Breaking its own Advanced Class, that of the Podkeeper Scrooge. Destroying the tenents of its own Class.

And the System acts.

Tearing it from its Class, stripping it of its additional attributes, throwing it all the way back to a Basic Class. The process is painful, dangerous, and at the end, the alien is dead. Too much leftover damage, too low a Constitution—or perhaps too much pain.

The creature lies dead while in a corner, the researcher’s hands are outstretched, flicking and twisting as he manipulates the System information windows he’s reading. I know that because in the corner of my mind, the same data is unscrolling. Mana levels, data streams, and System code-gibberish—all of it displayed and unencrypted. All of it being prodded, pulled, and compared against other research, other test subjects.

I shudder as another memory pushes this one aside. Another experiment. Less gruesome, with less lethal results. But this was because the previous experiment had found the final member of the Class and broken it; while here, they just broke the herm.

Data. So much data, most of it gruesome. For these tests, you could record the occasional historical instances, but for good, reliable data, you needed to run your own experiments.

And I’d once thought the Questors were relatively benign.

“Boy-o?” Ali’s worried voice finally pierces my clouded mind.

I find myself on my knees, spitting out blood from a bitten lip, wiping a bleeding nose, and groaning. In the corner of my eyes, I absently note the damage counter, the amount resisted from mental debuffs and injuries. Twice in one day, the library assaults me.

If I was anyone else, if I had a weaker Class…

I spit and stagger upward, casting a simple flame spell to burn off the blood and a Cleanse to clean up. When I spot Ali, he’s looking all too grim.

“The usual?” he asks.

“Yup.”

We don’t dare say why. What happened to me, the stuffing of the entire damn Corrupted Questor’s library in my mind. It’s dangerous. Quite potentially lethal. Better to stay silent on it until we know exactly how much danger I’m in. How much I’ve changed. Because I have changed, beyond knowing more than I should, seeing more than I should.

It’s possible that it doesn’t matter. It’s possible that Feh’ral got away and replicated the library somewhere else. That I’m just a backup and they don’t care about the data anyway. They went after him on Spaks because he neared Quest completion, because he reached the ninety percent mark. Not because of the library. Or so I hope.

System Quest Update!

+238,912 XP, +18,281 XP, +8 XP,…

System Quest Completion Rate: 84.7%

Or so I think.

But those experience gains have been increasing. My percentage is creeping up, no matter what I do. Not that I don’t want it to go up—but a little more control would be nice. A little more clarity. I’m learning things about the System, but I don’t have context. I don’t understand.

What is the System?

And why is it important that the System can take away Classes? That it’s limited by Mana density? And yet it breaks down in Forbidden Zones, where Mana is more than abundant. Even when, in totality, there’s more System Mana there than anywhere else. Why is the System-script both completely legible Galactic and completely inlegible runic script? Runic script that no computer, no databank, no AI or Class has ever gotten even close to deciphering? The script defies understanding because it changes, morphs in meaning and context with every look, every attempt at reading. Why does the code change, even for the very same Skill and the same person?

Too many questions, too little answers.

But my Quest completion rates keep going up.

I shudder and push aside the thought and focus on what I can handle. What is right in front of me. Because anything else—well, that’ll just scare me.

“So. Politics.”

“Politics, boy-o. It’s always politics with Galactics,” Ali says as if he’s seen it all. And I guess he has, in some ways. The Spirit is enigmatic, his history clouded, but I know he’s thousands, if not tens of thousands, years old. I’m just the latest in a long, long line of companions for him. The Spirit floats off to the window, staring outside. “And knowing you, you’re going to mess with their plans. So. What do you intend to do?”

“Nothing on purpose,” I say, flopping back into my chair. “I’m not planning on making enemies.”

“You never plan on it.”

“But it happens,” I finish for the Spirit. “I need to make sure they can survive. No point in giving them their Quest, then watching them die completing it. Or a month later, when they don’t realize what it means to be a Paladin.”

“And you do?” Ali says, turning around to look at me. “You’re not exactly Erethran. Or, you know, part of their society. Nor have you done any of the Paladin’s traditional job.”

I grunt. “You have a point. But I know more than they do.” At Ali’s raised eyebrow, I shake my head. “They’ve not had one for too long. Or maybe they don’t want them to survive.”

“And what does it mean to be a Paladin?”

“Being the ass that everyone targets.”

***

When the call finally comes through, I’ve been reading for hours. At this point, I’m mostly reading because the minor details I might be picking up subconsciously could be helpful in their training. A quick scan was more than enough to get me ninety percent of everything there was to know about each initiate, but at the levels we operate at, that last ten percent is where eighty percent of deaths occur. When fights happen in milliseconds, the tiniest edge can mean all the difference.

“Mikito. Good to see you. Are you guys okay? Anything I should know? When will you be here?” I greet the short-haired, severe-faced Japanese woman with a barrage of questions. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to them, days even.

Not that they’re in that much danger, I think. Mikita is with Bolo, who I notice in the back of the transmission. The ram-horned giant of an alien is a Master Class at the same Level as me. And stronger. After all, he didn’t skip the entire Basic Class. He’s got a wider variety of Skills, a lot more experience, and Dragon Lords are geared toward one-on-one fights. They are, basically, a pure Combat Class.

A Paladin of Erethra isn’t.

My only real concern is that, as of their last message, Dornalor doesn’t have his ship yet. After all that fighting, the docks are extremely busy. It’ll be a while before they replace the Heartbreak, even with the funds the station has released. He’s still debating if he intends to wait for them to build him a new ship at a significant discount or just take the Credits and buy one somewhere else. There are advantages to both options.

About the only person who isn’t happy about the end of the war is Harry. He’s been running around finishing up the last of his missives, playing war journalist and sending out reports. Even so, his viewership and experience gain has taken quite a hit.

On the other hand, Harry’s reputation has really climbed the news charts. From what I understand, he’s doubled his fan base, and they’re paying into his account just to watch his regular streams. Thankfully, our prior agreement means he doesn’t do live streaming around us—at least not without warning us beforehand.

“Not much longer,” Bolo answers quickly for Mikito, not letting the Samurai answer. I raise an eyebrow because that’s not suspicious at all. “We have it handled. We’re just waiting for the final payment to come through and then we’ll be there.”

“I thought everyone had to deposit the payments before the auction?”

“Normally, that’s the way.” Bolo shrugs, his enchanted emerald scalemail rippling and glinting as he does so. “But I struck us a side deal as well.” When I raise my eyebrow, he grins confidently. “It’s fine, it’s fine. It’ll all be done in the next six hours. Until then, the Gremlins will hold onto the Leviathan corpse.”

“Mikito?”

After glancing at Bolo, Mikito says, “We can handle it. The deal is good.”

“All right then. I might need you guys here sooner rather than later. You mind taking a Portal?”

“Of course not.” Harry speaks up as he wanders into the shot. The British man of African origin flashes me a grin, those pearly white teeth of his still perfectly in place. “We going to Erethra?”

“She is.” I watch the flick of hurt and uncertainty cross Harry’s face before I relent. “Whether you’re coming is up to you. Don’t you have a lot more reporting to do?”

“Eh. I’m a war reporter. Reconstruction is important but rather boring. Anyway, my fans prefer following you around. New worlds, new alien races, more death and destruction. Whatever you’re up to will be a lot more interesting.”

I snort. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

I doubt the Erethrans will allow him to record the training I’m going to put their people through. And dry politics is rarely riveting.

“I would.” Having said his piece, Harry wanders out of the frame again.

“Anything we need to know?” Bolo speaks up, leaning over Mikito’s shoulder. “The last message you sent, I was expecting to have to break you out of the Empire.”

“Wait, we?” I frown. “You coming?”

“Mmmm… for a fight? Yes. Otherwise, no,” Bolo says. “No offense, Redeemer…”

“None taken. You’re welcome to sit it out,” I say. “Mikito, when you arrive, make sure you’re ready to fight.”

***

The next morning, I meet the Paladin initiates in the same square. Privacy curtains are up, ensuring that the ongoings inside the courtyard will not be seen by even those staring out the windows. The Paladin initiates are all standing at attention, waiting for me to say something. I’m just waiting.

Ayuri finally turns up, flanked by her companions. This is the first time I’ve seen them, Unilo and Mayaya, since they yanked me out of my Portal and dumped me here. As usual, Mayaya looks bored with the entire proceedings, the master Portal-maker staring about with a blasé look on his face. Unilo is much more perky, flashing me a smile. I’m a little worried about what she’s got to say to me, considering I owe her a personal debt as well. Somehow, I’m getting the feeling that whatever I bargained for previously has even more implications than I had considered.

That’s part of the reason why Ali isn’t here with me right now. I sent him off to go chat with the rest of the companions and AIs. One thing you have to say about the Galactics. While familiars, companions, and AIs aren’t open to everyone, they are quite common. And that commonality has created a whole subculture that’s hidden from us System-users.

More than once, we’ve used that subculture to our advantage. You’d be surprised how few people treat their companions well. With the wide variety of social classes and individuals involved, and the System-enforced loyalty—slavery in other words—it seems to make people think that they can do what they want.

“Champion,” I greet Ayuri as she comes to a stop next to me.

“Paladin.”

“That’s Grand Champion,” Unilo pipes up with a twinkle in her eyes.

“It’s fine, the Redeemer is known for his lack of courtesy.” Ayuri’s lips widen in a smile. “In fact, a subsection of his historical predecessors were known for being extremely rude. So he could be said to be following tradition.”

“Funny.” I glance at the clock in the corner of my vision and sigh. I still have another five minutes to wait before it’s time. We could potentially open up early but the…

You know what, I really don’t want to do small talk.

“Can you open the Portal?” I ask Mayaya.

Of course, he looks at Ayuri for confirmation.

“Redeemer, you do realize there are numerous restrictions involved in using the Portal between worlds? Teleportation and other mass transit, mass movement spells and Skills are a strategic threat. Receiving the right to make such Portals through our defenses is an involved process and requires significant planning,” Ayuri says.

“That a no?”

“Yes, you dungeon-born, uncivilized, System-deficient cretin. That’s a no,” Mayaya snaps at me, which makes me chuckle.

“You know, this is probably the first time I’ve ever seen you react. For anything. That includes the time we almost had those monsters eat your face.”

This time, Mayaya doesn’t rise to the provocation. In fact, his face slips back into that blasé look. I make note of it, how Portal-making and its attendant bureaucracy is his sticking point.

Unfortunately, that leaves me with another four minutes or so to wait. While doing so, I regard the waiting Paladin initiates. They’re all standing silently, faces carefully tended to ensure that not a single inch of alien feeling shows through. Even the ones who have tails—or in the Roach’s case, wings—are careful to keep them from moving. Which the Galactic body language download tells me is unusual. It’s a level of control that’s uncommon and speaks more of focused attention than it does of relaxation.

“All right. I guess I should tell you why I called you all here.” I regard the group, waiting to see if there’s any reaction to those words. Of course there’s not. “Today, I’m going to show you exactly how far you all are from being viable Paladin initiates.”

That triggers a reaction. Especially from Magine and Ropo. The others are less blatant about their surprise, and in Gheisnan’s case, something tells me he expected me to do this. If so, maybe his Skill set isn’t completely worthless.

After that, I let them stew in silence until time runs out. Mayaya doesn’t bother to ask my permission, just glances over to confirm with Ayuri before he snaps open the Portal. It’s a black void in space, a circular oval that consumes all light entering it. It’s not very big, about ten feet tall and five feet wide. What it is is more than big enough for those who come through.

I can’t help but grin. This should be fun.

Chapter 5

The first to come out, to my surprise, is Bolo. For all his protestations and the friendship we struck up, he has a life on Spaks. I’m not sure why he’d travel across the galaxy to join us. But it’s not the time to question him.

The Dragon Lord is standing tall today, all of his nine feet stretched to the limit, his hammer held idly and blocking the majority of his torso as he strides out of the Portal. It makes little sense for a hammer to be that big in real life—except, of course, for System shenanigans.

Because of the System, Bolo has the strength to wield a ten-foot hammer and, I’ll admit, the larger surface area makes it much harder to dodge. In any sensible, physics-laden universe, wielding a weapon as big and heavy as that would make no sense. Luckily, the ability to alter our Strength and the strength of the molecular bonds of our surroundings make swinging weapons like that viable, without boring physics causing problems.

His scalemail glints in the sunlight, its emerald-green shade darkening under the slightly pinkish hue of the sky. That the sky isn’t the usual blue—or gray, if you live in Vancouver—is due to the different particulate matter on Erethra. The science behind it is out of my scope of learning, though it does mean that their animals and other flora and fauna are more vibrant in coloring. Also, Ali has pointed out that the native animals have a tendency to see in infrared as well.

Once Bolo has cleared the Portal, Harry strolls in, clad in Adventurer chic—an armored jumpsuit with strapping for weapons and equipment—with bright yellow markings instead of the duller colors favored by true Adventurers. As usual, upon entering a new location that might be of interest to his viewers, he has his hands spread out on either side, his fingers split apart in an L shape, holding up invisible camera lenses and recording. He swings his hands one way and another and freezes. A moment later, he curses.

“No recording in the training areas. Or palace grounds,” Mayaya snaps at Harry. Mayaya continues a moment later. “Delete your current files. You also need to receive a full press review.”

“Even if he isn’t recording?” I ask.

“Yes. Many of these journalists, these news junkies, can extract memories to create recordings. None with any great fidelity as compared to an actual recording, but still salable.” Mayaya shakes his head and spits. “We do not allow just anyone to walk around in our government locations. And we require them to all sign the necessary documentation and promises.”

I frown, considering whether or not I should override Mayaya. I adjust my mental notes too, from stickler with Portal bureaucracy to just bureaucracy. Prodding him would be amusing, but it also could cause more trouble than it would be worth. My theoretical rank doesn’t necessarily extend to my friends. It doesn’t do Harry any good if I let him record and then have the Erethrans assassinate him later.

“It’s fine, John. The Erethrans are more into military announcements and public distribution of information from qualified sources. I’m sure, once I get my clearance, I can produce work that Galactics will actually want to watch,” Harry calls as he keeps walking to me, his hands down by his sides. He flashes the trio of Erethrans a grin as he slides in his own dig.

Behind the journalist comes Mikito. The samurai has her polearm at the ready, the heritage weapon masquerading as a soulbound tool. She’s armed and armored in a space-age battle suit, a transforming mecha with compressed layers of metal and built-in weaponry. It’s an upgrade to her old mecha, a new addition to her wardrobe. Even as it covers her form, it’s not too bulky, barely a few inches more across her entire form. On top of the mechasuit, she can throw up her ghost armor Skill, giving her full protection when needed. That’s down for now though.

The Portal stays open for a second longer before Mayaya, seeing no one else entering, speaks to Mikito.

“I was told to expect four.”

“Donalar is staying behind. He wants his ship built to his specifications. We left him grumbling about dockworkers and cost-cutting,” Mikito says.

In reply, Mayaya snaps shut the Portal.

While my friends make their way over, I note how the Paladin initiates stare at them, some with open curiosity, some with rising dread as they puzzle out what I’m planning. Some—like Magine—just look unimpressed.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to my friends, returning handshakes and fist bumps. “So who wants to be first?”

Bolo doesn’t even hesitate, pointing. “I’ll just take that corner, shall I?”

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. As you probably guessed, today’s a beatdown day. We’ll start it easy. Two of you can play with Bolo over there. I recommend you pick the two best you have. And don’t worry, I told Bolo not to kill you.”

The words make them bristle for the most part—all but the Pooskeen, who shrinks backward. He’s obviously not interested in having a big, strong Dragon Lord pound him into the dirt. Quite literally.

The first to volunteer is Magine, the dueling maniac. Freif joins him after glancing at the group. It’s not a bad team-up, considering Freif will need to hide behind and set up if he wants to take out Bolo. Unfortunately, the flat arena won’t do him any real good. That’s no way to hide, to back off and open fire on the Dragon Lord. It’s not the ideal environment for the marksman and I’m sure he’ll complain about it later.

The pair set up as I expect them to. Magine stands before Bolo, weapons held down and to the side, a short dueling sword in each hand. These aren’t big honking pieces of steel or even the curved elegance of a katana. No, these are dueling swords, tiny weapons about four feet long with a blade that’s maybe a millimeter in diameter. The blade itself appears from a hitless basket guard, formed of Mana and a thin extrusion of metal. Instead of a single flat edge, they’re an irregular triangle of blade edges, with diamond-tipped edges to increase cutting area. On top of that, low-level energy projections erupt from the blade edges, giving the weapon a monofilament edge.

That Magine wields two at once, and with the lightness of the weapons, means he’ll be attacking faster than Bolo. Theoretically.

Freif stands behind Magine, at the far edges of the courtyard. This leaves Freif little space to retreat, but Magine is ready to intercept Bolo. Unlike his melee-wielding partner, Freif is hauling around a sniper rifle that’s nearly as big as he is. System physics means that he can carry it without a problem, though he has additional braces emerging from his armored body, along with force-projected stabilizers, that help anchor the sniper rifle to himself and the ground.

All the while, as they set up, Bolo stands there, leaning on the shaft of his hammer, waiting with a smirk. “You want me to beat them, correct? With flair?”

I glance at the party chat that Bolo sends his notice to us from and keep my face still as I reply. “No deaths. Feel free to cripple. Heck, that’d be preferable.”

“Not very nice of you,” Harry sends.

“Good training.” That’s from Mikito, the samurai eyeing not the fighters who are stepping out to deal with Bolo but the rest of the group who hasn’t. She’ll be taking her turn soon after. And unlike Bolo, she’ll take this seriously.

“Whatever. I’ve been itching to hit someone,” Bolo sends his reply.

“You intend to signal the start?” Ayuri says, gesturing out to where the opponents wait.

“Nope. When they’re ready, they can start,” I reply idly.

As if he was waiting for me to say that, Magine launches himself at Bolo. He crosses the twenty feet between them in a flicker of blurred cloth and steel, Haste already turned on. He’s fast. Faster than me, I’d say. Agility focused, but with significantly less Health.

Rather than pick up his hammer, Bolo reacts by punching. He’s moving so fast, everyone is moving so fast, that I’m not even sure the Paladin initiates spot the slight deviation Bolo makes while punching. A deviation necessary to take in account Magine’s dodge. One moment, Magine is a blur approaching Bolo. The next, he’s being punched in the face, that fraction of a second when his momentum is canceled like a photograph in our minds. His face, crumpled, a blade sunk into Bolo’s arm half a foot deep. And then, of course, momentum takes over and Magine is flying backward nearly as far as he was charging, tumbling head over heels.

A crack, the noise from the projectile thrown down field as it crushes the sound barrier, informs us that Freif is joining the battle. Freif reacted as fast as Magine, but they’re all moving so fast, the crack only arrives a fraction of a second before the noise of Magine’s own breach of the sound barrier.

The projectile lands on Bolo’s chest, just slightly off center and at an angle, shattering on the scalemail and showering the ground with shards. Bolo’s enchanted armor doesn’t even scar.

Neither of the initiates take their failures lying down. Magine is already bouncing to his feet and charging into the fray, blood streaming from a broken nose, swelling already forming on his face. He circles sideways, making sure to give Freif a clear line of vision. He’s learned his lesson, circling rather than doing a straight, face-first challenge. Freif is reloading, taking his time as he pumps Mana into his next Skill attack. No hasty shots here.

And Bolo? He’s grinning.

What happens in the next few minutes is a massacre. Bolo never even bothers to pick up his hammer. Instead, he alternately punches, kicks, and in the end—while holding Magine’s hands apart—head butts his opponent into submission.

As for Freif, even after conjuring weaponry all around the arena to increase his damage and slow down Bolo, he fails to do much to the Dragon Lord. After the first shot, Bolo dodges. His movements are almost languid, but he shrugs off, disperses, and dodges the vast majority of Freif’s major attacks. The rest of the drones and automated weaponry, Bolo ignores.

When the Dragon Lord is finally done with Magine, he slowly stalks over to Freif, dismissing or plowing through the mines, chaos grenades, smoke particles, and illusions to grab hold of his opponent. Then he throws the Erethran sniper to the ground and stomps on him. Even from where I am, I hear the snap, crackle, and pop as pelvis, hips, and fingers are destroyed.

“I think that’s enough.”

Bolo grins, looking up, and kicks Freif over to the edge of the arena. The duelist staggers back to his feet, battle recovery and stubbornness getting him up, but he’s swaying, his reconjured swords in hand.

“I think we’ll do three next,” I say to the Honor Guards, some of whom are quite, quite angry.

Not scared though. Not worried. Not even surprised. Just angry. They don’t show it much in their faces, but I’ve been observing them for hours, watching their combat videos, their training logs, and eyeballing them during our interviews. I’ve begun to put together a picture in my head, build a baseline.

They’re angry, but not scared or worried. I think that says something about the kind of training they’ve received. And, I have to admit, I wonder if what I’m doing will even drive home the point I intend. Who knows, maybe getting their asses kicked by a higher Class opponent is a common thing in their training. Memory returns, informing me that that’s true; but sometimes, lessons have to be relearned.

***

Bolo trashes the next three with as much ease as the first group. It doesn’t help that their best fighters grouped up to begin with. When I make it four, Magine and Freif join up again. I almost want to comment about them being masochists, but I restrain myself.

Guns fire, spells flash, and for the first time, I get to see what Gheisnan brings to the table. Freif stays close, laying out mines and drones to protect the Pooskeen. Magine and Kino confront Bolo directly. Together, the pair of Honor Guards are strong enough that they make Bolo pick up his hammer and wield it, battering the pair around even through their blocks.

That’s what the Shaman brings. He ties in everyone, what the others are seeing, hearing, and sensing. He layers in his own understanding, his own predictions of what Bolo will do, and so, he coordinates the offense. It puts Bolo on the defensive for a few minutes, wears down his Mana and health while the Dragon Lord gets his footing in the new battlescape. It’s a good showing.

It’s not enough.

No matter how good you are at seeing the future, at predicting your opponent, it’s useless if you can’t stop them. My own proof of that is my last fight with a Master Class speedster. In Bolo’s case, when he gets serious, he smashes apart the defenses of the Honor Guards. Perfect blocks divert some of the energy, but not enough. Soul Shields absorb, flash, and shatter in single swings. Kino falls first, then Magine. After that, it’s just mop up.

When the fight is over, I gather them all again.

“Well, that went about as well as I expected. What did you all think?” I speak casually, in contrast to the orders that they’re probably used to.

“Permission to speak freely, sir,” says Ropo.

I eye the dwarf, remembering how he ate one of Bolo’s strikes, the way it sank him all the way to his chin before he threw himself out of the ground. Stubborn, good fighter. His Poisoning Skills helped to add a damage over time attack to his own efforts and his friends’. Even if he mostly concentrated on defense in this fight, he was useful. Too bad Bolo’s base recovery levels and resistances overrode his efforts.

I nod. “We might as well make this clear. You all have the right to speak freely to me at any time, any place you want. If I don’t like what you say, I’ll let you know. In a very direct manner.” I flash them a wide grin at that.

“Then you’re a poison-swilling fool. There’s no way an Advanced Classer, capped or not, can beat a high level Master Classer. Add the fact that the Dragon Lord is a prestige Master Class, geared for fighting alone, and this was a waste of time. We know we can’t beat Master Classers, and if you thought this was a new thing, we might as well drink a Thrice-Croaked potion,” Ropo says with tension high in his voice, his jaw jutting out.

“And why is that?” I say.

“Because, you towering, infected donkey’s penis, we are Honor Guard. We’re trained to fight Master Classers, either alone or in teams, the moment we were recruited. There’s no point to this. We know how to fight and survive. But there’s never a winning scenario, not against him.” Another jerk of his bearded chin takes in Bolo.

“And is that what you all think?” When my question to the group meets sullen silence, I get my answer. I turn to Mikito next. “How many do you want?”

The samurai glances over the group, taps her lips, then calls out, “One on one.” Then she walks over to the corner that Bolo had started all his fights from.

“All right. You heard the lady. Line up and get your asses kicked.”

While Ropo grumbles and moves to face off against Mikito, Ayuri sniffs and turns on her heels. She stops, calling out to me when she’s halfway to the exit. “Paladin. I want a word with you.”

I note the glances the initiates shoot at me. They’re probably speculating that I’m going to be told off by Mommy. As I join the Champion, I toss behind me a drone so that I can continue watching. I’m not worried about my conversation with her, for I have a plan.

I just don’t know if it’s a good one yet.

***

“What are you doing?” Ayuri says, once we’re away from the playground and out of earshot.

“Making a point.” I flick a glance back to where Mikito is getting them sorted out. I split my concentration between the drone I left behind and Ayuri.

“And what kind of point is that?”

“Well, that depends on who we’re talking about. Freif is a great sniper, but even with all the points he’s put into his Skills, he can’t really hit a Master Class like Bolo. And when Mikito has him alone, she’ll still beat him like the redheaded stepchild he is.”

“He’s not a redhead. He is a stepchild, but that has no legal standing,” Unilo says, looking a little confused.

“Earth culture. You should read the books,” I say. “Real mainstay of Canadian culture.”

Ayuri ignores my nonsensical remarks while Unilo mouths the word Canadian. “He knows that. He’s a sniper. His job was never to be in the front lines, fighting directly. You’re not teaching him anything he doesn’t know.”

“Maybe he knows it, but you guys obviously don’t. What is he going to do when you make him a Paladin? When his enemies come for him in the middle the night, when he’s all alone and injured, when things are bleak and he hasn’t had time to set himself up for that perfect shot? He’s not a Paladin,” I say.

I wince as I watch Mikito boot Ropo in the nuts. The fact that the dwarf continues coming says a lot about his stubbornness and his innate resistances. The fact that he’s tried to use a bunch of poison gasses and weapons is an interesting new addition to his fighting technique. Not that it helps.

“Freif’s just a target waiting to be ended.”

“He’s not you, Redeemer. We will provide security and teams for all of our Paladins,” Ayuri says.

“And that’s where your next mistake comes. We don’t work for you, or your military, or even the Queen. Whatever teams you put together, the Paladins will have to trust them with their lives and more. They have to trust the team to be loyal. To let them, as a Paladin, do whatever the heck they think is right,” I say. “If they decided to kill your Queen, would the groups you create follow them?”

I snort when Mayaya stirs and Unilo frowns. Ayuri’s the only one who doesn’t react to my almost treacherous words.

“Any group you create for them will be a compromise,” I say. “That won’t work.”

Ayuri shakes her head, dismissing my words. “We’re not looking to create another group of insurrectionists. We don’t intend to have a repeat of the War of the Seven Systems.”

“Then you’ve got the wrong people. And I won’t give them my approval.”

And finally, finally, Ayuri reacts. She steps close, looms over my shorter form, and stares me down. Her aura turns on, and I don’t know if it’s conscious or not. The pressure she exerts is much, much stronger than nearly any aura I’ve ever felt. Only the Queen and the Librarian were stronger. It’s as though the weight of an entire star system is behind it, the regard of the population of an entire empire and their favor bearing down on me.

I stay upright and keep my face impassive under the building pressure. But as is my way, as she crushes me with her aura, I reach for that kernel of anger within me, that raging ocean that never seems to end. Pain, never resolved, turned into anger and passion. I use it the same way I always use it, and it reinforces my backbone.

Eyes narrowed a little, I snap back. “Drop it. You wanted a Paladin. You have one. You can’t intimidate me, Champion.”

“Maybe we’ll just try again. With someone a little more agreeable,” Ayuri snaps, fists clenched at her sides.

I note that the other two members of her group have moved to flank me. Mayaya is probably ready to open a Portal and shut it with me halfway through. Unilo—well, I’m not sure of her plans. Probably something involving that spear she wields.

“You mean like the two dozen guards you sent before me?” I watch Ayuri’s eyes widen, watch as she realizes I’m not as oblivious as I’ve played. I know more than she thinks about what that planet once was. Of the layers of pain it contains. “I know about them. I know about all the failures, everyone you sent to the Forbidden Planet in search of Suhargur. Every single failure. All the rejected ones. I am literally your best option. Now get out of my way and let me do my job. Let me let you get a Paladin.”

Ayuri continues to stare at me, never releasing the aura that makes the space around us warp. In the corner of my eyes, I spot the way the hallway itself twists, buckles. I meet her gaze even as notifications of the aura being resisted ping off a corner of my vision. She stares and stares, her gaze turning inquisitive after a while, searching my own eyes for something. And then…

She laughs.

The aura disappears as quickly as it arrived, allowing me to roll my shoulders as the metaphorical weight vanishes. All the while, Ayuri laughs and laughs. She claps me on the side of my shoulder, the impact making me stagger. I’m sure I’m going to get a bruise from it.

“Good. Don’t let anyone, anything intimidate you, Paladin.”

“So. Was that all a test?” I’m getting a bit whiplashed from the way that she’s been treating me. Telling me that the Paladins are our own players, then trying to make me do things her way.

“Weren’t you testing me as well?” Ayuri says, a smile still on her face.

I shrug. Still chuckling, Ayuri slaps me on the shoulder again and walks off with her friends. I watch her back as she goes, then finally turn around and head for the training grounds.

I’m still not sure who came out that interaction better off. But my head is still on my shoulders, so I’ll take it as a win.

***

Mikito’s fights afterward are a letdown. After the bone-crushing, shattering, explosive sonic attacks of Bolo, hers are just boring. She restrains her Skills and attributes, fighting at the same level as the Advanced Classers. Matching them, as best as one can, in terms of skill and strength.

She still wins.

Compared to the triumphant thrashing of the guards before, Mikito’s restrained victories seem to have a deeper effect on the morale of the group. Even if she is a Master Class, the fact that she’s not using her higher-level Skills is telling. It’s a lot harder for them to discount her ability when she’s not triggering and using Skills that give her an insane advantage.

The fight with the Roach is a great example. Smo’kana has the height advantage, able to swoop down, attack, and retreat as his wings deploy. They allow him to hold in place or swoop away with equal ease. The roach wields a pair of blaster pistols in his first set of hands and a pair of cutlasses in the second.

Mikito doesn’t hold still though, constantly shifting her position as she picks her attacks with her weapon. The ghostly armor deflects the occasional beam blasts that S’mo’kana releases against her, but for the most part, the roach darts in to do battle with his swords. It’s no surprise, since even with Skills, beam weaponry doesn’t transfer the attribute bonuses of Strength and Skills as well.

Not unless you specialize. And the Roach is a generalist.

Under her Haste Skill, Mikito darts back and forth, lashing out with her naginata whenever he comes close. At first, the fight looks to be at stalemate, with Mikito never doing enough damage nor the Roach able to hit her. But on the tenth swoop, Mikito jerks her hand toward herself and hidden gravity mines trigger.

They yank Smo’kana down, forcing him to the ground as he suddenly weighs much more than his wings can handle. Even if he could adjust his weight, the strength of his wings, and his attributes to make it viable to fly again, he never gets a chance. A series of quick strikes rips off portions of his wings, takes a hand, and ends up with the naginata placed against the center of his torso. As quickly as that, even as the dust from his constant flying around is still settling, the fight is over.

Mikito swings the naginata to the side, discarding the brownish blood with a flick before she steps back to her original starting point. She settles in, ready for the next fighter. Gheisnan glowers and growls, the next in line, but he still approaches. Knowing that the beating he’ll receive isn’t something he can avoid.

As the Roach crawls out of the way, the other recruits take care of him, casting healing and regenerative spells, fixing broken bits. The Erethran Honor Guard Skill means that his limbs will reappear in time, but the additional magic helps speed up the entire process. Otherwise, he’d be down and out for next day while he rebuilds his limbs. Too long.

When it’s all done, when Mikito has torn through the entire group, when she’s bruised and bloodied and content, I walk back out and regain their attention.

“Well. That was enlightening.” I let my gaze run over the group, idly noting how some of their clothing has already patched itself up. Nanowoven protection combined with organic growing threads, all of it stitched together with high density metals and other Artisan Skills. I’ve even heard of clothing that will regenerate from a fist-sized piece. “Anyone care to tell me what they learned?”

“She’s a sadistic little oxygen-breather. And he’s a battle-crazed Hakarta,” Anayton says.

“Not true and true.” I swing my finger around and around, gesturing for them to keep going. When she doesn’t answer my body language, I use my words. “Go on.”

Anayton crosses her arms. “And you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Very true. Anyone else have anything else to add?”

“You want us to beat them. One on one. And if we don’t, you’re not going to give us your approval,” Magine says while fixing his gaze on Mikito.

Magine was the last one to fight, and the closest to come to winning against her. He’s fast, focusing more on speed and precision than strength. He doesn’t have a legacy weapon, but he uses his soulbound weapons in the same appearing and disappearing technique that the Honor Guard is known for. That he combines the style with both hands filled with soulbound blades and the multiple additional blades of Thousand Blades creates a blizzard of floating weaponry.

He’s better at the Honor Guard’s blade dance than I am, but Mikito has been training with me for years now, and the style is no longer new and interesting. He might do the Erethran sword style better, but better isn’t enough of an edge. Not when he doesn’t know her style, her way of fighting. And really, her weapon’s a lot better than his.

Not that we’re going to tell them that.

“Wrong.” I look around, waiting for someone else to speak.

“You wanted to see if all those recordings were true.” Kino, the big rock creature, rumbles. His fight with Mikito was quite one-sided. He’s too slow to land any attacks on her, but he’s also highly defensive. If not for Mikito cheating with her weapon, it probably would have been a draw. As it was, the added damage from Hitoshi was enough to level the playing field and allow her to down the tough tank.

“Correct. Next?”

“You’ve already made up your mind, so why are you dragging this out?” Gheisnan calls, the little kobold glaring at me. I wonder if he thinks that he’s on the chopping block.

He is, just not today.

“Fair. Smo. Pack up your things. You’re done.”

I watch the Roach buzz, wings flaring and folding, insect-like hands twitching in agitation. He takes a step and another away as commanded before he spins around and looks at me. When he speaks, that harsh, painful-to-the-ears buzz of his voice catches me. “Why? Failed Brood. Why?”

“Because you’re looking to be eaten. I’m not looking for Paladins who are looking to die. That’s not our job. As an old Earther once said, your job isn’t to die for your Empire but to make the enemy die for his.” I look around at the group, meeting the defiant gazes of the initiates. “I don’t need heroics from all of you. I just need you all to survive. Your Empire needs you all to survive. You want to know the lesson? It’s simple. Get back up. And keep going. No matter what.” I let that stupid, idiotic, passe sentence die its ignominious death in the dirt of the courtyard. “Or else in about another ten years, I’ll be back here, doing this all over again with a whole new batch of idiots.”

Smo twitches and buzzes, moving back and forth on its legs agitatedly, its wings flaring so much so that it hovers in place. In the end, it flies away down the corridor. Hopefully he knows where to report in. But I don’t really care. I dismiss him and his future from my mind, focusing on the others.

“Homework for all of you. Go over your Skills, your build. Figure out what you’re missing. Figure out what you need to do to fix it. Then come to me with a plan. You’re not fighting in teams anymore. You’re not one of many. You’re single fighters. Single survivors. Figure out how to make it work.” I pause, then gesture at them to disperse. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As they walk away, leaving at my command, I watch them through the security cameras and drones scattered through the building. Watch to see how they took the news.

Ropo, Gheisnan, and Kino look unperturbed. Magine smirks, as if he expected no more from someone like Smo’kana. Freif is still casting glances at Mikito and her weapon, as if she’s more important than anything that has to do with the selection process. As if he might suspect something. As for Anayton, the female Erethran looks concerned.

And just like that, my first day with the initiates is over.

Chapter 6

Of course, that’s not the end of my day. I drag my team along, heading to my temporary residence. It’s a bit of a trek, since they don’t allow us to Portal around wherever we want. The entire planet is secured by spatial locks, Portals and quick spatial movement accessible only to a select membership. Most of them in the Honor Guard. It says something about my status that I’m not automatically approved to jump about wherever I want. I could probably push it and get myself approved, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Still, it’s on the to-do list.

I’m lodging off-site, not near the palace residence but still on state grounds. Just not palace grounds, if that makes sense. In fact, rather than being set up in the barracks rooms or anything like that, I’ve been given a small mansion to call my own.

I designate rooms for my friends within, making the echoing and empty building a little livelier. When I first arrived, the mansion had been colored in salmon pink with purple edging and a noveau gothic design with weird Erethran gargoyles covering the entirety. I changed that to a calming sky blue and cream edging for the walls but left the gargoyles. Partly because some of them were mechanical golems. The walls adjust with the barest of mental nudges, all controlled by the building’s System interface.

Of course, appearances aren’t the only thing I’m given access to. The entire building’s defense grid, the alarm systems, even the room configurations are all available at the touch of a finger. Included as well are the expansive grounds, which I can landscape to my heart’s content—or adjust the emplacement of the various anti-aircraft artillery. I ignore most of it, beyond verifying the multiple escape routes built into the residence and double-checking the defense grid settings.

Once we’re in the office, a minimalistic room with liquid-metal furnishings, we grab seats and I send the robots to get us snacks.

For the next few hours, we catch up. The team informs me of the deal they made, gloss over the problems they caused and the need for Bolo’s appearance. What little I glean indicates that Bolo’s side deal ended up causing more trouble than he expected. They did let slip that they’d managed to annoy one of the Station Masters in the first ring. Staying in Spaks was no longer an option for the Dragon Lord, not after that.

“So why join us?” I ask. After all, just because he had to leave doesn’t mean he had to choose us.

“We worked well together. It is rare for three Master Classers to still work together at this stage of their development,” Bolo says, crossing his arms. “Most bounty hunters will stay away from such a team.”

Not entirely sure he’s correct about that, since I recall quite a few Master Class teams. But there might be a matter of selection bias in my recollections. I only meet Master Class teams because I run in a team. Statistically, Bolo might be right—and my memories from the library seem to agree—but this is one of those cases where statistics gets beaten by lived experience. Often at the edge of a very pointed bat.

“You know, being your shield is getting really tiring,” I grumble.

“Don’t act as if you’re not getting something out of it. Like an example of what a real Master Classer can do for your initiates,” Bolo says.

I grin guiltily, having been caught out. Bolo really was the best example for them to fight. But more importantly… “I want your thoughts on them. What do they need to fix?”

“Assuming they’re fighting alone?” Bolo says, then at my confirmation, runs a hand along one arm, humming in thought. “There’re a few things that come to mind…”

I lean forward, listening. Mikito eventually interjects, adding her own analysis. The conversation runs through the strengths of each Honor Guard. Truth be told, many of them are similar, so the adjustments are a matter of personality and attribute fit. Eventually, we sit back, waving at the detailed notes I’ve taken.

“Why ask us though? I’d think an Empire like this has their own Class specialists,” Bolo says.

“They do. I’ve requested reviews for them all.” I flick my fingers and new documentation windows appear, floating in front of the pair. Harry’s still off, doing his thing. This kind of conversation isn’t his thing, for obvious reasons. “They’ve even taken into account my own notes from yesterday, for their analysis.”

The pair falls silent as they read over the recommendations. I’d let the Class specialists run wild, make the most optimal builds.

“And you think they’ll let the initiates buy all that? That’s quite a bit of spending,” Bolo says, not without a little envy.

“They’re an Empire,” I say with a sniff. “I doubt it’s more than a drop in the bucket. The trick will be training them to use the new Skills properly.”

“That sounds reasonable. It certainly won’t hurt, even if they reject your budget,” Mikito says, turning the teacup that she’s extracted from her inventory round and round in hand.

I look closer at the gently graded teacup, smiling slightly at the description.

Fujiwara Ever Warm Teacup

The latest work by the famous potter, this teacup is guaranteed to keep tea warmed to the perfect temperature without affecting its taste. Both a work of art and a practical piece, the teacup is one of the first vaguely acceptable creations by the master potter to be sold.

Dismissing the message, I pick at the sandwiches that the robots have delivered, asking further questions. Catching up on trivial things, on stories about my friends. Harry eventually joins us, freed from the bureaucracy required to get his press pass. But soon enough, I see the restlessness, the exhaustion that creeps up on my friends. Whatever it was that happened in the last day, it’s wiped them. Not physically, but psychologically. There’s a point where healing, the System’s fixing of us, is insufficient. When we just need to stop.

It’s strange really. You can let the System fix your body, fix your mind. You can have it rip out the wounds, the damage you have acquired. You can replenish your health and your Mana. And still feel worn down.

It’s as though the mental and physical are separate from the spiritual.

Sometimes, just sometimes, all you need to do is stop.

Breathe.

And move on.

“Go. Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. We’re going to have to push them tomorrow. Can’t have you guys falling down and messing with the good impression you made,” I say.

“I am fine,” Bolo says, straightening himself. Glaring at the implication that he’s less than the perfect soldier.

“I’m sure. But I want to think about this a little more,” I say, gesturing at the notification windows that show their recommendations and the Class specialists’ that I make reappear. “And you guys are rather noisy.”

Bolo’s lips curl up, but I wave him off. Harry is already half out the door, muttering goodbyes. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he’ll just go back to his room and work. Even the little glimpse of Erethra he’s achieved is more than most humans would have, and I know he’s got a lot of human fans. Even if that same information is available in the Shop, it’s not from a human point of view, not as seen by one of us. And that makes a difference.

I watch the pair walk off, watch Bolo disappear around the corner of the doorway. But Mikito lingers, carefully packing her teacup in its container before storing it in her Inventory. Carefully cleaning her hands and the table, even though the robot has done it once.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“My question. Not yours,” Mikito replies, dark eyes narrowing.

I draw a deep breath, looking around the office. I frown, sick of the blue, and shift it to green and increase the lighting, adding a little more UV to the output. Mikito says nothing, waiting with studied patience for me to stop fluffing around.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I finally admit.

“What’s new?”

I chuckle. Too true. But… “This is more than me. More than us. It feels like I’m playing a game of blocks, pulling them out with my eyes closed. Do it too fast, tug on the wrong thing, and everything will come down. But there are innocents standing on the blocks. An entire Empire.” I stare at Mikito, showing her a little of the fear I’m trying to keep hidden. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Good.”

“Pardon?” I blurt out.

“Good.” Mikito shrugs. “Then they won’t know what you intend to do.” She gestures around us. “If you don’t know, they won’t either.”

“That’s a good thing?” I say, a little incredulous.

“Can’t be worse than where they’re headed, can it?” Mikito says.

I grunt. Well, thus far… what was it that concerned them? Civil war? If that’s the case, it’s not so bad. Still… “And if I make a mistake?”

“You will.” Mikito shrugs. “You’re human.”

“People will die.”

“They’ll die anyway,” Mikito replies. “But maybe you’ll do good too. Shake things up. Make these Paladins work.”

“You mean restore them to working order?”

Mikito offers a thin-lipped smile, flicking her gaze upward. I remember where we are then reevaluate her words before I sigh.

“I’m going to rest now. You…” She glances at where the notification windows continue to hover before me, then shrugs. “You continue studying.”

I feel a little betrayed at being left alone. Even if I did ask her to do that. Especially after that talk. As she walks out, I return my gaze to the windows. And I can’t help but question the world I’ve been thrown into.

I can almost feel the Empire shifting beneath my feet as I pull up reports. Information I’ve purchased. Recordings from the Erethran news network, the closest thing to their media. I read about the constant wars on the borders, the skirmishes. The protests, the dropping recruitment rates. I read about the loss of more worlds to the Forbidden Zone.

I read. I listen. I learn.

And I remember, what is, is.

***

Ali shows up hours later. One second, he’s gone. The next, he blips into reality next to me, almost making me jump. For the last few hours, I’ve been watching multiple data feeds, official channels and unofficial notes. Things that I only gain access to because of my rank. Dominating one corner of my notifications is the Erethran equivalent of entertainment—the latest, greatest cut of their most recent border skirmish.

More and more, I’m disliking the 300-like world view I’m getting of this society. It’s one thing to read about them, another to be immersed in their culture. Or lack of it. Theoretically, there are multiple news streams—journalists, bloggers, and more—but all of them are heavily censored. Most don’t even need that much censoring, so immersed in the party line that they sing the same praises. Those who don’t drink the Kool-Aid have heavy safeguards in place to keep them from being too critical.

What little criticism there is is carefully contained. To specific programs like waste and “dishonorable” actions. To people who aren’t doing their job to the utmost. So corruption and other mishandling is heavily rooted out by journalists, even if the effects of those reports are often swept under the rug.

Questions about another way of life, of cultural touchstones that might not involve a never-ending expansion, a never-ending empire of Leveling up? Those are pushed aside or only carefully, ever so carefully hinted at.

You’d think it’d be impossible within a world where the Shop exists. But while all information is available for purchase, information can be hidden, suppressed. Skills and just a flood of data hiding the truth. It’s the people with the biggest wallets who win out in such a game. The only way to avoid being caught saying something bad, never being considered a threat, is never to draw attention at all. To watch every purchase, every word you say. To self-censor everywhere but in your own mind.

Even Skills that block out purchases can be overridden with enough money. Add that to the use of Public Relations Consultants, Media Influencers, and Culture Shapers and you get a society that’s not so much evolving as it is shaped. One whose goal is the strengthening and expansion of the Empire.

One that eats its young in a never-ending grind for Levels.

And yet… and yet, I can see why.

Even if the information I’m seeing now is shaped by the movies, by the very Skills I’m whining about, I can’t help but understand it. Six hundred years ago, the slowly growing Erethran Kingdom was attacked. Not by another kingdom, not by a powerful Guild. But by a single man, a high-Level Heroic. Using hit-and-run tactics, he destroyed multiple fleets, wiped out army bases, and the personnel within. And when the kingdom refused to become part of his personal empire, he started going after cities.

For four years, the kingdom was besieged. A once-burgeoning kingdom fell back on itself, people mass transported and put under contract, drawn into major cities for safety or spread out to reduce targets. In that time, their kingdom was reforged. The people grew stronger, tougher. They dedicated themselves to Leveling, to Combat Classes.

The Heroic—whose name is nearly impossible to say but roughly translates to The Heavenly Sky above All Peons—made one mistake. Rather than kill everyone he fought with at each fight, he left a few survivors. Those survivors kept Leveling, kept fighting and growing. New Classes were created—the Champions and the Paladins—as these survivors continued to fight the Heroic and, when they could, Level in hidden dungeons. Finally, finally, they beat him.

Not without deep, heart-rending cost.

That final battle is probably the most recorded / re-recorded / remixed event in the Empire. Like Earth’s D-Day. Over two thousand plays and countless radio shows, movies, experiential downloads, and more. Their third largest city—renamed Sky’s Demise—was destroyed. But they survived.

And grew obsessed. With never letting it ever happen again. And that meant Leveling. Growing stronger, growing their own Heroics.

“But there’s a problem, isn’t there?” I say to Ali as I gesture to the screens.

“Problem?” the Spirit asks as he floats, staring at the movie. “I mean, sure, I can see the bad rendering, but it’s not that bad.”

“In their struggle for Levels. Because we still die. All of us,” I say. “Doesn’t matter if your Queen or Emperor becomes a Heroic. Sooner or later, they die. The one thing the System can’t do is bring back the dead. And age takes us all.”

Oh, higher Constitutions increase lifespans. But it’s not to the extent of eternal life. Even someone who specs entirely for lifespan increases is held back by their initial biology. At most, a maximum increase of ten times seems to be the limit before age catches up. After that, whatever it is the System does breaks down. Obviously certain creatures—certain species—get the better end of the deal, but there seems to be a balancing act in play. Like a drop in fertility, a higher incidence of violence, and increased difficulty in acquiring higher Classes or experience.

“What’s new?” Ali says. “Pretty much every major group does that. Whether it’s a bigger or smaller variation, entire Classes, social structures, and groups push for better Classes, higher tiers. Some are just less…” Ali pauses, searching for the word. “Obvious.”

“Yeah. The tyranny of Levels.” I shake my head. I can see how it affected Earth and me too. All of us surging upward to get as many Levels, as many Classes as possible. Because anything else was a failure, anything else left us vulnerable. “The failure of the System.”

And I don’t need my own memories to tell me that this is all too common. Dungeon World, rim world, or core world, it’s the same. Levels are all.

“Or success,” Ali says, gesturing around. “All of this, these technological advances, the way people can progress, that’s the System too. You just need the chance to fight—and the Erethrans give it to all—and you can progress. Hell, if you don’t want to fight, you can be an Artisan. And they provide for those too.”

I grunt. That too is true. For Erethrans, schooling is paid for, including training and dungeon entries. The best, the most gifted, the most driven are allowed to take additional classes, acquire additional material, enter higher Leveled dungeons or the same more often. All to improve, to push for more, better Classes. Of course, the Artisans are “requested” to focus on Combat support Classes. Leaving out those who just want to be artists, just want to entertain or live a quiet life.

“Still messed up.”

“But that’s not what we’re here for, right?” Ali says.

“No. We’re here because they want us to…” I shut up when Ali points upward. I grunt. Of course we’re being watched. Not much more I can say. Even the stuff I have on me—the Skills active, the new and better enchantments—can be beaten. “Get them new Paladins. So tell me about them. Tell me about the Empire they’re going to have to fix.”

Ali grins and floats down. “All right. As you guessed, there are more than a few who will be upset with you. Let’s start with Brerdain Ramanner, Chief of the General Staff.” When I frown, Ali adds, “That’s second-in-command of the regular armed forces—the army basically. Above him is the Minister of Defense, whose serves at the Queen’s pleasure.”

A twitch of his fingers makes Brerdain’s information pop up. Brerdain’s in full silhouette, both his known attributes and Skills as well as his Status information displayed in the hovering notification window. I’m amused to see he’s a little portly around the middle—just a little pudge, not a lot—and there’s some flaking around the horns that can be spotted even in the picture. He’s old. Not as old as the Queen, but maybe a couple of decades younger as far as I can tell. Other than his age and dad bod, he could be any other high-ranking, uniformed thug, so boring is his face.

Brerdain Ramanner, Chief of the General Staff of Erethra, Commander of the Eight Fleet, Victor of the Prasat Battle, Umnak Clash,…; Slayer of Goblins, Hakarta, Movanna, Truinnar, Lurkers,…, more… (Erethran General Level 50)

HP: 2140/2140

MP: 4280/4280

Conditions: Aura of Command, Command Experience, Strength from Above, Greater Attitude Adjustment, National Security Interest

“What Skills do the Generals get anyway?” I ask, eying the Conditions section. Most of those Skills are new to me, beyond the Aura of Command. I feel pressure from the library insisting on giving me the information, but I push it back. I’m too tired to deal with the flood of information.

“Mass buffs. Generally extends to those within the ranks. Much like many Queens, Kings, Lords, and the like. Whenever there’s a person in power, those kinds of Skills show up,” Ali says. “On the personal side of the equation, they generally lean toward either early attribute gains at the Basic Level or at the Master Level, defense and escape Skills.”

“Really? How come I’ve never run into them?” I say.

“Mostly? Because you suck at being part of groups,” Ali says. “Heck, you even declined to join that Guild full-time, remember? Guilds generally provide such buffs too, just at a lower level. Or more widespread. Also, you never dig into your stats. Here.”

A flicker of light and a new screen appears, one that I haven’t seen before.

Current Experience Modifiers

Grouped Experience Modifier -16% (Variable)

Erethran Empire Citizen Modifier (+0.000004%)

Erethran Armed Forces Modifier (+0.00000023%)

“Huh. Why the negative on the group?” I say. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“Nah, that’s ‘cause you’re being power-Leveled by Bolo and Mikito.”

I frown before I get it. The same reason my Monster Slayer Title gives me extra damage even against same-Level monsters is why I’m getting negative modifiers. As far as the System is concerned, I’m still on my second tier—Advanced—even if I have a Master Class. But since I’ve got both Bolo and Mikito in my team now, I’m getting negative modifiers. I bet Harry does too—if he gets any real experience from combat. His War Reporter Class is weird.

“Seems like a tiny amount for these experience increases. And only two?” I say.

“Small individually. But the Queen’s works on every single citizen, no matter their Class. And the military modifier is because you’re too high up to be affected by anything other than the Queen and the Minister of Defense.” Ali gestures and a new screen shows up—one for Ropo. There’s a much, much larger list of modifiers involved there. Every single commanding officer of his has a Skill that gives him an experience boost, and on top of that, I note a couple of Clan-based Skills adding to his experience. “That’s what they got before they transferred over.”

“So about four to five percent total.” I eyeball the numbers. “Still not a lot.”

“For every fight and every time they increase their XP? Over the entire year and across the entire army or Empire?” Ali points out. “It adds up.”

“I guess.” A buff is a buff. And I can see how having a large army would add to the strength of these Skills. Makes me wonder though. “But this is more a quantity over quality thing, isn’t it?”

“That’s the Erethrans for you. Bolo’s people do the opposite. They’ve got dedicated Skills to buff up individuals. Mentor-mentee relationships are much more important there and give higher individual boosts. Mentors also get a boost, both in status and on their sheet. Obviously, it can’t be used for as many,” Ali says. “They’ve even got Skills that give more experience back to themselves the higher Level their mentees get.”

“Is that why…” I gesture out the door.

“Why Bolo’s persona non grata with his people? Yeah. Exile is nasty, for both the mentor and mentee,” Ali replies.

“Huh.” I fall silent, wondering once again about Bolo’s background. I could find out so easily, but… there are some things you don’t do, not to friends. Or allies.

I can’t help but wonder how Earth intends to build its relationships, how it intends to grow. Knowing us, we’ll probably end up with a mixture of options, depending on the various cultures and groups. I’m sure if I dug into it, I’d find specialist’s groups—even more specialized than the Erethran Honor Guards—who might do the same as the Dragon Knights. It’s not as if Erethra’s a monoculture. Those don’t really exist, outside of lazy scifi writing and a few hive minds. “I think we got a little side-tracked.”

“You did.”

I bite my lip and gesture at Brerdain’s information. “Why him? And what’s with his Level?”

“Well, if you’d let me finish without interrupting, I could explain.” When I glare at Ali, the Spirit chuckles. “Brerdain’s the leading contender among the regular armed forces to be the next in line. He’s got the backing of quite a few of the Generals—as much as that matters, which is a lot—but the Queen doesn’t like him, if rumors are true. He’s more of a hard-line hawk, wanting to get the Empire mixed up in even more fights. His age is a major negative as well.” A flicker of light and the notification highlights his Level. “He’s stayed stuck at Level 50 for the last few years, waiting for the Queen to die. That’s gotten him quite a bit of goodwill, since he’s ‘banking’ all that accumulated experience. It’ll make him Leveling the King Class much faster than any of his opponents, and that’s made quite a few people happy.”

I grunt. “What’s his problem with us?”

“Well, beyond the obvious fact that you’re adding a whole slew of people to the Paladin ranks when he’s grown up his entire career without them?” Ali shrugs. “Nothing at all right now. Word is, he’s waiting to see what happens. But if he opposes you, or the Paladins, it’ll be a mess.”

Left unsaid is the fact that if he’s got the army’s backing, he’s probably quite high on the contender list for taking over in a civil war. Potentially the leading applicant. Which means he’s got the most to lose.

“Why not the Minister of Defense?” I ask. “To be the leading candidate.”

“Way too old. He’s even older than the Queen. Also, he’s a career military man. The way he built his Skills, he’s better off where he is than as the King. If he took over, his effectiveness would drop by a good quarter. No one wants that,” Ali says.

“Why would he…” I shake my head, chiding myself. “Never mind. Not everyone wants to be king, right?”

“Exactly, boy-o.” Ali smirks. “Next, we’ve got her.”

The new image that shows up is a striking female. Tall, even for the Erethrans and they’re normally seven feet tall. Androgynous in her midnight-blue-and-yellow-trimmed uniform. If I remember correctly, that’s the uniform of the Admiralty—the space fleets. More striking than her height though is the long, angular nose that dominates her face. It’s hard to see anything but the beak.

Julierudi K’nillam, Viscountess of the Purple Sky March, Victor of the Blade of Kalruz, Bane of Leviathans, Slayer of Goblins, Spacejelly, Ismaki,… (Erethran Space Lord Level 23) (H)

HP: 1470/1470

MP: 3420/3420

Conditions: Aura of Space Domination, Command Experience, Dominion of the Stars, Better Training, Empire Security Protocols

“Dominion of the Stars?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s an interesting Skill,” Ali says, pulling it out for me.

Dominion of the Stars (Level 1)

For the Space Lord, the stars are home. Everything within their domain is theirs to use, whether in enemy territory or without. They control all that they survey and all those within. Friend or foe, all must bow to the supremacy of the Space Lord in their dominion.

Effect 1: All allied ships, fleets, and individuals gain the following increases while within the domain of the Space Lord:

+0.01% Experience Gain within domain

+10% increase in speed and other forms of movement or cost of teleportation Skills

-0.1% decrease in calculated size of domain

+0.1% increase in effect of all Skills

-0.1% decrease in effectiveness of all Skills used by enemy combatants

-10% decrease in speed and other forms of movement or cost of teleportation Skills

-0.1% decrease in effects of all Skills

-0.01% Experience Gain within domain

Effect 2: Above domain effects occur within the presence of the Space Lord.

Effect 1 Range: Variable (dependent on domain and control)

Effect 2 Range: All allied ships within 210.854 billion kilometers radius of the Admiral are under effects of the Skill

“So it’s basically a combined buff Skill,” I say. It’s good if you consider it affects the entirety of the Empire. She basically buffs every allied spaceship and debuffs every enemy ship wandering in. In particular, that movement speed and domain size portion would allow them to reposition faster than would be expected. “Heroic Skills are evil.”

“Well, you’ll get one some day.”

“About that—”

Ali cuts me off. “Nope. Staying on track for this discussion. Viscountess K’nillam is the first in line to inherit the planet Covintah. She’s also the leading candidate among the noble legion and the second Space Lord. She’d be first, but politics and age have kept her from taking the Space Lord’s place.”

“Heroic.”

“That she is. It’s one of the reasons why the military isn’t as enamored. For her to Level as Queen, it’d take a while. In the meantime…”

“The Empire takes a big hit. So why’s she got any support?” I say, frowning.

I’m trying to remember the social structure lessons I’ve consumed, the data about how their society works between the military and the noble classes. If my memory is right, the Erethran nobles are like knights of old, given their place due to service. Unlike Earth history though, their titles can be stripped for lack of service. Along with that, the lands, the planets, and even the industries they’re in charge of are only theirs so long as they provide for the Empire. There are minimum targets they must meet, and those who don’t—or who step too far out of line—can lose it all. They’re not so much nobles in the traditional human sense as contracted merchants and knights.

“They’d rather have one of their own in charge than anyone else,” Ali says. “Brerdain’s a military man through-and-through. He doesn’t come from any of the noble houses, so they’d expect him to oppose their usual grifting and other no-bid contracts. And, if you’re wondering, they don’t want more Paladins because historically, Paladins have targeted the noble houses for audits and other verifications. After a hundred years…”

“There’s going to be a heck of a lot of graft,” I say. Of course. Which might be why Brerdain is willing to keep an eye on me rather than act. “Can we expect overt action?”

“Unlikely.” Ali shakes his head. “The Queen’s made her wishes known. And some of the staunch traditionalists actually want you guys back. Of course, some of them might try to slip in their own kind of Paladin…”

I grunt. Yay. So no guns in the night. Just corruption. At least until I make waves. That doesn’t make me feel any better. I gesture with my hand for Ali to keep moving though. Not much I can do about it but keep an eye out.

“Third major party to worry about. Spuryan Chaiwan. Leader of the Reluctant Survivors Church. Or cult, depending on how you look at it,” Ali says.

Spuryan Chaiwan, Reluctant Survivors Prophet, the Golden Tongue, Master of the Golden Bell, Master Craftsmen,… (Level 33 Prophet) (M)

HP: 2390/2390

MP: 3480/3480

Conditions: Aura of the Survivors, Aura of the Prophet, Social Vortex, A Little Reasonable Request, Passive Passion

Looking at Spuryan, the way he doesn’t dress like a military man, and along with Ali’s words, I can’t help but confirm, “Not part of the military.”

“Not at all.”

I eye the shorter-than-normal Erethran as he floats in my notification window. Spuryan is- five feet ten inches, almost a midget by their standards. Maybe it’s because of his height, but of the three, he seems the most perfectly coiffed. His horns are embellished, shined, and filled with jewelry. His skin is smooth and well taken care of, his cheeks a bright, blushed red. There’s a light, comforting smile on his face, even as the resplendent robed cult leader stands with his arms crossed before him in the image.

“Why’s a cult leader upset with me?”

“Oh, not you in particular. The establishment.” I make an enquiring hmmm, which gets Ali talking further. “He, and his people, believe that Erethran society has gone too far. That a change is required to one that doesn’t expand externally, but instead focuses internally.”

“So no more wars?”

“No more wars. More culture. More economic development between solar systems and planets within. And a focus on the Forbidden Zone and taking back planets that have been lost,” Ali explains.

I sigh. Tired of sitting, I minimize the images and head over to stand before the window. I stare outside, seeing not the green grass of the flat lawn but a blasted, torn red landscape, a world devoid of everyday life. Until it isn’t, and the teeth and fangs of the Forbidden Planet monsters emerge, seeking my throat.

“That’s impossible.”

“So long as Mana increases,” Ali says, shaking his head. “But continually picking up and moving planets isn’t exactly healthy either.”

Too true. So many planets, so many lives lost because they couldn’t afford to leave the solar systems that have fallen into the Forbidden Zone. It’s not sustainable, not really. Especially when the new, life-bearing planet numbers keep dropping. When you have to rebuild a new society every few hundred years.

“He and his group are the most likely external threats you will face,” Ali says. “They aren’t likely to do anything too overt or aggressive, but…”

“But?”

Ali shrugs. “If he or his people can influence you, they will. If they can make the Paladins support their cause, that’d be a win in their views.”

I turn away from the window and look back at the Spirit. “That it?”

“Nope. I still got a dozen more. Lesser importance, but we’ve got others who might want, or think they deserve, a shot, or who might have issues with the initiates. Or you. Including some external organizations, like the Blacklist Asteroid pirates,” Ali says.

I sigh, flopping back in my chair and conjuring a big box of chocolate. “Fine. I guess we’re doing this then.”

Ali grins and I roll my eyes, but I get to listening. And while I do so, I keep an ear out for what he doesn’t say. For the threats to my other task, for the real danger that lurks beneath it all. I keep an eye on the information he feeds me, the data downloads, as my mind that’s been pushed and expanded by the library tackles the problem head-on.

And I wonder, a small part of me, how far away from human I’ve come. And how much further I’ll go before this is over.

Chapter 7

The next evening, it has taken me an hour or so to track down the Champion. I’d spent the morning and most of the afternoon with the initiates, working through their requests. Funny to think that I found her in the city itself, a good teleport circle away. Those things were keyed to only push authorized people back and forth, hard-line coded so that you couldn’t use them to pop out—or in—anywhere but the circles. Good safety procedures, but annoying after spending so long blipping around wherever I wanted.

I wait, leaning against the wall opposite the building the Champion is in. I attract the attention of more than a few passersby. There’s even a security guard standing inside the grounds, watching me. I guess the sight of a human lurking before a school building in the middle of a city is all kinds of suspicious. Especially when said alien has his Class hidden.

Still, it’s probably better than me wandering into the center of the school and demanding to speak to the Champion while she’s busy doing a classroom visit. I mean, I’m an ass, but messing up the kids’ treat goes from an ass to just rude.

Even as I ponder the fine line and browse the information streams, a floating car pulls up. Anti-gravity propellers on the bottom allow the vehicle to hover just off the ground as it glides almost soundlessly up to me. From inside the gray-and-black vehicle step two Erethrans, dressed in the same colors, sheathed swords and guns on their hips. A large glinting bracer sits on their off-hands, ready to pop up a moving shield generator when it’s needed. Small, circular manacles sit on their belts, distortion equipment to lock me down if necessary.

“Excuse me, sir. We’d like a few words with you,” the Erethran closest to me says once he stops a few feet away. Just outside of my reach, but easily within his.

His friend is farther back, flanking him with his hand on his gun while eying Ali, who floats beside me.

Erethran Peace Officer (Level 34) (B)

HP: 690/690

MP: 690/690

Conditions: Aura of Orderly Peace & Stability

As his Aura pings off my resistances, I pull out the notification on the Aura itself.

Aura of Orderly Peace & Stability (B)

A mainstay Skill among Peace Officers the Galaxy over, this Aura is less threatening and increases individuals’ suggestibility to commands. It encourages a calm and peaceful interaction, muting anger and other passionate responses.

Effects: +10% increase in chance for command obedience

-10% decrease in hormonal and emotional responses within field

Range: 10m diameter

Cute. Probably a useful thing, considering the amount of stressed and grumpy individuals they deal with. It’s a lot less harsh and in your face than a military officer’s Aura of Command, and generally makes working in crowd control or just walking down the street easier and more peaceful.

I tilt my head, eying the other officer.

Erethran Peace Speaker (Level 39)

HP: 450/450

MP: 810/810

Conditions: Eye of Truth, Aura of Volubility

His Aura is a good complement to his Skill. The Aura makes you want to talk, while the Eye of Truth verifies if you’re telling the truth. Obviously there’s the usual issue with “truth”-telling spells, ranging from how they verify truth to what kind of truth it verifies, but I’m going to ignore all that. Add the Aura of Orderly Peace & Stability to the mix, and you end up answering questions without even meaning to. That is, if you can’t resist them.

“Sir?” the first officer calls again.

“Sorry, Officer. Boy-o gets distracted,” Ali replies for me, floating over and adjusting his angle to be at eye-level. “What can we do for you?”

I eye the street, noticing how the Erethran public is backing off, disappearing. There are notable exceptions. A pair of teenagers glare at me, hands by their sides. As if they’re ready to jump in. And an older man, seated down farther from me, sipping on his drink. He pings off as more of a danger—not just his Class and Levels but because of how calm he is. He’s a vet or an Adventurer, someone who’s seen shit.

“Just a routine check, sir. We’ve had reports of a suspicious individual lurking before the school,” the first officer continues speaking. He has his legs apart, backed off just enough that I have to crank my head up a little to meet those brown eyes of his. There’s a polite smile on his lips, but his eyes are cold and passionless.

“Lurking would require me to be using a Skill to hide, no?” I say, then frown. “Unless there’s a translation or cultural error.” I tap my lips before chopping down sideways. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not lurking. I’m standing in full view.”

“For what reason?”

“I’m waiting.” When my statement is met with frigid silence, I sigh. “For the Champion.”

There’s a puzzled pause then. They’re not concerned I’m going to attack her. That’d be dumb. She’s their Champion. The very idea of me being able to beat her is inconceivable to them.

“Are you a uniform chaser?” the Speaker finally asks, his voice doubtful as he eyes me.

“A what?”

“Uniform chaser.”

“Repeating doesn’t explain anything,” I snap.

“Uniform chaser. Someone who’s a fan of those in uniform. Sort of like your groupies or puck bunnies,” Ali explains.

“Wait. You think I’m here to sleep with Ayuri?” I say, my jaw dropping.

“Sleep with? No! How dare you. The Champion would never—” the Officer starts up, getting agitated and angry.

“Carmaz. Stop.” A pulse of power originating from the Speaker shuts up his colleague. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting to speak with the Champion. Not sleep with her. Or get her autograph.” I pause. “Do you guys do autographs? Or is there something else? A System e-mail? Notification that’s specially added? A tattoo? Branding?”

I’m getting weird looks now. Well, weirder. The Officer has calmed himself, but he’s also stepped back another half-step as his eyes narrow just above my head. Mana swirls around him as he triggers a Skill, then another one. Then he gestures with one hand while buffing himself. The Speaker’s eyes are flicking side-to-side. If I had to guess, she’s calling in more help.

“It is a crime to conceal one’s Class from a Peace Officer,” the Officer says, his voice dropping a notch cooler. He’s calmer now that they think I might be a problem. Calmer than some veterans of the apocalypse I’ve met. I’m impressed.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize that. One sec.” I touch the ring on my left hand.

As I turn it off, my Status information flickers on again. Ever since I’ve begun using Daghtree’s Legendary Ring of Deception, I’ve been amused to learn that it has a lower-Level effect that can be triggered without using a charge. It’s part of its own ability to conceal its effects, making it look like a simple Ring of Deception. Once willed, the information hiding my Status disappears, leaving it open for anyone to read. Of course, I keep on the secondary effect that hides my true Level.

“Rings of Deception are restricted materials. I will need to see a permit,” the Officer says, his eyes locked on my hands, both of which are still clasped in front of me.

“Don’t have one, sorry,” I say. “Ali, can you make a note on that?”

“What am I? Your secretary?” Ali throws up his hands.

“We’re going to need to confiscate the ring then.” The Officer isn’t even trying to hide his wariness, having pulled his pistol.

I idly eye the weapon, noting it’s a Tier II. It’d hurt if I got shot, but it wouldn’t do more than annoy me.

“Carmaz,” the Speaker says, his voice urgent. Rather than drawing his weapon, his eyes are locked above my head and my newly revealed Status.

“Hand over the ring. Slowly.”

“Not happening.” I shake my head.

The pistol rises. “I won’t ask you again.”

The Speaker’s voice grows more frenetic. “Carmaz!”

I eye the surroundings idly, noting how the two teens disappeared the moment my Status became visible. On the other hand, the vet has made a giant beam rifle appear. It’s sitting across his knees, but I do note that the barrel is pointed in my direction.

“What?” the Officer snaps at his partner.

“Look at his Status!”

Carmaz visibly yanks his gaze upward, resting above my head. His eyes widen then narrow. He looks at me—at my face, at me resting against the wall still—and takes a large step back. The beam pistol doesn’t move from my chest though.

“I am arresting you. Failure to reveal Status. Use of class 7 restricted items. Impersonation of government officials,” Carmaz recites the words by rote.

“I’m not impersonating anyone. That’s my name. And my Class.” I tilt my head at the Speaker. “Ask your partner.”

“He speaks truth. But that’s not possible.”

“Put up your hands. I want to see them. We’re waiting until prisoner transportation arrives.”

I groan, moving my hand up to my face. Ali’s trying to say something to calm the man, to deal with the misunderstanding. I even hear Carmaz bark at me to stop rubbing at my face, but I ignore him. Mostly. I do toss up a Soul Shield, not wanting to actually get shot.

“That Skill…”

“I’m adding use of restricted Class Skills to the charges!”

“Look, boy-o really is telling the truth. Just check with your bosses—”

“There are no reports of a new Paladin!”

“Oh, shit. Yeah, maybe Ayuri hasn’t let it be known…”

“Put your hands up! You are under arrest.”

I’m kind of grateful that they’re well trained and not shooting me. Since I’m not doing anything aggressive, they aren’t risking getting physical or escalating things. Not without reinforcements. Smart. Because you never know.

Another Skill washes over me, one that attempts to shut down access to my Skills. And I frown. Because that’s normally the start of something more…

The pistol that hasn’t shifted glows, the finger slips over the trigger. The Peace Officer keeps barking orders about me giving up and lowering my defenses to let them cuff me.

And then, Unilo and Mayaya pop into existence right beside us.

The beam from the pistol hits my Soul Shield, flaring once then dying. Another, more serious attack comes from the vet. It almost drills right through the Shield. I’m impressed. Very much so.

Having fired at me, the Officer is turning, readying himself to deal with the new threats while the Speaker claps his hands together, stilling Mana. Sirens blare above us as the newly arrived prisoner transport with its artillery-sized weaponry deploys out its sides, laser targeting sights locking onto my body. My still-leaning-against-the-wall body.

“Oh, hey, guys!” I greet the Honor Guards with the hand that was rubbing at my face. I don’t change my stance or let my body language change, even with the attacks. I do refresh my Soul Shield though, just in case. “About time you arrived.”

***

“You couldn’t have done this a little more discreetly?” Ayuri snaps at me two hours later, the moment she strides back into her office on the palace grounds.

After Mayaya and Unilo settled the police—and added my information to the public database so that this wouldn’t happen again—they’d dragged me out of public sight. Even if their society didn’t have reporters or paparazzi per se, it didn’t mean the gossip network and other word-of-mouth systems of information didn’t exist.

“I tried,” I protest, throwing up my hands and nearly spilling the drink in my hand. It’s a bright, glowing pink and tastes a little like a good mead. Sweet, dry, and with one heck of a kick. It’s from Ayuri’s personal stock, hidden behind a false wall but not locked.

“Give me that!” She snatches the bottle from my other hand, leaving me with my glass as she pours herself a drink. “And how was announcing your presence on the planet by creating a public incident discreet?”

“I didn’t come into the school because I was trying,” I grumbled. “I was just waiting around. How was I supposed to know you hadn’t told them I was around?”

“You’ve been watching our broadcasts! Did you see us announce the return of our Paladins?”

“No…”

“Exactly!” Ayuri spits out.

“Oh, come on, you yourself told me that anyone who’s anyone knows I’m about. How was I supposed to know that didn’t include the police?” I say.

“I meant the powers that be! The Generals, the Space Lord, the Minister of Defense, and the noble houses.” Ayuri drains her cup, pours herself another, and growls. “Not the general public. We didn’t want them to know.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, now you want to be the public face? You want to take on the role of the Paladins properly?” The Champion’s lips curl up. “Well. Now that’s good to know.”

“I didn’t…” I flick my gaze over to where Ali is. I can’t see the Spirit of course—he’s on the other side of the wall, hovering and chatting with the other guards. But I can sense him, talk to him. “What are the usual things Paladins do?”

“What do any unbending, intrepid dreamers do?” Ali sends back to me, amusement dancing in his voice. “They go on crusades. Corruption among the nobles, in the military. Fixing injustices in the civilian population. Hunting down criminals who are too entrenched and others refuse to pursue. Righting the wrongs of the world, of course.”

My lips rise while I reply, “Doesn’t sound bad.”

“Great. I have a dozen school visits that I need done,” Ayuri says, already flicking her fingers at me.

“Uhh…” I shut down the notification without looking at it.

“Oh, you mean what they do for the populace? PR. Kissing babies. Teaching inspirational speeches. You know. What the Champion was doing.”

“That isn’t going to happen. I might take on a few corrupt noble houses though.”

“I might hold you to that,” Ayuri says. “But, really. What do you want? You didn’t cause a scene like that to say hi. Or steal my kevia.”

“Is that what it’s called?” I raise the glass, sip on it, and make a mental note to add it to my shopping list. “I need a budget.”

“Budget?”

I flick my hand sideways, giving her access to the information the initiates provided me this morning. There’d been some aggressive negotiating, and I’ll go over it all once more. But in the end, I’m going to let them choose what they want. Because part of being an adult is making your own choices. And if there’s anything more adult than choosing to pursue a job that no one with any sense wants to do, I can’t think of it.

“The initiates aren’t going to survive, not as they are now. They need new Skills, new equipment. And that requires a budget,” I say. “So. Show me the money.”

Of course, Ayuri doesn’t react to that. It’s not as if it’s an Erethran thing. Funnily enough, with so many entertainment options spread across the Galaxy, the idea of memes, of a shared entertainment culture is rather fragmented. Outside of the occasional smash hit, it’s Classers—Legendaries and Heroics—who are well known and have a tendency to cross cultural lines.

“A budget…” Ayuri grins and slams back the kevia, emptying her cup. I feel a chill run through me at her smile. “I know just where to send you.”

“Uhhhh…”

***

Ayuri is banging on the residential door, one hand holding the bottle and a glass of kevia. It took her less than a minute to get here, abusing her ability to Portal around the planet to end up in this dreary, carpeted hallway. That the light brown floor moves and twitches on its own is a little disturbing, though the low light it gives off is a beautiful thing to behold. Down the hallway with its projected outdoor forest wallpaper is the sole window, showing the twinkling lights of the streets outside.

From what I can tell in my minimap, we’re in the middle of a suburban residential neighborhood. A rich neighborhood, with the way the grounds are spaced out. No apartments here, stacking people, one signal on top of another.

“Open up, Saimon. I know you’re in there,” Ayuri calls.

“You do know this is late at night, right?” I say.

Not that late—the alien planet equivalent of nine in the evening. But late enough. Especially if the two dots being placed right on top of one another when we arrived is anything to go by.

“Go away, Ayuri!” The voice that calls out is rather short of breath. And a little muffled. It’s somewhat high-pitched, but not feminine necessarily. Or at least, not what I’d consider feminine for the Erethrans.

“No. Come out, Saimon.”

“He’s busy, Champion.” Another voice, quite deep and not at all amused.

“Oh, you’re there too, Lord Braxton?” Ayuri’s grin widens. “Perfect. Now, come out or I’ll come in. Ten seconds.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Saimon shouts. But I hear scrambling from within.

“She would. You know she would,” Lord Braxton mutters. If not for my enhanced Perception, there’d be no way for me to hear him. Then again, he probably knows that. “Ever since you broke up with her, she’s been on the warpath.”

I raise an eyebrow at Ayuri, who crosses her arms.

“It’s not like that,” she says.

“Uh huh.”

“Ten!” Ayuri counts down, even if the count is only, like, four or five. She slaps her hand on the access panel, not that she needs to activate it. But I get the feeling she’s doing it because she wants to. “Here I come.”

The first sight to greet me is a tall, slim figure. I catch sight of small breasts on a muscular torso being covered by the closing touch-zip of a jumpsuit. As my eyes track upward, they meet pursed, full lips and green eyes. Shoulder-length hair frames delicate cheekbones, but there’s a masculine jut to the jaw and in the sweep of coral ears. I blink, thrown off by the conflicting information.

Saimon Calicus, Seeker of Truth, Ten Thousand Audits, Golden Reviewer, Slayer of Goblins (Forensic Accountant Level 41) (M)

HP: 980/980

MP: 2780/2780

Conditions: Forensic View, Auditors Authority, Eyes of the Scales

“Why are you bothering me, Yuri?” Saimon snaps, smoothing out the lay of his jumpsuit, his voice the more feminine one.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt you? Maybe sleeping with another husband?” Ayuri retorts. “And don’t call me that. You don’t get to anymore.”

Lord Braxton is lounging, one slim, toned, hairless leg thrown outside of the cream blankets. The other leg—and other important bits—is covered by the silk sheet. His chest is bare—hairless, as well, but toned in the way an office worker who hits the gym once in a while might look. Not a pure fighter then, at least not by his physique. His Status confirms it too.

Lord Leral Braxton, Baron of Unsqe, Houndmaster, Royal Aide,… (Galactic Steward Level 38) (M)

HP: 860/860

MP: 1520/1520

Conditions: Bestial Instincts, Strength of the Pack, Distributed Pain, Enhanced Senses, On the Hunt, Engorged

“My partners are more than aware of Saimon,” Lord Braxton says with a low drawl. “In fact, we’re discussing adding him to our triad.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of you. Doing it the right way.” Ayuri’s voice drips venom as she glares at Saimon.

I listen at first, then try to trigger a Blink Step. It fails, of course, but the swirl of Mana around me is enough to draw the attention of all three. Even the pain of the failed Blink Step is less than that of listening to the lovers’ tiff.

“Don’t you dare move, Paladin,” Ayuri snaps. “You’re the reason I’m here.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s your hurt feelings that brought us here, dear,” Ali offers helpfully. He’s floated into the room, idly eying the occupants and the furnishings. More the half-dressed Braxton than the furnishings. “But don’t worry, we aren’t holding it against you. Not that boy-o here knows how to handle his relationships any better.”

“You wanted finances. And Saimon here is the Minister of Finance.” Ayuri waves at the man/woman/herm/another alien or System combination that might make my head hurt. “If you need a budget, Paladin, you’ll need to talk to him. And since Lord Braxton is here, he can take over dealing with you.”

“I’d prefer—” I begin.

“I don’t care. I’m the Champion of the Erethran Empire, not your personal servant. If you have questions, you can talk to these two. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like visiting schools and bothering your ex?” Ali says.

Ayuri punches out with a fist, dismissing the Spirit with a push of power. It’s such a smooth execution of energy that Ali goes pop without me even being able to do anything. Then, before I can bitch about it, she disappears, Blink Stepping away.

“Uhh…” I scratch my head, looking at the empty spot then at the pair of bemused lovers. “So. That happened.”

***

“Thank you.” I sip on the Galactic equivalent of coffee, rotating the drink in my hand. Unfortunately, unlike real coffee, this drink is more sour and bitter than dark and smooth.

Still, production of coffee in the strength required to affect Adventurers is lagging behind. Earth has more important things to do, and even the few producers there are have only managed to get their beans to affect those in the low hundreds of Constitution. That doesn’t even include my own Resistance to poisons. Basically, it’ll be years, if not decades, before I can actually enjoy coffee for its effects again. Though I still keep a couple of bags around for the taste.

“So. You and the Champion.” I raise a single eyebrow, doing my best not to smirk. “You’re a lot braver than I am.”

“We were cadets together, many years ago. We’ve been on and off since then,” Saimon says before he shrugs. “I wanted something a little more permanent. She didn’t. But when I started seeing others, she objected. Said I was betraying her.”

Society’s Web tells me there’s more to this discussion. More to the twisted thread between it and Ayuri, glistening brown and red. There’s another thread, this one golden and red, that leads between him and Lord Braxton. And Braxton himself has more of those golden-red threads—two others. I know what those mean, love and passion, twisted with expectation. But Braxton has others, brown-gray, knotted with ties that lead to him, dozens of them. Duties, obligations, loyalty—almost all one-sided. A touch of my mind, and I know they’re for his hounds. It doesn’t take much more than a question to Ali to clarify what they are. Not actual animals – not anymore – but spies, saboteurs and assassins.

I debate asking more but decide I really don’t need to know the interpersonal drama among the individuals in the Erethran government. I’m here for another reason entirely.

“Credits,” I say. “Was she lying?”

“No. In fact, I’m probably the best person to discuss this with. As you know, the Paladins have been a foundational pillar of the Empire for many years. Because of that, they’ve had a large budget assigned to the institution and upkeep of their services.” Saimon pauses, visibly thinking about what he wants to say next.

Lord Braxton leans forward, his own cup kept warm in his hands. Behind him, the bedroom that we haven’t left is displayed, hints of their dalliance still visible and fragrant. I’d have preferred to have moved to someplace less intimate, but they haven’t suggested a move. I’m not sure if it’s an Erethran thing or just a damn the Champion thing.

“What Saimon is trying, and failing, to say is that your budget is currently being used by others,” Lord Braxton says.

“Others?” I’m getting a dreadful feeling here, one that says that Ayuri’s sudden actions might have more to do with these “others” than wanting to get back at her ex-lover.

“You must understand, even if the budget set aside for aiding the Paladins was not significant compared to the military budget, it was still a massive amount in totality. After a decade, it was decided that we could do better things with the funds than letting them collect untouched.” Saimon’s fingers run around the cup as it thinks. “In the end, a directive was passed and the budget was allocated to a variety of other individuals.”

“And now? Now that I’m back? Now that the Paladins are returning?”

“Many will not be happy. There are corporations and planets that rely on the additional budget to stay afloat,” Lord Braxton says. “The trading to determine where the budget goes every year is a major mainstay of the current political climate.”

“Great.” I shake my head, discarding the idea that I really want to get involved in that. Instead… “Look. I really don’t care. I just want you guys to find me enough funds to pay for the initiates’ Skills and equipment.”

I send them the documentation, the long list of Skills and the Credits that we require. I might have tacked on a few more Credits for myself, just because. But not a lot.

Their reaction is quite interesting, for they skim through everything, looking not so much at the individual Skill information or equipment requests, but instead the Credit amount at the end.

“Is that it?” Saimon says.

“For now. I’d prefer to have access to a lot more than that, especially as I expect we’ll be fine-tuning some of these requests as we go along,” I say.

I know asking for tens of millions of credits is a bit much. But they’re also asking me to raise a bunch of Paladin initiates. Without the right Skill sets, without the right training, they’ll probably just die. I expect they’d rather we get this right than waste my time and their lives.

“Oh, it’s not that,” Saimon says. He glances at Lord Braxton, who chuckles as well. They gesture at the final amount. “This is actually significantly less than we expected. I could free up that much from the Queen’s petty cash easily. Returning the funds to there would be a little more difficult, but not impossible. In fact, we should still have the majority of this amount in the revolving discretionary account.”

I blink at the pair of administrators. And then I realize, once again, how big the difference is between a single individual like me and the Empire. Even if I’d thought I’d adjusted my idea of what was considered a “high” amount, I obviously hadn’t adjusted it enough. They might not have the strength of an individual Legendary, but when you have millions and millions of people contributing to your tax base, tens of millions of Credits is nothing.

“Well, once you release the discretionary funds, start working on getting back the rest of the budget. In the meantime, make sure my people get trained. That means real trainers with the right Skills.” I grimace as a thought strikes. “Once they start buying Master Class Skills, I expect that the expenses will increase again.”

“Of course, of course.” Lord Braxton waves his hands sideways. “In the meantime, if you’re looking for specific equipment that you need to purchase, I ask that you send the requests to me beforehand. I already see a number of requests in here that I can replace with similar and cheaper, or similar and better, equipment. Through our mercantile contacts, that is.”

“Fair enough.”

We’d gotten the quotes from the Shop itself, knowing that that would likely be the most expensive manner of getting what we need. If they can find ways of cutting corners without cutting quality, I have no objections. We’ll need our budget in as best a state that it can be, for once they do become real Paladins, the System will allow them to purchase Master Class Skills. Still…

“Why do the Paladins need so many funds?”

“For much of the time during their presence, many of the Credits used by the Paladins were for bribes, restitution, and replacement costs for things destroyed. Unfortunately, our Paladins were well known for their disregard for property and individuals in the pursuit of justice,” Saimon says, his lips turning down slightly. “In addition, the bureaucracy required to deal with the fallout was significant. Especially when some of our Paladins journeyed to other empires and kingdoms.”

I grunted. It’s one thing for me to play Bounty Hunter and kill bad people on other planets or kingdoms. Anyone I annoyed could track me down, but they didn’t really have a lot they could do other than killing me or placing a secondary bounty on my head. On the other hand, when you’re representing an entire Empire, the Empire can’t really run away from responsibility as much. I’m kind of glad that a bureaucracy has grown up to deal with the fallout, leaving the Paladins to do what I do best.

“Good to know. Who do I talk to about beginning to staff the Paladin’s bureacracy again?”

“Do you expect to need such help soon?” Lord Braxton looks a bit worried.

“Not yet. I’m planning for the future. No point getting my initiates trained up as Paladins and leaving them without backup. I expect it’ll take a while to find the right people. Best to get started soon.”

Lord Braxton and Saimon share a relieved look before Braxton adds, “Well, it’s nice to work with someone who’s thinking ahead. We’ll need at least a few months.”

“And the funds?”

“I will get her Majesty’s approval tomorrow and you should have access soon after. The rest of it…” Saimon hesitates then shrugs. “That might take longer.”

“Just get it done.” I down the last of their drink and stand, nodding to them both. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

“One thing,” Lord Braxton speaks up, his gaze focused on me. Even seated, they aren’t much shorter than I am. Almost reminds me of the decades I spent being the short guy in Canada. “Will you be open to meeting those who might be affected?” When I frown, he hastily adds, “You are asking for a change to a System that has worked for decades. Surely you can spare a few minutes to talk to those affected.”

Suspicion gnaws at my instincts and my eyes narrow. “And who might those be?”

“Members of the noble houses. A few Guild leaders. Corporate tycoons.” When I continue to frown, he adds, “Viscountess Purple March.”

“Ahhh…” I breathe the word and almost decide to turn him down. But then I remember my real job. The choice I’ll have to make. And I realize at some point, I’ll have to meet her. “Fine. Set it up.”

I get a relieved smile from Lord Braxton, but the primal, sensuous image I had has crumbled, disappeared under the cold dash of reality. No one, not at this level, is just one thing. They’re all political animals of some stripe. And it seems I’ve found where one of the alliances lie.

After that, it’s just a few more kind words before the pair shows me out. And then, the very long wait for an automated vehicle to bring me back to the palace. Annoying, but it does give me time to think. I’m not sure if Ayuri really meant to drop me off with them to annoy her ex-lover or if she’s playing a deeper game. I get the feeling there’s little bit of both in there. A way for her to introduce me to the players without being too upfront. But setting up the Paladins is slowly looking more and more complex.

At least I should be able to pick up a few new toys though.

Chapter 8

The floating aircar I rest within is both more and less wondrous than I could ever imagine. It floats soundlessly, cutting through the atmosphere at hundreds of kilometers a second, the G forces entirely canceled out by anti-gravity tech. At the same time, the insides are no different than any car I’ve been in. Indulgent, soft-as-a-cloud seats, arm, and leg rests add to the luxury, but it’s still a car interior. There’s no steering wheel and even fewer controls for the vehicle itself. Most of the vehicle’s operation is done by the AI traffic control system and the backup, semi-sentient AI within the car itself.

I sit in silence for a time, watching the ground pass by. Twinkling lights for buildings and individuals, the occasional flare of magic and beam weaponry opening fire on the monsters that press against the edges of civilization. Not many individual flying armor suits at this time of night, all the good citizens of the Empire tucked away in bed. Even so, the push against the monsters is ongoing.

The planet of Pauhiri might not be a Dungeon World, but it lies quite a distance away from the Galactic edge, relatively close to the Forbidden Zone. And because of that, the overflow of Mana has seen the increased birth of monsters. They pop into existence constantly outside the Safe Zones, at the edges of the cities and emplaced positions, ready to attack, to kill and Level. And they’re just as quickly dealt with by the citizens of the Empire, ensuring the civilians of Pauhiri are safe.

Except…

It’s a bad idea. A bad plan. As history, as false memory tells me all too easily.

… has shown that the creation of natural dungeons are an important Mana-cleansing method of the System. The birth of dungeons and the monsters within them allow a higher flow-through of ambient Mana, such that the System is able to catalogue, cleanse, and divert the Mana to low ambient Mana environments.

Based upon these findings, it is recommended that monsters—in particular, Alpha monsters—be allowed to be birthed in non-Dungeon Worlds and, furthermore, be cultivated to higher Levels before their deaths. Their development will lower the environmental Mana amounts in the region (see charts 128.3, 128.4 and statistic tables in appendix 128 for further detail), increasing System-planet viability timelines.

It is further hypothesized that the abandonment of planets near the Forbidden Zone at the earliest period will see a decrease in viability period of neighboring planets. (See the Ofelia and Ums Cases by Hed & Zaritskaya). Initial indications are that the outflow from the Forbidden Zone has seen a decreased timeline for System planet viability.

I shudder, shoving aside the memory of the academic study. It’s not the only one, not the only document, video, and memory recording that tries to take over my mind. Graphs, tables of recorded data, speaking heads in pale blue labs. All of it flowing through my mind in a blip and leaving me reeling.

And, as always, another tick upward in my System Quest experience. Another hole filled in. But still, I grasp at the edges. Even as some things, some questions are answered.

I push aside the thoughts and finally, finally call forth the only person I can talk to. At least, to some extent. It requires some Mana, an effort of will against reality’s barrier. And then, the olive-skinned Spirit reappears.

“Ali.”

“About time. What took you so long?” the Spirit grumps at me.

I shrug. There is really no reason. Other than a desire to be alone. And that’s hard enough to get sometimes.

“Whatever. Where are we going?” Ali says, when I offer him no explanation.

“Home.” Or the closest thing to home right now. Better to say the place I’m putting my head down, but semantics. “Why?”

“Because we’re not.” Ali waves and a map appears. Much bigger, taking in all the city. A flicker in the top right highlights the palace. Another blinking dot on the bottom left shows my location, and a dotted line shows our flight path. Away from the Palace.

“Crap.” I wasn’t paying attention. Not thinking I was in danger. Not thinking anyone would take action on the capital planet. But here I am, flying to an unknown location. I buff myself while I consider my options.

Destroy the aircar? Possible, but it’d throw me out into the middle of nowhere. Which might be what they’re looking for. I don’t know what the repercussions of destroying an aircar in the capital city might be. And while I have some protection as a Paladin, it’s all theoretical.

“Call for help.” Probably blocked but worth a try.

“On it,” Ali says, his eyes going blank.

I could stay here and wait. But tough as I am, whoever is taking action probably knows all about me and what I can do. Walking into an ambush is a bad idea, no matter what I tell the initiates.

“I’m blocked,” Ali says moments later.

That’s it. I raise my foot, ready to stomp down, and am halted by a new voice.

“Paladin. Our apologies for the interruption. There is no need for violence.” The voice blaring out of the aircar’s speakers is rough, as if they’ve been smoking a couple of packs a day for the last couple of decades.

“Pretty sure there is.” But I put my foot down. I can still break the car with a thought, but I’m willing to wait. “Keep an eye out for threats, will you?”

“Teach a Goblin how to populate a planet, why don’t you?”

“The Prophet just wants to speak with you,” the voice comes again, just a touch of pleading in it. “We promise you, we offer you no harm.”

“Then open up communication channels. Three seconds, or else I make my way out of this vehicle.” I’m curious, especially when they mention the Prophet, but I want more than a verbal assurance.

“Done.”

“Let Mikito and Bolo know. Keep them updated on our location,” I send to Ali. At the same time, I reach within and pop out Hod’s Armor, placing my hand over the box and letting it begin the process of armoring me. I hear a slight squeak from the voice, but I never promised to come unarmed.

“Well… you’ll be here in a few minutes. Please, remember we are just here to speak with you,” the voice says a little breathlessly.

I smile grimly, leaving the helmet unformed. Activating it, covering myself would take only a second. Might be too long, but I figure that between Sanctum and my Soul Shield, I should be fine. And if not, I’m sure Mikito will bring fire and flame down on them in revenge. Never mind Ayuri.

Killing me now that my friends know what’s going on seems much less likely.

“They’ve confirmed receipt. Bolo’s cursing up a storm about getting woken up. And Harry wants to know if he can ride along in the armor’s recording features.”

“Go for it.He might see something I don’t.”

“I want to know if we’re telling the Champion.”

I consider then shake my head slightly. Even if she would be good backup, running to her for every little problem is getting old. Her sending me to Saimon and Lord Braxton was a pretty clear indication that she expects me to take care of things myself to some extent. And while political maneuvering in a place I don’t know might be a little much, violence is something I do know.

Very, very well.

“Understood.” I glance at Ali, at our projected course, then flick my hands at him. “Go ahead. Get me the lay of the land, will you?”

Ali nods and disappears from normal visual view, floating through the car and zooming ahead. As he does so, I feel him reaching into my inventory, pulling out drones, and dropping them behind in our flight path. Setting up fallback positions for when things go wrong.

Paranoid?

Me?

Not at all.

***

The aircar drops to the ground, floating to a stop in the middle of a courtyard complex. Multi-story-high buildings float around us, each decorated with gold effigies and sculptures of the various alien races that make up the Empire. I say float, because the ground floor is bare, the entire complex held aloft by anti-gravity mods. Walkways, glowing with power and contained by force shields, lead between the building complexes in an intricate cat’s cradle, leaving me to eye the numerous sniping points distrustfully as I step out of the vehicle. The aircar drops the rest of the way with a slight thump, turning itself off and stranding me.

More important than the lack of transportation are the individuals awaiting my arrival. A half dozen robed and dressed Erethrans, all of them flanking a rather recognizable figure. Spuryan Chaiwan, the Prophet of the cult or religion. Or philosophical party. I’m not sure which is more appropriate. Or, truthfully, what the difference is at times.

Spuryan looks similar to the image I’ve seen. Coral ears embellished, shiny and filled with jewelry. Smooth skin, robes that gleam yellow and gold, enchantments twisting the Mana around him. After all this time, I’ve learned to read the way enchantments affect the Mana flow around them, the way they twist and shift depending on their guided uses. These are defensive enchantments, movement boosters, and a few shields for the most part. Just ways of letting him escape potential sticky situations.

Does it make me a bad person that I’m already charting out the Skill uses I need to stop him? When he’s offered no violence?

“Paladin,” Spuryan says, walking forward to greet me.

A trio of his people follow, each of them sternly daring me with their gazes to try something. Worse than their baleful regard is that they’re Combat Classers. One’s got a civilian offshoot of the Erethran Honor Guard bodyguard build. The other two are pure smash-and-grabbers. Further back, even more attendants hang by and watch, the attendants a wide range of races though, as always, the Erethrans dominate.

“Thank you for being willing to speak with me,” he adds.

“Didn’t really get a chance to say no, did I?” They keep coming, closing the distance, and I hold up my hand when they’re about five feet away. “That’s close enough.”

I see a flash of irritation on Spuryan’s face, even as my resistances ping. I grunt, feeling his Auras press down on me. It’s not that powerful, not like the Queen’s. But it’s noticeable. And unique, in the ability to wrap two Auras around one another.

“Certainly. We wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. We are here just to speak,” Spuryan says, then tilts his head from side to side. “I do wonder—where is your Companion? The redoubtable Spirit.”

“Ali’s out scouting,” I say, telling him the truth. It’s not as if they couldn’t figure out that one themselves. Not with the ever-increasing amount of automated drones and linked firepower showing up.

“Such precautions aren’t necessary.”

“Well, tough. If you didn’t want me to do that, you should have tried calling and asking first.”

“We would, but we’re not exactly…” Spuryan seems to search for the word. “In favor. There were concerns that our requests would be blocked.”

I can see how that’d happen, but it’s a lie too. Because they could have sent it via the Shop and broken through any blocks with enough Credits or Mana. No, they wanted to have this conversation out here, in their place of power. To throw me off just a little. Or maybe just to get in the first word before the others have a chance to pitch themselves. I wonder how much analysis they’ve done of how I’d react.

My silence seems to embolden them, for Spuryan continues. “We wanted you to see a part of us, the reality of the Reluctant Survivors and not the lies that they tell you.”

I almost want to point out that I’ve yet to hear of them from others but decide against it. Better to stay silent and keep him speaking. To see where the lies lie.

“We are no cult, no subversive organization. What we want is the best for our society, for our people. Unmitigated expansion, the wars that we fight, those only bring blood and tears. The loss of our people. Unending war with other sapients is not the only way to Level.” The words flow with well-rehearsed cadence, the phrases resounding with passionate conviction. He sounds like a television evangelist or an auctioneer, so rehearsed with his words that he can brush past your initial objections and assault your better senses before you know it.

Each word, each sentence comes with a flash of a notification, the thrill and a jolt of pleasure as his Skill cuts through my defenses partially, dropping serotonin direct into my body.

“I’m not going to argue with the idea that war is bad, but it seems to me saying it and changing an entire Empire are two different things. Sort of like teaching people to eat less,” I say.

My last sentence gets a bunch of puzzled looks. System-enabled worlds have much less of an issue with obesity, since most high-Level individuals burn more calories than they can hope to intake. Without Mana boosting their bodies, they’d wither and die. It’s why Technocrats who leave System-enhanced space are often extremely low-Leveled, or have attributes dedicated to non-physical stats.

“There is much to do, for certain. Changing an entire culture is not simple. But we can do it if we all work together,” Spuryan says, waving his arms to encompass the buildings. “Look. Look at your map. See how many have already chosen another life, another way of living that does not require blood to be spilt endlessly. And these are but a small portion of those who believe in us, in our cause. We need only a chance, an opportunity to allow those who dare not speak up to do so. To enforce the change that we need.”

“Interesting choice of words.” I look up, eying the hundreds of dots that make up the compound. I wonder how many of them have guns pointed at me. How many of them are here by choice. “But that’s a pretty good pitch. Does leave the question, how do you expect to Level up otherwise?”

“Internal development. Increased investment for city dungeons, exploration of the Forbidden Zones. Additional exploitation of the Dungeon Worlds. And the development of new Dungeon Worlds—uninhabited of course,” Spuryan details his plans with ease.

“I thought you couldn’t do Dungeon Worlds without inhabitants?”

“Incorrect. It is more difficult, since the System needs a sufficient number of sentient personnel to provide the linchpin for its start. It is possible however, with the right seed population inserted beforehand,” Spuryan says.

“Seed pop—”

I don’t get any further. Tests. So many tests. I see the way they’ve tried to do it beforehand, the various methods the Galactics have tried. Tests by the Questors, by the Galactic Council, by kingdoms and other groups on the down-low. All trying to find ways to make more Dungeon Worlds, to gain access to the resources a Dungeon World creates and slow down the progress of the Forbidden Zone. Ways to skirt around the System, around the Galactic Council, around the notice of their enemies.

Tests. Not a dozen, not a hundred, but thousands. Spread over the course of the entire life of the System, from when it first began to now.

Tests. And deaths, failures, the way the System reacts—badly—to manipulation.

I watch worlds burn, intelligent beings warp. I read the reports of how once-sapient creatures become twisted, distorted nightmare versions of themselves. Lycanthropes, shifters, chimera… even more unspeakable monsters, like the Galactic equivalent of the wendigo.

“Paladin?” Spuryan says, as races scream and the System strips scientists of their Classes, offering them new ones in my mind’s eye.

I’ve seen myself a couple of times when the information comes crashing in. Having a friend like Ali means that I get to see recordings of my most humiliating moments all too often. On occasion, when he thinks I’m getting too big for myself, he’ll pop up a window of his “Boy-o highlights.”

When the data unfolds, when my mind is taken over, my face twitches, my eyes flicker and go dark, and during the worse times, I might even get a nosebleed. Once, my eyes themselves bled. Even if the entire download, the data unfolding takes only a few seconds, the process of analysis, of understanding might last longer. And it is disconcerting to come back to myself, to the physical world of aliens and pain, after leaving a mental one of pain and twisted studies.

“And you think you know the right numbers?” I say, ignoring the puzzled looks, the question to ask my own.

“We are not certain, not yet. But there are a large number of volunteers within my apostate who would be willing to go. For the greater good. We will learn the correct numbers.”

He’s given the wrong answer, acting as if I wouldn’t know the truth of it all. No surprise. I don’t think there’s anyone in this world—other than maybe a few top-level Questors—who understands what he’s really suggesting.

After all, there have been successful attempts. Two, to be exact.

The first lasted all of four thousand years before the Mana Density grew too great and the planet was lost. The other lasted for a year before the System stopped flooding the world with Mana. Now the planet lies vacant, a perverted and rotten parody of a Dungeon World. Too much Mana within it to be a normal, residential planet. Too few resources and too much unsynchronized, uninitiated Mana to be a Dungeon World.

In the end, Mana is all around us. It’s what makes the System work. But it’s also what makes the System break down. Because there are two types of Mana, in a way. The unmarked, unaspected, uninitiated Mana that has never gone through the System. And the Mana that has passed through it, whether through sapient creatures or monsters. Mana that is marked, encoded, and thus useful to the System.

Understanding that little bit, understanding the differences in Mana gave me a huge jump in my System Quest. The realization that the Mana available in the city, that can be used to make a city a Safe Zone, the controls put in place all come from the sapient members of a city and the monsters slain is important. Everything the System does, it can only do because of this marked Mana. Unfortunately, this marked Mana slowly degrades, becoming unaspected and unSystemized after a period of time. Worse, monsters only mark Mana after a while, as they Level, and it only releases when they die. So there’s a balance to be struck between murdering them and letting them grow. And, like the Forbidden Worlds, there’s always more unmarked Mana arriving.

That’s why we have Forbidden Worlds. Because at a certain point, we aren’t able to handle the flow of Mana anymore. Even the System’s last-minute controls, the explosion of monsters that precede the start of the loss of a world isn’t enough.

In the end, the System is a means of control for Mana. That, I am certain of now. But who made it, how they made it, why they made it? And, perhaps just as important, where all this Mana is coming from and what it is? Those are still unknown.

“Boy-o! Stop drifting off,” Ali calls.

Unfortunately, ever since Feh’ral dumped the library in my head, this has been happening more and more. I don’t know if it’s my mind compensating for the information or the fact that I feel—I know—that I’m so close to the answer.

“My apologies. Just thinking about your answer. If you want me to believe you, then I have a request.” I offer Spuryan a smile, curious to see if he bites. I let my gaze track upward, checking out the glowing walkways that hang above me, the lit-up buildings around us. Looking for attackers.

“Of course, anything you want.” Spuryan glances backward to where his bodyguards stand and pauses. “At least, if my bodyguards allow it. You understand, of course.”

“I doubt they’ll worry about this. You can leave.” I smile wider, flicking my gaze to the three guards. “Because the person I want to speak with isn’t you. As you said, you’ve got hundreds of people here. Let me speak with them.”

“About?” Spuryan looks puzzled but not worried. I wouldn’t be either. I’m assuming the people here are the most committed of his cult.

“About you. About your beliefs and what you intend for us all. Let me talk to them, let me see how it works in reality.”

“It will be poor example, when we are forced to live as we are, forced to adjust our vision to the society that hates us.” Spuryan says, already making excuses. “But if you wish it.”

“I do.”

Spuryan nods, gesturing not behind him, not at his bodyguards, but at a couple of others in attendance. They walk forward, crossing the grounds to stop a short distance away from me, closer even than Spuryan himself. I let them come, figuring they’ll be my guides. The pair are a male and female, one an Erethran, the other a female Yerrick of shorter stature.

“I could come with you, if you wish. You are a somewhat intimidating presence,” Spuryan says.

“Don’t bother. You can go. I’ll even make my own way home.” I flash the cult leader a grin, gesturing at the pair of attendants. “They will more than do.”

When Spuryan opens his mouth to speak, I dismiss him by turning on my heels and walking toward the nearest floating entry chute to the buildings that surround us. I watch through Ali’s eyes as Spuryan’s face twitches in annoyance before he gestures for the attendants to follow me.

Yeah, turning my back on the cult leader was a bad idea. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s when passions are high, when people are angry, that’s when you find out who they really are. Not the face they show you, the mask we all wear to get by in our daily lives, but who we really are. The lines that we draw, the things that anger us, they tell more about who and what we believe in than any kind words or mealy-mouthed social talk could ever do.

What we will fight for is the truest guide of the inner self there is.

***

One of the first things I noticed about this residence / manufacturing hub / Artisan Center and religious building is that it’s just as decorated on the inside as the outside. Pictures, moving video wallpapers, and statues abound, even in the hallways that lead to the individual rooms. They all depict Spuryan’s utopian society where races—Erethrans, Yerrick, Grimsar, and more—Combat Classers, and Artisans work together in blissful, brightly colored harmony. Happy, content, beaming faces stare back from the glowing paint and holographic images. All strangely content—even the ones battling the monsters on the outskirts of the sprawling, green-and-purple cities.

Getting the floor plans for the building from my attendants is simple enough. Comparing it to the floor plan that Ali has managed to acquire shows that they aren’t hiding anything. No hidden floors or secret rooms where they build plagues or bombs. At least not in the first couple of floors we check out.

The bottom floors are all social locations. Living rooms, social loungers, large kitchens in cafeterias dominate the layout, with the addition of a few land-based garages for vehicles that run on the ground. There are even some training rooms, for those violently inclined. Above the social floors are workshops, individualized and equipped for various professions. Surprisingly, many of those workshops aren’t empty, even at this time of night.

“And you’ve been working for them for how long?” I asked the elderly Erethran Artisan whose workshop we’ve invaded.

The workshop is barebones, all nanoformed steel tables and workbenches and covered cupboards. They’re all protected, built to withstand the occasional catastrophic failure. Each workshop is roughly ten by ten—good enough for a single worker, but not much more. It’s also relatively neat, since storing movable equipment in one’s inventory ensures it doesn’t get destroyed.

The Artisan was working on a drone, putting it together from the ground up. Using materials crafted in other nearby workshops, melding them together with blueprints. There’s a degree of specialization involved, but not as much as you’d think. If a person can make a computer chip, they can just as easily make it for large drone vehicles or planetary destroyers. The Skills transfer over, especially when you can download the knowledge and blueprints from the System with enough Credits.

“Eleven passages of the planet nights now, your justice.” The artisan refuses to meet my eyes, mumbling his answers. He’s not the first I’ve spoken to, all of them happy enough to talk, but offering little divergent information.

“You like working here?”

“I build drones, your justice.” He gestures to the drone he was building. “Civilian market, delivery drones. It’s good work.”

That too is normal. Nearly all the Artisan work goes to the civilian market, with a small number going directly to the Reluctant Survivors’ own monster hunting team. They try to extract themselves from the military industrial complex as much as possible. Or at least, that’s what they’re telling me.

“Ali, do we have stats to show they’re telling the truth?”

“How the hell would I know? I can look it up later…”

“Do so.”

“That’s great,” I say. “You find it rewarding?” I get a nod for that. I try again. “You have family? Someone you care about in the complex?”

“Yes, your justice. Two wives and six spawn.” For the first time, a trace of pride.

“And how do they like living here?”

“Well enough. We have food, shelter, safety from the monsters. My spawn enjoy playing with the other children. It’s a good community, though there’s not enough purple.”

I frown at the last, trying to figure out if it means anything. A flicker in my mind as data downloaded comes to the rescue. Cultural saying, mostly to deal with the color of the greenery. As our version of green, their desire for more forests and open areas. I keep trying to get him to relax and just chat but give up after a few minutes and move on as the Artisan grows increasingly uncomfortable.

My high Charisma stat might be useful for intimidating and scaring people, for forcing my Aura on others. But it’s not as useful for being the sociable huckster. That just isn’t me, and the System seems to agree, having grown my attribute in other ways. In the end, I give up and move on.

It doesn’t matter where I go, how deep I head into the residence, knocking on doors and chatting with people. I get deference, smiles, and polite invitations in to chat, even from those who wake up grumpy. Fear, hidden within courtesy. Uncertainty, the same kind you get when speaking to a police officer back on Earth. I get nowhere, not talking to them at least.

Not directly.

But I persist.

For I have other Skills. Eye of Insight is always on, alerting me when someone is actively using Skills to lie to me. Purchased knowledge about body language and my higher Perception allow me to pick out mundane cues for when people are lying or just shading the truth on a mundane level. Most aren’t lying. No more than normal people do. Mostly around questions like, are you happy?, do you like it here?, and the like. For most people, there’s always a level of uncertainty, of concern and doubt when asked a question like that. Most people have that niggling sense of doubt that comes from living an unfulfilled life. Of believing that it could be better.

Sapient creatures just aren’t very good at being happy.

More useful is Society’s Web. I watch the lines radiating from people, how they twist and thrum as they speak. How they connect and interconnect between individuals within the building. At first, I follow lines, verifying the information I get. Following up with questions on different groups that lie throughout the entire complex. Then I start veering away, finding different clusters, different social groups. All to corroborate the picture I’m developing.

Have to admit, I’m rather impressed. When the attendants shoot me a questioning looks, I realize I’ve spoken that out loud. I give them a smile and don’t elaborate.

It’s been nearly four hours of walking back and forth, bothering people in the middle of the night. Eventually, I walk out the complex, waving goodbye to the attendants and dismissing them. Not that they leave, watching my departing back as I walk toward the city. I start composing a note to Saimon to get my Portal pass approved. All the while, I’m waiting for the public aircar I’ve called to arrive.

I stay silent, keeping my thoughts to myself until I’m picked up. I even stay silent when Ali returns from picking up all our toys. We stay silent, floating through the air, until we make it back to our residence. That’s where Mikito and Bolo are waiting, no longer at the ready for potential trouble, but too high-strung to go back to sleep. Instead, they’re training against one another, playing at violence.

I watch for a few minutes, marveling at how Mikito pushes aside Bolo’s huge hammer, deflecting rather than blocking, using her greater speed and precision. She’s gotten better, much better, even in the few weeks that we’ve known him. If my Intelligence increases have been to handle Mana and create vector pathways, to deal with information flow better and to handle the insanity of war, hers seems to have been focused on her skills. She improves her martial skills at a rate that is staggering.

I sometimes wonder if it’s a conscious choice.

Studies from the library indicate that there is a little bit of conscious variation in our development of attributes. But just as much, there’s an unknown factor, the System’s influence, that even multiple and exhaustive tests have yet to uncover. Oh, there are hypotheses—but none of them have been definitive. There’s no rhyme or reason why an accountant can suddenly play musical instruments, find perfect pitch in a song while increasing his attributes. Or why a Combat Classer can do high-level mathematical formulas, complex equations involving six-dimensional math without touching a calculator. There are hypotheses that in those cases, the System isn’t building the capacity for us, but for itself.

Though why it needs the capacity, why a sapient can pick out the addition of a flake of salt from a spoonful of soup is a question no one has an answer to.

The pair notice my presence soon enough, pausing in their play. And it is play, for they aren’t using their Skills. At least, not any active ones. Breathing just a little hard, they stroll over to me, weapons over their shoulders, almost mimicking one another. It makes me smile. Harry, seated inside the building, comes out as well, obviously not interested in watching them. I’m sure he’s got more than enough footage of them.

“How’d it go?” Bolo says. “We need to lay down the hurt?”

“Aren’t you some kind of Lord, noblesse oblige and all that?” I reply.

The Dragon Lord looks puzzled until his face clears up as the information download on our culture clarifies it for him. Sometimes, the data isn’t fully integrated. It’s decent most of the time, but English and its random borrowing of other words from other languages can trip it up.

“Not that kind of Lord. Anyway, I was never very good at diplomacy,” Bolo replies. There’s a flash, a quick change in his face, the memory of something darker crosses it. But then it’s gone, like the passing of the cloud, and he’s focused. “So? What was it like?”

Mikito makes a noise in agreement while Harry raises his hand, beginning to film. I wave my hands at him, indicating for Harry to stop. I know he’s recorded most of my interactions, tapping into my neural link and Hod, using it for his feeds. I don’t mind, because I’m going to make him look for my own information. But what I have to say now, it’s not for public consumption. Not yet.

I take a few moments to turn the house’s privacy screens to maximum. Another second and I turn on my own Skills. Bolo and Mikito replicate my actions, layering their Skills on top of mine. It’s not as effective as the Champion’s power, but it’s better than nothing.

“What did you think, Harry?” I ask. He’s the most used to watching, interviewing others. Whether in this world or the previous one, he has experience to draw upon.

“The people you talked to, they were telling the truth. They are, mostly, happy. Some doubts, some concerns, but nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it’s a little too ordinary, a little too happy. There’s some nervousness when talking to you, but that’s not uncommon when speaking to Your Justice.” Harry says all this while his gaze focuses slightly off, as if he’s looking at notification screens we can’t see.

“Anything else?”

“Not exactly my area of expertise, but a lot of the answers were a little too rote. Whenever you touched on their leadership, they were a little too enthusiastic. Not because they’re being forced to say it. I’d say they’re all true believers.” There’s a little hesitation in Harry’s voice, probably because he’s straying into speculation.

“Cult?” Mikito jumps right to the point.

“Close enough. Are social movements cults?” I shrug. I’m sure a sociologist could tell the difference between people really believing in something and a mind-washed, brainless mass. But that line is way too fine for me to cut. “That entire location was a setup. A lot of them don’t really live there. There are too many ties, too many strings attaching them to other locations. Spuryan dragged all of them over to make a perfect little location for me to visit.”

Bolo frowns at my revelation.

“I don’t know if he really thought I was that dumb,” I say. “Spuryan must know of my Skill, must know that I probably would have guessed he was putting on an act. So I don’t know what the point was. Either that or he really underestimates me.”

“Not the first person, boy-o,” Ali points out. “Your history is rather rife with ‘Beacon first, ask questions never’ episodes.”

Mikito and Harry cannot help but smile, making me even more annoyed. I’m not that much of a barbarian.

“Any idea what his goal was in the end?” I ask the group.

“Lie or not, that was still a few thousand people who truly believe in his cause. And by all indications, even if he doesn’t have billions of true believers, it’s still a substantial number. The siren call of not being at war is powerful, even in a militaristic society like this,” Harry offers. “Maybe he was just trying to make you see it. Maybe he’s hoping you agree with him.”

“Foolish,” Bolo says. “Even at home, we fight. Monsters mostly, but we do leave to find other sapients. Adventurers, Guilds, and corporations come to our domain, thinking they can exploit us, exploit our land, our dragons. Levels are needed, and fighting others provide the best kind of experience.”

I consider Bolo for a time. What I know of his world, I’d almost have thought he’d lean toward Spuryan’s belief. After all, his people spend their days and nights fighting dragons and taming them. There just aren’t that many civilizations around their world anymore. Not with it located in the Forbidden Zone.

“You do what you must, especially if Legendarys are targeting you,” Bolo explains.

I can’t help but nod. Over the years, the negative of the Erethrans’ constant need to go to war, to expand is that they’ve made a number of enemies. Including individuals who started out as nothing more than an Advanced Class and grew their Levels over the years. Or just ran away to Level and came back with a vengeance.

Now, they’ve got a couple of high-Level people gunning for them, though none of them are Legendaries.

Yet.

It’s a constant spiral as the Erethrans rush ahead, trying to up their own Levels, to find their enemies and end them before they become too strong. Of course, when that fails, they help their enemies gain Levels and hurt themselves. Or they create even more enemies by hurting others. And so, it keeps circling. They’ve become their own Heavenly Sky.

Problem is, the other option is… well. Bad.

Because the histories are full of groups who haven’t chosen to Level, who have chosen to try to be nice and look internally, and most of those end up destroyed. By those who want power, by the System failing on them.

“So you think this was just the initial pitch?” The group offer tentative nods, and I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “That means we can expect the others too.”

“Very soon. They won’t like the fact that they’ve been pushed behind,” Ali adds.

I can’t help but sigh again. Just another thing to look forward to. Never mind that we still have to train some idiots. Suddenly, I feel exhausted by what’s coming. I stare at the ceiling and shake my head.

Time for bed. The problem of picking a new Empress and training a bunch of idiots is a future John problem.

Chapter 9

“Are you joking?” Magine’s incredulous tone is reward enough for me. Not that he’s the only one looking a bit thrown by my latest pronouncement.

“Nope. We have the budget, so all of your requests have been approved.” Yeah, I might be smirking a little. “Put together a training plan for how you can integrate the new equipment and new Skills. I don’t believe it would be a good idea for you to grab them all at once, so prioritize those that make the most sense and have the longest integration period. Any questions?” I don’t even let them answer before waving them off. “Get me the training information by noon today. I expect you all to be buying your Skills by the end of day. Or equipment. Though I understand there might be some recommendations coming down on those. I might hold off on that, just a little.”

The group hangs around, not moving, confused by my abrupt pronouncements.

I clap my hands together, dragging their attention back. “Well, come on. Get moving.”

Some of them leave immediately, but Gheisnan hesitates before he speaks. “What if we have additional suggestions or changes we might want to make? To our requests.”

“And why would you have those?” I ask almost teasingly.

Gheisnan wilts beneath my gaze, ears flattening against his skull as he refuses to answer me.

On the other hand, Anayton speaks up, hands on her hips. “Because none of us actually thought you’d get us the Skills. We thought this was just another test. So we hedged things, putting everything that we thought you thought we needed.”

Almost, I consider telling them that they should have trusted me. That it’s a little too bad if they didn’t. But that would be petty. And self-destructive. One of the things I’m trying to build are Paladins who can make their own decisions. Which means choosing their own builds. With some assistance.

“Send us your revisions by the end of the day,” Mikito says while I ruminate being naughty.

Gheisnan shoots her a grateful smile while Anayton sniffs disparagingly in my direction. Even the others who had started leaving have turned around, hesitating over our confrontation, listening in. I can’t help but chuckle in dire amusement.

As they walk away, I look at Ali. “Make sure to mark every change. We’ll have to go over it, make sure they aren’t buying any nukes or the System equivalent. Just because I’m giving them a blank check doesn’t mean I have to do it the stupid way.”

Ali opens his mouth to comment then shuts it. It’s probably a little too easy, even for him.

“So what now?” Bolo asks me when the group disperses. “More training?”

“Nope.” I grin. “We do the same.”

“Even me?” Bolo looks surprised.

“It seems that real Paladins had support staff. And those support staff could draw from the budget too.”

Every word I say makes Bolo’s and Mikito’s grins grow even wider, then they make sure again that I’m not joking. When they get my confirmation, they dash off, headed to the Shop or library to figure out what other Skills to purchase. I expect Bolo will cost me the most.

On that note…

“Where’s the nearest Shop?”

***

The entrance to the yellow-themed Shop is via the spherical System-orb located a short distance away. It’s not the main settlement Shop orb, but a secondary linked one, but it makes little difference. Before I leave, I make sure to let Harry know I’m in need of his services to search out information on the contenders. As good as Ali has gotten at this kind of work, Harry’s got his own skillset.

I’m teleported into the Shop only to be met by Foxy. The humanoid fox creature is dressed in a dapper set of robes, reminiscent of African colored robes, thrown over both shoulders rather than the Roman toga style. He sways over to me, bushy tail waggling, and I find myself smiling in greeting. Foxy’s one of my oldest friends in a way, even though, in some ways, he’s not really a friend so much as a good… hairdresser? Huh. I’m reaching for an equivalent designation.

“Foxy. Good to see you,” I say. “I’ve got a challenge for you.”

“Oh?”

“A near unlimited budget and a rather difficult task.” I watch Foxy’s eyes glitter with avarice at the first part, then dim with caution at the second. “Skills and equipment upgrades. For me.”

That makes Foxy frown. He turns his head side to side before he eventually says, “You must understand, to do that, we will require—”

“Bullshit. You guys already know.” I smirk. “Most of what I’ve bought has come right from here. And my current Status Screen is something you can see already, no?”

The fox grows still as he processes my accusation. I see the gears spin in his head before he finally inclines his head, acknowledging my guess. “Yes. Your equipment is powerful, but in here—”

“You have the advantage. So. Put together a buy list.”

“We do need to ask a few questions…”

“About what kind of build?” I nod. “Limit reductions on regeneration. I expect in the future, I’ll be in more slugfests against Master Classers and higher. So survivability and ability to win are paramount. That might mean burst attacks.”

“Obviously.”

“Some Skills or equipment—preferably equipment—to increase my stealth capabilities. And more versatility would be good,” I say. “Upgrades and abilities to alter my equipment or keep them in working order in the field would be useful.”

“Ah. I might have to caution you on that one—” Foxy says, raising his hand.

“The Skill-Mental ratio limit? I know it. Aim for the median resistance,” I say.

“If you wish, we do have access to Class Skill Testers who might be able to verify your limits with better accuracy,” Foxy says.

“Really? Hmm…” I consider, trawling through my mind for data on Skill Testers.

They’re a weird off-shoot of general Class Advisors, individuals who focused on testing aptitude for various Classes. Mostly, they were used before an individual met the age of majority, but they also had a side-line set of Skills for those hitting the higher edge of Classes in the Advanced and Master Class stage. There, they tested for the Skill-Mental ratio limit.

There’s no direct correlation in the Skill-Mental ratio—like, you can have ten Skills outside of your Class for every hundred points of Intelligence and Willpower. It’s more that one’s mental attributes form a pool of potential Class limit points. But each non-Class Skill uses a number of those limit points and adding too many such Skills eats into that limit.

Of course, that limit isn’t a hard limit. And the number of points is unknown—again, because Intelligence and Willpower grow in different directions depending on the individual. On top of that, Classes by themselves limit or expand those limit points. Even when you “expand” all the points and overburden yourself with the Skills, there’s almost no perceptible difference to the Skills themselves when they’re activated. Instead, what happens is a lag in the non-Class Skills activation rate.