Sayer could’ve blamed what happened next on any number of things: the old bastard’s last words, the sudden reappearance of that lantern staff that seemed eager to drink him dry, or the way the clearing blinked and the hermit-shaped void where Ammon had been… existed.

  In the end, anger ripped through him. It hit him hot and hard, burning up through his ribs like cheap whiskey. He was on his feet before his thoughts caught up, fists clenched, voice cracking into the dark swamp. “Goddammit, you old fool! I still have questions!”

  The absurdity of everything had finally worn the shine off. Magic, Gods, talking corpses that used magic—fine. He didn’t care anymore. He wanted answers. What was happening to him? What had happened to him? What was he supposed to do next? And whether the bearded skeleton who’d dragged him through all of it had just vanished for good. Leaving him high and dry in an ambush.

  A chortling breath tickled his ear. “Calm down and—”

  Sayer swung on instinct, a short, fast hook meant to break bone. His knuckles met something solid in midair. The invisible thing yelped, far less jovial now—“Ouch!”—and a heartbeat later something smacked the back of Sayer’s skull hard enough to splash stars across his vision. He hit the grass with a humiliating thump.

  For the first time, Ammon sounded truly irritated. “You troll-brained idiot,” he hissed, voice hovering somewhere above Sayer’s shoulder. “I’m invisible, not gone. And now we have even less time because you decided to test my patience… which is bountiful if I might add.”

  Sayer pushed himself up, rubbing the back of his head, jaw tight with anger. “You could’ve said something! Sneak up next to a man and think he isn’t going to knock you one.”

  “Oh? I did. You just snapped, and... you should have recognized my voice anyway, my boy.” The older man sniffed, then, before Sayer could retort about how it wouldn’t have mattered, something heavy dropped across his lap, catching the firelight along a dull-gray edge.

  A sword.

  The weight was real. The presence of it shut off his still strong impulse to start swinging wildly at empty air. He stared, fingers hovering, then tracing the length as if it might bite. “What is this?”

  “Belfast preserve me,” Ammon muttered. “Tell me your world at least made it to metallurgy. I’ve heard some Chosen show up, still opting to beat people to death with clubs and sharpened bones.”

  Sayer scoffed, hand closing around the dark leather grip. “I know what a sword is. I’m asking how it got—” He stopped, tongue catching on the obvious. “Magic. Always magic.”

  “Good. Then answer the next question,” Ammon said, voice sharpening. “Do you know how to use one?”

  “Pointy end goes in the other guy?”

  Something clipped the back of his head again, lighter this time, but personal. Sayer’s temper flared, and for half a breath, he wanted to spin and start swinging until something screamed. Ammon’s urgency strangled the impulse.

  “Don’t get smart with me right now,” the old man said. “My barrier wards tripped. You’ve got maybe a minute before two bandits enter the clearing. That's when they will be close enough to see the fire and see a young, attractive, under-equipped human, just waiting to be assaulted.”

  Sayer had been half listening while he inspected the blade, but that snapped his attention into place. “Bandits? How do you—” He swallowed the how. He was learning the answer was always the same. “What else do you know?”

  “I know if they’re already heading toward the Fen, they’re either the fastest Bastion response team ever, sent to sniff around Legion’s fallen Domain… or they’re criminals and outcasts looking to loot anything that might have dropped from the God.”

  Sayer opened his mouth, but Ammon barreled on. “No time, child! That blade was meant to be a gift when we reached my home—a relic of sorts. Hold the grip with both hands. Hurry!”

  Sayer obeyed, sliding his left hand into place next to his right. The longsword was lighter than it had any right to be—iron, maybe, but balanced like it wanted to move. The edge was a dull pewter sheen, polished enough to catch the flames and make them dance. And underneath the texture of leather and cold metal, something else stirred—an unsettling familiarity. As if Sayer held this exact weapon before… or as if the idea of holding it had been trained into him.

  “You can feel something, right?” Ammon said, hearing the shift in Sayer’s breathing. “A connection? Good. That means you’ve got some skill in swordsmanship.”

  Sayer tried to speak, but the old man cut him off. “Later! For now, I need you to think—hard—that this blade is equipped. Exactly that. Equipped.”

  While Sayer focused, feeling a bit foolish, he pondered, “This old fool fed me, clothed me, and is now giving me a weapon. Maybe not a very useful one, but still it's something… either this is the strangest setup ever, or maybe he really is-”

  His thoughts were interrupted, the blade blurred for an instant, like his eyes couldn’t agree on where it was. Before it snapped back into perfect clarity, and the sword felt… longer? Not in actual length, but... inside him. Like an extension of his hands. Before he could question it, the words left his mouth on their own. “I equipped it.” Then, privately, “Where the hell did that come from?”

  Ammon’s smile was audible, relief in his voice, “Good. Now breathe. They’re almost here.”

  Something slipped over Sayer’s head and settled around his neck. Reflex made him loosen his grip with one hand and catch the chain that had appeared.

  It was the same silver chain and dark stone charm Ammon had worn earlier. Sayer’s pulse jumped. He glanced at his hand, skin no longer the sick gray it had been. Color had returned, wheat-toned and alive. Whatever illusion the amulet carried, it snapped into place like a noose around him.

  He barely had time to form a question before a gravelly voice called from beyond the firelight, polite in the way only those wishing great harm on you can be. “Scuse me, human. Mind if we warm ourselves by your fire?”

  Sayer’s body twisted as he placed the sword next to him within easy reach. His eyes found the figures outside the firelight. From where he sat, they stood a stone's throw away, but even from this distance the outlines looked… wrong. Their features were almost impossible to make out in the dark.

  One outline was huge. Built like a strongman from the circus, hunched a little, with arms the size of ale casks. Eyes the color of piss in a head that looked to be thick as a bull’s. The eyes… Sayer recognized the flat, empty eyes—a true killer.

  The other was lanky and tall, like someone who had been stretched between two wheels. The head had an odd shape. There were two peaks at the top, which he thought must be hair, but they twitched strangely… like an animal's ears. The arms reached nearly mid-thigh on this one, and its legs were bent at awkward angles.

  Sayer was taking them in, his hand gripping the sword lying next to him. These were nightmares. Years of seeing the shadows move outside his campfires. Hear the snapping of twigs, or the crunch of leaves, his brain playing tricks on him till he managed to ignore the fear. Now, the shadows were real.

  He heard the barest whisper of Ammon’s voice next to his ear, “Easy. They are just two people, just like you or I.” The tall one’s ears twitched slightly. Ammon’s voice grew even softer, his warm breath on his ear as he said, “You appear vulnerable to them, but they may be cautious with you being all alone. Let them grow bold, be prepared for them to strike.”

  Sayer made to speak, but the shadows had caused his throat to dry. “Just think. This is like any ambush you set before. Play stupid, and they will be stupid.” He shifted his body language. Tensing visibly, like a rabbit preparing to bolt. He coughed and managed, “Please, step into the light. I have no desire for trouble.”

  The same voice from earlier answered, “Aye, no trouble sounds good to me. How’s that sound to you, Dres?” It was the wide one, the killer.

  The lanky shadow chuckled, its voice like a raspy drawl responding, “So long as that sword stays down, I don’t think we’ll have problems.” The two shadows then moved slowly into the light.

  Sayer had once been an amazing poker player, able to control every twitch of his face, but even he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening as the two monsters stepped fully into the firelight before him. Like the night and his imagination had given birth to these creatures.

  1332 had provided him with a few sketches of some of the races he may deal with. Sketches may give an idea, but until you meet the things in those sketches in the flesh, you really aren’t prepared.

  The larger was massively muscled, with thick hide armor covering a pale-green body, and was strapped with an axe, a sword, and an assortment of bags and satchels at his waist. His head was mostly bald, except for a tuft of hair at the top. His beady yellow eyes were sweeping the camp before settling on him. The thing had yellowed tusks like a feral pig sticking from its lips. Every step spoke sermons to Sayer's mind of danger, and that he needed to keep this one as far away as possible.

  Sayer recalled 1332's sketches, one of the races that had a natural inclination for strength and endurance. “An Orc… Ugly bastard. That makes the other one, one of the beastkin, I think.”

  It was difficult to tell; the Orc was easy to distinguish—basically, a big, nasty-looking human with green skin and tusks. The Chimera, however, were a group of races he hadn’t been able to really wrap his head around. The drawings made the Kynari, the canine branch of the Chimera, seem like a wolf and a man pressed into one. Standing tall but hunched, with a very human-like face, and a nose that looked like a strange canine muzzle. They had almost looked cute in the sketches.

  This one’s… coat is grey and matted, clumped in greasy ropes like wet straw left to rot. Its face is hard to look at. Sayer’s nose could pick up, even from this distance, old fur, sour sweat, and whatever he’s been rolling in. “Or, maybe that smell is the Orc? Looks like he smells as bad as the latrines after cabbage.” The thing's eyes were the worst part: wolf-eyes, bright and wild, with that lamp-focus that doesn’t look at Sayer so much as measure him. When he moves, the long arms swing like pendulums, and his bent legs coil, ready to launch, built for running someone down and enjoying every step.

  The Kynari had what appeared to be a bow slung over his curved back, a quiver of arrows at his waist. He wore the same filthy torn furs the Orc was dressed in, with a belt and sack bag of his own slung about its thin waist.

  Both of them looked like things he had only dreamt in nightmares. Though, as he remembered his time in damnation, he had been shoulder to shoulder with far worse. He just couldn’t have cared less back then. This was different. Both were monsters from children's stories. Yet… both carried themselves vividly similar to humans he had met in the untamed wilds of America. Two criminals who assumed they had just found easy prey.

  Strangely, as he took them fully in, their bearing, the weapons, the obvious malice behind the alien eyes, he felt oddly at peace. Like, he was finally in a place or situation that made complete sense to him. They were criminals looking to take from him, and they had no idea what they had walked into.

  All these thoughts snapped through his mind in seconds, but it was still long enough for the gruff orc to speak again, “So? Human. We good?” They had stopped a dozen yards away. Still obviously measuring Sayer up.

  The Kynari chimed, “Been running breakneck for hours. Could really do with something to eat. That pot smells amazing… any chance I could get a bite?” He was obviously the younger, or maybe less experienced. Hard to say, but Sayer saw the telltale body language. The Orc radiated malice, while the Kynari made him believe he may be as wary of the Orc as of Sayer.

  He wasn’t an idiot, and he knew he could be wrong with his assumption. He also remembered Ammon’s warning from earlier, when he was launched through the air by the old hermit. He plastered a friendly smile on and gestured, “Sorry, sorry. I’m just shocked to find anyone else out here.” He waved them forward, skin still prickling with the approach of the strangers, “Weary travelers, who mean no harm, are more than welcome at my fire. Don’t have much, but it might help to keep you from starving.” Strange Deja Vu passed by him—memories of memories of this same story playing out in his past.

  His words were practiced and warm, recited dozens of times before, but his eyes stayed unfocused as he turned back to the pot, pretending to busy himself.

  His peripheral picked up movement as the two looked at each other, exchanged something, and started to move in. The Orc again, saying, “Thanks, kinsman. We’ve been on our way to Legion's domain. Want to find what happened. Any chance-“ his words were a mumble to Sayer's ears.

  Instead, the experienced lawman watched the body language, the steps, the legs, the arms.

  “There."

  As the Orc seemed to scratch at his backside, he was reaching for something. Back in America, he would have already put a bullet straight through those beady eyes, but all he had was a sword lying beside him.

  He felt it, felt the tension, felt his hands begging to flex. And he had one thought spring to mind, “Gods, I could use a smoke.”

  His vision strained, and Sayer listened as whatever the Orc had been saying died, before the brute uttered one simple word with a wide smile,”-

  “Fear.”

  Like a rock hitting still water, a wave of red light pulsed out from the green creature. It appeared like a cloud of red mist. It hit Sayer faster than he could have reacted, only able to twitch before it slammed into him, creating a feeling of cold water washing over him. Then, fear, so powerful and intimate, overrode every thought in his mind.

  It was… familiar like a lost lover wrapping him in cold arms. Yet, this fear was different. It was singular, manufactured, and pure. A fear of violence. Fear of being killed, of bloodshed, and of war. A massive amount of the emotion so powerful that it made all of Sayer’s other experiences of it pale in comparison. He could recognize it was again magic, but a new type. One that force-fed him a sense of extreme violence about to arrive.

  Any sane person would have locked up, curled into a ball, or shit their pants. But none of these things happened. Instead, as the cold washed past him and the spell found its way into his heart, Sayer felt a jolt of extreme lust pound painfully in his head and flood him with a needy hunger. The overwhelming need forced him to let out an undignified moan.

  “Ahh, look at em, trying so hard to fight. Easy, little one, just put the sword down and I’ll make everything quick…ish,“ The big Orc cooed mockingly, as the Kynari barked a nervous laugh, before they started to move in to grab Sayer.

  Sayer couldn’t fight what was building inside, couldn’t stop, as his shaking hand grasped the blade’s hilt. The Orc drew nearest, only a few feet away, as the disgusting smile on his tusked face made it clear he thought he had just captured his night's entertainment. How could he know what was really boiling underneath the perceived victim's skin?

  That smile faded as Sayer's spinning slash found home in its booted ankle, and Sayer let out a fevered scream of excitement. A blazing green sheen bloomed along his sword’s length as the sharp edge bit deep through leather, joint, and into tendon.

  The Orc blinked once, twice, before looking down and seeing the blade rip free, nearly severing his achilles. The brute howled in rage, his eyes bulging in his thick skull. Even in pain, the orc still reached for his shortsword, drawing it far faster than should be possible for his immense bulk.

  Sayer’s eyes were blown out. Pupils completely dilated, his mouth was dry with need, straining to let out a chorus of praise that wouldn’t come.

  The Orc’s magic still connected them, still pumping him full of the thrill of violence.

  “SON OF-“ the Orc cried before his blade met Sayer’s following upswing. The half-glancing blow from the massive creature saw Sayer’s blade ripped wide, but he released it without a second thought. His bare hands shot forward with explosive speed, and his fingers drove up and into the yellow eyes. The Orc tried pulling away, swinging his head, but the nails flew unerringly like a moth to a flame. “AHHH!” The Orc wailed as Sayer’s finger burst through the pupils without resistance. Crushing them like grapes in a press. The impressive fortitude of his enemy's race could only do so much.

  The crazed Chosen would have continued his mauling, but a green fist slammed him to the ground with enough force to crack bone. Knocking the air from his lungs and sending him sprawling away from his howling victim.

  Then a familiar creak and twang announced the arrival of a projectile. Out of instinct, Sayer pushed off the ground as an arrow hit, tearing into his back, but not finding enough purchase to stick. The searing pain only fueled the cocktail of endorphins firing within him.

  The Kynari cursed something, already losing another arrow, but Sayer was running on pure instinct now. He rolled, and the arrow snapped into the grass beside him. The magic affecting Sayer still not slowing.

  At the same time, the blinded Orc was swearing, swinging blindly with his sword. Then, as he tried planting on his injured foot, he cried out as the sliced tendon finally snapped, dropping him to his ass with a shriek of pain.

  Blood was thundering through Sayer as he spun to rush the Kynari. Teeth gritted into a snarling mask of a smile. Something in him was screaming for him to begin singing his song, but for once… he could control it. He was not subject to his demon. Even in this haze, he was still himself. This gave him a clarity that propelled him forward in his rush.

  The Kynari fired once more, but the arrow missed his approaching foe wide. Sayer was only a dozen feet away when the Kynari snarled and dropped his bow, “I’ll rip your damned guts out and feed them to you, Demon!” The wolfman didn’t grab for the small blade at his hip; he flexed his long hands, drawing out brutal-looking claws from his fingertips.

  Even in his bloodlust, Sayer knew he would be torn to pieces if he tried to exchange blows. He darted in, but jumped back as the Kynari lunged, slashing through the air. Amazingly, the claws left burning lines in the air that snapped with visible force. Like an actual tear had spilt the space between the two combatants. Sayer backpeddled, his painfully wide grin splitting his face. The ugly Kynari snarled, “Come on! I’ll use your skull to-”

  His threat was cut off as Sayer drew him in, spun, and grabbed the nearby pot that sat bubbling on the growing cinders. The Kynari recognized the threat and lunged, a strange green light surrounding him as he took a step forward, far faster than should be possible, but Sayer was just fast enough. He whipped the pot around, as the approaching claws neared his throat, and splattered the molten contents into the face of the Kynari.

  “AHHHH!” The reaction was immediate. The scream was brutally loud, as if the voice were twice as powerful as it should be. Even as the claws tore across Sayer's neck, down into his collarbone, Sayer felt something pop, but the blood that erupted from his wound flashed blue, and the gyser turned to a trickle and healed just as fast as it had appeared.

  Sayer spun from the slashing of the blinded Kynari. He planted a foot and drew back before striking the screaming Wolfman in the side of the head, the crack of the pot filling the clearing with a dull thud.

  The thing was tough. Sayer was powerful in this new body; the pot crunched into the skull, and the Wolfman lashed out sideways on instinct. His claws ripping into Sayer’s stomach, hot blood rushed down his torn skin and clothes this time. Somewhere inside the beautiful rush of violence, Sayer recognized something was wrong. That the strike to his throat should have ended him, that the wounds of this fight should have already been enough to finish him.

  Sayer didn’t slow with the thought. If you stopped to think, you died in his line of work. He dodged, pulled back with the pot again, aiming lower. This time, the dull echo was followed by a pitiful cry, a knee cracked, and the wolfman stumbled down.

  The Kynari tried to cover his blistered face, but Sayer rained blows down, breaking anything that had the misfortune of getting in the way of his furious attack. Pitifully, the thing actually began to beg, “Wait! Please, I was just-” the pot came in, slamming into the jaw. The force snapped it closed, the tongue severed, spilling blood, bone and teeth cracking, and hanging loose now in its socket. It’s whimpers sounding like a wounded dog now, a single arm held up in the universal sign of surrender, fingers swollen from the pots crushing abuse.

  Sayer stepped in, a flash of memory: a man in grey holding up an arm, asking for mercy. Sayer did the same thing now as he did then—strike after strike raining down. Muffled whimpers, turned to gurgling, turned to silence. By the end, the pot in Sayer’s hand was crumpled on one edge. He stood over the ruined remains of the Kynari skull. Mashed into the grassy hill and caked across his torn and bloody clothes.

  He was panting now, not from feeling tired, but because the euphoria of violence that had flowed through him had finally ceased. Whatever magic the orc had used finally ended. In the end, maybe 30 seconds had passed since the spell had landed.

  “God, I’m tired... I could really, really use that smoke.” And he meant it. He was so exhausted that when he looked towards the Orc, who had risen and was trying to hobble away blindly to the trees, he almost thought of letting him go… almost. The dark made it hard to make out everything, but with the fire having mostly turned to bright cinders, Sayer’s night vision allowed him to see that the bandit was in rough shape.

  “Where you going, friend?” He called out to the big guy, “Your partner here is needing some help. You just running off?”

  The Orc just cursed some strange word, followed by, “Void demon! My clan will find you and have you begging for death after this!” The Orc drew his axe and spun towards Sayer’s voice. The face was completely in shadow now, yellow eyes no longer shining in the dark. The terrifying nightmare turning out to be just another notch in his belt. “Come on then!”

  Then the orc did something. Sayer guessed it was magic, much like what the Kynari had used. He watched as the orc seemed to swell even larger. His body began to glow with a red aura, illuminating the night. “Hmmm… magic can be used without saying anything, it seems, “Sayer stated, before remembering he had already seen much the same from Ammon.

  Watching the inflated orc sitting, waiting, breathing hard, glowing a vicious red, Sayer decided he wouldn’t draw near. Instead, he reached down and plucked a few arrows from the dead Kynari’s quiver. He then walked over to where he remembered the discarded bow had landed. He searched for a few beats, his hand finding the weapon’s smooth body.

  “Where are you, Damned Demon! I’ll rip your skin off and throw you in the-”

  Sayer knocked, drew back, the bow’s draw weight surprisingly heavy. The creak of wood did not reach the Orc’s ears as he spewed threats ineffectively at him.

  “-Till you're bleeding out your ass, ugh! AHHHHHH”

  Sayer had almost fired at its chest, end it quick, but he had remembered the look on the Orc’s face when he had thought Sayer was defenseless. Even with the Orc being so alien to him, the look was more than familiar. The look of someone ready to force themselves on someone else. The eagerness and hunger. Sayer aimed low, figuring the anatomy should work out. He loosed. The orc had screamed, clutching at the bleeding wound where most of his manhood had just been.

  The Orc then dropped to its knees, screaming in pain, all bravado gone. Sayer waited a few heartbeats and then drew back another arrow. This time, he shot the thing in the neck... he was pretty sure. It was hard to tell in the dark, but by the sounds of the breathing, he had hit something important. The large creature was very durable after all… it would take him a few more minutes of wet, choked breathing and sobs to die.

  Sayer didn’t care. Instead, he had already sat down heavily near the Kynari. After a few steadying breaths, he started looking through the few pockets and strapped pouches he had seen, assisted by a massive blueish moon that had begun to crest the trees, giving him a bit more light to work with now.

  As he searched the dead body, he felt a presence nearby. He didn’t have time to react before the necklace disappeared from around his throat. It didn’t matter. Sayer was too tired now to flinch or comment as the old man rematerialized next to him, once again wearing the necklace.

  “Well, that was a very impressive show, my boy," Ammon said, stepping around the ruined head of the dead Kynari. “I was worried something had gone wrong. That, my Lord, forgive me, made a mistake.” Ammon made a weird hand gesture and bowed his head. Reminding Sayer of a Christian’s cross sign.

  The Chosen just grunted his response, as he found a small bag of small coins of different shapes and sizes. Some were square cut, thick as a brass shell, almost sharp. Others were thicker, more round, like what he was familiar with—reminding him of a hay penny.

  Ammon continued, “I must admit, I thought you would need a lot more of my help. Besides the enchantment on the sword to cut through the Orc’s skin, or when I healed the damage the Kynari did to your neck, you handled yourself-”

  “What do you mean?” Sayer was looking up now, sniffing a strange bottle of dark liquid he had found; it smelled like jasmine. “The green glow on the blade was you?” He absent-mindedly rubbed the smooth skin of his neck, remembering the blue glow that had appeared. And how he hadn’t dropped as soon as his throat was nearly torn out. Already, the wound he had received was completely gone.

  “Exactly, the sharpening spell was my doing. Also, I had to use a rather powerful spell to heal that damage to your neck as soon as it was done. Otherwise, you would have been quickly incapacitated.”

  “Hmm,” He grunted, turning back to his looting, “I just figured it was some dumb luck, or the sword having some magic of its own, or some other shit that seems to be everywhere.”

  Ammon moved back to the dead fire that was now nothing more than a few hot embers, speaking, “No. Without the first one, the fight would have probably been over rather quickly. By itself, the blade might have nicked the skin but not cut into it.”

  “Bullshit,” Sayer put the vial back into the belt, and was now finding whatever fastened it so he could take the whole thing. “I noticed how much stronger I am. I would even say a bit faster than I used to be. That swing would have severed a horse’s neck clean through. The fact that I didn’t cut the whole foot off had more to do with my lack of skill than anything else.”

  Ammon busied himself, he had the ruined pot, moving his hands over the iron it reformed into it’s original shape, gore seeming to melt away, as he said, “Well, be that as it may, without that enchantment, a Tier 1 Hunter, like yourself, would have never scored a crippling blow like that on a Tier 2 Brute like our castrated friend over there.” Ammon pointed to the orc, who had just breathed his final death rattle.

  Sayer had freed the belt and was standing to make his way over to the now dead Orc. He watched Ammon very closely, even now, maybe especially now, after he had disappeared on him. Still confused about the old man’s motivations. “Tier, what does that mean?”

  Not expecting an answer, as was the norm, he was shocked when Ammon spoke freely, “Tiers are the divine mandates of power within Alcondria. They are a direct consequence of the first creations, the Titans, who almost broke the world with their unlimited access to power.”

  Sayer stumbled a bit at the information, caught off guard, but it just opened more questions. He crouched near the Orc, struggling to turn him over, as he asked, “Ok… a lot to get to, what’s a Titan?”

  “A Titan was the original creation of the two Gods Tharunn and Mireth, the Stone Father and the Tide. Gods of Earth and Water.” Ammon seemed to have decided something, or maybe they were finally safe enough, and he was being free with his words. Either way, Sayer was drinking it in now.

  He recalled reading some of this stuff, but it had mostly gone in and found no purchase in his skull. Reading this information on some paper within 1332’s saloon was far different from being on the frontline. After all, a soldier learns fastest in active combat. “So, the… two Gods created Titans, and they almost destroyed this world?” he grunted as he tried pulling the large belt from the Orc, but it was stuck under the impressive bulk. “What happened? Gods end up killing the Titans or something?”

  “No. The Titans' greed for power led to their own extinction. Luckily, their creations outlasted their self-made apocalypse. The Titans had created three slave races to serve them. These creations were the Elfs, Dwarves, and the Thalassari.”

  “I remember reading things about those three, but the Thalassari… confused me. They’re some kind of fish people… right?”

  “That’s something I would make sure not to call one if you ever met one face-to-face." Ammon had moved to the pool, grunting at some of the gore that was floating in the once clean water, but he just scooped up some anyway with a shrug. "Though the odds of meeting one of the water folk have grown as rare as hope in these lands.”

  Sayer, with a mighty tug, managed to free the large Orc's leather belt. Ammon glanced his way after seeing the Chosen almost fall backwards from the effort. “Just loot them, my boy. Much easier.”

  Sayer looked down at the Orc, looked at the belt, and said, “What do you think I’m doing?” as he shook the belt at Ammon.

  Ammon just sighed. Went back to his work, shaking his head and mumbling something about “handling it later”.

  Sayer looked down and shrugged, and carried his loot to the fire. He sat down heavily as Ammon continued preparing another quick meal. The Chosen was so tired and hungry that he could barely keep from grabbing and devouring the raw ingredients, but Sayer had experience with hunger in the past… it had just been a while and he was really hungry.

  “When the Titans eradicated themselves, the Gods took the opportunity to set new laws to keep the mortal races from access to unlimited power. The Tier system was their solution.”

  “So, it was something to keep people in check?”

  Ammon shrugged, “Yes, in a way, but it also allowed for those special few to rise. Stand above the others and lead them. Hard work, natural talent, and many other factors allow someone to grow and gain power. A system that doesn’t only favor the rich, wellborn, or politically powerful. The Tiers are the gates and guides for all thinking creatures on Alcondria.”

  “Ok… so what are they? I know it has something to do with someone's strength, or I'm guessing, their ability to use magic?”

  Ammon stirred the pot with his stick, and when steam began to rise, he passed the hot pot to Sayer, motioning the younger man to drink. Sayer did, and couldn’t help when a satisfied groan escaped his lips. It tasted like dirt, mushrooms, and some strange herb… maybe dill. “This is the greatest thing I have ever tasted,” he breathed, and he meant it too. After so long without a real meal, hours of trekking across the swamp, and his desperate fight, he found the basic soup to be beyond satisfying.

  Ammon just smiled before pulling from his robe a small clay cup, “How about an example? Imagine this is you, or any young new Alcondrian. As you fight, create, destroy, or do anything that gives you experience and knowledge-“ Ammon leaned and scooped up a small trickle of water into his free hand and let the drops drip into the cup,”- you slowly fill your cup. This cup will fill until it reaches a predetermined ‘level’. Once the level is reached, you are rewarded.”

  “Rewarded?” Sayer asked between scalding sips of his soup.

  “Yes. When the Gods developed this system, they wanted there to be rewards for reaching, for stretching yourself, and improving.” Ammon scooped up some tiny pebbles and plunked a few into the cup,”-So, each new level adds to your natural attributes, depending on your class and experience, adding more to your cup.”

  “And attributes are?”

  Ammon twirled his hand, obviously caught up in the presentation, “You know, body and mind attributes.” When Sayer just sipped more soup, staring blankly, Ammon blew out his lips dramatically, stating, “You really did come from a rather boring world. You didn’t even have a system of attributes where you were from?”

  Sayer just shrugged, “Still have no idea what you're talking about.”

  Ammon rubbed his weathered face before he held up two fingers. “Two groups of attributes determine your growth and power.” Holding up a finger, “The first, body attributes. These are strength, dexterity, and constitution.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know what those mean. How strong, fast, and healthy you are. We have those words where I’m from.”

  “That’s what they mean, but do you also know you can add, say, to your dexterity, and become as agile as a cat? Add enough to your strength, and you can easily lift a horse above your head.”

  “That’s… definitely new.”

  “Yes, and that’s only half of the attributes," he held up the second finger again, “Mind attributes are your wisdom, intellect, and charisma. How well you can reason and perceive. The strength of your spells and mana reserves. Your natural ability to speak your mind, draw the eye, and project your will.”

  Sayer leaned back, taking in the words, his stomach sloching with the soup now, his mind slowly turning the information over. “So, each level I receive attributes, and these attributes can make me more powerful. I gain levels by doing… things. What next? Do I grow until I’m a God myself?”

  Ammon nodded, “You could. Some of the pre-corruption heroes were nere the powers of the Gods. But, this cup,” he shook the small clay cup, “Cannot hold enough power to make you that much more formidable than you are now.” He scooped up more water and stones and filled the cup. “Now we get to tier advancement.” From his robes, he magiced another container, but this one was the size of a vase.

  “Where the hell…magic.”

  Ammon just winked. “If the cup is you now, you will fill it rather quickly, compared to later tiers. Once it’s filled, you will need to advance into your next tier. This is what we call tier advancement.” He poured the cup into the vase. Barely filling it, as the pebbles clinked on the hard surface. “This new Tier will see you become even more powerful. With more attributes and more potential, but it takes far longer to fill as well.”

  “And that vase… that’s what those-,” he tipped his head to the two dead bodies,”-two things were?”

  Ammon’s brow knitted, but he answered, “Yes. Though I highly recommend you think of them other than ‘things’. They were complex beings who likely led very sad lives, yet they are still souls with worth in our God's eyes. They choose to use that worth to seek things that will see them punished. My child, don’t fall into the trap of thinking that they are just monsters.”

  “They would have killed me… if I were lucky.”

  “Yes, and instead you killed them, and you needed to end them to protect yourself and their future victims.” Ammon leaned in, “But they are not things!”

  He held Sayer’s gaze before continuing quietly, “You are going to need to do terrible things, Sayer. You are not here to save the people of Alcondria. You are here to help release the Gods from their prisons of corruption so that the dead can move on, back to the great One. Right now, every soul that perishes, while cut off from the One, will spend eternity in torment.”

  Ammon waved his hands at the two dead bandits, “These two have now joined the eternal suffering of the hundreds of millions of other Alcondrians who are waiting in perpetual limbo. As the followers of Belfast, it is our responsibility to bring true death and rest to these souls, finally. So, yes, they were criminals. They have probably sent more than their fair share to this eternal limbo, but every life lost is just adding to the masses of suffering. To the masses of souls that return... broken,” Ammon touched the necklace that sat around his neck, as if lost in his own words.

  Sayer was readying to argue, but Ammon’s words resurfaced a memory of his own. A young love. The heartbreak from the loss. All because someone thought very differently from Ammon. “Ok,” he sighed, not really feeling he should be the one to judge anyone. “Sorry. I’m not used to the idea of… people that are not human... but are. Where I’m from, it’s just humans... but even then, we found ways to hate each other.”

  “Yes, well, that is the nature of the enlightened. Capable of such wonderful love and charity, while still housing hate and distrust of others, “Ammon smiled, “For instance… I grew up really not liking Elves. Prudish snobs that only see the other races as lesser… but, I admit, that is not always the case. So I had to try and be better.” He looked at Sayer, holding his gaze, “Always try to be better, my child.”

  Sayer looked at the Orc corpse, “Think I might not like Orcs much. Kinda a terrifying creature.”

  “Bah, Orcs are simple. They like fighting, eating, drinking, and mating. Help them with a few of those needs, and they will call you their friend.”

  Sayer raised an eyebrow, “So I should have just offered him some food?”

  Ammon blew out his long mustache hairs with a chortle, “No. I admit he probably planned on using you to meet a few of those needs, with or without you agreeing.”

  The conversation died down for a few minutes as they both sat and thought. Sayer was the first back, ‘So, tiers. They were both higher-tier, and I managed to kill them. Is that normal?”

  Ammon snorted, “Nothing is normal with you, my boy. But yes, it is more than reasonable for a lower tier to kill a higher one with the right circumstances.”

  Ammon threw a few more of the green logs onto the fire, and they caught right away. “When you gouged out that Orc's eyes, his above-average constitution couldn’t do anything about it. It was a weak spot. Though if I hadn’t helped enchant your blade, it would have never pierced his skin. With the right planning and strategy, a Tier 1 child could kill a Legend.” Ammon clarified, “A Tier 4. The nickname for that class is Legend.”

  “Ah, so there are still ways to even the odds?”

  “Precisely! Slip the right poison, find the right weapon, drop a mountain on them. Many ways that even those who seem impossibly strong can still be killed by the lower Tiers.” He leaned back on the grassy hill before looking directly at Syaer knowingly,” Even someone weak can kill a God with the right circumstances.”

  Ammon then sniffed the air, face scrunching up, “Bah! I think the Kynari has released. One second.” Ammon stood, focused, and waved his hand. The body of the Kynari lifted and shot across to the far side of the clearing. He did the same with the Orc, before sitting back down heavily with a happy groan, and lying back on the grass.

  Sayer watched the show, but was still thinking about what they had been discussing. “Hmmm,” he mused, looking up into the night sky, “Is there a way to know what your level or tier is? It seems like it would be right useful to know that information."

  Sayer heard a light smack. Ammon had hit himself in the head, “Of course! I’m sorry.” He rolled over, looking at the Chosen, “This would have probably all made more sense if you had been able to see it first. Probably should have done this back when we had all that free time… oh well.”

  Sayer rolled his eyes, but Ammon just continued, pointing at Sayer's chest, "Focus on your core. Block out everything else and try to look for your power source, a mana pressure inside your chest with a beat all of its own. Like your heart.”

  Sayer frowned. “At my chest?”

  “Well, around that general area, yes.”

  With a shrug, Sayer dipped his head until he was straining to look at the center of his shirt. He realized then that it was ruined, along with his pants. They were covered in a good amount of brain matter and blood, with three massive tears near his stomach. Blood had soaked through it. He had only been clean for a few minutes, but he didn’t care enough to ask for a new one. Still shocked that he had no visible wounds from the fight. But for now, he chose to ignore it, as he did many other things. Staring hard at his diaphragm, he said, “Ok. I’m focusing.”

  “Not literally! Not like with the sword!” Ammon gave a good laugh at Sayer's annoyed look. Ammon quickly schooled his face, saying, “Close your eyes. Breathe slowly but deeply, and try to search for something within your chest. Near your heart. That’s where the Gods put the core.”

  Still feeling a bit irritated but relieved to be getting somewhere finally, Sayer closed his eyes. Breathing deep, he tried to listen and feel for… something. Time passed, and he stayed still, trying to figure out if this was some elaborate joke by the Hermit.

  Right before he prepared to chew out Ammon, he felt a soft thump in his chest. He froze, then a dozen seconds passed before another thump. Much like his heart but smaller, shy, and supremely alien. “I… I think I found something.” Sayer felt his skin crawl at the presence in his chest.

  “Good, good! Now, feel yourself reaching for it, grasp at it with your mind. Try to pry into it."

  Sayer tried to do as he was told, reaching inward for that sensation Ammon had mentioned. It felt wrong—like trying to tug on his own organs with numb fingers. Then something in him loosened with an almost-audible pop, and information flooded his mind so fast he gagged on it.

  “Holy—” Sayer gasped, blinking hard. “What is all this?” It wasn’t sight, not exactly. More like a ledger being slammed open behind his eyes, inked in a strange language his brain somehow knew, but couldn't make out.

  “Well?” Ammon asked. “It’s you, my boy. Focus, as I told you, and tell me what you feel.”

  “It’s… a lot,” Sayer said, voice thin. “I’m seeing it. Feeling it. Like it’s a list.”

  “Start at the top. Most of the information we need is at the top.”

  Sayer focused. Slowly, the jumbled words sorted themselves neatly, like the world taking pity and arranging his thoughts for him. Everything ordered itself within his mind, until he was finally able to... feel the message-

  Sayer Ossuaryn

  Tier 1 — Level 8 — Hunter

  Race: Chosen Human

  Subrace: Grayman

  Attributes:

  Strength: 10

  Dexterity: 13

  Constitution: 12

  Wisdom: 10

  Intelligence: 8

  Charisma: 7

  He read them off one by one, then opened his eyes with a tired grin and couldn’t help the quip. “Look at that. Already a level eight after one fight? That’s gotta mean I’m doing something right, yeah?”

  Ammon didn’t share the humor. The old man was quiet for a beat too long. When he spoke again, the frown in his voice was obvious. “I thought you’d be level twenty-five already. Ready to advance after killing Legion… strange. Very strange.”

  Sayer’s grin faltered. “You keep saying that like it’s supposed to make sense to me. I still don't think there's any way I killed that God."

  “I admit. It doesn’t make sense to me either,” Ammon admitted, and for once, there was no joke in it. “Everything I thought I knew is being dragged into question by you, Sayer. Still… we’ve shed a little light tonight. That will have to do.”

  A soft rustle. Ammon produced a small bundle from his robes, something that looked like a blanket, then rolled it tight and set it near the fire, as if he needed comfort like any other old man.

  “Sleep,” he said. “Or meditate if you can." He conjured another roll and tossed it to Sayer.

  Sayer caught the bundle, but stared at the hermit as Ammon lay back on the blanket, resting his head. “That’s it? Are we just… done? I still have a mountain of questions!”

  “And I will answer most of them while we travel tomorrow,” Ammon said, tone clipped. “In the daylight. For now, we rest. We leave early tomorrow, before our rotting guests over there sprout friends.”

  Sayer wanted to argue. Wanted to pry, to claw at the edges until it bled answers. But his limbs were heavy, and the violence still buzzed in his blood like poison honey. Exhaustion pressed down on him, gentle and insistent. "The old man is right... my brain is already screaming at everthing he already told me."

  He lay back in the grass, having decided it would be best to rest. He stared up at a slice of swamp-sky beyond the tree canopy. The massive blue moon sitting high above him. The foreign stars helping his mind to wander. The air smelled of wet earth, smoke, and death. Comfortably familiar to him. Somewhere in the dark, insects screamed like rusted hinges. He heard the fire gutter and pop as it painted the world in orange and deep purple shadows.

  Ammon’s breathing—slow and steady—rose and fell nearby. Too steady. Too practiced. Even asleep, the old bastard sounded like someone pretending. "Perhaps he is... still can't trust him."

  Sleep pulled at Sayer anyway. As his eyes grew heavy, he once again found the core inside. The pop came again, faster this time, the strange script unfurling clean and bright behind his eyelids. And with it, like a splinter under the skin, a voice from his past looped softly through his mind. “Oh, Tommy boy… what have you fallen into now?”

  Ammon listened to the Chosen’s breathing finally deepen, then he smiled into the dark. The whispering spell he’d threaded beneath his breath had taken hold, subtle as mold, certain as rot. The boy was too fresh to notice the trick, too raw to feel the hook sliding in.

  Ammon rose, spry as the day he first put on gray robes two thousand years ago, the last time he’d needed something as trivial as sleep. The illusion of age hung on him like a costume. Underneath it, nothing creaked.

  He walked to the outer ring of his protective barrier and glanced back at Sayer’s limp form by the fire. Legion’s Domain had fallen; the swamp itself felt different, less muzzled, but hungrier. Keeping suppression up this close to the breach had drained him more than he liked. Still, he had mostly been able to keep up the pretense. He was rusty in his performance. It had been centuries since he had needed to act the part.

  “Belfast,” he murmured, voice reverent and annoyed in equal measure, “what have you brought to my doorstep?” With a wave, he reactivated his wards. This time, making sure anything that entered would very swiftly perish.

  And then he was gone, slipping into the black swamp like a thought, moving back the way they’d come, quick as wind through grave reeds.