“Varireth!” it cried again, this time, deeper, quieter, and far more haunted. It trembled and rose into another shriek, the emotion behind it a fist to Grant’s navel. He found himself unexpectedly mourning with the Elven woman, a pang of sympathy and guilt flooding him.
She must have loved him. Lira’s face flashed in his mind. He had only met her months ago. What would finding her lifeless body do to him? He clenched his eyes, pushing the image out.
An explosion roared. Its shockwave rocked the streets, the houses, and then hit the bell tower, shattering the church’s glass and blowing doors off their hinges. Grant shouted as the tower rocked and its bell rang like its rope had been tied to a spooked horse. He staggered to the parapet, covering his ears, watching in horror as townsfolk shrieked and black smoke plumed in the distance.
His sympathy evaporated.
The tower shook again, and another cloud of smoke sprouted from where Grant had killed Varireth. The air blurred and the fire roared, spreading through buildings as if they’d been soaked in oil. The few townsfolk still outside panicked and dropped whatever they were holding to escape with their lives.
Grant only watched, frozen in horror. A sweltering heat rolled over the city, blowing in his face with a gust of wind. It carried the choking stench of burning wood and melting iron, the heavy din of panicked screams. An Airet man leaped through a second-story window of a burning building, hitting the street below with a hideous thud. Grant did not see him rise. The northern side of a warehouse tilted and collapsed, sending up a column of dust.
Flame erupted again. More Airet lives, lost.
“He was worth a million of you round-ears! I’ll burn you in your homes!”
The world had only burst into movement moments ago, yet Grant was out of time.
He opened the Store and mentally commanded it to show him a Spell he had seen in the forest a week before.
[Curse of Fragility (60,000 Points)]
[Rare]
[Soul, Mind, Ritual]
[Mana Cost: 30]
[Cast Time: 15 seconds]
[Range: 15 yards]
[Inflict the Curse of Fragility on a sapient being. Target will experience severe pain and nausea for ten seconds, then take 100% increased damage from the next successful attack within 30 seconds. A target can have up to five applications at once.]
He Purchased the Spell, and knowledge flooded his mind.
This was his opportunity. If the interaction between his Spells went as he hoped, Curse of Fragility would be more powerful in his hands than a Spell worth five times as much. If not, it could be the worst 60,000 Points Grant ever spent. It was a risk he had no choice but to take.
Please, let this work.
Grant began the ritual. It required no chanting or chalk—just unbroken concentration on every syllable he mentally uttered. The words rolled through his mind, the Spell came together piece by piece like boards of timber being assembled into a house. The language itself was harsh and guttural, like the excited whine of a hyena over the low growl of a bobcat. A Demonic language, he could tell from his Languages Skill. Although he could not understand what the words meant, he could pronounce them perfectly.
He was halfway finished when another shockwave crashed into the tower. The bell tolled wildly in his ear, and Grant lost his balance, grabbing the handrail to stop his tumble, and his teeth clamped down on his tongue. His winced, his concentration on the Spell broke, and the entire thing collapsed.
[Curse of Fragility has failed!]
[+15 Mana]
He spat a mouthful of pink blood onto the stone. “Shitting Elf!”
It was an intricate Spell pattern, with seventeen lines, and yet thanks to the Store, he could recite it backwards if he had to. The problem was he couldn’t even recite the Evenonian alphabet with the constant shaking. He squatted to the ground and pressed his hands over his ears, letting his head fall forward. “One more chance,” he muttered, focusing on a pebble. Half the Spell’s Mana cost had been returned to him when it failed, but he only had enough for one more attempt.
Grant took a deep breath and blocked out the world. Again, word by word he chanted, and piece by piece, the Ritual formed in his mind. It was excruciatingly slow, and each second was another for the Elf to continue her rampage. Every lost life was his fault, and he was the only person who could stop the massacre.
The tower swayed again. He pressed his teeth into his lip. Two more lines snapped into place.
An Airet woman let out a scream, her voice cut short with a gurgle seconds later. His teeth broke the skin, and the Spell began to solidify.
Another blast made his ears pop under the heels of his hands. The smell of copper filled his nose and the pieces glowed.
The Elven woman yelled another threat, heaping promises of blood and retribution on anyone who crossed her path.
The Spell completed.
[You have been afflicted with Curse of Fragility!]
An icy wave crashed into him. His teeth clattered and he retched, clutching his stomach as his bowels twisted. It was agonizing, like the highest spike of the worst fever he ever had.
Good.
He cast Greater Cure.
[Curse of Fragility has been removed!]
[Curse of Fragility has been Stored.]
***
Kess
The Goddess of Thievery sat on a branch, scratching her head.
Yornus was only two years younger than her. He had attained Godhood in the First Campaign, and was originally from a world which valued academic rigor, proper deductive reasoning, and patience. Swordplay, with its form, structure, and discipline, seemed to appeal to his meticulous nature. Rejection must have been sharper than a riposte through his stomach, as he had found a Champion every Campaign since he achieved Godhood, never with the need for a second attempt.
She chuckled to herself anyway. “The fool’s own damn fault,” she muttered, watching him materialize across the world. He had almost certainly heard her, but she didn’t much care. Others would be saying the same to him soon, and he would be too busy to talk much about it in the upcoming weeks, anyway. He was now on a strict countdown, with only a month to find a willing Champion to take him on. An old God like him had one, or perhaps two more attempts before going into hibernation until the next Campaign.
And what compelled him to not only Present so early, but with such a poor choice? Not even 15% Compatibility was among the worst she had seen, not to mention Grant Leeman’s previous behavior making it abundantly clear he would accept no Contract from a God urging him to abandon the Airet. He’d watched as the young man spent a week among the Cult of Bay’kol, risking his life and sanity every hour of every day, all to save a small town.
“Virtue befitting a swordsman!”
They had been his words, not hers. She didn’t think he was mad enough to go through with it. Did he honestly expect the young man to abandon an entire city of them to practice swordplay in the forest? It was the behavior of a baby God. Perhaps Yornus had lost himself after all these cycles.
A dark figure loomed over her, and she sighed. “I assume you have something to say?”
It hissed. “The fool… now the boy will be more resistant to any God. And now Second Campaign Gods can present. At this rate, baby Gods will be presenting next week.”
She turned her shoulders, facing its dark figure. Its greedy, red eyes were on Grant, who looked at his hands in the tower, still in disbelief. It was right, of course. Gods took a great risk when they presented, and the more resistant Champions were, the more it increased.
“For the mighty God of Assassination, that should hardly be a problem, shouldn’t it? Oh, look! Here she comes!”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
An Elven woman turned the corner and found the body. As predicted, she screamed and went berserk, flinging Fire Spells wildly. Grant’s next actions would either attract much attention from Gods of all types, or he would be burn to death and the God of Swordplay would be collapsing in relief.
They both paused as he began to cast a Spell on himself.
“He casts a Curse on himself?” it asked, twisting and coiling in for a better view.
The Spell failed, and he started again.
“Has he lost his mind?”
The Goddess of Thievery watched with interest. “He would not be the first.” Many Spells from the Store were meant to be cast on oneself. There were hundreds of Enhancement Spells, Healing Spells, Stealth Spells, and more. But a Curse Spell? He might be the first Champion in history to try it.
They watched together as he completed the Spell and then Cured himself of its effects before jumping off the bell tower.
“What was the purpose of that?” it asked, its voice grating her ears. “He cast a harmful Spell, only to Cure it the next moment? That Greater Cure Spell was a terrible choice for an assassin, and now he’s wasting Mana on it? He should have taken an offensive Spell, or perhaps a Poison with which to coat his weapon.”
She nodded slowly for seconds. The God was right. A strong Poison Item would have been far more effective in his circumstances. She opened the Store and read Greater Cure’s description, paused, then burst into laughter, slapping her knee. “Now that is quite possibly the cleverest thing I have ever witnessed!”
It wrapped around her, the wisps licking off its body and grazing her skin. “You will tell me what you find so amusing!” it snarled. “What has he done? Who would choose such a weak Spell, only to do that with it?”
She only laughed harder. “If this works, I have a feeling you’re going to want to Present before sundown.”
***
The pain and nausea vanished, and he sighed with relief, taking a moment to allow the dizziness to pass. The Curse made him feel the most miserable he had ever been, but it was gone the second he cast Greater Cure.
The Elven woman screamed again. Grant still felt rotten, but he pushed it down and leaped over the ledge, the wind whipping in his ears and his hair flying wildly behind him. In seconds, just before falling on a flat rooftop, he activated Short Flight to soften the impact, rolling his landing.
Each stride hit the tiles with a brittle clack. He attracted the attention of surrounding Airet he ran past, but he didn’t bother to hide.
The castle drawbridge screeched as it lowered. “Fuck,” he whispered, forcing his gaze away. More were coming. More may be closer than he was. He would have to arrive first. The Elven woman showed no sign of intending to stop until all that remained in every home was smoke and bone.
He crossed rooftops and leaped over streets. Broken bodies lay beneath him, with glass and splinters embedded in their skin. An Airet man was curled up under a collapsed stall. His breaths were short and he had multiple fractured bones, but his life was in no danger. He was one of the lucky ones. Grant left him behind.
An Airet woman held a young girl in an alley, pressing a cloth to a gash in her forehead. They were otherwise uninjured, but the fire encroached on their position rapidly.
“Go that way!” he called from the roof, pointing her toward safety. She nodded with a glint of fear and pushed her child in the direction.
Grant saw another man farther down the street, but his body was slack and chest still. He silently mourned him and moved on.
Every street, the smoke in the air grew thicker, each breath more painful than the last. With a thought, he willed Demonic Regalia to create a thick mask on the front of his cowl. The air still stank of burned wood and charred meat, but it was almost breathable. He could only remain in the environment for minutes, so he pushed against the rooftop tiles harder, dashing toward danger.
Black ash rained on him as he reached the source of the screams. Between high mounds of orange embers, melted iron, cracked stone, and black smoke stood an Elven woman. Her blonde hair was matted down with sweat, her two blue irises in a sea of deep red. She bared her teeth at a target Grant could not see, and in her hand a deep-red ball formed like a miniature sun. Based on its size and the intensity of its light, her Spell was moments away from completion.
He swept in from the side and Resummoned his dagger, wrapping both of his hands around the hilt as he jumped.
Please work.
Time slowed as the distance to his target closed. He gritted his teeth, pushing everything else down. The ball of fire in her hand blistered his skin, and he cried out. It felt like lying on a bed of coals naked, but he continued his rapid descent, rejecting the urge to activate Short Flight.
She pulled her arm back to hurl the ball.
The moment her hand began to move forward, he willed his Stored Curse of Fragility onto the Elf. With a shriek, her Spell faltered. She clutched her stomach as she collapsed to the ground, and most of the heat disappeared.
[You have inflicted Curse of Fragility!]
[Curse of Fragility is no longer Stored.]
[Perfect Invisibility has been removed.]
Grant thrust down in a wild overhead strike, prepared to meet skin, bone, and tissue. Siphoning Fang sank into the back of her skull with barely a hint of resistance and ripped out to the other side, as though he were slicing through jelly. Blood splashed his face, and her legs buckled.
[Critical Strike! 800% Increased Damage.]
[Curse of Fragility has been consumed!]
[You have slain Naexi Matrias!]
[You have gained 9,241 Experience and 31,412 Points!]
[You have reached level 7!]
33 left.
Grant’s eyes watered and his throat burned. Every breath was agony for him, and it must have been ten times worst for the Airet. The Elf’s body lay slack, the stink of blood and viscera wafting from her split head. But the fires still roared. Hundreds were still in grave danger.
A whimper caught his attention, and his eyes snapped toward the location the Elf had been staring. An elderly man and woman cowered in a corner, their jaws slack and eyes wide with horror. The woman held on her husband’s shirt, nuzzling her face into his chest, her one visible eye wide with shock and confusion.
“This way!” he shouted.
They only gaped back, shaking in fear.
“You’ll burn to death!” he screamed. It might have been his tone, or it might have been the encroaching flames, but his words finally broke them out of their trance. The old man helped his wife to her feet, but her front leg collapsed under her, and she fell to her knees, panting hunched over with her palms on the ground. Wooden buildings were crashing around them, fanning burning hot air and more smoke and dust into their faces. She would never make it out on her own.
Grant ran to the woman and wrapped one arm under her knees, then another behind her neck, lifting her off the ground. “Come!” he yelled to the man, and sped down the alley.
The heat felt like running in neck-deep water, and Grant’s body was pouring sweat under Demonic Regalia, the only part of him that had managed to stay dry. The old Airet man could hardly run in the harsh environment, and Grant had to constantly give him time to catch up. The old woman coughed uncontrollably in his arms. She would not last much longer. Behind them, another building collapsed, bringing the neighboring one to the ground with it.
The old man pointed down a fork in the alley. “Shortcut!” he yelled, then let out a dry wheeze. Grant followed without question. They squeezed down a narrow path, climbing over wooden boxes. The woman’s body went limp in Grant’s arms, having lost consciousness from the smoke, but her chest still gently rose and fell.
The alley opened into a square. Grant gasped in the clean air and set the elderly woman down on the ground, falling next to her. Even with his mask, his throat was in agony, and every breath came with a coarse rattle. He couldn’t even imagine how the old man and woman felt, having inhaled the smoke for far longer with no protection.
Wait!
He cast Greater Cure on himself.
[Smoke Inhalation (Level II) has been removed!]
[Smoke Inhalation cannot be Stored.]
Grant Cured the old man, and then the old woman, who immediately regained consciousness with a sharp breath. The old man crawled to his wife and collapsed, hugging her, pulling her closer and running his fingers through her gray hair. Grant turned away, not wanting to intrude on their private moment together.
“Thank you,” the old woman whimpered.
Despite everything, Grant smiled. He had saved two lives today, but looking back toward the fire, he knew there was much more to do. Many Airet would still be trapped. Many more would already be lost, but he could still save hundreds. He planted his foot, digging it in the dirt, prepared to push off.
The world stopped around him. Another God? He had just rejected the God of Swordplay, and now was not the best time for another to offer him a Contract. Perhaps a God of Water Magic would enable him to douse the flames. He tried to look up, but found his body was frozen.
The familiar cold of his dagger’s hilt rested in his palm.
He tried to look down to it, but his neck refused to work. His body slowly rotated, his gaze locked on the elderly man and woman. He took a step toward the couple. Stop! He tried to push himself back, but instead, his other foot took another step.
Their eyes grew wide with horror. The woman’s hand pressed against her mouth, and the old man’s arms wrapped around his wife. But they did not look toward Grant. They watched a spot behind him.
The man let go. He stood in front of his wife and raised his fists. It was a futile gesture, but his face was hard.
Grant’s body jerked forward and with a wild swing of his dagger, the elderly man’s head rolled off his shoulders. It fell to the ground slowly, and all Grant could do was watch, paralyzed.
[You have slain Saban Restros!]
[You have gained 13 Experience and 29 Points!]
No! No, please! I don’t want to do this!
He tried to take control of his body, but it wouldn’t respond to anything. He couldn’t bite his tongue, Dismiss his dagger, or wiggle a single finger. It was as if he was atop a bucking horse, no reins to grasp, no bit to pull, completely at the mercy of the beast’s will.
The woman looked back and shrieked at her husband’s headless corpse, but Grant was on her in two leaps. His dagger plunged into her chest and slid out with a clean spray of red, cutting off her cry and leaving her bleeding on the ground, gurgling as the blood flooded her lungs.
Seconds later, another Notification came.
[You have slain Marina Restros!]
[You have gained 11 Experience and 21 Points!]
Grant screamed internally. He couldn’t even close his eyes to block out the body of the Airet woman he murdered. What’s wrong with me? Have I gone insane?
His eyes stared at the dead body as blood pooled beneath her chest. Like punishment for murdering her. The Airet would hang him for this, and he’d deserve it. His legs were locked in place, eyes unblinking, and the dagger sat in the palm of his hand, dripping thick globules of blood on his boots that ran off like water on a window. Another building collapsed in the distance, but Grant didn’t even jump in surprise. He just waited there, hearing, feeling, and seeing everything as he normally would.
There was a brushing sound, shoes on the ground, and a clanging, like metal on metal. Each was barely a whisper. An Elven woman rounded his front, her face only an arm’s length away. She was dressed in a purple gown adorned with jewels around the collar and gold bracelets around her wrists. Three blonde braids flowed over her shoulders and down to her waist. Unlike the other Elves who looked sickly thin, she was full in the face and body.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“My, what do we have here?”
Novicius in Arte Medica A Novice in the Art of MedicineMedical School is a Warzone. Ashrahan was failing. Then, the System woke up.
Quote: Synopsis: Sleepless nights, borrowed notes, and caffeine. When exhaustion drags Ashrahan to the edge, a silent system awakens, transforming patients into interactive lessons and textbooks into living networks of surgical precision.