David

  David improved his fireballs.

  He concentrated the heat at the tip until it was a searing white point. He tried as best as he could to copy the explosive mana pulse Rhea used for her javelins, triggering it at the base of his demonic fire spears. He mimicked the explosion by compressing demonic energy as far as it would go at the base of the spear, then expanding it rapidly. It was a crude method, nowhere near as complex or effective as Rhea’s skill with its intricate machinations and precise movements of mana. But it was something, and he was pleased with the progress.

  It wasn't a rocket like hers, but it boosted the speed. Before, they were like swift arrows. Now they shot fast enough to puncture, burn, and explode on impact.

  He tried to practice keeping a ball of flame or a jagged, crooked spear orbiting him at all times, treating it like energy circulation. It was infinitely harder. Circulation was about movement control and sustaining the right level of his energy's rampage. Keeping fireballs floating was a constant mental drain. In combat, it was easier because they were summoned for a purpose and shot almost immediately. But keeping five constantly burning in his field? While training with Cinder and the hob? While practicing portals? While traveling and hunting? It was worse than the thrall vision. It almost gave him a headache. Maintaining the five flames, his internal background circulation, and his spinning magic field, while moving his body for over an hour, was a very unique form of torture. Like rubbing your belly, patting your head, and juggling knives, all while solving a puzzle in a hurricane.

  In the end, David had decided to scale it back. He would practice keeping just one flaming spear floating in his magic field at all times.

  Now, he sat in the forest with his eyes closed.

  His skin felt hot. His bones felt sturdy, like they'd been replaced with lengths of tempered steel. His blood didn't just flow—it circulated, a hot, eager current. The energy in his magic field surrounded him, a ten-foot sphere of potential that responded to his every whim like a well-trained limb.

  It was just him, and Fenrir standing guard. Rhea rested a few yards away. He had sent Cinder, his stalwart, bloodthirsty demon, and the elite hobgoblin swordsman to hunt and level in the immediate vicinity.

  He kept a soft pull on their emotional states. The hob radiated a sharp, focused adherence to some internal warrior’s code—all clean angles and dutiful violence. Cinder was a broadcast of pure bloodlust and battle joy. The demon’s emotions suggested it had just finished a slaughter and was now… building something from the fallen. A shrine, or a trophy pile. David almost shuddered. It was pretty grim.

  Then he noticed it. A faint, almost imperceptible trickle of power gathering through his tether to Cinder, tied to those actions. He’d almost missed it. Hmm. Interesting.

  If anything critical happened, he could respond in moments. His physical body was safe, anchored by Fenrir’s presence and Rhea’s light, even breathing.

  David’s mind and attention were elsewhere. As his minion stood guard, he was seeing through the eyes of one of his earliest thralls.

  Corbin.

  Corbin

  They had headed west, deeper into the forest, fighting creatures along the way. Corbin, Evans, Theo, and Jamie had taken the vanguard. Mia filled the gaps with quick, precise telekinetic strikes from her short sword. She had a lumbering construct of dead armor that telekinetically charged into battle with no regard for the life it didn’t have. She was a welcome addition. Chloe stayed in the middle, her face pale but determined, healing anyone who took a serious hit. Corbin was genuinely impressed with Jamie’s ice. The kid had levelled the skill mid fight, then started making more complex shapes—hammers, spiked cages, and something that looked like an iron maiden—he could throw up a wall in a second, freeze a charging beast’s legs solid, or make the ground slick and full of sharpened spikes to control the fight. The kid’s capability far outstripped his youthful, talkative appearance.

  They settled a short distance from a significantly large redwood. Chloe and Jamie worked together. Jamie threw up thick walls of opaque ice, and Chloe placed her hands on the trunks of nearby pines, urging them to grow and twist, their branches weaving through Jamie’s ice. They fused the living wood to the side of the massive redwood, boxing the group into a rough, three-sided shelter. They left two narrow exits for emergencies. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. It was much safer than the hell they had left.

  Evening settled, and the strange, permanent twilight of the forest stilled further. Someone had gotten a small, smokeless fire going in the center of the sheltered space. The light danced against the ice walls, making them glitter.

  Corbin sat with his back to the redwood, his leg stretched out. The deep ache was a constant, but it was manageable. He watched the group. Evans was on the other side of the fire, methodically cleaning his service weapon with a strip of cloth. His movements were calm, ritualistic.

  Jamie was talking. He was almost always talking.

  “...and then I was thinking, right, what if I made, like, an ice slide? For a quick getaway. We could just zoom down a hill.”

  “You’d shatter your tailbone,” Mia said, without looking up from where she was carefully sharpening a knife. A faint blush crept up her neck. “David said terrain control is for defense and limiting enemy movement. Not for… zooms.”

  “David’s not here,” Jamie said, grinning. “He’s off doing his creepy solo leveling thing. We can have zooms.”

  Jamie tossed a pinecone into the flames.

  “Wonder what David’s doing right now,” Jamie said, poking the embers with a stick. “Probably something cool and scary. He’s always doing something cool and scary.”

  Mia, trying to mend a tear in her sleeve with a thorn and some fibrous vine, kept her eyes down. “He’s probably just surviving. Like we are.”

  “You always say that,” Jamie said, his tone light and needling. “But you say it a certain way. ‘He’s just surviving.’” He put on a softer, mock-thoughtful voice. “‘I bet he’s surviving so hard right now.’”

  “I do not sound like that,” Mia said, her head snapping up. A telltale flush crept up her neck. “I’m just paying attention. It’s smart to pay attention to the strongest person here.”

  “Sure,” Jamie nodded, his grin widening. “Attention. Totally just strategic noticing. Not because you get all quiet every time his name comes up or anything.”

  Mia glared at him, her face now fully pink, and threw a small piece of bark in his direction. “You’re the worst.”

  From his spot against the redwood, Corbin watched. Kids. They were in a fight for their lives, and the girl was getting flustered over the one person who acted like a walking red flag. Corbin kept his expression neutral. Mia’s blush at the mention of David’s name was obvious. She was a competent, steady in a fight, but Corbin thought it was a profound lack of sense and survival instincts. He saw the defensive set of her jaw, the way she couldn’t meet Jamie’s eyes. She was a good kid, but she had no sense. He wouldn’t be surprised if the guy fed her to his giant demon.

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  Corbin’s thoughts about David were a grim, familiar loop. The man was reckless. He was arrogant, a wild cannon who took too many risks without a clear chain of command. He was a clear danger to the group’s cohesion and safety.

  But David was strong. Too strong. It didn’t even make sense, how strong he was.

  From the very first moment they had landed here, Corbin had watched David do one impossible thing after another. He’d killed an imp—a literal, shrieking demonic creature—with a piece of metal tubing. He had walked straight through an inferno to kill a beast whose hide turned bullets into slag. He had taken blows that would have pulped anyone else and then stood up, his wounds closing as if nothing had happened.

  And that wasn’t the worst part. The guy had magic. Real, tangible, world-bending magic. He could tear open portals to other places. He wielded energy as a weapon. He sensed danger before it struck. He summoned spheres of red fire that burned and black fire that decayed. He had cured a magical curse. On top of that, he had muscle: a literal demon, a disciplined hobgoblin, animated corpses. That was… too many skills. An overwhelming concentration of capabilities in one unpredictable person.

  As far as Corbin’s own understanding of the System’s rules could tell, David’s base strength was comparable to his own. Maybe a little higher. But Corbin had poured almost every other free point he earned directly into Strength. He had mainlined it. David seemed to have a wealth of stats in every category—strength, dexterity, endurance, mana. It didn’t add up. Like everyone else, David should have gotten seven stats per level: two in mana, five free to distribute. His spread was impossible. There was something not right with that man.

  But unfortunately, they needed him. As much as Corbin would like to leave the wildcard out in the forest to fend for himself, where he couldn’t get loyal people killed, or put a bullet in his skull if he kept risking everyone’s safety, the group’s ultimate survival forbade it. David was no longer the biggest threat they faced. The Demon Slayer, the Ogre, the hostile, classed humans from other groups—these made someone of David’s power, and even the potential of kids like Jamie and Mia, crucial to everyone’s safety. The devil you know, who fights other devils.

  Corbin thought their world would be far better if all the devils were dead. But this place didn’t give that option.

  Theo, the nervous young man, spoke up quietly. “Do you think he’s okay? Out there alone?”

  “He’s not alone,” Chloe said. Her voice was soft but firm. She was checking Henderson’s bandaged arm, her fingers glowing with a gentle, green-gold light. “He has that… demon. And the Elite. And Rhea.” She said the names with a careful neutrality. She finished her work and sat back, looking drained. “He’s better equipped than we are.”

  “He’s a lunatic,” Jamie said cheerfully. “A useful lunatic. I hope he comes back with, like, a dragon skull or something.”

  A bit of grey fur moved at the edge of the firelight. The Scottish Fold cat picked its way daintily across the ground.

  The Scottish Fold made its preferences clear. It would curl in Chloe’s lap, bump its head against Evans’s boot, and even tolerate Jamie’s energetic petting. For Corbin, it reserved a specific ritual. It would approach, its round face impassive, stop just outside his personal space, and then execute a perfect, dismissive turn to present its fluffy rear before trotting away. Once, it attempted to drink from his canteen; when he shifted it aside, the cat stared at him for a long moment, then deliberately knocked a dry leaf into his boot.

  “It likes you,” Mia said, a small smile touching her lips.

  “It does not,” Corbin grumbled. The cat shot him a narrow-eyed glance then began kneading its paws into her leg, its claws catching on her garments. It purred, a loud, rattling sound. Corbin cautiously moved his hand of its claws range. The little furball was definitely a monster—he was seventy percent sure of it.

  “See?” Jamie said. “Even the cat knows you’re the cop of the group.”

  Evans glanced over, a faint smirk on his face. “Don’t fight it, partner. You’ve been promoted.”

  Corbin sighed, letting his hand rest on his hip. He caught Chloe watching them, a fragile, real smile briefly cutting through her exhaustion. For a moment, it was just people. Tired, scared people sharing warmth and a ridiculous cat.

  Henderson, who had been quiet, stirred. “We should set a watch schedule. Two people. One at each exit.”

  Corbin nodded. “Sensible. Evans and I will take first rotation. Jamie, you’re with Theo for second. Get some sleep first.”

  The group fell into a comfortable silence, broken by the crackle of the fire and the cat’s purring. It was a pocket of fragile order. Corbin felt the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction. This was the job, in the end. Not just the fighting. The maintaining. The watching. Keeping the space safe so the kids could joke about ice slides and blush over mysterious loners. He looked into the fire, his marshal’s mind cataloging the simple sounds of their temporary sanctuary.

  Corbin stirred the meat over the fire, his eyes scanning the small, chaotic cluster of kids as they moved and argued with all the self-confidence of people who had never faced real danger. Theo shoved another piece into his mouth before Chloe could warn him, Jamie grinned recklessly at nothing, and Mia fidgeted beside him, cheeks pink, oblivious to the careful order he preferred.

  He thought about the decades he’d spent in federal service, starting in military police, moving into counterterrorism, tactical operations, and finally hundreds of flights as an air marshal, each one a test of nerves and judgement in confined spaces, moments where split-second decisions meant the difference between safety and disaster. Discipline came naturally; observation was instinctive; protective reflexes honed from years of responsibility.

  He noted the subtle signals—the twitch of a finger, the nervous glance, the cat hissing at him—and considered the one person he did not trust, David, whose presence elsewhere still gnawed at both his instincts and his conscience. Experience had taught him to read intentions and measure loyalty, and David’s he could not.

  Corbin had trained his body to respond without hesitation, even as it aged and faded. Cultivated a discipline that dictated routines, double-checking, and constant vigilance, yet he had learned that no amount of preparation could compensate for misplaced trust, and—somewhere out there—was variables he refused to ignore, the ogre. The swift footed slayer. The mind knight. And worst of all, the demon slayer. All of them, presences that set off all his instincts and made him weigh intentions and loyalty with unflinching scrutiny, all while carrying the protective instincts forged by years of responsibility, danger, and sacrifice.

  Deep down, he knew that in order for the group to live, all four of those things had to die.

  Corbin and Evans took the first watch at the northern ice-wall exit. They stood in the cold shadows, their breath misting in the ice-cooled air. The forest before them was a strangeness so complete it felt solid.

  After a long stretch of quiet, Corbin spoke, his voice a low murmur. “Your thing still operational?” Corbin asked, his eyes on the tree line.

  “Fully,” Evans said. No elaboration needed. They had been out here long enough that the question was just routine maintenance.

  Corbin watched the nothingness. He thought about Evans's skill. It didn't make a big show. It wasn't a torrent of ice or a wave of force. It wasn't even as straightforward as his own. But in its quiet, absolute reliability, he had come to a conclusion: it was probably the best skill he'd seen anyone get. It was plain unfair. He figured the teenagers in their group would have a word for it.

  "S'what the kids would call 'broken'," Corbin muttered, more thinking out loud than really talking.

  Beside him, Evans let out a quiet, tired chuckle. "This damn place, Corbin. It's like it's polishing off our old edges and bolting on new parts. Never in a million years did I think I'd hear you say 'broken' like some kid on a console."

  Corbin didn't argue. His main skill was [Arcane Marksman]. It had taken him a good while to get the hang of the feeling, to believe it would work. The rule of it was simple: if he aimed at something, whatever he aimed would get there. A bullet, a blade, the point of his halberd. It didn't matter what was in the way or what the target did. The skill guaranteed the shot's accuracy. He hadn't found a limit to the distance yet. He just had to be able to see the target. When he channelled the skill through his halberd and his new, system-given strength, the control was unnerving. He could, in theory, cut the wings off a butterfly with a full swing. Not that there were any butterflies left in this hellhole.

  "Let's walk the perimeter," Corbin said, nodding toward the break in the ice wall. "Get eyes on the tree line down by the water."

  "Sure," Evans said.

  Then, the space next to Evans wavered. The air pulled together light and shadow, coalescing into a solid form. A second Evans, complete with a duplicate service weapon, stood there. The duplicate gave a single, sharp nod to the original, then turned and walked out of the camp, disappearing into the forest to begin its patrol.

  Corbin watched the double vanish into the foliage. He shook his head slowly, a gesture of pure professional disbelief. "Seriously," he said. "That skill is ridiculous."

  The real Evans shrugged, his expression wry in the dimness. "Hey, if that guy out there gets himself killed, I lose a whole level. It's not as great as it looks. I'd take your Marksman any day."

  David

  Far away, David’s eyes snapped open.

  “Jackpot,” he said, his voice flat in the empty forest.

  David needed every tool he could get to make it through the next ten days.

  A skill like that meant Evans had just reserved a permanent spot in his ogre-killing squad. Dead or alive, Corbin and his partner would be involved.

  And if Evans refused? Then his refusal would simply earn him a spot in David’s burgeoning Infernal Thrall hotel.