Darkness rippled from within Simon’s palm before erupting out in a burst of purple energy. The wave reverberated across the air in a conic shape and pulverized the elven statue in front of him in a single violent impact. Its pile of debris joined the four others that had preceded it.
“My congratulations, Your Majesty,” Duchar said with a polite clap that echoed through the training chamber. “You have taken to the spell wonderfully.”
Simon clenched his fist. The Tier III Chaos Wave spell was his first truly offensive long-range spell since most elemental spells didn’t require miasma, nor came easily to him. Even Shadowchain mostly served to immobilize and hinder rather than hurt.
He welcomed the opportunity to blow stuff up. It helped calm his nerves.
The elven attack on Frightwall had been averted, like in all early reigns where he hadn’t taken Belzemine with him. The Malphas’ deaths were reported as an accident by imperial propaganda largely because neither faction had the necessary information to tell what had happened that night, and Shabram kept that information close to her chest.
The spy report transcript she sent him recorded most of the Malphas’ conversation. They had introduced themselves to Belzemine in elvish as agents of Illusea and offered her to board a ship ‘home’ with them, mentioning that Frea, the Oracle, and her people were waiting for her. Belzemine had reacted with disbelief, at which point Elaine Malphas touched her and did something—the agent couldn’t see everything from his hiding place—that startled Belzemine and caused her an emotional breakdown. Simon was pretty sure this was the moment when they stripped her of her Brands.
She responded… poorly.
It had been two days since that disaster. Two nerve-wracking days where Simon had to wait for Lady Shabram to track down Belzemine and give him a report on her whereabouts. He had no way to contact her without the Brand of Sloth, and he feared she was looking for him without truly understanding how to find his location.
At least no bombardment followed Belzemine’s escape. It indeed seemed that the Oracle had either decided to hold out on the attack until she could find agents capable of confirming Belzemine’s survival or location, or this spell could only be cast at a specific point in time.
A little over a month has passed, and the empire is still at peace, Simon thought. I suppose that’s a victory.
A small pile of coins suddenly appeared at his feet in a flash of light, startling him. Simon and Duchar stared at it before immediately reaching the same conclusion.
“My daughter’s tribute, I would assume?” Duchar inquired with curiosity.
“Seems so,” Simon replied. He sensed a small surge of experience following the tribute’s arrival, the same way branding new people granted him a little. He could tell the amount wasn’t much, but it was the push that finally let him level-up again.
Level 36 Overlord Perk: Devour Crestone III: You may consume a Crestone to absorb a Perk you have unlocked with its associated Class. The Devour Crestone III Perk then permanently turns into the newly absorbed Perk.
Oh, another Devour Crestone Perk. This left him with two unused slots now.
Simon guessed it would be a good idea to track down the movement of Noble Class users as the civil war eventually unfolded. He doubted he would have the opportunity to seize one during this reign since the ritual required him to be close to the Minotaur fiend, but there would come a time when he needed to track those down.
“Your tribute has arrived, Cassandra,” Simon informed the witch through telepathy. “How much did it cost you?”
“Your Majesty’s Brand took a hefty amount from my purse, but it wasn’t much when considering my other possessions,” Cassandra replied softly. “I would say it took a tenth of my entire wealth?”
A tenth? Simon wasn’t sure what to think of that. If the curse only took a fraction of the bearer’s total wealth, then a branded person should never have to worry about not paying the tribute, since they would only lose a percentage.
“Overlord Gargauth infamously extracted terrible tributes and crushing taxes across the empire during his rule, to the point that fiscal-related revolts were a common occurrence and greatly contributed to the Reformation’s success,” Duchar said when Simon discussed the subject with him. “The tax collectors answered directly to Overlord Gargauth and received a special slave tattoo as part of their office.”
“You think this was the Brand of Greed?”
“I suspect so, yes. Tax collectors had near-total freedom in how they exacted tributes, yet the amount infamously only ever went up. Historians pointed out that this rampant greed was utterly counterproductive since it slowed down the empire’s economic development and crippled its expansion. I always blamed it on Gargauth’s all-consuming draconic appetite for gold, but now I wonder if his tax collectors weren’t simply desperate to avoid the curse.”
“So there has to be a catch,” Simon guessed. “The brand may never take less than the previous tribute to ensure the victim is compelled to gather more and more gold, or perhaps it increases over time.”
“We can check the tally from month to month to confirm this theory,” Duchar suggested, his gaze lingering on the pile of gold. “For now, the increase in wealth provided by the brand outweighs its cost. It may take time before the downsides become apparent.”
“If I may report another thing, Your Majesty,” Cassandra informed him through telepathy, “The shipment of manaliths and other alchemical supplies we requested has arrived.”
“I’ll return to town soon to recover them and return you your gold,” Simon replied. Nothing in the Brand of Greed’s description prevented him from doing so. “The full moon is upon us, too, so I will require your presence for our new cult initiation.”
“I hope there will be Witches among them,” Cassandra replied. “It would be nice to form a coven.”
Oh, right, Simon had heard that Witch Classes could grow stronger when gathering into covens. It let them cast spells together they couldn’t have used otherwise on their own. Come to think of it, he could easily use manalith crystals to create copies of Cassandra’s Crestone and provide her with assistants.
Simon was considering how to proceed with this when he sensed another attempt at telepathic contact, one he had waited for with impatience.
Shabram.
“Your Majesty,” she said, her tone a little more subdued than usual. This immediately raised alarm bells in Simon’s mind.
“Have you found Agnes?” he asked.
“Yes, we have found her body.”
Simon’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, his blood running cold in his veins. He nearly collapsed as the magnitude of the statement and its awful implications dawned on him. Belzemine…
Belzemine was dead?
“Where?” Simon asked, his voice wavering even in his mind. Who would have dared? Louis? Euphemia? The elves? “How did this happen?”
“We found her in the Red Forest, next to the dead manatree’s husk.” Shabram hesitated for a moment, as if afraid of his reaction. “The wounds… appear to have been self-inflicted.”
The words rang in Simon’s head like bells, silencing his thoughts and leaving a gaping emptiness behind. He struggled to even articulate words in his own mind as the awfulness of the situation became clear to him.
Belzemine had killed herself over her homeland’s tomb.
Because he hadn’t been there for her.
“Your Majesty?”
“...”
“I do not think any of us could have seen it coming, Your Majesty. I did not imagine that she harbored those kinds of thoughts myself.”
“...”
“... what do I do with her, Your Majesty?”
“... bury her near the manatree, with the rest of her community.”
“I shall.” Lady Shabram marked a short pause before continuing. “What should I do with her Crestones? Divination spells could track them down if I return them to you, but they are still precious.”
“Bury her. All of her.” Just the thought of looting her corpse made him sick. “Make sure no one finds her resting place.”
“Very well. I have other things to report, but that can wait until tomorrow.”
Simon didn’t bother answering her. He cut the communication and found himself alone in his own head again.
Simon was in a dark mood the whole day.
He returned to Whispermire to find that Silk and Odette Kano had fulfilled their end of the agreement, supplying him with alchemical tools he required to improve his workshops and craft potions, slimes, and other items. They also delivered a crate of manaliths extracted from the secret mine.
The crystals’ quality varied greatly. Kano’s workers didn’t have the expertise required to assess their purity, so most of the shipment barely reached seventy percent purity—a far cry from the ninety percent needed to craft a functional Crestone. Nonetheless, there should be enough to create one or two of them.
Simon currently had access to four Crestones schematics: the Scholar, which Lorimor had memorized, Cassandra’s Witch, Duchar’s Warlock, and Hector’s Executioner. He had also sent out his thralls to search all of the Darkwood for any Crestones dead adventurers might have left behind in the forest.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He could fulfill the Cobweb’s quota and keep a few of the Crestones for his own forces. Simon had no idea whether monsters could equip one—Hector and Elios Magnos at least proved that undead could—but it didn’t hurt to check.
“What bothers Your Majesty?” Cassandra asked as they waited in the clearing under the full moon’s glow. True to the Stone Muse’s information, this relatively hidden area was located at the Darkwood’s edge, where miasma was so thin people could breathe it unhindered. “Something seems to trouble you.”
Was it so obvious? Then again, Simon had been rather quiet and terse today. It was difficult for him to focus as his thoughts always returned to Belzemine.
What had he done wrong? Should he have given her orders to find him so she would at least have retained some hope and structure? Should he have had the Malphas killed on the day of the attack to ensure it didn’t go through? So much could have changed if he had just given the matter more thought.
And that knowledge only increased the burden of guilt crushing him.
“It’s…” Simon cleared his throat. “A friend of mine… took her own life.”
“That is awful.” Cassandra held her tongue for a while, her hands joining. “Does Your Majesty wish to talk about it?”
“What is there to say? She’s gone, nothing can change that.” Until the day Simon perished and undid time, at least. Even if he intellectually knew he could change things in the future, it didn’t lessen the emotional weight of Belzemine’s demise in the slightest. “No word nor spell in my possession can bring her back.”
“Perhaps,” Cassandra conceded, before adding with much wisdom, “but guilt and grief weigh all the more on the soul when one has no one to share it with.”
Simon pondered her words for a moment. He had to admit that they struck a nerve. Holding on to these thoughts would only cause them to gnaw at him like worms on a tree’s roots.
“Well, it’s… It is a long story.” Simon searched his words carefully. “Have you heard of Agnes Firewand?”
“Of course. She is a legendary archmage in the Overlord’s employ. Her story is well-known.”
“Not the gory details. I… I grew close to her during my time in Frightwall, enough that she told me her story.” It was only half a lie. “Mardok… Mardok did terrible things to her. He traumatized her.”
Simon recounted what he had learned of Belzemine’s life to Cassandra, from her childhood in the Red Forest to her past as a slave under the various Overlords. She listened in silence, and though she retained her composure, a scowl of pity soon formed on her face.
“–and that’s what Lady Shabram told me,” Simon concluded after recounting his spymistress’ report. “I didn’t think anybody could remove Overlord brands except the Overlords themselves, let alone the elves.”
“Neither did I,” Cassandra replied quietly. “I’ve never heard of such a technique. It must be a recent invention or require specific circumstances, or else the White Unicorn would have popularized it.”
“I should still have anticipated it when I learned the elves wanted to smuggle her out of Frightwall,” Simon replied, his voice breaking in his throat. “I… I saw how she nearly broke. I should have been more careful.”
Cassandra’s expression darkened. “That woman suffered so much she had to take comfort in her own chains.”
“Yes,” Simon replied sadly. “And when they were taken away, she broke.”
Maybe Belzemine didn’t want to live in a world where her bindings could be removed. She nearly had a breakdown when Simon removed the Brand of Pride, even if he applied others. The knowledge that she could become condemned to freedom might have been too much for her in her current state of mind. And neither Simon nor Eole had been there to provide emotional support this time.
Cassandra took a deep breath. “I cannot speak for the dead, Your Majesty, but I believe you might be mistaken.”
Simon scowled. “How so?”
“If she were afraid of freedom, she would have looked for Your Majesty,” Cassandra replied. “Yet she chose to return home, to reunite with her people rather than with the newest Overlord.” She looked up to the bloody red moon above them. “I think it was grief and guilt that guided her hand into death’s embrace, not fear.”
Simon’s jaw clenched as a horrible possibility came to mind. “They gave her a chance to return home and leave it all behind, but she refused it.”
“Yes.” Cassandra nodded with sorrow. “I think it is what broke your friend. The knowledge that the one time she had a true choice in four hundred years… she picked Your Majesty over her countrymen.”
Belzemine had killed the only people in the world who had cared for her for an Overlord who left her behind, and the guilt consumed her. She had fled to the last place she had been happy to perish next to centuries-old graves.
“Only the Necromancer could provide answers to our conjectures, Your Majesty, so it wouldn’t be good to dwell on this too long,” Cassandra said. “I am sure her soul is with her family now, and that she will be reborn free from pain.”
“Yes, I suppose that she’ll at least be free after everything she endured,” Simon replied, though it sounded hollow in his own throat. “You are wiser and more insightful than you let on, Cassandra.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Cassandra replied politely, her gaze turning to the clearing’s edge. “Our visitors are coming.”
Simon nodded, having been telepathically informed by the branded mutated animals and monsters he had sent to escort the ‘faithful’ to this ritual site. He then cast Fiendmask to change his appearance from a human to a hooded, otherworldly figure with a beard of roots and branches, bark-skin, and glowing eyes peering from the shadows. A ragged old cloak and a mighty staff he used to hunch over helped sell the illusion of a wise, ancient forest spirit.
“Remember our plan, Cassandra,” Simon said, deepening his voice to appear older than he truly was. “I hope you do not mind the role you’ll play.”
“Quite the contrary, Your Majesty.” Cassandra smiled thinly. “I find it amusing.”
Simon suppressed a chuckle as direwolves and other creatures escorted two dozen people into the clearing; families who kept old traditions alive, retired farmers sensitive to the Muse’s call, huntsmen in tune with the woods, or drunks aspiring to a greater purpose.
True to their agreement, the Muse had provided Simon with the identity of people she had visited in their dreams and then stopped haunting them afterwards. Simon took over by having creatures from the Darkwood approach each of these people in the dark to relay a message: that the Muse had sent them a messenger to reward them for their burgeoning faith and guide them on the proper path.
Simon slowly walked towards the congregation. Unknown to their visitors, each of the trees in that clearing was a monster under his control that stepped aside at his arrival; to outsiders, it seemed as if the very forest split in two to make way for him and Cassandra. Men and women gasped upon seeing him like an ancient and mysterious creature of the woods, watching him climb atop a mound. Simon silently assessed them, drinking in their dread, and then nodded to himself as if they had passed a test of some kind.
Will-o-the-wisps flew out of the woods, startling the cultists and causing them to scream. Families gathered and men grabbed their weapons, but Simon simply stomped the ground with his staff. The ghostlights immediately gathered in a circle spinning over his head like a halo illuminating the night.
“Fear not, my children,” Simon said before introducing himself, as silence ruled the clearing. “I am the Old Man of the Woods and shepherd of souls, voice of our lady, the Stone Muse. Sons and daughters of the forest, such as you all, have nothing to fear from me.”
He waved his hand and all animals of the wood knelt before him as one. The cowed cultists exchanged worried looks before bending the knee too; for they understood they were in the presence of a master of the forest.
“You are here gathered by the will of the Stone Muse, great dryad and lady of these woods,” he said. “Once upon a time, many centuries past, your ancestors wronged our lady by committing an unfathomable sin and repaying her favor with ungratefulness.” He waved his hand at the Darkwood. “This curse of miasma and monsters was their punishment.”
It was pure fiction, of course, but Simon had learned enough from the Church of Light’s sermons that guilt for past sins was a powerful motivator, especially when seasoned with the hope of salvation.
“In her great generosity, the lady has decided to give her faithful a second chance. Only when all souls in Whispermire have accepted the Muse again will her wrath abate, and the Darkwood’s shadows will be lifted. What was once a curse will become a blessing.” Simon glanced at the group with glowing eyes. “Let the bravest among you step forth to be welcomed into the true flock.”
Most of the congregation hesitated, some exchanging glances nervously. It had already taken much courage for them to enter these woods guided by monsters, and a few still took weapons with them just in case. Only one of them didn’t hesitate to step forward: an old farmer whose eyes glittered with the same budding fanaticism that had consumed Lorimor.
“Grius, is it?” Simon asked, recognizing the maddened cultist who had drawn bloody graffiti in Whispermire in the previous reign. “Do you accept our Muse’s forgiveness and blessing? Do you swear to honor her and only her, above kings and gods alike?
“I swear it!” the cultist replied without hesitation. “My life for her!”
“Then I absolve you of your sins and bestow her grace upon you.” Simon placed the Brand of Gluttony on his shoulder. “From this day forth, you shall suffer fatigue no more, nor poison’s kiss nor illness’ cold grasp. Neither plagues nor venom shall harm you. Dulled tastes will be sharpened again, and no servant of the Muse shall harm you.”
To add to the mystique of the scene, Simon telepathically ordered the plant monsters in the area to whistle in response. The woods appeared to sing and whisper all around the clearing to greet their new recruit, cowing and awing these new believers.
“My back pain is gone,” Grius said with tears of faith in his eyes. While not as far gone as Lorimor, the Muse had left him on the edge of madness. “Thank you for your blessing, oh wise and ancient one…”
“That is the Mark of the Seed, which identifies you as a child of the forest and an initiate member of the True Flock,” Simon explained. “There are four marks, and only the holiest and most devout may receive them all. If thou prove yourself worthy, upon you shall the Muse bestow greater miracles. Mayhaps your lost youth may be returned to you, the way a snake sheds its old, worn skin, or you will be blessed with wealth aplenty.”
Simon spotted a few looks of greed and ambition among the other cultists. The Light promised rewards in the afterlife, but material, tangible benefits in this life sounded much more appealing. Simon invited the rest of them to step forward to obtain their brand, each newcomer stepping forward quicker than the last now that their fears had been assuaged. All accepted the Brand of Gluttony, and Simon applied it to spots that could be easily concealed with clothes.
“Bear the Muse’s blessing, but keep it hidden from those who would burn the true faithful on a pyre until the day we are ready to celebrate our lady in the light,” Simon said before waving his staff at their new high priestess. “This is Cassandra, most devout of the True Flock and favored priestess of our Muse. She speaks with my voice and shall guide thee on my behalf.”
Cassandra bowed politely to the group. “It is an honor to serve you on the Muse’s behalf.”
“On the next full moon, she shall gather you here to meet with me so that seeds of new initiates are planted.” Simon struck the ground with his staff. “Heed me well. When next I come, the most devout among you shall receive a gift worthy of their faith. I shall bestow upon the worthiest of our mother’s children a miracle. Until then, be like the humble and sturdy sprout that grows quietly into a mighty oak.”
Yes, plant metaphors fit a dryad cult well. He would be sure to add a few more on the next full moon. Moreover, he could feel the experience flowing into him from both creating this cult and deceiving these people. The Overlord in him was pleased.
This will help everyone, Simon told himself as his monsters guided the congregation back to their homes through the Darkwood. The brands will make them healthier, and the Muse’s knowledge will help me do good in the long term. It will work out well in the end.
Part of him knew he was simply assuaging his conscience, but he silenced it. He had to power through and make sure Belzemine’s death wouldn’t be in vain. Every level he gained in this reign would help him carve a better future.
“Shabram,” Simon contacted his spymistress after strengthening his resolve. “Have you fulfilled your task?”
“I have, Your Majesty.” It surprised him a bit that she was still awake at this hour, but then again, she was a wolf beastwoman. The full moon probably sharpened her focus. “I doubt anyone will bother Lady Firewand’s resting place.”
“Good.” It was little comfort, but better than nothing. “What was that other thing you wished to discuss?”
“Lord Paimon and Empress Euphemia have entered discussions to break Prince Thalas’ betrothal to Antonine of Shax and arrange for him to marry Lady Anna Paimon.” The more he heard, the tighter Simon clenched his hands. “Nothing concrete yet, but I wondered if Your Majesty wanted me to interfere with those negotiations.”
Simon grimly recalled one of his discussions with Anna at the academy a few reigns back. She had guessed her father would try to betroth her to Thalas in order to solidify an alliance with the more moderate Church Party, and with no Overlord to marry nor a massacre to kickstart the civil war early, her fears were becoming reality.
All of Simon’s being wanted to break this engagement, to put Thalas in a casket and ensure Anna would be free to pursue whoever she wanted… but interfering with events now would rob him of precious foresight and intelligence on the civil war players. He had already sacrificed Belzemine to ensure he could better counter the elf conspiracy in the future.
He couldn’t let her death go to waste or allow his feelings interfere.
“What would you do, if you had no Overlord to answer to and had to act on your own initiative?” he asked his spymistress.
Lady Shabram pondered his question a moment before answering, “I would try to keep the peace for as long as I could and ensure that both sides trust me, then pick the strongest one once the first shot is fired.”
“Then do that,” Simon replied, swallowing both his pride and frustration. “What I am doing here matters more than the upcoming civil war in the long run, so be free to act according to your own interests until my work in Magvolia is complete. However events unfold will still serve my ends.”
Simon had to know how this all ended without his intervention, to ensure he could make it right next time.
He owed Belzemine that much.
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