I made her tunic as I mulled over how I would deal with our level spike. The Glitchlight circles spiraled in my palm, though like earlier, I was careful to keep its appearance purple light, devoid of any of the particular hallmarks of glitch.

  I would have to alter the external soulcode and manually make it appear to other Raiders who inspected us that were merely Level 4. Respectable, but not remarkable. The highest levels going into the First Wing would be 7 to 9. It depended which of the Busiocrats were currently within the Raid. There were a legendary few that had gone through the Raid on multiple occasions, winning each time, gaining true Resurrection and being able to rejuvenate for a few more centuries before being forced to partake once more, if they wished to deny death.

  Those that had done this knew the Raid very well, and often maximized their returns in the earliest levels.

  No matter what, we could not be discerned as being Level 12. By the time that true sight became available to the variety of magic classes, our levels would have stabilized accordingly.

  With that decided, the tunic manifested. It was brown and had a rough weight, and I flicked it at her. It hit her in the face. She grunted, grabbed it, and then pulled the wool over her head. It was loose and tight in the wrong places, and no doubt uncomfortable. The edge of my lip nearly curled into an unpleasant smile at the thought.

  Now to fix what level we appeared as.

  I mentally pulled up my soulcode, sifting through the data to find the portions that contained what Raiders could externally discern, should I be inspected. It took me a few milliseconds, and, once located, I sacrificed three health points to begin this particular Glitchwork. It needed to be long-lasting, thorough, and not noticeable as Glitchwork, and as such, required the higher price.

  With that resolved, I then pulled up the Limiter's. Still Encrypted, but like previously, it would accept code that was close enough to itself that it could not discern the difference. From memory, I reconstructed the soulcode that determined what appeared in her inspection window, adjusting her level to show to 4. That completed, I began the complicated process of writing the layering soulcode that would give explicit instructions to her pre-existing code, so it was not released, absorbed, and promptly responsible for deleting something important--like her skull.

  The Limiter waited. She had gone quiet again, which as I had lapsed into silence myself, irritated me. Sometimes, I wondered if I had merely dreamed this up, in the madness of my imprisonment. This was a trick, a carrot dangling before the starving rabbit, and the Parent delighted in my suffering--

  "Speak," I said, abrupt.

  "Hmm?" the woman said, looking up from the lights in my palm.

  "Every word you utter will be nonsense," I said. "But there is nothing so detestable as silence."

  "Okay?" she said. "You gonna explain that one, Yap-man?"

  "I will not." I said. "It is mere truth, something to be understood. Not an explanation you require."

  "...Sure. So, food," she began with a grin. "Please tell me New Sins has some tasty inns. Actually, wait, can you taste food in this game?"

  “You intend to devour a building? To answer your actual inquiry, yes, you may taste food," I said. "But no, no food in New Sins is of particular note, other than their hot Cocoa, and that is withdrawn for religious ceremonies and devoid of the sugar you are no doubt accustomed to."

  "Oh," she said, frowning. "Why?"

  "How delightfully unspecific. You have words, employ them," I snapped. "Just because I am capable of grasping your intent does not mean I should bear the responsibility of putting the greater work into comprehending you."

  The woman huffed, a sound that almost had the ring of amusement. I narrowed my eyes, glowering at her through my spectacles. Before I could demand an accounting of her misplaced humor, she spoke. "Why's New Sins lacking in tasty snacks?"

  "They perceive enjoyment as unholy," I said, stiff. I put the last finishing touches on the soulcode. Several tiny purple circles, filled to the brim with the binaric instructions, rotated over her chest.

  "What's that?" she asked. She raised a hand, inching it towards the glitchwork.

  "Do not tell me you are moronic enough to interfere with something that will detonate the microsecond your skin interferes with it."

  The hand slowly dropped.

  "To answer your earlier question, before you attempted to slay us simultaneously--Raiders may inspect other Raiders. This makes it so your inspection informs whoever bothers to examine you that you are Level 4."

  With that, I released my hold. The circles, each of which had been floating a little higher than the other, collapsed, falling onto the woman like a heavy sheet. She grunted before they vanished.

  "That...okay, that didn't feel like much of anything. I mean, it felt like a light thwack to the stomach, but that was about it."

  "Your powers of description rival your powers of observation. Since I place no confidence in your capacity to remember--I am informing you that means you lack them utterly."

  "Ha-ha, Yap-man."

  "One day, you will be a dead woman for those nicknames." This was the truth, but I knew she would not take it wholly as such.

  True to my expectation, she rolled her eyes. "Sure. So, why's enjoyment so bad?"

  "From the Non-Playable Soul's perspective, this city has been slaughtered with each and every Era by a god. In the game's lore, there are several hundred years betwixt one Raid and the next. "

  "Sooo, an AI from outside shows up and blows it to shit?" she asked. She was trying to discretely itch at her side, grimacing. She kept adjusting the tunic I had granted her, as if she might find a more acceptable way.

  It was decidedly beneath me to feel petty satisfaction, but to my consternation, that very emotion curled at the edges of my awareness. Well. It was simplest to make wool, and I had no motivation to make it comfortable for her. It was not true spite, more of a well-earned side-effect.

  "It is more the memory of an Artificial Intelligence," I said. "The nature of the First Raid is kept only within the powers of myth and far beyond the reach of human capacity for recollection. It occurred before the Great Fleeing. Supposedly, the creature that materializes is an echo of the First Intelligence."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "...So what happened with that Intelligence? I thought you said the goal of the Raid was to defeat the, uh, AI, and then whoever beat the AI owned it."

  "Correct."

  "So...did the first win?"

  Did the first win? My jaw gritted, and I flicked a distinct glower at the woman, who had clasped her fingers above her chest, cocking her head.

  "What part of ‘myth’ did you not understand?" I snapped. "Surely, you must have some capacity to grasp the concept of legend. Or is my wish for a person of some sense deluding me into granting you powers that you are not capable of?"

  "I know myth. But myths have stories, and stuff like this always generates a couple stories. If the AI that first went through the Raid is so baked in, some shit must've gone down."

  "You are likely correct," I said, my lip curling. "It is not, however, especially relevant."

  The woman grunted and cocked her head the other direction. "...So, the city getting blown the fuck up every Raid isn't relevant? The one that we're going into?" The doubt clearly infused her voice.

  I clicked my tongue. "Its destruction during the siege is relevant, correct, but the why and how of the Firstborn being unique has little bearing."

  She scratched her chin, narrowing her eyes at me. "...I think you don't want to talk about it," she said.

  I pulled my head back. "Pardon?"

  She leaned her head forward, which made her look like a bird attempting to thrust its neck out at something that intrigued it. "You've known everything so far. Shit you've deflected about in the past was shit you were lying to me about. You literally just promised to not lie to me, dude, and I'm pretty sure--"

  This woman was becoming startlingly good at grasping when I was hiding information from her. It was a skill that would likely improve the further she grasped my disposition and habit. In that respect, I would make a point to be technically honest with her at every available opportunity. And be mindful of when I deliberately misled her.

  "I am not bestowing you falsehoods, you glorified ostrich," I snapped. "I am aware of what happened to the First, but that knowledge does not assist us in any fashion. This calamity can not be calmed, merely defeated."

  "Huh," she said, pulling her head back. "Fine. I'll ask you about it when you're more amiable...which will probably be never."

  "I have no intention of expressing fondness towards your personage at any point in time," I said. "That is the only correct statement you have truly made so far. I would congratulate you, but I refrain from praising mortal mediocracy."

  "Sure, White-hair. One day, you'll be actually nice, and unlike you, I support progress."

  "You treasure banal inferiority. It is a wonder you do not descend into raptures over dirt," I scoffed, and turned away. A few people traveling on the road towards New Sins had glanced at us, but for the most part, with curiosity. They had likely taken note of my hair. Thankfully, much like in the actual galaxy at large, white hair merely meant a descendant of the divine, a member of the rich and powerful.

  The fact I was one of those so-called Divinities, the closest humanity could reckon of a power that far exceeded their capacity to comprehend, would be the least likely of the available options.

  The woman had followed my gaze, opening her mouth. Before she spoke, a loud rumbling rent the air.

  "Do you make a habit of swallowing wolves?" I asked, striding away. "Perhaps they shall free me from my suffering and crawl their way out of your stomach."

  "Hey, I haven't eaten anything in...uh. A long time. And I'm not the one who magically couldn't make food out of Glitchlight! You never--"

  "You will refer to Glitchlight as ‘magic’ going forward," I said.

  "--Magic. So, why couldn't you use the magic? You've been able to use it for everything else."

  I raised my chin, not bothering to watch the woman. I made my progress towards the greater street. As we walked, I reached for the soulcode. Was there a way to corrupt the sound distance of our speech--aha. The current, designated distance for the average Non-Playable Soul, which most Raiders would share. I passed my awareness through it, shredding it into static. The failure state for the soulcode that made up the Raid was to revert to the lowest integer within record--in this case, 0. The woman would hear me, and I could hear her, but to all else who bothered to notice, our silence would be complete.

  "I do not currently possess the knowledge of the soulcode of food, and therefore can not replicate it," I said after a moment. It galled me to admit it--such a piece of soulcode was relatively basic. But the databanks that possessed such knowledge remained barred to me, and would for some time. "It will be as such until I take apart food items and properly analyze them."

  "Oh! ...Can't do that in public, I'm guessing."

  "Correct."

  "And you haven't needed to make food earlier?"

  "No."

  "...Uh, why? Do you not...eat...often?"

  "I eat--by your reckoning--not at all."

  "You've gotta get energy from somewhere."

  "It does not come from anything you could grant me," I said. “And is far beyond your capacity to comprehend.”

  “Try me.”

  “I would rather not,” I said, lengthening my stride.

  The Limiter was not especially short--167 centimeters. However, I possessed a leg length that far outstripped her own. She began to trot.

  "I would rather you did, actually," she said, huffing as she worked to keep up with me.

  “Your gait reminds me of a pack animal. Would you heed my command better with a bridle?”

  Her mouth dropped. I expected a burst of temper, but instead she threw back her head and laughed.

  My lip curled.

  "Your amusement is grating to the ear--loud, raucous, high in pitch. Everything one might find distasteful in humor, one finds in you."

  "God, you're an ass," she said, sounding positively full of cheer. "We'll chat food later, Mr. No-One-Understands-Me. Long hair is too refined for you--I think you need an emo cut, myself."

  A what cut? I glowered at her. I sifted through my databanks, and found the only information to be in ancient, historical records. It was some sort of sub-culture in one of the ancient Terran cultures, prior to the Lightswallow. The records were sparse. There was, of course, a great refuge of knowledge in the deepest databases of the System, but those were guarded with the jealousy of a creature defending its last meal.

  Was the woman some kind of historian? She had neither the bearing nor refinement one could expect from academics. I refused to inquire. There was no point in knowing anything intimate of her--she was doomed to be a flicker in the great litany of my existence.

  "...So, what exactly are Non-Playable Souls? Like, are those echoes of past Raiders, or whatever?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "If I was a polite man, I would call that an interesting deduction. Alas, I am neither. Such a suggestion reveals the fundamental lack of your knowledge, and is, in fact, exceptionally moronic. Well done."

  She bowed. It was a dramatic, imprecise gesture, filled with lazy flailing. "I live to entertain you, Fancy-pants."

  I scowled. "Blatant falsehoods. You are quite dead, and have been for a substantial period of time, and not a single aspect of your personage could be capable of entertaining me. The answer to your inquiry is a great deal more complicated. There are a multitude of theories, but the only one I subscribe to is that they are the descendents of the Countless Dead."

  "...The who-what now?"

  We hit the street proper, pulled into the litany of color. We drew some stares--no true shock. Most men and women with white hair came by carriage or horse, not on foot. I did not bother to acknowledge the seething, fleshy multitude.

  "If this is your concept of humor, I will inform you that it is ill done, and I have no tolerance for it," I told her. As if she did not know of the Countless Dead.

  "Uh," she said. "I have no idea what you said--the Countless Dead?--is."

  "Your memory cannot be that corrupted," I said, flat. "It is simply outside of the realm of possibility."

  "I don't remember my family's names," the woman said, and there was a peculiar note in her voice. More foolish sentiment. "I don't even remember their faces."

  I looked down at her. "Are you attempting to tell me that you were reborn into this Raid with nothing to your will and whim except a proclivity for profanity and a revolting amount of faith?”

  Her face crinkled like paper into an expression of thought. "...Probably?"