He lay in a heap—utterly spent. Grit clung to his eyelids, reducing his already bleary vision. There was no part of him that didn't hurt. His arm was broken, his knee dislocated, and he was fairly sure he had significant internal trauma.
The passive from [Battle Healing] was the only thing keeping him alive. He was acutely aware of it repairing the damage to his ruptured spleen. At least, he was fairly certain it was his spleen. It appeared his years preparing to study medicine hadn't been entirely wasted.
He rolled onto his side and focused on breathing. His mind was still reeling from the after-effects of the vision. It had seemed so real, as if he’d been a passenger in the woman’s body. He could feel her activating her skills, and the agony she’d endured as she fought.
That phantom pain lingered, and it was hard to tell which injuries were actually his own. The vision didn't fade like a dream, as though whatever divine force had thrust it into his brain didn't want him to forget. Though he had a pretty good idea of who the perpetrator was. The biting cold ring around his neck made it abundantly clear. He could remember the feeling of having his head cut off. He shuddered, trying to focus on something, anything, to distract himself from the pain.
He forced his eyes open, wincing as they took in the last rays of sunlight. He was lying on a beach at the edge of a sprawling lake. In the distance, he could make out smoke rising from small cottages set back from the shore. He remembered their description from the instructions Arther had given him.
Somehow, he’d floated almost all the way to his destination. Groaning, he pulled up his tafla and opened the messaging system. He pinged Arther with his coordinates and a short, yet poignant message.
“Lake. Help.”
Even the process of mentally navigating his tafla was exhausting. Whatever psychic torture he’d been forced to endure had left him drained in more than just his mind. His spirit felt as though it had been stripped and messily reattached to his body. The tangible awareness of his soul was deeply disconcerting.
He continued the conscious direction of his skill, but quickly found his attention waning as exhaustion overtook him. He knew he was a sitting duck, completely exposed as he was on the pristine beach. The prospect of crawling for cover was more than he could manage.
Sam wasn't aware that he’d dozed off until the creaking of wooden wheels abruptly roused him. He started, crying out as a lance of pain shot down his back. His cracked ribs shrieked with protest as he rolled over, eyes searching for the source of the sound.
He was met with the now-familiar sight of a small cart rolling towards him. Arther sat in the driver’s seat, red feather waving in the breeze. The man looked tired. His piercing green eyes were bloodshot, the wrinkles on his forehead more pronounced. It appeared the stress of the War was beginning to catch up with him.
He raised his hand in greeting and gave a small, pained smile. Sam tried to return the gesture, but his face seemed to have forgotten basic movements. Arther jumped down from the driver’s seat and hurried over. He looked worse up close, his hands smeared with ash and soot.
“Here, drink this,” Arther said softly, producing a bottle from his tafla. Sam tilted his head back, gratefully accepting the potion. The cool liquid numbed the pain as it flowed down his parched throat, giving him a much-needed moment of respite.
“I’ll be honest with ya, Sam, the only Warriors I’ve seen look worse after their first week have been dead.”
Sam had to struggle not to laugh, his chest throbbing with discomfort. “To be fair, I probably should be. I cleared the Dungeon alright, but ran into some trouble on the way back.”
“I saw,” Arther replied, pulling out a pile of blankets from his storage and throwing them into the back of the cart.
“You…saw?” Sam responded, cocking his head.
“I’ll explain when we get back to the forge. Don’t imagine you’ve had much time to check your notifications.”
“No, is everything alright?”
“It could be worse,” Arther said, cracking a smile. “Though any chance you might have had of keeping a low profile on the first Ring is out the window.”
“That sounds ominous,” Sam replied, wincing as Arther pulled him to his feet. He let out a sharp hiss as he tried to put weight on his injured knee. Arther supported him as he limped over to the back of the cart, and was forced to bodily lift him inside, his broken arm unable to even pull him up into the bed of the wagon.
The ride back to the forge was uncomfortable, but the potion kept the worst of the pain at bay. He exchanged a few short words with the Warden, but it was clear Arther didn’t want to talk until they were out of the open.
A short while later, Sam made out a familiar grove of trees and couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief as the wagon turned off the main road and down a winding path. Arther’s cottage looked the same as always, pale blue smoke rising from the old stone chimney.
Arther led him through the ancient entryway and past the shop, getting him settled on a comfortable leather sofa. Sam was soon handed a steaming bowl of soup, which he gratefully accepted. Arther pulled up a chair opposite him and threw another log on the fire.
“So…” the Warden offered, letting the word trail off.
“So,” Sam agreed, unsure where to begin. The crackling fire filled the silence, and Sam let the warmth wash over him.
“How about you tell me what happened?” Arther said after a long pause. “I know some of it, and I’ll tell you how. But, it’ll be good to hear it from your perspective.”
“Alright,” Sam bit his lip, wondering where to begin.
“Start with the Dungeon, give me the details.”
Sam took a deep breath and launched into the story. He gave a brief recap of his initial battle with the Draug, emphasizing the effectiveness of the enchanted cuirass. He then went over his meeting with Arngrym and his subsequent trek into Ghūl territory. He gritted his teeth as he recounted his usage of the arm bands and the effects of [Bloodhaze]. Arther remained impassive throughout, even as he described letting the ghūl children go free.
The Smith’s only real reaction came when he recapped his encounter with the Ogre. Arther’s eyebrows furrowed as he mentioned the run-in with the Bronze monster, but he held his silence even as Sam recounted the strange vision he’d received.
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“It must have been Zetos sending a message,” Sam concluded, reaching for the glass of water Arther had left on the coffee table. “‘This is what happens when you fuck with me,’ or something like that.” Arther only grunted, eyes distant as he processed the story.
“You said you knew about the ogre. How is that? Obviously, I sent messages, but they didn’t cover anything past the Crypts.”
Arther let out a long breath. “Check your tafla, it’s easier to show you.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow but opened the screen, surprised at the sheer number of notifications. He selected the tab, and nearly jumped as music began playing in his head. Arther gestured to a gem above the fireplace, and Sam mentally projected the screen, noting the audio followed suit, reverberating off the low wood ceiling.
The Arbiter’s voice rang out, their mechanical tones still grating in Sam’s ears. They were underpinned by sweeping orchestral music, as images of Warriors in combat flashed across the screen.
“Welcome, Olympos, to the first Memoria of the Seven Rings War! One week has passed, and many Warriors have already perished, but more still have achieved great feats, bringing glory to their patrons.” Sam watched, aghast, as the video shifted, showing Warriors from all different races as they fell in battle.
He saw a group of humans pinned at the back of a cave, only to be devoured by a group of ravenous wolves. He saw a large, bear-like dremin get its limbs yanked off by some sort of giant squid. Two tzen cried out in terror as their flesh was melted off by the acid secreted by a twenty-foot-long lizard.
Over and over, Sam watched as Warriors were unceremoniously slaughtered. The fewest, by far, were the insect-like Telactyth. It was his first chance to really get a good look at them, and they were even more terrifying up close.
They were to a beetle what a centaur was to a horse. Their bodies had two distinct segments, with the lower section running horizontal to the ground on six wickedly barbed limbs. Their upper bodies were humanoid, more akin to a praying mantis. They had roughly human proportions and came in a variety of bright colours.
More than any of the other races, they hunted in larger packs. They seemed to have no issue working together as a unit, and Sam saw groups of twenty or more taking down massive boss-level monsters.
It was a terrifying sight to behold.
“And of course, with the ending of our first week, we can present the inaugural members of the Proelium Honorum.” The Artbiter’s metallic form appeared in a void of swirling space dust. “These Warriors were the most vicious in combat, the most unrelenting in battle. They have amassed the most spira, and thus, the greatest spoils of victory.”
The Arbiter disappeared, and a glowing golden leaderboard appeared in its place.
- Armedus Cantor - 37,475
- Tarok Ol’cor - 37,190
- Elein Dessiq - 37,180
- Gret Ui - 36,645
- Darek Chambers - 36,550
- Tellerin E’elim - 36,120
- Tritton Ternak - 35,970
- Prot Eq - 35,225
- Samuel Lin - 34,435
- Huio Lorm - 34,340
Sam’s eyes bulged as he read the list. He’d known the past week had been productive, but he hadn't appreciated just how much. Out of the thousands of Warriors brought to the Spire, he'd somehow managed to make it among the top ten.
The screen shifted once again, this time focused on the specific exploits of the Proelium Honorum. Armedus was a stone-faced dalith with swirling silver tattoos. He wielded a scimitar with brutal efficiency as he carved his way through a warren of oversized ants. Elein was a tanned, long-limbed sylvan who spun her lance with the grace of a professional gymnast. Gret was a telactyth with a deep crimson carapace. They went to work, tearing through swathes of enemies with their oversized pincers while simultaneously sending out blades of wind with their smaller, more humanlike hands.
All the top members used [Divine Skills] in equal measure alongside their martial weapons, creating a symphony of magic and steel. Each was more intimidating than the last, and Sam wondered how on earth he was meant to compete with these monsters.
He balked as he saw the only other human on the list. The man was broad, with wavy brown hair. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they glowed as he unleashed a bolt of lightning onto an unsuspecting badger. Sam recognized him as the man from the river, the one who had yelled when the sylvan had come to his rescue. Was it a coincidence that two of the top ten were so close together, or had the Arbiter been trying to force a confrontation?
Sam’s heart skipped a beat when he himself appeared on the screen. His first night in the forest was mysteriously absent from the montage, which primarily consisted of him tearing through legions of Draug and Ghūl alike.
It was different watching himself in the third person, and he immediately noticed a dozen things wrong with his form and movement. The others all looked polished in their motions, whereas he had all the refinement of a rampaging bull. He had to look away as he watched the ogre kick him in the chest, the sounds of an imaginary arena cheering as he somehow managed to kill the brute.
The presentation concluded, and the Arbiter reappeared, suspended in a swirling nebula. “Congratulations once again to our first members of the Honorum. For those who find themselves falling behind, use this as your motivation. These are the Warriors you must overcome if you seek to enter the Halls of Eternity. They are the ones standing in your way. Life or death, the choice belongs to you.”
The scene shifted once more, showing the outlines of silver gateways, hidden in remote locales. The scenes were so varied, it was hard to believe they were all on the same Ring.
“The Valhallen Gates will soon begin appearing throughout Elysium, but know they can only be opened twelve hours before the Purge. Make note of their locations, for they are your only passage off the Ring.” The Arbiter’s face turned sour, if such a thing was possible. “Any Warrior who attempts to flee the War by other means will be met by a fate worse than death, of that I can assure you.”
Sam gulped, Arther’s words ringing in his ears as he remembered their conversation outside Evelyn’s shop. He was glad he hadn’t pursued the matter, as he could only imagine what kind of punishment the Spire’s avatar had in store for those who tried to circumvent the rules.
“With the conclusion of our first week, it is time to unveil this War’s initial Ranking Tiers. Note, these tiers will be reached once a Warrior purchases that sum of spira in skills. It does not include purchases of weapons, armour, or gear. Your Rank is your power. Display it proudly.”
The Arbiter waved their hand, and three metallic icons appeared on the screen.
Bronze: 50,000 Spira
Silver: 150,000 Spira
Gold: 300,000 Spira
Sam nodded as he read the sums. He and Arther had discussed the potential amounts, and while they were on the high end, they were still well within their margin of error. His plan of 60,000 initial investment would almost guarantee he hit the 50,000 for Bronze, assuming he didn’t go overboard on gear.
He let out a long breath, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the barrage of information. While knowledge was certainly power, he couldn’t deny his inclusion in the Honorum came with its own unique set of drawbacks. The system was cruel, for while it highlighted the top contenders as people to beat, it also increased the potential ire directed towards them.
He’d need to travel with a disguise when he was in town, or risk being followed and ambushed in the wild. Every interaction he’d have with another Warrior would be different. Each would know exactly how powerful he was at any given time.
Sam shook his head and watched as the broadcast came to an end, the Arbiter wishing all the Warriors the best, and saying a lament for the fallen.
Arther remained silent in his seat, eyes staring straight ahead. His face bore a dark expression, and Sam wondered what exactly he was thinking.
“Well,” Sam said with a slight grin, “I guess it could be worse?”
Arther gave a small nod, “Aye, it could be. I can’t deny that you’ve exceeded every expectation. I’ve already had a few other Wardens approach me, trying to get you into their parties.”
Sam leaned forward and set down his bowl. “Anyone interesting?”
“Potentially, I’ll follow up with them over the next few days and let you know. Between you and me, I’m not overly optimistic. Anyone who’s reaching out this quickly is more likely desperate than not. The first week is always chaotic. Don’t expect these standings to last.”
“Fair enough,” Sam replied, feeling strangely nervous. It was hard not to feel like he was a kid again, waiting in line to be picked for soccer. He could only imagine the looks on the faces of the ones who’d rejected him in the arena after they saw the Memoria. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of schadenfreude as he pictured their stunned expressions.
“Is everything alright?” Sam asked, watching as the older man balled his hands in his lap. Arther’s posture collapsed at the question. He sat there for a long moment before replying.
“No,” he said softly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”