Sam set down his mug of ale and leaned back in his seat, struck by how normal the scene was. The bar wouldn't have looked out of place on his university campus. Drinks flowed as patrons lounged in booths and at tables, most glued to their taflas.

  Siel sat opposite him, looking visibly uncomfortable. They’d been forced to stable Molly with the other animals, and the boar had not been pleased about it. Siel had a skill that would allow her to store the Familiar in a pocket dimension, but it had a 24hr cooldown. They'd agreed not to burn the timer unless they absolutely had to.

  Sam waved at the server and pointed at his glass. He’d never been much of a beer drinker, but it turned out that when you gave brewers thousands of years to perfect their craft, they got extremely good at it. The server nodded, sweeping up the glass as she passed. Sam turned his head as she did so, keeping his face obscured behind his hood.

  They were taking a risk meeting in public, but Arther had already been in the city on business when they arrived, and it didn't make sense to trek all the way back to the forge. The days were growing short, and soon they wouldn't have time to resupply at all.

  They both took advantage of the opportunity to eat a meal not cooked by Sam, which they were both grateful for. He wasn't a terrible chef, but given the limited ingredients and cookware, they were often restricted to some variation of ‘chopped up meat with rice and veg’.

  He’d asked Siel if she wanted to help with the cooking one evening, and she’d laughed in his face. Her entire life had consisted of eating various configurations of protein slurries. Food was a strictly controlled substance for her caste, being the primary method of control by the ruling families. She’d never set foot in a kitchen before, let alone cooked in one.

  At least she was fine doing the dishes.

  Sam’s eyes wandered the room, gaze drifting over the screens displaying betting odds and Warrior statistics. The establishment appeared to be the Spire’s equivalent of a sports bar. Gems lined the walls, displaying never-ending replays of battles from all across the Ring.

  As always, he was impressed by the sheer variety of skills on display. While elemental magic was the most common, the ways in which it could be applied were endless. Water wasn't just ‘throw water at your opponent'. It was burning them with steam or trapping them in manacles of ice.

  The most dangerous Warriors, he observed, were the ones who seamlessly blended their skills with their martial abilities. Sam knew that as the War went on, they’d need to specialize, but for now, there was power in being an all-rounder.

  The door to the bar opened with a soft chime, and Sam spotted a familiar figure shuffling their way inside. Arther was doing his best to disguise himself, but a cloak wasn't nearly enough to hide the blacksmith's bulk. He kept his hood up as he made his way towards their booth in the corner. Sam spotted a few heads turn to study him, but luckily, he saw no flashes of recognition.

  Arther slid into the booth beside Siel and gave Sam a quick wink. The Warden looked better than the last time Sam had seen him. It appeared that his initial misgivings about Sam’s party decisions had been assuaged, and he was practically vibrating with excitement.

  “Well, let's see it,” he said, holding out an outstretched hand.

  Sam let out a small chuckle as he passed over the vial containing the [Frost Archon]’s blood. The glass was enchanted, but the cold still burned his fingers at the brief contact.

  Arther used his [Steelskin] skill, handling the item with ease as he held it up and inspected it. “By the gods, I think you might have done it. We’ll need to test it with the other ingredients to be sure, but…” his voice trailed off. “We should be able to create a [Divine Core].”

  There was a solemnity in the statement that Sam didn't take for granted. He knew just how serious the development was at their level. To not only have a [Relic] weapon, but to be able to evolve it to the next Tier…it was unheard of.

  Arther had spoken to a few of his contacts, and they could only recall it happening once or twice in the past few thousand years. While the weapon wouldn't make him invincible, it would give them an undeniable edge, making pressing up the Spire that much easier.

  The issue, of course, was that Sam would need to be Bronze Tier to use it properly.

  “I'll get to work on the preparations,” Arther said, storing the vial. “I'll need roughly a week to retrofit the forge and dial in the crucible.”

  “That works out well. We should hit Bronze in the next few days, so that gives us a little wiggle room.”

  Arther nodded, calling over the server and ordering a beer. More than anything, he seemed excited at the prospect of crafting a core. Sam got the sense that he was bored with the mundane level of forging that he’d been limited to on the first Ring. He was positively vibrating at the opportunity to craft something this rare and powerful.

  “What about the other thing?” Siel asked, taking a bite from her heaping plate of food.

  “Oh, I thought you might ask about that,” Arther said with a grin, summoning a leather bag from his inventory.

  Siel grabbed it excitedly and peered inside, eyes going wide before storing it. Sam couldn't help but smile as he watched her review the items on her tafla.

  She was serious by nature; focused, driven, unrelenting. All the things someone would want in a teammate. But there were moments when the shell cracked, and he caught a glimpse of the person who could have been.

  He couldn't imagine growing up in her situation. She and millions of her clan were born, lived, and died, all without ever seeing the surface of their world. Endless tunnels of stone and steel were all she’d known. They were slaves in all but name, toiling away for those who barely viewed them as people.

  He’d still occasionally catch glimpses of her admiring a tree, or rock, or bush. There was a sense of wonder that he’d probably never be able to fully appreciate. While his first night on the Spire had been a terrifying ordeal, he imagined hers must have been one of joy. Even the prospect of almost certain death couldn't shake her conviction.

  He knew that she'd do whatever it took to make it back to her people. It was partially what made her such a powerful party member. She wasn't just striving for survival. She had a goal.

  In that, they were aligned.

  Arther reached out and passed Sam a similar bag, and he stored it without looking. The contents were certain to draw attention, and he didn't want to do that more than they already were.

  Three cloaked figures at a booth in the back of a sketchy bar. It probably looked like some kind of afterlife drug deal. Did the Spire have drugs? Given that it was supposed to be paradise, Sam figured the answer was yes.

  “I'll take my leave unless you need anything else,” Arther said quietly, downing his beer in three quick gulps.

  “No, I think we should be alright. We have a mission and a timeline. We’ll be getting out there tonight and pushing south towards the desert.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Arther nodded. “Be careful with the low dunes. [Ridge Scorpions] love to come down during the day. I know Ol' Mjolna has venom resistance, but believe me, you do not want to be stung by one of them.” He pulled back the collar of his shirt to reveal a wicked, star-shaped scar. “Believe me, I speak from experience.”

  “Duly noted,” Sam responded, adding the scorpions to his ever-growing list of monsters to avoid, but ones they’d almost certainly encounter.

  “Any luck finding me a buyer for these Roc corpses?” Siel interjected, eyes still fixed on her tafla.

  “I have, actually. Their feathers are used in all sorts of medicinal recipes. The Alchemist's Guild has agreed to take them all off your hands at a decent rate.”

  “Decent?” Siel asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Good, I think? It's a bit outside my area of expertise. Right now, you need the spira to catch up to Boy Wonder over there, so I don't think we can really complain.”

  The sylvan grunted in response, but didn't press the issue. “Fine, I'll transfer the corpses to you; we don't have time to meet with them.”

  “Do I look like a courier?” Arther replied, though he swiftly melted under the intensity of Siel’s gaze.

  “Fine, fine,” he mumbled. “I guess I can stop by on my way back to the forge.”

  “Excellent!” she responded, face cracking into a wide grin.

  “Let's do the transfer outside, Forge Father knows we don't need to be drawing any more attention.”

  Siel nodded, and the two filed out of the booth. Sam waved them off and told them he’d be down shortly.

  He picked up his beer and made his way out onto the terrace, glad for the brief moment of quiet. The sun was just beginning to set, the city laid out before him, painted in hues of pink and gold.

  It was the first moment he’d had to himself since Siel joined the party. It wasn't that he minded the company, but he simply wasn't used to having someone around all the time. He’d been a solitary person before the War, and weeks spent in isolation on the slopes hadn't helped.

  He let out a long breath, willing the stress to leave his neck and shoulders. Despite his now-superhuman constitution, he still got muscle cramps in his back. Maybe he needed to follow Eeno’s example and get a real bed.

  He leaned on the thick stone railing and used his enhanced eyesight to gaze down on the citizens below. The bar was located on the edge of the bluff, giving him miles of visibility. Despite the city’s eclectic appearance, it all seemed to fit together from above. Somehow, all the disparate pieces worked together.

  “It's a helluva view, ain't it?” said a voice at his shoulder.

  Sam jumped, summoning his hammer. He’d been so focused on the city that he hadn't noticed the person step up beside him.

  “Whoa, easy now,” said the old man, his voice thick with a southern American accent. He was wearing a well-kept grey Warrior tunic, and the tafla at his wrist had a deep, red gem, marking him as a potential enemy.

  He was old, Sam noticed. Easily the oldest person he’d seen in the War. His face was covered with a web of wrinkles, his back hunched with the years.

  “Sorry,” Sam said stiffly, “you startled me.”

  “I apologize,” said the old man, giving a slight bow. “That was not my intent. I simply thought to remark on this wonderful view.”

  “Yeah, it’s something else.”

  “Hard to believe we ain't on Earth anymore. I thought I was hallucinating for the first couple of days. Took me seeing one of those big Var fellas buck ass naked for it to finally sink in. Absolutely no way I'd be dreaming of that, let me tell you.”

  Sam couldn't help but laugh at the eccentric senior. His danger senses were completely unfazed by the man’s presence. Whoever he was, he genuinely appeared harmless.

  “Name’s Jeremiah, but all my friends call me Jerry.” he stuck out a hand, and Sam took it, surprised by the strength in the gnarled fingers.

  “I'm Sam, nice to meet you, Jeremiah.”

  “Please, call me Jerry. And I know who you are. Hope you don't mind me saying, but your disguise is pretty shit.”

  The look on Sam’s face caused Jerry to burst out laughing, and Sam did a quick scan of the balcony to make sure they were alone.

  “Don't you worry, Mr ‘Apostate’, your secret's safe with me. I don't care much for this whole ‘War’ business. Seems like a grand ol’ waste of time and resources. Could you imagine if they put half the effort into actually caring for us mortals? My goodness, what a world we coulda had.”

  Sam found himself nodding along and decided he liked the old-timer. There was a rhythm to the way he spoke that made you want to listen.

  “What do you mean you don't care about the War? Are you not fighting?”

  Jerry gave him a reproachful look. “Boy, do I look like I'm going to go off galavantin’ and slaying dragons n’ shit? How old do you think I am? These supposedly all-knowin’ gods plucked me straight outta the hospital. What am I supposed to do, piss myself and hope the monsters die of shame?”

  He gave a dismissive gesture before returning to look out over the city. “Nah, no fighting for me. Just don't see the point.”

  “But you’ll die!” Sam blurted out before he could stop himself.

  “Oh, Sam,” Jerry said softly, “I was already dead. Pancreatic cancer. Helluva way to go. Doctors gave me a few months at most. I woulda been happy with a few weeks. My granddaughter was gonna be graduating college, can you believe it? College! I just wanted to be there to see her in a cap and gown.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a girl around Sam’s age, holding her diploma. “Don't ask me how these wizards work, but a nice lady down in the market was able to get me that. I guess the Internet is a funny thing out here.”

  “How are you able to afford that, if you aren't killing monsters?” Sam asked.

  “Well, that's a good question. Mostly, I tell stories. I guess these old spirits miss home something awful, and seeing scraps of movies or TV just don't scratch the itch. They're fading away, Sam. Most just don't know it. Barkeep lets me stay in a little room up there, as long as I come down at night and keep folks entertained.”

  Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to articulate exactly what he was thinking.

  Jerry glanced at him and laughed. “Just say it, boy. Get it out.”

  “Aren't you even going to try?” He whispered, voice cracking. “Maybe, there's a chance you can—”

  “Sam, let me stop you right there.” Jerry cut in, voice firm. “I feel like you're not thinking about what you're saying. Seven souls, right? That's all of us who are seeing the end of this. You're young, you got a fire in you, I can see it plain as day. I'm old, Sam. I lived a life I was proud of. And now, instead of spending my last days gasping for breath in a hospital, I get to spend em’ here?”

  He gripped the old stone railing and shook it. “Look at me! Stronger than I was before. No more cancer. The gods took it out when they brought me here. Guess they didn't want me dyin’ of something so mundane.

  “So look at it from my perspective. Instead of a slow, awful death, in a cold white room—I get to be here, tellin’ stories again, for people who want to listen. I’m not a burden or an annoyance. I'm just Ol’ Jerry.”

  He leaned forward, light catching on the few wispy strands of hair clinging stubbornly to his wrinkled scalp.

  “You think I should fight, but for what? To go back to that hospital bed, or worse, stuck here as some kind of ghost? Forget it. Seven weeks in paradise seems like a damn good deal to me.” He said it with a finality that brokered no argument.

  Sam sighed, biting his lip, trying to come up with some counterargument, even though he knew it was pointless. The man was technically an enemy. The only way to get him out would be to have him join the party, but that wasn't even possible on the first Ring. He was already weeks behind as it was…

  Sam stopped the errant train of thought and joined the old man leaning on the balcony. He was right. Weeks in paradise surely beat the alternative.

  “I'm sorry,” Sam said softly.

  “Don’t be,” Jerry replied. “I got my wish, and more time than I expected. I can die happy, or, well, happy enough.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I'm gonna go over the drop.”

  “What?!” Sam replied, face aghast.

  “Hah! That never gets old. Sure, why not? I'm curious what's down there, and it sure as hell beats whatever it is those bastards are sending after us. They'd have to send me out of the city regardless. Locals won't let you stay once the Purge starts.”

  “Wait, do you know about the Purge?”

  Jerry tapped his nose. “Locals like to talk, especially when they've been drinkin’. I guess it's different on each Ring, but down here, a bunch of portals open by the drop, and monsters come out…and they keep coming until every last Warrior is dead.”

  Sam’s heart pounded in his chest. He'd had his suspicions about the ‘Ring Purge’ entailed, but the specifics were even worse than he'd expected. Arther had pointedly avoided answering every time he'd asked.

  “What kind of monsters are we talking about here?”

  “They can't say much, but I did hear something about outrunning the hounds of hell.”

  Sam gulped. “Well, that seems ominous.”

  “Sure does,” Jerry replied, giving him a pat on the arm. “And I'm sorry for it. You seem like a good guy, Sam. You didn't deserve this.”

  Sam clenched his teeth. “None of us did.”

  “Well, maybe that's true. In any case, I'll be praying for you.”

  Sam gave him a questioning look. “Praying to who?”

  Jerry let out a laugh. “Anyone who’ll listen.”