Chapter 472: On the eastern continent

[Dungeon complete: Temple of the Everliving. Experience gained (major)]

[Title gained: Ozymandius. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. +2 to primary statistic.]

[You have achieved level 19! Please select a new power, and an existing power to upgrade to tier 2.]

[Objective complete: Obey the Eternal God’s command. Reward: Mysterious Artifact]

[Item gained: Mysterious artifact. A powerful object associated with a specific affinity and God. Would you like to bind this item now?]

Jeong stood on the top of his master’s inner ziggurat, shivering with pleasure but hesitating to accept the prompt. It had taken far longer than anticipated, but he’d succeeded.

His patron’s ancient temple had been explored, conquered, cleansed. He watched as the ‘heart’ at its center pulsed with dark life, magic erupting to rip apart the pitiful rot of the creatures and corruption that had entered over the centuries.

The remnants of mindless undead collapsed, the ancient fragments of their shattered will released and overtaken by the god of the immortals.

Like Jeong, the Everliving was not interested in chaos. The flesh-eating, life-destroying detritus of death magic was as anathema to Him as it was to any living creature.

His

servants were not monstrous automatons. They served His will in the same way Jeong’s Vessels served—their essence sacrificed to a greater cause, a greater being—their bodies given freely to their lord and master. The only difference was Jeong demanded far less sacrifice. At least for now.

When he was confident his patron’s magic was overtaking the temple, he accepted the option to bind his new weapon. The usual flood of system attention overwhelmed and bound him, paralyzing his limbs as he filled with something like electricity.

[Warning: you are attempting to bind a Divine Artifact. Artifacts are items of immense power and consequence, which will destroy or consume all but the most powerful players. Immortality and level 20+ recommended.]

Jeong waved away the warning, not afraid of any consequence on his route to greater power. And he was close enough. His god had promised him a weapon that would kill Mason Nimitz, and for now that was all that mattered. The binding shivered through him, and he felt the presence of the ‘Divine Artifact’.

A sound like a rattlesnake clicked through his mind. It said nothing, asked nothing, and Jeong wasn’t even sure he felt anything like sentience. But he could feel a new

sense

inside him. It was a desire like hunger or thirst, except it was a terrible cold sensation somewhere he couldn’t understand.

A kind of hour glass began to drain inside Jeong’s chest—a burning of fuel like food or drink, a new kind of energy he knew he must recharge, or die. Whatever questions or doubt he had about

what

that energy was, or how he should fill it, drained as he lifted a hand and summoned his new weapon.

It formed as a spike of sharpened bone. The white enamel glinted with a polished tip, so fragile looking Jeong might have been afraid to ever use it as a weapon if he didn’t know what it was.

He thought of the image of his patron—the skeletal giant sitting in a throne of bone, a single finger missing from his left hand. Jeong shivered with reverence and fear, knowing what he held before the text scrolled.

[Finger of Death. Torn from the hand of the Everliving God in the Cosmic War, filed and sharpened into a blade. Nothing can withstand the touch of death for long. Innate. Extreme damage to nearly all forms of defense. Corrupts wounds and prevents regeneration or healing.]

Jeong lifted the ‘blade’ and laughed. He imagined driving it through his enemy’s flesh—watching the arrogant boy’s face as he realized his only hope, his only power capable of withstanding Jeong, was rendered completely useless.

As the patron of such a large settlement he had weeks to do his level and ignored the blinking lights. But he flipped open his profile and smiled as he saw the temple enter his external resources. Some kind of resource would begin to flow once he recovered a Nexus, making it even more clear what his next order of business was.

He ran down the ziggurat stairs with his inhuman speed, heart racing with ambition and hatred, and renewed purpose. He sped through the transforming temple, watching servants of his master collapse and then rise again with His light in their eyes.

All nodded or bowed as Jeong passed. As his patron’s avatar, they would protect and serve him as long as the temple’s dark heart beat. He flipped through his options, highlighting every possible rising undead and ordering them to march to his city at full speed.

In his absence, he had no doubt some of his ‘loyal’ players had begun plotting to overthrow him. He would return and set things in order, make a Nexus team and take it, no longer concerned if he had a loss or two. By then his new undead servants should just be arriving in the holy city—another layer of Order to control the disloyal masses.

Jeong flew out from the main stone entrance, now open to him as he passed. The giant skeletons there bowed as they held open the gate, and their new master blew dust and sand as he sprinted at the speed of a train across the desert, his eyes locked as ever on the future.

**

Chinua watched from his forward observation post on a high hill as his chief scout came running towards their camp. The eastern scout loosed a warning arrow, then the western. Chinua saw nothing, not any threat in any direction, but he trusted his soldiers.

He turned and ran to meet the man, knowing his players would be en route to the agreed upon rally point. He leapt down the rocky cliff with his defensive shield, turning it off at the bottom to run faster. He met the young Iranian at their small creek.

“System event, General. Some kind of…demonic invasion. There’s portals opening…letting them out. Near the mountains. Where the old settlement was. I saw at least three. More forming.”

Chinua winced and balanced life and death. The woods and hills near the former settlement had been home for his soldiers and civilians for months. It had kept them far enough away from Jeong’s city and some nearby monstrous tribes, with just enough resources.

They were also theoretically waiting for Mason Nimitz or his people to find them here—or at least nearby, which meant if they moved it might complicate things.

But it was still just a place. All that really mattered were the people, and the people could move. Where there was life there was hope for the future, Chinua had learned that lesson long ago.

“Threat assessment,” he said, trusting the scout’s judgment with his life. The former tour guide twitched and shook his head.

“Can’t say for sure, General. But those portals were opening fast. And the event hinted at some demonic boss.”

“Give me your opinion, soldier,” Chinua said, not wanting to wait a second longer before he made the decision.

“We run.” The scout deflated at his own words. “This event is made for a settlement, not a handful of players. So we run.”

Chinua put a hand on the man’s shoulder, already knowing in his gut he agreed. “Get the civilians moving, take what they can, leave what they must. We go to alternate site B.”

“Sir.”

The scout ran, and Chinua closed a fist, holding back the curse. It didn’t make any difference how you felt about reality. It happened, and you reacted. And it was always better to get on with it.

His players were coming down the trails so he ran to the rally point, waiting until they’d all arrived. He told them the situation and his intention, knowing they’d take the news hard.

“Any disagreement or opinions? Now is the time.”

“Gettin’ fuckin’ tired of runnin’, Captain,” said Adela, and Chinua met her eyes.

“You and me both, soldier. But there were at least 25 players in that settlement, and I’m guessing the event is designed for that. Even if we win, I expect…unacceptable losses.”

“Chinua’s in charge in a crisis,” Ayden said, cutting to the quick as usual. “So we move, and complain later. I’ll go get my things.”

Most of the others sighed or nodded and Chinua didn’t see much else to say. They ran towards their base camp and temporary home, knowing they’d have to abandon shelter and supplies for the second time. But Adela was right—they were all tired of running.

Chinua got to his command tent and scooped up his emergency bag, grabbing together spears and knives and a few packs of clothes and water, leaving the rest for any civilians to gather if they wanted.

He went to his woman next, finding her in their tent in the already chaotic civilian camp. She was on hands and knees stuffing clothes into bags, a few tears obvious in her eyes.

Chinua stopped and watched her and clenched his jaw, still finding her youth and beauty almost painful, imagining the child growing in her belly grown and beside him asking why they were leaving their home.

She was the kind of woman he’d never have imagined being with before. A white South African, the daughter of some Boer whose father had probably fought people like Chinua’s father. The only thing they’d had in common was hating their own histories, and each other not at all.

Zola turned and saw him, quickly wiping her eyes and pretending to be strong. He smiled and crossed the distance, lifting her up into an embrace. She held on, almost wooden, lasting awhile before she gripped his shoulders and cried.

He let her get it out, just holding her until she was taking deep breaths and wiping her tears on his shirt.

“I’ll need you to take the red bag,” she said. “It’s full of cooking things and it’s too heavy.”

“Red bag,” Chinua said rotely, wiping a thumb across her smooth cheek. “Our home is wherever our son is, Zola. I have left many houses, but I am still alive.”

Zola shrugged like it didn’t matter. “It’s a girl,” she muttered, and Chinua smiled.

“It’s a boy. I asked Ayden to guess, and he’s always right. Now finish packing, and put the bags with the others in the center of town. Everything goes together.”

“Yes, husband.”

Chinua kissed his beautiful young bride, still sometimes in awe at the miraculous, terrible life that had led him here and now to have such a thing.

But it was that life that gave him the strength the others needed. The strength to fail, but still survive—the strength to withstand and begin again.

He smoothed his lover’s hair and touched her stomach, grabbed the red bag, then ducked out to bolster the others.