Book 1 Epilogues

I. The Imp King

The Imp King tasted the sacrifice's fear before she even knew it existed. It made his mouth water. Through the eyes of his imp, he watched her. The imp—small, pustule covered minion of his bidding—flapped its wings, keeping pace with her car. The Imp King was about two minutes behind, half focused on the stretch of I-90 in front of him while his mind's eye swam with the imp's vision.

Another one. It had been too long.

She was a woman. Of course she was. Their only purpose was to serve as a sacrifice to fuel his own power. Women. They were vile things—vessels in flesh, parading around in a mockery of purpose. Through his imp's eyes he could see the glow within her, subtle, faint, but divine. A flicker of something unearned. Stolen from the universe that had gifted him with prophecy. A drop of power.

Her car passes by an illuminated green sign on the side of the highway: 200 miles to Cleveland. She pulls over, taking an exit onto a country road with a couple of isolated gas stations.

Chicago had been a banquet. A red, howling, glorious banquet. Blood pooled in alleyways, spilled by his imps in service of the Rite. For a moment, he had felt it—he had been chosen by a divine power, Chernobog, to rule this filthy world.

But then the Guilds arrived. Crawling like maggots from the sewers, they drove him from his throne. Usurpers, all of them. Vile, disgusting…!

He'd fled.

But his lord worked in mysterious ways, and as fate would have it, he was bestowed a parting gift. This girl. She was leaving the city, too. Car packed with plastic bins and duffels. Northwestern bumper sticker. Going home, she probably thought. But this world… His world. Had different plans for her.

His imp swept down, perching near the illuminated country road gas station. Waiting. Watching…

She stood at the pump, stretching her arms as the nozzle clicked off. Sweat stuck her shirt to her back. Her long hair, the color of dead leaves, clung to her neck in the humid evening. She had no idea what she was. His lord had kissed her, marking her as a very, very special sacrifice.

He chuckled, thinking back to the first time a sacrifice had borne the mark of his lord. After the ritual was complete, he had received a notification.

UPDATE: You have claimed another Soul-touched.

UPDATE: 89/100 Soul-touched remaining (22 Soul-touched not yet selected)

Initiating Soul Confluence…

Soul Confluence: Complete.

User Statistics have been updated.

Chernobog had bestowed him a Quest. Gather the sacrifices. Grow in power. Inherit this filthy world. When he had taken his first Soul-touched as part of the Rite, he received a minor boon in the way of a unique Ability:

SKILL: Soul Hunter (Legendary)

[Description: You are capable of identifying other Soul-touched within a 50 yard radius. Once you've identified a Soul-touched, their location will appear in your [Map] Menu at all times.]

The Imp King killed the headlights of his car. He sat quietly on the shoulder just past the gas station, cloaked in moonless dark. His fingers drummed on the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel as he continued to watch.

After his mark finished filling her gas tank, she went inside for a snack. She didn't see the imp on the awning. Or the three more—small, chittering shadows—crawling through the grass at the edge of the lot.

The Imp King felt the leash tighten in his mind. Felt their hunger like tiny fires behind his eyes. He cast [Conjure Imp] twelve more times, and felt the Realm beyond siphon his mana. His mind stretched out across the Dominion as members of his horde appeared in the darkness around his car, waiting for the Rite to begin.

The girl stepped out of the station. Her car beeped. The engine turned over. It was too late. She wouldn't make it… Her car would be left running, abandoned.

He tugged on the leash in his mind.

From the dark behind the propane cage, two imps lunged. Wings flaring, claws outstretched, teeth gnashing like rusty sawblades. One hit the hood of her car, skittering across the windshield like a spider the size of a child. She screamed, dropping her drink, but her breath was cut short by a cold, green hand clasping over her mouth as another imp landed on her back, knocking her to the pavement.

The Imp King watched, eyes wide and ecstatic. He felt it all—the rush of adrenaline, the tearing of fabric, the delicious, tangled confusion. The fear. Her pain vibrated through the mental link like a favorite song played loud.

He whispered into the Dominion, his voice slick with anticipation.

"Bring her to me."

The imps obeyed.

Tonight, he would see it personally. Not just through their eyes. Not just in flashes and screams, and mental impressions he received through his connection to the Dominion.

Tonight, the offering would scream for him.

II. Walter

Walter, Skeleton Accountant and Schedule Keeper of the Castle of Lich-lord Dinescu, clacked along the gravel path of the estate's hedge maze with the crisp purpose of someone whose tibia-to-time-management ratio was dangerously optimized. His femurs clicked with each step, and his spine, ramrod straight, bore the regal indignity of someone who had not been built for field work—but had nonetheless been assigned it anyway.

Behind him lumbered Grush, seven and a half feet of verdant silence, carrying under one arm the most loquacious undead warlock Walter had ever met.

"Now, I'm not saying it'll be easy," Preston was saying, voice bubbling through the enchanted liquid that filled the glass bowl he called home. "But I am saying it'll be important. Possibly reality-shaping. Possibly—"

"Possibly unauthorized," Walter muttered, consulting the parchment scroll floating alongside him, magically bound to his bony wrist. The zombie goldfish's plan sounded like a lot of paperwork, more like it. "We still don't have express permission to leave the Castle grounds, and the Lich-lord made it very clear last quarter that any more 'extracurricular necromantic expenditures' would require preapproval in triplicate. Needless to say, my friend, but that's above my paygrade. I'm seriously risking my bones for you right now."

"Oh please," Preston burbled, swishing dramatically inside his bowl. "Dinescu hasn't left the Hall of Whispers in a month. He won't notice we've nipped out to borrow a few souls from the graveyard."

Walter stopped. The parchment scroll halted mid-air, twitching irritably. "Recycle," Walter corrected. "We recycle souls. Everything has to be logged, certified, ethically reclaimed and properly filed. You know how many audits we've had this century?"

Grush shrugged. Or possibly adjusted his grip. It was hard to tell with Grush.

"Come on, Walter," Preston said, more gently. "You felt it, didn't you? These dreams. These visions. Memories."

Walter made a low sound, halfway between a sigh and the grinding of gears. "I did too," he admitted, softly. "Or... I think I did."

Ever since that adventurer—Joseph—had departed their Realm, inhabitants of the Castle had started to receive visions. The visions soon spread like a disease. Until people started realizing that these visions were in fact memories. Memories from a time before their undeath. Walter was among those infected. He would have sleepless dreams of the World Tournament. Of a time before he was Walter, Skeleton Accountant. And was simply 'Walter.'

It wasn't long after the memories started returning to the Castle's inhabitants that the System messages began to appear. The phenomenon was characterized by floating text and menus appearing before the infected.

Preston's bowl pulsed with arcane light. "Exactly. And now it's happening again. The System's back. The World Tournament's returned. Something woke us up, Walter. Maybe not fully. But it's back. And we have a part to play in this event."

They had arrived at the graveyard.

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The hedgerows parted like the mouth of a beast, opening onto a field of crooked stone teeth and soil so black it gleamed under the dim starlight. A thin fog rolled over the ground, conjured from the crypts below. Walter sighed again—an affectation he no longer required but had never quite given up.

"Well," he said. "If we're going to do this, we'll do it properly. We're only pulling souls from Section F through M. Anything older than five hundred years is flagged for spiritual degradation review. If you want 'Specialized Skeleton' quality, I'll need to do some calculations to determine who is available for a recycling, or a promotion—"

He froze.

Far above, the sky ripped open.

Red light poured across the world like spilled paint, and a second moon—no, not a moon, an eye—opened in the heavens. It was vast, a yellow, vertical pupil shimmering to shape within the crimson iris. It turned, slowly, and stared down at them with ancient, cruel interest.

Walter didn't breathe (well, he couldn't if he wanted to). And if he had a stomach, it would have fallen out of his bottom at the sight of the gigantic eye's presence.

"I remember that eye," he whispered. "From before."

Preston's bowl glowed again. Brighter now.

"The Tournament," said the goldfish.

Grush grunted.

Walter looked at the eye in the sky, and then down at the list in his hand. The parchment began scrolling itself faster than he could read, records unraveling like fate on fire.

Times were changing at the Graveyard Castle, and Walter realized he might need to put the necessary paperwork on hold for a while.

III. Illrune Abascal

Illrune Abascal, younger son of the Abascal Family and absolute failure, was a dead man walking. A prince of squandered potential, heir to mediocrity. His men had stirred from unconsciousness groggy and broken, looked at him with the haunted eyes of soldiers who knew the weight of failure, and then… he let them go. No commands. No promises. No lies. Just a flick of the wrist, and they scattered like crows from a corpse. They staggered into the carriages and, set the giant millipedes into motion, and were off. Leaving him.

Returning home meant facing his father, Lord Abascal. That was no less than a death sentence, and he wasn't quite ready to die. Not by that hand. So instead, he sat there on the cold shoulder of Mount Alkazab, and considered letting the mountain take him. Even with the Storm Dragons slain, there were enough horrors who called the Mountain home who might claim him. If the elements didn't first.

Nearby, Dain groaned, still laying on his back where he had fallen during the clash with the outworlder wizard. The blood from his severed arm had slowed to a trickle, congealing in a dark, tacky puddle that surrounded him and steamed in the evening air. The others had tried to pick him up, to carry him into the carriages, but Dain had laughed—actually laughed—and told them not to bother.

"Half a man's worth half a bounty," he rasped. "Leave me with the other half-man. We'll die together. Perfect symmetry."

And so, they stayed.

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over black rock, the remnants of the magical duel still warming the soil beneath their bodies. The air turned razor-sharp, slicing at their skin with the promise of night. Illrune stared at the ground, lost in the debris of his thoughts. Potential glory, now just soot on the wind. It had been just as difficult to grasp.

How had it all gone so wrong? One more moment. One more strike. One more second, and he'd have grasped it. Power, recognition, a name that meant something. But it had slipped from his fingers like sand through a broken hourglass.

He closed his eyes. "What purpose was I even brought into this world for…?"

"A question only the desperate ask," said a voice, smooth as honey laced with poison.

Illrune's eyes snapped open. He twisted, reaching for the dagger at his belt with the speed of a man who had not entirely given up on survival.

A woman floated down from the sky, drifting on unseen currents like she was underwater, hair like woven moonlight flowing around her in slow, lazy spirals. She had too-pale skin, even for an elf of nobleborn lineage. It was closer to the pallor of death—the hue of something that had forgotten warmth, or never known it at all.

She landed on the flat stone slab where the dragon core had been chained, silent as a snowflake.

"Wh—who are you?" Illrune asked, heart now jackhammering in his chest. He didn't know her, but could feel her power. She had it concealed and still, her suppressed aura was enough to send Illrune's primal senses into flight-or-fight response.

The woman smiled, and the curve of her lips was cruel and oddly maternal. "Sloth."

The blood drained from Illrune's face faster than from Dain's stump. He forgot any thought of drawing his dagger and scrambled back on instinct, mind racing through the implications.

One of the Cardinal Hand had appeared before him.

"You shouldn't be here," he stammered. "You—you…"

"I observe," she interrupted, examining her fingernails. "Greed collects. But he's often too quick to act, and often overlooks… Minor details."

Illrune blinked. "So why are you here?" Then, remembering himself, quickly dipped his head and added, "M'lady."

She tilted her head. "Because I watched your fight. You're ambitious. Perhaps too ambitious. But that spark? That refusal to lay down and die even when death was on its way? That caught my attention. I had every intention of leaving you here to rot, truly, but you're both so… pathetic… that I… hm." She shrugged. "Felt something… Pity?"

"Pity?" Illrune echoed, voice barely more than a whisper.

"Curiosity," Sloth corrected, eyes gleaming. "But I can offer you purpose. Real purpose. You want power? The kind the Outworlders wield like it's just another tool? I can teach you. Give you the keys to access the same well of power that they draw from."

Illrune licked his lips. "Why?... What is it you want in return?"

Sloth paused for a breath, as though considering, and then spoke.

"You bind yourself to me. Serve me. Swear your loyalty, and I will give you the power you crave."

He hesitated. That sounded like the kind of deal people regretted.

And yet…

Greed had no idea he even existed, despite bearing the Abascal name. His father had cast him aside.

"I accept," he said.

She smiled. "Good… then follow me."

He stood. His knees wobbled like a newborn foal, but he stood.

"Wait…!" a voice croaked behind him.

Dain. The man hadn't moved much, but he had lifted his head, looking up at Sloth over the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. "Take me too."

Sloth turned, gliding toward the half-dead rogue. "You may join," she said, voice like velvet. "If you pledge loyalty to this man." She pointed at Illrune. "In service to me."

Dain stared up at her. There was pain in his face, yes, but also something harder. The hard look melted away, revealing the fox-like smile Illrune recognized. He nodded once. "Fine."

"Then your vow is sealed in silver and blood."

She knelt beside him, trailing a finger through the congealed pool where his arm had once been. The blood shimmered, shifted, turning molten. It climbed his shoulder in a rush, reforming, reshaping—an arm, sculpted from liquid silver, every muscle and vein etched like divine filigree.

Dain gasped, sitting upright. He flexed his fingers. His new hand made no sound.

He looked at Illrune, something unreadable in his expression.

Illrune looked back.

Together, they followed Sloth as she opened a tear in space—a portal of dull light and whispering edges of fraying reality.

Just before they stepped through, Illrune found his voice again.

"But… why?" he asked. "Why are you willing to give us this power?"

Sloth paused, half-turned, the shadows of the mountain playing across her face.

"Because," she said. "A war is coming, young Abascal. And we best prepare the welcome party."

IV. Madame Friday

The Lady of Chains drifted through the breathless dark between worlds, wrapped in silence as complete as the void itself. Her body—if such a thing could still be called a body—moved without motion, untouched by inertia, trailing faint lines of silver thread behind her like an artisan's needle forgotten by time. Where she passed, the stars shivered in the wake of her power.

She approached the moon slowly, deliberately. The pale satellite waited in eternal vigil over the sphere below. Earth. A familiar world. One of many. But unique in its current designation. The stage had been set here. This cycle's Game had begun.

Her descent was quiet. One moment she floated above the pale stone surface, haloed by distant stars. The next, she stood upon it.

She bore one of her gentler guises today. Framed in long midnight hair pinned by a ring of delicate chains, her face had a serene strength to it, like the patient edge of a buried blade. This face had worn many names. Frigg. Madame Friday. The All-Binder. It changed with the cultures of each Realm, but the truth remained the same.

She was the Lady of Chains. The One Who Binds. The Divine Holder of the Thirteenth Principle: Connection.

From the moon's surface, she looked down on the Earth. Its atmosphere shimmered with the breath of mortal effort, streaked with the golden pulse of Systemic awakening. In her vision, threads of light rippled across the planet like veins.

She reached out with her Will.

It extended downward, searching for purchase amongst the world of mortals. She was a goddess not of dominion, but of relation, and the System itself was a kind of bond. A covenant between the mortal and the divine. Between effort and reward. Between growth and consequence.

Her mind touched the System's presence, and she felt the signature of it. Each Realm's System was a reflection of the eternal System—the body of Creation. This reflection felt… wrong. Once pristine, it was now tainted.

"Reveal," she whispered. Her voice rang across the moon like a chime on glass as she triggered her [Clairvoyance] Skill.

The Skill activated with the weight of prophecy. Silver fire bloomed around her, a halo of spinning rings etched with runes of revelation and consent. Her domain—the bonds between all things—responded eagerly, and the connection between this world and its System revealed itself to her as a web. It was intricate… Vast, despite its infancy. Fractured and twisted in countless places. The divine architecture of the System had been… perverted.

She saw the fingerprints first. Familiar. Twisted Class structures, nonstandard Skill evolutions, mortal Participants tagged with Traits that should have been locked behind the final Stages of this Contest. The Trickster's work, surely. He had always enjoyed prodding the rules, like a child poking at a wasp nest with a stick. He had been responsible for the Participant Onboarding this cycle. He had meddled, yes.

But not this. He could not have done this.

She dove deeper, anchoring herself with the ironclad determination of her nature—chains crafted not of iron, but of Intent. Her Sight pulled taut against the limits of Systemic comprehension. A god could see much, but this System Iteration had already begun. It was growing, breathing… adapting. It was adapting in a manner that departing from its pre-designated path.

And that terrified her.

Who had done this?

She pressed further. Her [Clairvoyance] flared white-hot, rings around her spinning until they screamed against the fabric of existence. She looked ahead. To the very periphery of her Sight. To the place all bonds fray.

And she witnessed the death of her and all her siblings.

Her chains unraveled.

The vision ended.

She staggered backward, the shell of her divine self recoiling from what it had witnessed. The end. Not of this Game. Not of this Realm, Earth. But of them.

The Thirteen. The Divine Holders. The last living facets of Creation's Will.

She stood frozen for a long moment, her mind racing with calculations. Who would benefit from this? Who could even dare?

It wasn't the Trickster. He had been imprisoned during the time of Earth's seeding. And something such as this required access to this System Iteration during its infancy stages, when it was most malleable. For even a shard of Creation had its limits.

The Lady of Chains clenched her jaw. Across her arms, glowing lines of silver light tightened, binding her to her own Vows, reminding her of the oaths she had taken so long ago. She would not speak this lightly. Would not accuse without first having proof.

But the truth, like a manacle, had already closed around her. In knowing it, her fate had been sealed.

It had to be one of them. One of the other Twelve.

"Creation help us..."

There was a traitor among her siblings.

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