Prior… to now?

No… Let's go with earlier—yeah, just a few days ago!

Anlyth pushed open the door to a tavern now overrun by Slaethian forces. Inside, a raucous symphony of laughter and drunken debauchery filled the air—a chaotic chorus born of yet another conquest. The jubilant atmosphere seemed to infect everyone except the tavern owner, a stout man with a blend of humyn and elven features, and a server whose striking appearance marked her as part blood elf. Her crimson eyes and visible veins betrayed her heritage as she weaved through the boisterous crowd, balancing trays of drinks with practiced grace while dodging the unwelcome advances of barbarian warriors crowding the establishment.

These barbarians were a unique breed of mana users, capable of infusing their bodies and muscles with magic to achieve extraordinary levels of strength. The direct manipulation of ambient mana was unheard of for any known race. Instead, these warriors absorbed ambient mana through their flesh, channeling it into their internal reserves. From that internal source, they enhanced both their offensive and defensive capabilities with magic. Their technique required minimal clothing, allowing the energy to flow freely into their bodies.

This practice wasn't unique to the barbarians. Many casters employed a similar method, while others drew mana by metabolizing energy from food. A rare few went even further, harmonizing their internal mana with the environment—'breathing in' magic, as some described it. The tavern, as a result, was a peculiar sight: a mix of patrons ranging from fully clothed and armored to those practically naked, depending on their magical preferences or traditions.

However, none of these methods allowed for the direct manipulation of ambient mana. No, such a feat was the domain of beings from myth and legend: the titans.

Observing the tavern, Anlyth felt a flicker of sympathy for the owner and the blood elf server, likely his wife, as they navigated the rowdy crowd of magic-infused revelers.

Anlyth, draped in a pitch-black cowl and cape, moved with a quiet but palpable intensity. Her attire concealed the glint of armor and obscured her facial features, but her presence alone—the unmistakable aura of a Champion—instilled wary respect among the tavern's patrons. The air around her seemed to chill, and even the hardiest souls instinctively kept their distance.

She made her way to a corner table occupied by a burly humyn and two stout dwarves. The table, large enough for twice their number, had become their exclusive domain—a silent declaration of strength in a room full of warriors. Yet, as Anlyth approached, unease rippled through the group, their bravado faltering against her overwhelming presence.

The humyn looked up cautiously, his eyes briefly meeting hers. Her glowing gaze, blue tinged with gold, marked her as someone far beyond ordinary. He quickly averted his eyes, confusion and unease flickering across his face.

With a sharp sigh, Anlyth made her demand.

"Move."

Her tone left no room for debate. The trio exchanged hurried glances before standing, their retreat swift and silent. They understood there was no sense in challenging her.

Anlyth slid into the corner seat, her back to the wall, affording her a clear view of the room. The earlier din of the tavern had faded into an uneasy hush. Conversations turned to whispers, and no one dared look directly at her.

The blood elf woman hesitantly approached, carrying a large mug of mead. Her trembling hands betrayed her fear, the golden liquid sloshing over the rim with each unsteady step. By the time she reached Anlyth's table, the mug was noticeably less full.

"I-It's on the h-house," she stammered, setting the mug down before scurrying away, her movements a mix of haste and relief.

Anlyth's gaze swept the tavern once more, taking in the scene with a calculating eye. The air was thick with the spoils of conquest, each drink served on the house in celebration of yet another territory succumbing to the Slaethian forces. The half-elf owner and the blood elf server, skittishly weaving through the rowdy crowd, were perhaps the only tenuous threads holding the tavern back from descending into utter chaos. It was an unspoken rule in such places: as long as the ale flowed and the walls stood, chaos would remain contained—for now.

Among the Slaethian ranks, where might made right, policies against misconduct were little more than flimsy parchment. Anlyth knew the truth lurking beneath these celebrations. In newly conquered lands, the line between revelry and outright pillage was perilously thin. Despite the illusion of discipline, violations were all too common—aggressions carried out not just by the male warriors but by female fighters who could rival their male counterparts in predatory pursuits. The tavern, at least for now, served as a fragile microcosm of this conquered territory, teetering precariously between festivity and anarchy.

Beyond the tavern walls, muffled screams and cries from the streets served as a grim backdrop to the conquest. Outside, the full brutality of the Slaethian campaign unfolded: pillaging, rape, public executions, and relentless torture weren't merely allowed—they were expected. Under the Slaethian banner, backed by the Ascended Empire, resistance was met with swift annihilation. Those deemed unworthy or "unenlightened" often suffered fates far worse than death.

As a Champion, Anlyth found herself grappling with these realities in a way she hadn't before. Her battles had always been about survival, her victories driven by adrenaline and the heat of conflict. But now, as a detached observer, she saw the senseless carnage for what it truly was. Watching the chaos unfold from the sidelines forced her to confront the sheer scale of destruction, the devastation pressing heavily on her conscience. The perspective shift brought with it an unwelcome torrent of doubts.

Finishing her mead, Anlyth set the mug down deliberately, the faint clink carrying a note of finality. She signaled for another, her movements measured. The blood elf server, steadier than before but still visibly wary, approached with a refill, managing to spill only a few drops this time.

Before the server could retreat, Anlyth spoke, her inquiry calm yet firm.

"Do you have any vacant rooms?"

The server froze, tension rippling through her frame.

"N-No, I'm s-sorry, m-my lady," she stammered, her fear evident.

"That's unfortunate," Anlyth murmured, her tone carrying a faint undercurrent of disappointment. After a brief pause, she added, "Would you be willing to tell me who took the last room?"

The woman hesitated, clearly torn. Her gaze flickered nervously around the tavern, where every patron seemed to shrink into themselves, desperate to avoid drawing the Champion's attention. Fear of displeasing Anlyth outweighed her reluctance, and, with a trembling hand, she gestured toward the trio Anlyth had displaced earlier.

In the far corner, the burly humyn and two stout dwarves now sat huddled together, their earlier bravado drained. Upon realizing they'd been singled out, their expressions fell even further. They'd already pushed others out of the space earlier that night, and now their actions had come full circle, drawing the gaze of the one person everyone in the tavern feared.

Anlyth's lips curved into a faint, unnoticed smile beneath the shadow of her cowl as she stood. Her movements were fluid and purposeful, commanding the room's attention without so much as a word. With a deft flick of her wrist, she tossed a small coin purse onto the table. The heavy pouch landed with a soft clink, the unmistakable weight of gold within. It was a fortune—a sum that could sustain the tavern for years in better times, but now served as a rare act of generosity in a land ravaged by war and occupation.

Her stride toward the small group of three was measured, marked by a quiet authority that silenced the room. She stopped before them, extending a gloved hand in a silent demand. No words were necessary; her meaning was as clear as the unease etched on their faces. The trio exchanged resigned glances, their fleeting moment of refuge in the corner now abruptly ended. With a collective sigh, they surrendered the key they'd claimed after exploiting the tavern's fear-driven hospitality. It passed from their reluctant grasp into her waiting hand.

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The atmosphere grew suffocatingly tense as Anlyth ascended the creaking staircase, her steps punctuated by the sharp silence that had gripped the room. Every patron averted their gaze, pretending disinterest but unable to ignore her presence. The tension mounted with each deliberate step, until the sound of the key sliding into the first door lock broke the stillness.

Instead of the click of an opening door, there was a jarring scrape of metal—a sound of denial. Muffled curses drifted down the stairs, reaching the ears of the anxious onlookers.

This scene repeated itself as she moved from door to door. Key after key, lock after lock—each attempt met the same result. A collective unease rippled through the tavern as the patrons silently counted her failures, curiosity sparking beneath their feigned apathy. Finally, on her thirteenth attempt, a creaky hinge gave way, and the door slammed shut behind her. A ripple of relief swept through the room as patrons exhaled their pent-up breaths.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken tension, until a whisper sliced through it like a knife. "Isn't there only eight rooms in this place?" The soft query lingered in the air, unanswered but not unnoticed.

Inside the room, Anlyth leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging slightly. The weight of the past two years pressed down on her—a burden she couldn't shake. The loss of her husband, the grotesque transformation of his body into a vessel for the undead, had broken something within her. But that tragedy wasn't the end of her story. In death, she had been granted a peculiar boon: a second chance fueled by vengeance.

Jörmun, a deity she had never known, had claimed her and named her his Champion. But the role had not been what she'd imagined. Instead of purging corruption and battling the forces that plagued the realm, she had been instructed to observe. Day after day, she bore witness to the chaos and cruelty around her, and with each passing moment, her convictions blurred. The lines between good and evil, justice and vengeance, seemed to dissolve, leaving her adrift in a moral quagmire.

Now, leaning against the door, Anlyth stared into the void of her doubts. Her thoughts churned like a storm, torn between the weight of her past and the uncertainty of her future. What was her purpose? How could she navigate the labyrinth of morals and motives she now found herself in? The answers eluded her, leaving her grasping for clarity in a world she no longer recognized.

"You're being rather dramatic," a male voice casually remarked behind her.

Anlyth whirled around, her instincts primed for confrontation, only to lock eyes with an unfamiliar yet strangely recognizable face. Youthful and almost elvish in its delicate features, the visage had an uncanny, fabricated quality to it, as though it was a mask rather than a true form. Yet, beneath the illusion, she recognized the unmistakable essence of Jörmun. He lounged casually in a rudimentary wooden chair wedged awkwardly between two plain bunk beds, highlighting just how dismal the tavern's accommodations truly were.

"Jörmun, why do you look like that?" she demanded, her tone heavy with exasperation. She had never seen his true form, only the countless guises he chose to don.

"Look like what?" he replied, his tone light and teasing, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. His nonchalant demeanor clashed with the charged atmosphere of the room, as if he found humor in her frustration.

"What do you want?" Anlyth asked bluntly, cutting through his playful facade with the force of her weariness.

"I think it's time for a new strategy," Jörmun said, his smile sharpening into something more cunning. There was an edge to his words, a predator's undercurrent that immediately put her on alert.

"Change my strategy?" she repeated, her voice tinged with skepticism. "I refuse to be a pawn for mindless slaughter, whether it's for you or this kingdom."

"That's not what I'm asking," he assured her, his grin unwavering. "What I need from you is to go to the Beastveil Kingdom and surrender yourself to the resistance still hiding there."

"What? Why would I do that?" Anlyth's voice rose, but she quickly reined it in, mindful of the thin walls and the heavy silence below.

"Rest assured, this conversation is beyond the ears of even the other gods," Jörmun said, his tone offering little comfort. "My elder sister, in her own convoluted way, has crafted and imbued a soul with her essence, treating it as her daughter. I intend to give you to her."

"Give me to her? Like what, a toy to be traded?"

Jörmun snickered in response, offering no explanation.

"Who is this 'daughter' of hers?" Anlyth demanded, her skepticism mounting. "And why should I abandon my duties to my kingdom to go to someone at your whim? That would make me a deserter, Jörmun. The other Champions will hunt me down. They'll brand you a dark god for having your Champion abandon her post."

Jörmun chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "I've always existed beyond the notice of the other gods. Their opinions are irrelevant." His gaze darkened, a hint of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. "The new little demigoddess you'll be serving as Champion for is named Blake. She's the one responsible for your husband's death."

"What?!" The word escaped Anlyth as a low growl, her fury barely contained.

"Yes, Blake was the one who slew your beloved—not Aurelia," Jörmun continued, his tone calm and unbothered by her reaction. "She's also been haunting your dreams, along with those of your allies."

"Why would I serve her?" Anlyth hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "Why wouldn't I just kill her outright?"

"For two reasons," Jörmun replied, his smile taking on a serpentine quality. "First, killing her won't solve anything. She'll simply return. It's rather difficult to dispose of an eldritch, titan, demigoddess amalgamation. She's not so easily killed." He paused, letting the tension thicken before delivering the blow. "And second…" His smile widened. "I will bring back your husband—if you comply."

Anlyth froze, the air seeming to grow colder around her. The promise was tantalizing, but it reeked of manipulation. Her voice trembled with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

"You can bring Ezad back?"

"Yes," Jörmun said, his tone steady and unwavering. "It's not difficult to locate a lost soul within the ethereal and craft a new body for it. I can even make it identical to the one he had before."

Her mind raced, a maelstrom of questions and doubts. Could she truly accept being the Champion of her husband's killer? And who exactly was this shared enemy they were supposed to fight?

"If you've been paying attention while observing, you should already know who our true enemy is, shouldn't you?" Jörmun said, as if plucking the thoughts from her mind, his expression hardening. "The Ascended who call themselves gods. They use the system to masquerade as deities, but their power is borrowed, not earned.

"Blake, however, is… volatile. Unpredictable. The kind who would set the realm ablaze over the smallest slight. My aunt, the Primordial of Magic, has wronged her, and Blake's vengeance will be unrelenting. With the right guidance, her destruction can serve my goals… our goals."

"And what are our goals, exactly?" Anlyth pressed, her wariness unshaken.

"To dismantle the facade these false gods have built," Jörmun explained, a fiery passion igniting in his voice. "The system itself. For centuries, they've siphoned its power to maintain their thrones. Blake's amalgamated nature could shatter the system entirely, stripping them of their stolen strength—and restoring balance."

Anlyth considered his words, each laden with daunting implications. "But I draw my power as a Champion from the system too," she pointed out.

"Yes, but think of what you'll gain," Jörmun countered, his voice calm yet insistent. "You'll have Ezad back. And consider the endless violence waged in the name of these so-called gods. My aunt is dragging entire worlds into this realm—one overrun with demons and another that resists her entirely. Her madness must end. The system must fall. And I, as one of the last three elder gods, must restore the natural order."

Anlyth's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "You're surprisingly forthcoming… for once."

Jörmun's gaze met hers, calm and unyielding. "You're a woman of action, Anlyth. I chose you as a Champion not for blind loyalty, but for your resolve and your sense of justice. However, there's one more task I must ask of you—something that will challenge both you and Blake."

Her curiosity piqued, Anlyth narrowed her eyes. "What task?"

Jörmun's grin returned, sharp and knowing. "You'll know when the time comes. Head to the Beastveil Kingdom and wait at the royal palace ruins. They'll find you."

With those parting words, he vanished, leaving Anlyth alone with her thoughts—and a decision that would shape the fate of realms.

~

Now!

Duke Lysander sat beside his wife on dual thrones before the coven, his gaze daring any to challenge—not himself, but his wife, Lady Aurelia, the one some had begun to call the Rising Empress. Whispers spread like wildfire, fueled by conspiracies about his sudden transformation. His entire demeanor had shifted in but a single night—or rather, within mere hours.

The rumors grew louder with the arrival of a new priestess in their midst—a Priestess of Nightmares, no less, devoted to a budding demigoddess associated with the Crone. So much was unfolding at such a breakneck pace that none of the vampires seemed to notice the flies now gathering around Lysander.

He'd need to address that soon or risk exposing the truth—that he wasn't Lysander at all, but a lich inhabiting the dead duke's body. No, Olin couldn't let anyone discover that his lady had killed her husband—not that it mattered much, not with Aurelia's harem blessed by the Serpent himself.

However, Olin did notice one key person conspicuously absent from the gathering within the coven.

"Where's Rob?" Aurelia asked.

Yua stepped forward from the group of system users lingering near the new Priestess.

"We don't know," she admitted, her tone tinged with unease as her eyes flickered toward the gathering vampires, suspicion glinting in her gaze.

She opened her mouth to say more, but her body suddenly stiffened. Olin and Aurelia exchanged wary glances, their eyes narrowing as they noticed the shift—not just in Yua, but in Jeremy and Sophia as well. Jason, however, didn't seem to notice, nor did Heather.

Titan Leveling to Ascension 83

Copyright Primordial of Life 0000-Eternity.

V:\Ascension>SAFE_MODE

 

Admin:\Death>Login_

New Data Accepted.

Initializing Character Data…

Complete.

_

 

V:\Ascension>SAFE_MODE

ClassUpdate

 

New Class Offered.

 

[Champion of Nightmares]

Description: You have been offered a unique class, granting you the honor of becoming one of the Champions to the Demigoddess of Nightmares, daughter of Duskara, the Goddess of Dreams.

 

Four new selectable skills will become available upon acceptance.

 

Do you accept?

> YES

> NO

 

Admin Note: The Goddess of Dreams gives her blessing of this new class and will reward you with an additional skill upon acceptance.

 

V:\>

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