It was time.

They had Classed and Tiered up.

Machidiel ◐ (L208), [Saint Taxiarch] (U) (L104), [The Pontifex] (U) (L104)

Gur'godor Anodson ◮ (L208), [Chthonic Demon Lord] (U) (L104), [Dread Vanguard] (U) (L104)

 

 

 

 

 

HP:

315,325,515/315,325,515

143,283,740/143,283,740

 

 

 

(336,686 / hour)

(153,985 / hour)

 

 

MP:

541,264,002/541,264,002

95,175,181/95,175,181

 

 

 

(245,896 / hour)

(87,473 / hour)

 

 

XP:

7,159,713 (Reserve)

7,159,713 (Reserve)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CON:

3,663

6,197

 

 

STR:

3,651

6,198

 

 

END:

3,711

4,843

 

 

DEX:

3,711

5,070

 

 

INT:

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11,170

2,096

 

 

WIS:

11,079

2,096

 

 

SOU:

5,535

2,131

 

 

CHA:

5,578

2,166

 

 

Free:

0

0

 

 

v.2.41

 

 

They had set automatic XP allocation for the battle.

Machidiel

 

XP Allocation

 

XP Earned:

50% → Gur'godor Anodson

 

25% → Race/Class

 

25% → Reserve

XP Received:

50% → Race/Class

 

25% → Reserve

And Zeke had been sent away. Though not without enough snogging that Gur'godor almost threw up.

But, it was time.

Mack ◐ cut the flow of mana to the true magic wards. The [Eldritch], perhaps sensing the change, attacked the barrier with even greater vigor, and the storage of magical power dipped quickly.

The two stood there upon yet another battlefield. The dynamic duo. The [Divine Champions Against the Eldritch]. The conjoined souls.

It was quiet. They stood contemplative. No words to share.

The walls fell. The shrieking cries of the [Eldritch] loose once more. And in a flash, a red madman fell upon them, sword, shield and armor at the ready, as a blazing star of magical prowess cast from the sky.

"Lord Sentinel," the System spoke. "I've detected divine magic cast on Ager, but we have a situation."

Above a long snout, a furry eyebrow lifted in surprise.

<They're flanking left!>

Ding! You have killed an [Eldritch] (L132).

<I thought you were funneling them!>

Ding! You have killed an [Eldritch] (L128).

<We didn't build this halberd tough enough! I'm going to switch to conjured weapons soon!>

Ding! You have killed an [Eldritch] (L135).

<Ah, fuck it, let's go with Plan C, subsection 2-null.>

Ding! You have killed an [Eldritch] (L122).

Ding! You have killed an [Eldritch] (L122).

<I already used the kitchen sink as a blunt weapon! Where am I going to get another one?!?>

"Harrumph. I'm invoking Clause 37 of the Compact. Tell Argast to stop fooling around with his harem and kill the bastard [Demonkin]."

"Yes, Lord Sentinel," the System responded.

<Mack! Is it just me, or is the flow of [Eldritch] flowing down?>

<What?... Oh, yeah it is.>

<Why is it doing that?!>

<Uhh… uhh… Oh, the portal is collapsing.>

<Well, that's good. Wait, are you doing that?>

<No?>

"Lord Argast."

"Ah, fuck! Knock would you? I'm busy!"

"Lord Sentinel has invoked Clause 37 of the Compact and tasked you to fulfill it."

"…I have no idea what that is. I just signed the damn thing at fucking swordpoint."

"Clause 37 of the Compact provides that in the event that…"

Gur ◮ ducked under a sweeping tentacle strike, amputated one of the locomotive limbs, then drove the blade of his conjured ice halberd deep into what he hoped was the cranial cavity. Anatomy on a damned [Eldritch] could be such a pain.

Spinning around, he slapped away a fist (well, fist-like extension), carving it up like a prime gamebird, before tossing the halberd towards the exposed stomach, conjuring up a new one of stone, and lopping off a stray antennae that crossed too near for his comfort.

One removed heart later, and Gur spun around from atop his latest kill, searching for the nearest enemy.

There were none. The portal had miraculously closed ten minutes before and they were now mopping up the remainder, Mack ◐ on the far side of the valley roasting—figuratively, not literally—the last two.

No, wait, the last one was literally roasted. Ah, that's a throwback to his early days.

Seeking a moment's relief, Gur planted his halberd into the bare rock of the now freshly rescoured though distressingly bloodsoaked valley. The treehouse was long gone. The shadows of late afternoon swallowed the corpses lying everywhere. Gur had lost count frankly and he wasn't keen on revisiting his combat logs.

He saw Mack waving to him from a few hundred meters away.

He waved back weakly as exhaustion began to creep up on him.

KRRAAAK!

A falling star ripped through the atmosphere and struck the ground between them, throwing up viscera and obscuring dust. Small rocks rained down, plinking around them.

As the dust cleared, a bipedal scaled silhouette in little more than a loincloth and holding a spear could be seen. Two meter twenty. Eyes black as night. Scale as red as the Great Sandstone Deserts. Martial and magic strength emanating from a figure they'd seen a hundred times in temples 'round Ager.

Argast had descended.

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