[Game Over!]

  [Player Character has died.]

  [Player Character can no longer continue.]

  [Tallying final score: Cumulative Heroism Points and Villainy Points on the leaderboard stands at—]

  “No. Cancel that. It would be a shame if the game ended here, won’t it?”

  [Player Character has suffered a fatal wound.]

  “Has he? From my perspective, he has simply fallen unconscious. It’s a little early to call his death, isn’t it?”

  [Earlier ‘Lockpicking’ Intervention is unsanctioned. Player Character did not have a Fate Point. Intervention interfered with Player Character’s death.]

  “It is only an actual intervention on my part if he dies, isn’t it? And he’s not dead yet. Not really. And I didn’t really cheat. I simply… fudged the dice a little. It’s my right as a Game Master. The Old Ones can forgive that much. And if not, well… I never cared much for the opinion of Gods.”

  [... Appeal unverifiable.]

  “Come now. It is a poor game that does not entertain its players. There are worse crimes than mine committed across this five-thousand-year campaign between Heaven and Hell. Just look to the rule-breaking ways of your precious Goddess, or the conniving scams of the Black Damnation. Their sins outweigh mine, but you allow them all the same.”

  [Their Game Privileges differ from yours.]

  “A two-sided conflict is boring. Don’t try to deny that I bring something fresh to this stalemate. The Great Game deserves a better class of Characters.”

  [...]

  “Or would you rather we start over, and wipe the board from scratch once again?”

  [... Acknowledged. Repairing damage… Resetting Host connection…]

  [Player Character is now able to resume.]

  “Very good. Let us continue, shall we?”

  “My cute little ‘hero’ has promises to keep.”

  [Loading save file…]

  ~~~

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  Someone was beating against his chest.

  Each pound brought a strange light back to his vision. He was still fading, however. The darkness was all-encompassing. He was sinking…

  Then… Warmth.

  He felt it upon his lips. Whatever it was, it was soft, though they were pressed painfully hard against his mouth.

  A breath was forced into him — sweet, cloying, and rich in foreign mana.

  They weaved their way into his lungs, bringing with them surging lifeforce.

  Eri heard music. It was not one made of words or instruments.

  A melody of organs: beating hearts, squirming guts, rushing blood. The beat of impossible sounds: surging neurons, the splitting of cells, the song of a thousand biological functions playing all at once.

  The language of life gave him one, undeniable command:

  “Live.”

  [Song Artes, Elven Lifeweaver’s First Form: The Song of Creation]

  Eri lived.

  He shot to wakefulness, eyes shot wide open. He tried to gasp, but was stopped short.

  There was another mouth against his lips.

  He looked up in panic. He saw a shade of brilliant green framed by blood-red hues.

  The minstrel’s beautiful eyes were filled with relief. She pulled her lips away from his and wiped them with the back of her hand.

  Then, she smiled at him, the broad grin and animated eyes brimming with feverish excitement, so unlike her earlier deadened stare or sarcastic demeanour.

  It was almost feral in its manic liveliness.

  “Welcome back to the living, boy,” she greeted. “Thought I lost you for a second.”

  Eri opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a painful cough.

  “Don’t try to talk. I’m still trying to repair the damage to your throat,” she instructed. A green light covered her fingers as she gently stroked his neck. Where her hands touched, the pain subsided. “Just try to relax.”

  Eri leaned his head back against the stone, not bothered by how intimately close the woman was as she healed his wounds.

  He was far too exhausted to care. A violent headache was splitting his mind in half.

  “You were dead for ten minutes there. Not even repeated breaths of life mana could bring you back.” The woman told him. “I thought I killed you for sure. But then you suddenly returned. Did Hell spit you back out? How was the afterlife?”

  The words were spoken almost nonchalantly. Eri chuckled painfully. “Not even a sorry?”

  “You shouldn’t ask for an apology as an adult. It’s unseemly. Ask for compensation instead.”

  “I think I'd rather go back to being a kid, then… Ow! What was that for?”

  The woman had flicked him painfully in the forehead with her finger. “That’s for not running away when you should have. Stupid boy, which part of me telling you to flee did you not understand? You could have died. No, you did die.”

  “But if I did that, you would still be a slave,” he murmured. “And I… I didn’t want that. Ow!”

  She flicked him on the head again. “It’s not worth losing your life. Boys should be more selfish. But…”

  She leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. Her lips lingered for a moment, and a healing warmth spread into his mind. The pain within subsided.

  Her eyes locked onto his, gentle and grateful.

  “That was for keeping your promise. Good job, boy. Now, then…”

  She stood up, her harp-bow in hand. “Stay here and rest. I have something I need to do.”

  She was looking towards the battle between the Sapphire Chosens, Eri realised. He tried to push himself up. “You can’t! It’s too dangerous. You— Ah!”

  She flicked him again, this time with more force. There was an amused scowl on her face.

  “First rule, boy. If we are going to be with each other for some time, then my word is law, and you need to listen to what I say. Stay here, don’t move. I’ll be right back. And don’t worry about me.”

  A surge of mana bloomed from within her body, stunning his protest to silence. Her current power far surpassed what she had been dishing out earlier.

  “I was holding back because of those collars. But now I don’t have to.” A feral look appeared on her face — mad eyes and an excited grin full of teeth. “First, I’ll free my sister. Then, that bastard’s head is mine to mount on a chamberpot.”

  With that, she was gone, leaping off towards the violent storm. Eri stared after her for a moment before giving up and flopping back on the ground.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He wisely decided he was better off not intervening.

  Also… “What did she mean that we are going to be with each other for some time?”

  ~~~

  The Hound of the Storm howled for Maelric’s head.

  The fire mage no longer held back. His pyromancy Artes were unleashed in full — roaring firestorms and flaming tornadoes ripping the approaching thundercloud asunder.

  Even when enhanced by the Amplifier, it was barely enough to keep him alive. Draevan fought like a man with nothing left to lose, all frenzied madness and gnashing fangs of raw lightning.

  [Lightning Arts, Frenzied Storm’s Fourth Form — The Thunderous Coffin]

  A cage of lightning formed around Maelric, rapidly sealing him in before a hundred arcs of electrifying bolts pelted him from every direction. His magical shields were destroyed instantly, leaving him vulnerable to the flesh-rending spells.

  [Pyromancy Arts, The Flame King’s Third Form — Royal Decree of Burning]

  Fire consumed the cage of lightning. It mattered not that there was nothing physical for the fire to consume. As long as the concept of an object existed, the decree of the Flame King could destroy it.

  The Artes used by the noble Houses were the inheritance of Saints, those legendary figures whose Cores ascended to the Mythic Tiers. Their spell matrices were far beyond those used by mundane Chosens, their secrets passed down through countless generations of noble bloodlines.

  Maelric’s [Flame King] Artes were no exception. They were the legacy of House Halsworn, whose patron Saint once fought against the Second Demon King to the West thousands of years ago. That the magic within them would be powerful was to be expected.

  But Lord Draevan’s Artes, the [Frenzied Storm]… Those were not the Artes of Saint Elathion. They were not the Artes passed down through his House lineage.

  The [Frenzied Storm] School of Magic was a creation of Lord Draevan — unique to him and no one else.

  For a mere Jewelled Chosen to invent his own form of magic, and one that could match the might of the ancient Saints, those paragons who once duelled Demon Gods…

  It was as infuriating as it was awe-inspiring to behold.

  Maelric roared, putting more and more power into his attacks. Lord Draevan had allowed himself to be reduced to a mere beast as a last bid for victory, but his savage assault could not last much longer. The man must be running out of mana, while Maelric still had enough to spare.

  The songs from his pet Amplifier bolstered his strength, but he cursed that her other worthless sister — the Disruptor — had not shown up. No doubt the wretch was stupid enough to get herself trapped under rubble; otherwise, she would have appeared by now. The slave command he gave them would not allow any disobedience, no matter how unsavoury the twins found his orders. He had tested it himself.

  He would have to punish them later. If not for their incompetence, he would have won the fight already.

  But business first before pleasure. The storm was finally dying, as he expected it would. Draevan’s mana must have run its course. With a triumphant roar, Maelric parted the thunderclouds with a searing blade of fire.

  The thunder gave a final tremor before dying. All around, the battlefield was covered in blast holes and melted slags of stone.

  But Draevan was nowhere to be seen.

  Maelric frowned. Had he accidentally reduced the insect to ash in his final attack? A pity, he wanted to personally torment the man and hear him beg. Perhaps he could sate this dissatisfaction by using his worthless daughter instead. His superior’s patience would allow him that much before—

  [Lightning Arts, Frenzied Storm’s Fifth Form — The Mournful Hound’s Fang]

  There was no time to react. A spear of divine power came from his blind spot. Maelric only saw the flash, felt the raw surge of murderous intent—

  And then, blood. But it was not that of his own.

  Maelric gave a mad shrill of triumph as he watched Draevan’s killing hand stop an inch away from his heart. The Lord’s face was twisted in a deranged snarl, a spitting distance from Maelric’s own.

  Standing between them, and having taken the fatal attack in Maelric’s place, was the fire mage’s slave Amplifier.

  Where Maelric failed to notice the Lord’s assassination strike, his pet witch succeeded in detecting it and had moved to sacrifice herself to take the blow.

  The broken doll coughed blood. Her heart was utterly destroyed by Draevan’s piercing hand. For a split second, powerful emotions danced across her eyes — horror, fear, and despair — as the slave collar momentarily released its grasp on her mind.

  Then she died, body going limp. Maelric grabbed her and carelessly tossed her aside.

  Draevan could not even muster another spell. He gambled everything in that surprise attack. Maelric laughed as the Lord fell to his knees, the sensation of triumph sinfully addicting.

  “I have you… Finally, I have you,” Maelric crowed. “Right where you should always be: on your knees.”

  Draevan only snarled. The man looked utterly mad, his eyes transformed to a glowing, electric blue. He tried to lunge for Maelric’s throat, but the pyromancer punched him in the face, sending him reeling back.

  “You can’t even hear me anymore, can you?” Maelric chuckled. “That’s fine. I know of ways to break even a mad dog. We shall learn of your limits, together. But first, my masters require that I find that daughter of yours. You shall know true—”

  There was a brief feeling of something strange passing by his knees. Maelric stumbled, falling to one knee. He frowned and tried to stand.

  He couldn’t. Strange. Was exhaustion catching up to him? His legs must be tired. They felt…

  They felt like nothing. Maelric looked down.

  His legs were gone. They were lying on the ground, away from him. Only bleeding stumps were left, attached to his knee.

  The pain hit him. He screamed. Before he could comprehend what happened, another foreign feeling swept past his flailing arms.

  His right arm flew off at the elbow, spinning in crimson arcs as they were sliced off.

  He fell to his back, screaming. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the gentle thrumming of a harp.

  A voice, sonorous and chilling.

  “You dislike the pain? But you were so generous in dealing them out just days earlier. I remember the whips, the barbs, and the chains. This is barely a fraction of what you gave me, and you are already crying? Are you a child?”

  Maelric could barely hear her. He was screaming in agony. His shrill cries echoed off the walls.

  “No… Not even children are as pathetic as you. That boy was ten times the man you are. He never faltered, not once, not even as I brought him to death. It was an irredeemable act, but he has already pardoned me.”

  The woman looked at Maelric. Something wild and mad flickered in her eyes. Inhuman. Ancient. “We are quite unlike in that regard. I’m not so forgiving.”

  Maelric gathered enough sense to retaliate. He screamed in rage as he raised his left hand and fired a ray of burning light.

  The woman contemptuously slapped the stream aside, her hands weaved in a cloak of discordant music. She then thrummed her harp.

  A single sonic arrow flew from the strings, blasting Maelric’s lower torso and groin to shreds.

  The woman hummed, smiling to the pyromancer’s rising screams. “It is a rare thing to behold — a child who keeps his promises, even if it should be impossible, even if it kills him to do so. It is a quality worth loving. It is worth my songs. A new muse… Surely, the boy would not be so cruel as to deny my music, to stay by his side?”

  “You… How dare you attack me!” Maelric shrieked. He raised his left hand again, though this time he did not cast a spell. The ring on his finger glowed. “Obey me, you worthless slave! Kill yourself!”

  Nothing happened. Maelric shouted the command over and over.

  The minstrel hummed happily, watching Maelric’s face shift from anger to horror. She casually pulled aside the top of her robes.

  Her neck was marked with horrific wounds — the scars of spikes and biting metal — but the collar that had chained her neck for countless years was gone.

  “How?” Maelric whispered. “That’s not possible.”

  “A miracle,” she answered offhandedly, her voice tinged with awe. “Even now, I can’t really believe it. But that’s not a matter you should worry about.”

  She thrummed her harp once more. This time, the arrow pulverised Maelric’s left elbow, sending his last limb flying.

  The minstrel took her time, walking slowly over to the severed arm as Maelric’s agonised screams carressed her ears. She bent down and picked the ring from his lifeless fingers.

  The woman then walked over to her sister. She knelt next to the body, already on the brink of regenerating fully. She activated the ring.

  The collar on her sister’s neck made a series of clicking noises. There was a sickening, wet sound as the spikes and nails within the collar retreated from her spine and brain. The collar snapped open and fell heavily to the ground.

  The unconscious woman’s eyes flickered open. “Where... Deyara? Is that you?”

  “It is. It’s me.”

  “What… happened? I, I can’t…”

  The minstrel named Deyara gently hugged her twin. “Rest for now. It will be alright.”

  “But… The slavers, they—!”

  “They will never touch us again, Peythra,” Deyara reassured her. “Your psychic link is strained. Go to sleep. Trust me.”

  The minstrel Peythra soon succumbed to exhaustion. Deyara made sure she was comfortable before she stood.

  Turning, the woman saw the limbless pyromancer desperately trying to crawl away.

  She walked over, circling him until her feet landed before his face.

  The man looked up, face pale and eyes wide. “W-wait! I have information! Resources! You… You want revenge, don’t you?! I can tell you everything! Just heal my wounds first, I know you can fix me!”

  Deyara cocked her head. “And why would I waste my Fleshcrafter Artes on you?”

  “Don’t be stupid! I’m more useful to you alive! I have connections! I… I am a noble of House Halsworn! Do you understand who I am?! I refuse for it to end like this! I DEMAND YOU—”

  A single, discordant note interrupted his screaming.

  Maelric stilled. Then, with a slick, wet parting, his head slid off his neck.

  Deyara set aside her harp-bow. She crouched down and picked up the severed head.

  “You are useful enough to me dead,” she murmured. “But that will be letting you off too easily, won’t it?”

  She placed a finger to his forehead, magic pooling in her hands. Seconds later, Maelric’s lifeless eyes began twitching.

  They became animated. They locked onto the emerald gaze of the minstrel.

  The life and panic in them were undeniable. Maelric’s mouth opened and closed fruitlessly, though whether to speak or beg, Deyara did not know. He was unable to produce a sound without his lungs.

  “There are so many better uses of Fleshcrafting than to mend your worthless corpse,” Deyara smiled gently. “Don’t worry, Maelric. I’ll keep you alive. You will be alive for a very, very long time.”

  Though the man had no voice, the horror in his eyes left no mistake that he was trying to scream. It was hopeless.

  Maelric would never be able to scream again for the rest of his very, very long life.