Sometimes it's not about what you want, it's about what you need.

  'Congratulations on proving me correct, Brom Jones, even if you did end up on your knees at the end. Just had to spite my victory a little, didn't you? Either way, I am a man of my word, enjoy your spoils. We'll meet again soon.'

  [Grip of Adamant Will: Soul-bound Unique (Legendary Weapon)]

  The icon of two rings of iron sat in the reward box at the bottom of the quest completion notice. Iron loops that no doubt would match up with the scarred flesh on his palms. Brom felt sick. He didn't even want to take them. They could be named as fancy as they wanted, but all his mind could do was replay what they stood for. He took a breath. Grounded himself. "Reframe it." Yes, those did represent all the pain of the trial, of putting TJ in danger. But they also represented his success. He'd pushed through Hell and he was stronger for it.

  TJ was wholly oblivious to him, scrambling for the front door in an awkward blur of limbs and enthusiasm. Brom followed, mildly curious, shooing the cats away to prevent escapees. Clearly, his nephew was preparing to test out his passive, a bow having appeared in his hands from his inventory.

  Brom had to admit, TJ looked like he'd been doing Archery all his life. He centered himself on the ratty lawn, bare feet digging in as he settled his stance. Shoulders were squared, muscles that Brom didn't realize his nephew had starkly defined as he smoothly drew an arrow and took aim at a nearby spruce. The arrow left the bow with a thwap of string and the whole tree shuddered from the impact, scattering a few very disgruntled birds. TJ whooped, jerking a fist back, the earlier sadness completely forgotten.

  He turned to Brom, gaze shining. "Heavy Impact! Look at that shit, I drove that arrow into a fucking tree trunk hard enough to sound like I hit it with an axe. Uncle B, it's a heroic passive! Heroic!" For an Epic Archer like TJ, that was an ability that was going to let him hit out of his weight class. The teenager whirled and fired off another shot, landing it barely an inch from his first. This time, there was a sharp crack, the wood splitting, followed by a long groan as the tree began to waver.

  Brom took off running at the sounds of splintering, watching the massive spruce begin to tilt and twist toward them. His hands came up to grab ahold of it, biceps bunching as fingers dug against the bark. He wasn't trying to stop it from falling, instead he guided it back into the rest of the trees. Crisis averted, he brushed his hands off and glanced over at a slightly stunned TJ. "What?" He pointed at the tree. "Of everything I've done, that impressed you?"

  "Look, that's the first time I've seen it first hand!" TJ had seen the highlight reel of the shit Brom had pulled in the dungeon sure. Yeah he'd been hanging on an anchor held up by his uncle, that was true. But he'd never had direct line of sight during either of those. Watching Brom body over fifty feet of Sitka spruce like it was an overly large stack of foam impressed the hell out of him.

  "Yeah, well, not as impressive as you cutting it down with a couple arrows." One of which was still intact. Brom picked it up and walked back to where TJ was standing, offering it to his nephew. "In the words of Uncle Brom, with great power comes the responsibility to only fuck shit up when you can avoid the consequences." He ruffled the teen's hair, heading back toward the house. "You can use the stump for target practice as much as you want."

  TJ looked at the arrow and then back at his Uncle. "What did you get, Uncle B?"

  "Anxiety." Yeah, Brom could firmly cross deals with the divine off his list of shit to do in the future.

  TJ shook his head, huffing a laugh. "No. Seriously. What was the reward?"

  "You give a man a bespoke weapon, and he doesn't even have the heart to be grateful, you should take notes on your nephew's outlook." The low, dusty drawl rumbled across the lawn and pulled Brom's spine straight and tense.

  The stranger leaned casually on the listing mailbox, arms draped over and obscuring the fading name. He looked the same as he had the night before, the light of day doing nothing to diminish his striking features or warm his pallid skin. His eyes were a strange shade of grey, nearly the same as Brom's own, only lit from within. The intensity of his gaze made both of the mortals flinch.

  Brom moved back away from the mailbox and made a gesture with his chin toward TJ. The teen didn't need any more than that, scrambling back behind his uncle. It was laughable really, if this entity wanted to do them harm, there was nothing Brom could have done about it, but maybe his corpse would slow the god of the sea down just long enough for TJ to make escape distance. A grimly practical consideration.

  "Oh, don't be like that. I told you we'd meet again soon, and, as you should know, I am a man of my word." The stranger didn't move from the mailbox, letting the mortals have the illusion of safety the distance created. "I'm just here to have a friendly chat. Impart a quest. Then I'll be on my way."

  "What, you want me to be your champion or some shit?" Brom's eyes narrowed, his arms folding across his chest.

  The stranger's laugh was like a clap of thunder. "You're what, level eight? How bold! Come back to me in ninety levels, and maybe we'll talk." He shook his curl-capped head. "No, Brom Jones, I'm here today as something of a friend. Or at least I'd like to conduct this conversation on friendly terms. It benefits us both."

  Friend? Sure. Brom didn't trust that one little bit. But humoring the entity cost him nothing and gained him everything. "Okay then, friend, what do I call you? Neptune? Poseidon? Njord?"

  The stranger raised an eyebrow. "I prefer Gregory, Greg, since we're being friendly."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Brom blinked and just gave up. "Sure. Greg, God of the Sea. Because apparently my life can still get weirder." He took a deep breath. "Alright, Greg, what can a humble barbarian do for you?"

  "A few weeks ago, you will remember a certain Cult that menaced your fine town?" Now Greg moved away from the mailbox, walking slowly toward them. He pointed a finger toward the whistle that dangled from its chain on Brom's wrist. "You ruined their plans in spectacular fashion and earned yourself a very peculiar eldritch friend. I was most amused watching all that. Not just the cult but the fact that your actions echoed up the chain to the top. To the one running this show."

  Brom nodded. He'd gathered from his conversation with the Captain of the Guard that that fight had thrown a lot of wrenches in a lot of gears. "You're not the first to tell me. I guess I was something of an overachiever that day."

  "Indeed. But that doesn't change that the Masses must be entertained. For that, the Narrative must continue. What was a quaint cult that, with the grace of the System, summoned a young eldritch abomination to raise up as a god, has evolved." Greg stopped an arm's length away, locking eyes with Brom. "This is all a Game to someone, and you mortals are all Players in it. By the rules set for this good game, any challenge the players face should be appropriate for their level. An anomaly like you might require some adjustment but, Brom Jones, you are only one Player among hundreds in this area. Do you understand?"

  Brom had played plenty of games in his life. He understood what Greg was saying. "Yeah I get it. Just give something a few extra dozen hit points or a strong physical defense. I'm not actually that difficult to deal with. But let me guess, the System overcorrected?"

  Greg walked around them, a shark circling on dry land. "Now, I didn't say that." Only implied it. "But I can tell you that that Cult has become even more dangerous. They've reached out into the Deeps and touched something that has no business appearing at this point in the Game. Something a magnitude of imbalance far greater than a dozen Players like you could produce." Cold arms circled the shoulders of both the Jones men, causing Brom to tense and TJ to flinch. "Imbalances ruin the Game. Entities like myself exist only to curb and correct these things. Hence, my trial for you, an opportunity to crush you, or contain you if it had proved needful."

  "I hadn't even done shit at that point!" He hadn't fought Yacht Sothoth or done any sort of bullshit. He'd only tossed a guy off his lawn and survived a tutorial at the point that the sirens had lured him from his bed. Brom twisted his head to stare at Greg's face, inches away.

  "You're a legendary class. You get special treatment. For good reason, as it's turned out." The sea god let both of them go, patting their shoulders as his hands slid off and he made his way back toward the driveway. "So here it is, a little quest, one for each of you. To help correct the imbalance." Greg paused, looking at the battered mailbox. "The weapon, Brom Jones, is something extraordinary. Beyond my wildest expectations. I haven't seen anything like it in the previous Games I've been part of. Cherish it, and it will serve you well." The sea god gave the mailbox a pat, straightening it, and then began to make his way down the drive.

  "Fare well, Heroes Jones. I wish you fortune."

  [Quest: The Sea God's Request.]

  Empower the Will of the Adamant. 0/3

  Brom pulled up the system mail again and stared at the iron rings for a moment before pulling them out. They settled in his palms, looking awkward, and he tightened his fingers around them. Matching the curves of them up against the scars on his palms.

  [Would you like to equip Grip of Adamant Will?]

  [NOTE: This action cannot be undone!]

  "Yes." It felt right to confirm his choice out loud. He knew how soul-bound things worked. Once they were on, they didn't come off. What he wasn't expecting was the pain. He'd felt something like this only once before, at the very beginning. When the System had first given him his class, that soul-rewriting pain.

  "Forgot to mention that it'll hurt like hell." Greg's drawl echoed on the breeze, unconcerned.

  "Fuck you, Greg!" Sweat beaded his skin as he stood there, breathing through clenched teeth. The rings were burrowing under his skin, pulling flat and sculpting against his knuckles in a layer of living iron, black and menacing. Up his arms, down his fingers, layer after layer. From humble loops into gauntlets that climbed to his shoulders before finally coming to a halt and ending the pain. He took a few labored breaths, looking at his iron-coated arms. They looked terrifying, encircled with strange symbols in overlapping lines.

  TJ just stood there, head tilted a little, before slowly reaching out and touching a fingertip to Brom's forearm. "Whoa! That's fucking metal as hell. Literally. Very Winter Soldier."

  Brom knew he couldn't unequip them but could he sheathe them? He exerted his will, like he did when he equipped his coat, staring at his hands. There was a tense moment where nothing happened and then they retracted like ocean waves on sand. All that was left behind were the scars in his palms. A shake started in him, too much adrenaline, the after effects of pain, take your pick of reasons, really. He opened his inventory, looking at the description for the weapon.

  Name: Grip of Adamant Will

  Rank: Legendary

  Weapon Group: Gauntlet

  Weapon Type: Growth (Evolving)

  Damage Type: Physical [1]

  Unique Attack: Damage Detonate

  'These bespoke gauntlets were forged in the grip of one man whose only intent was to protect his family. They will crush and consume anything for power in service of that task.'