Four days later, the anti-Corruption Amulets started activating.
Which hardly came as a surprise. The further west everyone traveled, the more their surroundings...warped. Each day was darker and colder than the last, the sun gradually dimming as if cloaked by storm clouds. The air itself thickened with black mists; sometimes thin, and other times so dense that Rob could barely see a foot in front of himself. People began tripping with alarming regularity for stat-enhanced Elatrans, swearing up and down that the ground had suddenly shifted out from under them.
It was little wonder that most of the alliance soldiers were growing increasingly unsettled – although less so for the coalition veterans. They'd at least tangoed with Harpy Amalgamations back in the capital city, with some of them needing Purging treatment afterwards. It had helped demystify the concept of Corruption for those who were otherwise unused to it. However, being infected mid-battle couldn't compare to walking into an area where merely existing was hazardous, and it showed in their visibly fraying nerves.
As for the Dragonkin? Well, reality was starting to set in, and the results weren't pretty. Most of them would've deserted by now if their boss wasn't impossible to outrun and liable to squash the heads of any would-be betrayers. Looking at them, Rob couldn't help but ponder how much Ragnavi had actually explained to her minions before taking them with her. If he had to guess...not a lot. She'd likely scooped up the highest-Level soldiers she could find, announced that they were going on a road trip, and left them to fill in the blanks.
That wasn't enough to make Rob feel sympathy for the Dragonkin, but he still couldn't let their half of the alliance collapse before they'd fought a single Blight. It was his duty as Leader to bolster morale and something something whatever. Also, more Dragonkin soldiers meant more meat shields to distract the Blight from his own soldiers.
"This is a good sign," Rob said, once they'd made camp for the day. Although he only addressed his side of the encampment, he made sure to raise his voice so that the Dragonkin side could also hear him as well. "If the Amulets are activating, it means we're getting closer to our objective."
Diplomacy immediately picked up on what he was doing. "Aren't you at all concerned?" they asked, with fear that sounded remarkably genuine. "The Corruption is...it's everywhere."
In unison, the Dragonkin soldiers turned to stare at them, including the Queen herself. Rob pretended not to notice, giving their side plausible deniability. This wouldn't work if they felt self-conscious about it.
"I've dealt with ambient Corruption before," he continued. "It's dangerous, yes – but no worse than a monster close to your Level. As long as you take proper care, it can be managed. We have the Amulets, the Hazmat Suits, Purge Corruption, and high HP pools. There's no group of Combat Class users in the world that are better-suited to traversing the Deadlands."
He put on a confident smile worthy of the front cover of a propaganda newspaper. "As long as we stay the course, and don't lose ourselves to doubt or despair, everything will turn out fine."
Deception Level Increased! 8 → 9
--
Three more days passed.
Maybe.
It was getting hard to tell. The sun no longer rose or set, now staying defiantly in the sky, its light waning as the hours crawled by. Conversely, abnormalities that had been constant – the black mist, the cooling temperature – were starting to become erratic. The fog would clear up only to return stronger hours later, and random bursts of heat would interrupt the chill, like being flashbanged by a condensed grenade of summer air.
Which at this point would've been preferable to the unbearable cold front they were suffering through. Rob clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, sending ugly glares at the Dragonkin camp. Apparently, nearly all of them possessed Heat Immunity, and apparently, that also afforded the lucky bastards a degree of protection against freezing temperatures.
He wasn't sure why. It wasn't part of the Trait's description. Probably had something to do with system magic mingling with the laws of thermodynamics. In practical terms, it just meant that Ragnavi's side was sitting pretty – while Rob's side was left shivering like popsicles.
"Burn some wood," Malika grumbled, resembling a burrito as she huddled under piles of blankets for warmth. "That's why we brought it in Spatial Storage."
Orn'tol shook his head with a woeful expression. He'd opted for just one blanket in order to preserve his teenage masculine dignity, and was obviously regretting that decision. "We must conserve what we have. It could still get colder than even this."
"You're going to feel very silly when we expunge the Deadlands with plentiful wood to spare."
The two bickered back and forth as Rob mulled over their arguments. While conserving supplies was important, he'd always felt like an idiot whenever he reached the end of a video game with unused stacks of 'just in case' items clogging up his inventory, so...
Blue motes shimmered on the ground, coalescing into a small pile of sticks. "We'll ration it," he said, cutting off Orn'tol's protest. "Think of it as keeping ourselves healthy – fighting the Blight will be easier if our joints aren't frozen solid."
One-by-one, his allies discarded their pretenses of stoicism, growing excited at the prospect of blessed, blessed warmth. Malika cackled as she rubbed her hands together, flinging away her blanket burrito in a dramatic fashion. "I should've complained ages ago!" the young Archmage crowed, mana gathering around her. She set the wood pile aflame without a moment's hesitation.
The fire instantly snuffed out.
Everyone stared in disbelief, unable to process what they'd just seen. One second, there was a fire – and the next, there wasn't. Only light burn marks on the wood remained to indicate that it hadn't been some form of shared delusion.
"NO!" Malika screamed as she blasted the pile with a torrent of flame. The second blaze disappeared just as quickly, like flicking off a light switch. "NO!" She tried a third time, to no avail. "I CAN"T–"
"It's okay!" Orn'tol responded before anyone else, putting one hand on Malika's shoulder to steady her, and his other hand on her outstretched arm, gently pushing it down. "It's okay. We knew to expect strangeness from the Deadlands. The cold isn't so bad; you can have my blanket if you want."
Malika shook her head, on the verge of sobbing. Only the Dragonkin soldiers watching from forty feet away kept her emotions in check. "The cold isn't the problem," she whispered, her hands balling into tiny fists. "My magic is failing. If I can't cast spells right, then I'm useless."
In the corner of Rob's mind dedicated to being a pragmatic, calculating Leader, he agreed. This was worrying to the point where he considered aborting the entire mission. If magic was inconsistent in the Deadlands, then their alliance should return later with more intel and less mages.
Elder Duran chose that moment to speak up, adopting the tone he used when giving an educational lecture. "I do not believe your magic is at fault, Malika," he began. "No other form of spellcasting we've utilized thus far has reacted in this manner. If I may propose an idea: it isn't the magic that is anathema to our environment, but rather the context in which it is being employed."
He paused, then turned to face Rob. "Permit me to ask this – would you mind participating in a somewhat crude experiment?"
A minute later, their side of the alliance was gathered together, watching Malika cast fire magic on Rob's hand. From afar, the Dragonkin camp watched with baffled faces.
"Is it hurting?" Malika asked, in a voice of professional interest, as she set fire to her surrogate big brother.
Rob nodded. "Yup." He flexed his sore, reddened hand, the blisters already healing. "Your magic is the same as ever. Don't know why the wood kept fizzling out like that."
"From my perspective..." Malika trailed off, unsure how to phrase things. "It's difficult to describe to someone with low Sense Mana. Imagine the threads of my magic being cut by an invisible blade. Harsh, jarring, and unexpected."
She shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold. "Even if I was Level 99, I still would've been powerless to stop it."
"Our surroundings are to blame," Duran stated, with calm belied by a subtle fury. "The Deadlands. A moniker that proves more fitting by the day."
Comprehension dawned on them as they realized what he was implying. Rather than the fire magic failing, it was the fire itself – a paradoxical element that could create and destroy depending on how it was used. The Deadlands were fine with Malika barbecuing Rob's hand, as that was fire in its purest destructive form. Senseless harm caused with nothing gained in return.
But a campfire? That was symbolic. People had huddled around the glow of burning wood since time immemorial, warming their hands, warding off predators, feeling safer in its gentle embrace of heat. It was an act of creation through destruction, breathing life into the formation of groups, then tribes, then societies. Modern civilization might not have survived to exist without it.
And the Deadlands, by their very nature, couldn't abide such a core form of foundational life to exist within its domain.
Rob felt a soft finger graze the back of his neck. He whirled around, hand at the hilt of his sword, and saw nothing. Childish giggles tickled his ears, receding into the fog without a trace.
"Did you hear that?" he asked his friends, knowing what their answer would be.
"Hear what?"
...Yeah, no. "Everyone back up a bit," he said, putting space between himself and his Party. "Gonna try something."
They obliged. Hastily. When a person known for his explosive tendencies – literally – recommends that people keep their distance, the only correct response is to move now, ask for clarification later.
Satisfied with their caution, Rob mentally flipped off the Deadlands, daring it to interfere with what came next. You won't let us make a campfire? Fine. I'll BE the campfire.
He activated the Flames of Vengeance. Azure fire erupted from the surface of his skin, extending outwards by several feet. The radius was larger than he remembered, so he mentally pulled it in, constraining the Flames to just six inches or so around him.
Seconds passed. Rob's side of the camp waited to see if the Flames would last. The Dragonkin side was in a minor uproar, people gossiping up a storm as they came to terms with seeing the Human Leader spontaneously combust into blue flames. Bags of coin changed hands as bets were won and lost. Ragnavi appeared mildly surprised – but mostly just disappointed that he could still surprise her.
...Eight...Nine...Ten. "I think we're good," Rob said, sounding chipper. "Bust out the smores and get comfy, 'cause we officially have a campfire."
Everyone gathered around the Rob, sagging with relief as his Flames of Vengeance thawed away the chill gnawing at their bodies. As it turned out, they could get extremely close to the Flames without being injured – provided they didn't touch it directly. Malika and Orn'tol tested the limits of that personally, happily sitting inches away from the unnatural Skill-based fire that would inflict painful burns if it grazed their skin.
"I hate to put forth this complaint," Faelynn began, after allowing herself a minute of basking in the heat. "But don't the..."
Message Received From Party Member: Faelynn
Faelynn: We should communicate this way.
Faelynn: Ragnavi's Heightened Senses can likely pick up even the faintest whispers.
Rob: True, although she'll start to figure something is up if she never sees us speaking out loud.
Rob: So what were you going to say?
Faelynn: Don't the Flames of Vengeance consume your HP as a resource?
Rob: Just 1% per second. My Regeneration is faster than that.
Rob: I promise it barely hurts at all. Less than a tingle.
Faelynn: That statement cannot be trusted, yet I pray you'll forgive me for not pressing further, if it would mean giving up this warmth.
Faelynn: Oh! If the Flames of Vengeance can persist in the Deadlands, then why not light a campfire with it?
Faelynn: An actual campfire.
Rob: I think it only persists because it's attached to me. Besides–
He tapped the pile of wood with his foot. Unlike when Malika had attempted to set it ablaze, the pile remained completely unchanged, not alighting for even an instant.
Message Continued
Rob: The Flames of Vengeance aren't really flames.
Rob: They're hot, and they burn, but the Description specifies them as non-elemental damage that only affects living creatures.
Rob: You'll notice my clothes aren't affected. The wood isn't either.
Rob: It's why I was able to use them underwater on King Cyraeneus. Back when we, uh, visited Merfolk territory the first time.
Rob: ...I hope he forgave me for that. Before...you know.
Faelynn: After all that you did for him and his people, I'm certain he–
"ENEMY!"
Orn'tol's cry snapped everyone to attention.
Rob didn't hesitate, drawing his sword and jumping ahead in one quick motion. This was what he'd been waiting for. While he wasn't so naive as to assume that their mission could end without casualties, making himself the first line of defense against the Blights would at least give the soldiers a fighting chance.
In fact, Rob moved so swiftly that he was already standing at the western edge of base camp before he'd even gotten a good look at his quarry. His gaze settled on the creature that had prompted Orn'tol to raise the alarm.
After a moment, he returned his sword to its sheath and deactivated the Flames.
My eyes couldn't keep up with my body there, he mused. Just shows that I need to pump up Perception some more. I'll have to see what another 5 stat points gets me. Didn't feel a huge difference going from 40 to 45, but incremental changes can be tough to notice. I should ask Zamira for advice – considering her stat spread, she's probably running into the same issue I am.
He let his thoughts run rampant. Anything to distract him from the misshapen horror crawling towards them.
In the past, he'd fought two types of Amalgamations; the Fiend Amalgamation, and the Harpy Amalgamation. The Fiend variant was a product of their bodies breaking down due to Corruption overexposure, then melding together into a single tortured form. The Harpy variant was no less tortured, but had come about due to Blight King Elnaril's twisted experimentation. In both cases, the resulting Amalgamations were monstrously powerful creatures piloted by a conglomeration of locked-in minds, begging to be put out of their misery.
Yet although what Rob saw now could only be described as an Amalgamation, it didn't look powerful. It didn't even look stable. The thing's 'body' – and he was being generous calling it that – was composed of scattered chunks of flesh, limbs, organs, bone, and muscle, all held together by a stretchy tarlike substance. As if a dozen people had been turned inside-out, and their gory remains fastened with dyed-black superglue.
There was no rhyme or reason to the Amalgamaton's shape. It seemed wholly incapable of standing upright, forced to agonizingly drag itself across the ground with some of its stronger appendages. And while the grotesque lump appeared quite large, being roughly the size of a car, it was also shedding mass with every inch it crawled, pieces of flash and tar sloughing off as low-pitched wails emanated from its many mouths.
Under different circumstances, Rob would've already attacked. He'd witnessed similar creatures rip through hardened soldiers with ease. But even aside from how this Amalgamation was barely mobile, there was something about it that exuded an inexorable aura of...sorrow. Loss. Pity. Raising his hand against this misbegotten thing would feel less like striking down an unholy abomination, and closer to mercy-shooting an animal that had been hit by a car and left to die on an empty roadside.
"I preferred the Blight's previous messenger," the Dragon Queen quipped, with a decent showing of bravado. It would've been more convincing if her claws weren't fully extended, and her shoulders muscles weren't tight as rocks. "I must also wonder how such a deformed thing could draw so near to our encampment without anyone realizing sooner. It is hardly a creature built for stealth, speed, or subtlety."
Her line of thought prompted everyone to cast Identify. Perhaps they could glean information from its Description. Seeking answers, they instead found the opposite.
Name:
Level: -37
Status Effects:
Description:
Disturbed murmurs sprung up as Rob stared at his Identify screen in confusion. That...huh. Stubbornly, he cast Identify again, focusing intently on the Amalgamation – and then winced as his eyes twinged.
Illusion Resistance has triggered!
Illusion Resistance has succeeded!
Name: Adventurer Amalgamation
Level: -37
Status Effects: I recommend not prying further.
Description: ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇ ▇
"What do you think it is?" a Dragonkin soldier asked, out loud.
Rob knew. It was in the name. Fiend Amalgamation, Harpy Amalgamation...Adventurer Amalgamation. Duran had explained that people who entered the Deadlands never returned, but that didn't mean they'd died.
To their regret.
How many adventurers had waltzed into the Deadlands over the last thousand years? How many intrepid explorers with big dreams and little sense had been drawn by the allure of uncharted territory? They'd come hunting for glory – and delivered themselves to the Blight's tender ministrations.
'I recommend not prying further.' Rob wasn't sure who'd included that warning. Could've been the gods, could've been the Skills. Either way, he was taking their advice. He didn't want to read about the experiences of people reduced to eldritch playthings for centuries.
"This living monument to frailty isn't deserving of a Leader's effort," Ragnavi boldly proclaimed. She was getting worse at hiding her discomfort. At random, the Queen pointed to one of her soldiers. "You. Finish it."
The soldier hesitated. "Must I?" he asked.
It went so quiet that they could've heard a pin drop.
"I don't mean to disobey you!" he rushed to clarify. "It's only that...my Queen, this creature's Level is negative. Will I lose Experience if I kill it?"
Rob took an instinctive step back from the Amalgamation. He hadn't considered that. Neither had anyone else, it seemed, as the soldier's query sparked a round of debate over what to do next. All the while, the misshapen thing inched closer, its body tearing asunder from the exertion.
Eventually, they decide to ignore it and press on. The Amalgamation was traveling at a speed that some snails would laugh at. It was no threat to them. On the other hand, they legitimately didn't know what would happen if someone killed a Blight-corrupted monster with negative Levels. Their morbid curiosity wasn't anywhere near strong enough to outweigh the possibility of losing EXP – a notion that struck an instinctive chord of fear, especially within the native Elatrans.
By the time they'd packed up their camp and started to move on, the Amalgamation had managed to crawl maybe five feet total. Without fanfare, everyone began their march, rapidly leaving the creature behind. They didn't pay it any further attention. Aside from its grotesque visage, looking at it inspired a strange sense of guilt, so they elected to keep their eyes forward on the path ahead.
Which was why Rob heard – rather than saw – its mouths open in unison to utter a muted plea, catching the very edge of his Heightened Senses.
"Please...end..."
He stopped walking.
Riardin's Rangers noticed a second afterwards. Before they could ask what was wrong, he let out a sigh and turned around. "Be back in a bit."
The entire alliance came to a halt as Rob made his way over to the Adventurer Amalgamation. No one spoke a word, as if spellbound by the moment. They merely watched in silence as the Human approached a hideous creature, deformed and corrupted beyond reason, and knelt in front of it with remorse in his eyes.
"Not a fan of this sort of thing," Rob whispered, although there was no bite to it. "First Kenzotul, then Stonewarden Grant, Elnaril, the Gellin...why do so many people try to make me their executioner? Is it because they think I'm likely to say yes?"
The Amalgamation wailed incoherently. Whatever dregs of sanity it had pulled together to speak those two words were already gone, like droplets of water dispersed amongst an ocean of suffering.
Rob gripped his knees. "I'm sorry I can't save you. That's another thing people ask of me, you know? List keeps getting bigger. Kinda daunting. I'd pencil you in anyway, because that's how I roll, but I think I'm a couple hundreds years too late this time. Sorry."
A rotting limb ineffectually slapped at his leg. It was attacking him, as Amalgamations were wont to do.
"If there's anyone in there that can still appreciate revenge...I'll get it for you. That much, I can promise."
Purge Corruption.
It only took a small hint of energy. With that little bit, the Amalgamation immediately crumbled, its body falling apart and going limp.
The alliance was quiet as Rob returned. He knew he should give everyone an explanation, but right now, he really wasn't in the mood for it. They seemed to pick up on that, giving him the space he needed.
"Did your Experience go down?"
Except for one person, who treated personal space as a set of guidelines to be disregarded. Rob grit his teeth as he faced the Dragon Queen. "No," he hissed. There was probably a system failsafe in place to prevent losses of EXP. Kismet wasn't completely awful at his job.
"Shame." She tapped her thigh, humming in contemplation. "Up, perhaps?"
"Didn't budge whatsoever."
"Then those creatures are of no consequence. We can avoid them or slay them at our leisure." Ragnavi peered closer, searching Rob's expression for something. "Were you aware that you wouldn't lose EXP before you committed to the act?"
He shook his head, unwilling to spare unnecessary words for her.
"Yet you took the risk. Why is that?"
"Old Yeller."
"Old what?"
Rob closed his eyes, breathed deep, then opened them again. "I ended its suffering," he stated, in a tightly-controlled voice. "We may not know exactly what that creature was, but it was clearly in agony. Had been for a long time."
"That creature's suffering would've ended with or without your assistance," she pointed out. "You saw how its flesh was coming undone. Even if its plight somehow tugged at your sympathies, patience would have produced the same result, at no danger to yourself."
"It was still hanging on," Rob muttered. "Would've lasted another...day? Week? Year? Couldn't let it stay like that."
"As you've said, it had already lived for quite some time. After that long, what difference would one year make?"
If they'd been speaking in private, without other people around to serve as a moderating influence, the alliance would've imploded then and there. Instead, Rob carefully censored what he said next. "That's not how pain works. Despite what we tell ourselves to keep going, it doesn't 'get better' just because we're used to it. The first day of being trapped in a living hell is no different than the ten thousandth day."
His eye twitched. "Someone with your amount of Corruption poisoning should understand that more than anyone."
They marched in silence until night fell.
--
Two days passed in the Deadlands.
Thankfully, no other Amalgamations had shown up. Not so thankfully, the surrounding environment continued to worsen. Long stretches of freezing cold were interspersed with pockets of blazing heat. The cold was bearable due to the Flames of Vengeance, but Rob was growing increasingly envious of the Dragonkins' Heat Immunity. He'd actually needed to switch coalition soldiers into his main Party on occasion, so they could share his Regeneration and heal from the random hot flashes that seared their skin.
As if that wasn't enough, the black mists had thickened to a degree that left him blind at times. Whereas before they'd come and gone, now it felt like they stuck around for most of the day. No one else seemed to care as much as him, so he kept his complaints to himself, even when everything looked so opaque that he was forced to navigate by the sound of his allies' footsteps.
And on the topic of footsteps – he'd started tripping as well. The ground was definitely shifting out from under him. Asshole.
--
One day passed in the Deadlands.
Rob had come to discover that it didn't really matter if the black mist was there or not, because even if he could tell where he was going, nothing he saw made sense. What few landmarks existed would disappear if people looked away from them, only to reappear later in different locations. It played havoc on everyone's sense of direction, making their exploration feel like aimless fumbling through the dark.
Which it totally was – although at least it had been easier to pretend otherwise when mountains on the horizon didn't fucking vanish when people blinked. With no way for the alliance to properly get their bearings, Plan A's step-by-step grid search for the Blights and Loci was dead in the water. All they could do was keep marching and hope they eventually found something.
Still, morale remained surprisingly high, owing to the lack of casualties. They hadn't lost a single person yet! Also hadn't encountered a single Blight, but hey. Beggars couldn't be choosers.
--
One day passed in the Deadlands.
The alliance tried using compasses to chart their way forward. It was a good idea, and naturally, it didn't work. Something in the Deadlands was causing the compass arrows to spin erratically.
Probably the severe density of Corruption in the air. To Rob, it had practically replaced the air – he could Sense it around them all times, more noxious and ever-present than even the black mist. It was a bit of a miracle that the Amulets hadn't given out yet.
Inevitably, though, they would. Rob had brought plenty of spares in Spatial Storage, but what happened when the spares started to give out too?
Fortunately, every dark cloud has its silver lining. Owing to the necessity for using anti-Corruption Amulets on important things like people and food, they'd finally been forced to abandon Queen Ragnavi's luxurious tent. Which made everyone happy except for her, and since she didn't count as people, that means it made everyone happy.
--
One week passed in the Deadlands.
The days blurred together. People barely spoke. Rob wasn't sure if they were moving in the right direction, or if they hadn't started doubling back somehow.
At one point, he climbed to the top of a hill and yelled for the Blights to come face him like the cowards they were. No one stopped him. It didn't change anything, anyway.
--
One month passed in the Deadlands.
Thoughts muddled. They should've found something by now. Wasn't supposed to be this big. No Loci or Blights. Just marching, day in, day out. Like lemmings off a cliff.
Why hadn't they run out of food?
--
One year passed in the Deadlands.
Not – right – couldn't–
--
One decade passed in the Deadlands.
They marched.
--
One century passed.
They marched.
--
One millenia passed.
They flew.
--
One eternity passed.
They flew, and it was beautiful.
They flew, and it was terrible.
But mostly, they flew, and it was nothing. A void of desolate isolation comprised of nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Once every epoch they would discover a new world, a glimmer of novelty that shone brilliantly in that endless abyss – and then, in a blink, it was gone again. Nothing was the only constant. It became their god, worshiped and reviled in equal measures.
They tried everything to make the time spent with glimmers last longer. Sanity was tested and quickly broken. Insanity was tested and broken back to sanity, starting a recursive cycle that continues to this day. Some of them went so far as to stop thinking entirely, rendering their minds as vast caverns of emptiness. That failed, too; their self-imposed emptiness paled in comparison to the nothing, and so it rang hollow, never lasting for longer than ten or twenty thousand years.
Then came the false hope, perhaps the worst sensation of all. More than anything else, that was what truly changed their nature: being too late or too early. Sometimes they followed a glimmer, anticipating a reprieve from the nothing, only to learn that they'd been pursuing the light of a celestial corpse that died several eternities prior. Sometimes they found the opposite, discovering that this glimmer's life was nascent, little better than wriggling microbes, and that stimulating interaction would necessitate waiting for many eons more. Moments like these gave rise to a new emotion, one that blotted out all others.
Hatred.
Hatred for the nothing. Hatred for the glimmers. Hatred for themselves, for everything that existed, and everything that was yet to be. Hatred that could be slaked solely by–
"Rob?"
--
It took him a few seconds to remember how to breathe.
Rob's awareness came roaring to the forefront of his mind. He gasped aloud, fumbling through the air, black mist enshrouding his vision. Dark dark dark someone please–
Weak hands grabbed his arms. "Rob! It's only me, Rob. What's the matter?"
Elder Duran's voice cut through the darkness like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. Slowly, Rob's breathing slowed to a point where it didn't feel like his heart was going to burst from his chest. "What..." he began, his thoughts still muddled. "What happened? Where is everyone?"
The Elder gave him a strange look. He let go of Rob – gradually, as if the Human was liable to skitter away at any sudden movement – then gestured behind himself. "They are all right there. See? Your friends are hale and hearty."
Rob looked at the spot where Duran was pointing. The mist was denser than ever before, almost completely obscuring his vision, but he could at least hear his Party's concerned whispering. For added confirmation, he brought up the Party Screen, relaxing slightly when it displayed full HP across the board.
"There you go," Duran continued, in that same reassuring tone. "Now, if I may ask – why did you wander off in such a hurry?"
Why did I...
Rob frowned. He tried to recall what he'd been thinking of before Elder Duran caught his attention, yet the memories eluded him, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. As if he'd woken from a fading dream. There'd been something...vast? Empty?
Suddenly, a thought struck him. Rob leaned closer so he could clearly see Duran's face. "How long ago did I kill that Amalgamation?" He wasn't even sure why he needed to ask that, but in this instant, his gut told him it was incredibly important.
The Elder showed no signs of frustration over his question being answered with another question. "It is difficult to approximate time in a place where clouds permanently blanket the sky. However, if I were to make my best estimate, it has been roughly nine hours since you granted that abomination its eternal rest."
Nine hours. It sounded right and wrong at the same time, and try as he might, Rob couldn't put that feeling into words. Logical words, anyway.
Duran chuckled. "Ah, now there's a familiar look." He gave Rob an encouraging pat on the back. "Feel free to speak from the heart. I am no Leader or Grand Overseer, hunting for the tiniest contradictions in your demeanor and speech. I am merely Duran. Lend voice to your instincts, as they have guided us well thus far."
The dam burst. "We need to leave. Head home, regroup, and rethink. Now. "
"Why do you think so?"
"It's too dangerous here." Rob grimaced. "I mean, we knew it would be dangerous, but this? This is different."
"You warned the Dragonkin that they should be wary of unexpected misfortunes," Duran pointed out. He spoke not in the manner of a debater, but as a teacher playing devil's advocate to ensure that their student reached the proper conclusion. "We cannot turn tail and flee at the first indication of hardship."
Rob shook his head. "Hardship is one thing. I'd take on an army of Blights if I needed to." He gestured broadly around him. "So...where are they? The Blight isn't exactly known for its self-restraint. They knew we were coming – their messenger can attest to that. Why haven't they 'welcomed' us to their Elysium? Why are they willing to let us walk forward unimpeded?"
"That is nothing more than a hunch." Elder Duran paused. "A hunch I find myself agreeing with, yet a hunch nonetheless. And while our half of the alliance knows to put trust in your judgement, the Dragonkins' pride will balk at fleeing based on mere supposition."
"Yeah, well, I'll tell them right where they can stick their pride."
"I would recommend you don't."
Rob's mouth twisted into a rueful smirk. "Compromise. You help me convince Ragnavi that we need to fall back and think of a new plan, and I promise to keep the Yo Mamma jokes to myself."
"Then our pact is sealed." Duran's brow furrowed as he glanced up at the sky. "It's just as well. Truth be told, I wasn't certain of how I was going to endure even one more day of this torrential downpour."
Rob's blood turned to ice in his veins.
"What did you say?" he managed to croak out.
The Elder let out an uncharacteristic huff. "I am thoroughly sick of rain. The weather here is atrocious and unending. How you all seem to be bearing it with grace, I will never know." A moment later, he blinked, belatedly realizing the tone in Rob's voice. "Why did that statement surprise you?"
"It hasn't rained since we left The Village."
They stared at each other for a short while.
"Duran?" Rob asked. "Do you see the fog? Like a dense, black mist?"
"What mist?"
They kept staring for a few seconds longer.
"Let's go convince Ragnavi."
"Agreed."
They took a step forward – and the shouting began. Disordered screams of confusion, emanating from the Dragonkin side of their procession. First several, then many, rising to a crescendo of terror.
Without hesitating, Rob grabbed Duran and pulled the Elder onto his back. It wasn't the most dignified way for a man of Duran's station to travel, but time was of the essence, and Rob wasn't about to leave the ailing man alone on his own. He ran towards where his Party supposedly was, relief flowing through him when their faces emerged from the mist. "What's happening?" he asked.
"Don't know." Keira's greatsword was drawn, her eyes flitting back and forth. "Danger Sense isn't detecting anything. Should we charge over there?"
"That depends – can you see where you're going?"
"As if I could see anything in this heavy of a snowstorm."
Right. Rob clenched his fist, torn with indecision. "Meyneth, what's the protocol for this kind of thing? Would the Dragonkin get pissy if we bail them out of a bad situation?"
Silence.
"Meyn–"
Meyneth has left the Party!
Vul'to has left the Party!
Rob whirled around. Where there had once been seven Party members, he now saw five. Vul'to and Meyneth were gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Diplomacy and Sylpeiros had vanished as well, along with a handful of coalition soldiers.
Everyone else noticed at the same time. Their vocal outcry washed over Rob in a fugue of muted emotions. He could barely think, barely stand.
It was only Duran yelling in his ear – voice filled with urgent purpose – that jarred him into action. "Radios!" the Elder implored. "Obtain a radio!"
Those simple words propelled Rob forward. They offered him a goal; something to focus on besides whether or not two of his friends were–
Obtain a radio. There were many. Spread out through alliance. Just one needed. Closest at supply bag. Near soldiers. Leap right. Leap forward. Push Elf aside. Reach into supply bag. Pull out.
Radio obtained.
Silently, with a stiff motion, he handed it over to the Elder still holding onto his back. Duran grabbed it and immediately started fumbling with the buttons.
"Push green to alert people," Rob explained, unable to recognize the sound of his own voice. "Push blue to talk. Red ends call."
Duran did exactly that. He pushed green to send a high-pitched noise crackling to each and every radio, momentarily cutting above the clamor and chaos in both sides of the alliance. Once he'd officially gotten their attention, he pushed blue, speaking in a stronger tone than Rob had ever heard from him.
"Heed my words!" Duran cried out. "Look to your neighbors! Grab them by the hands, then picture them in your mind's eye, and hold them there as an unchanging image! We must–"
Your Party has been disbanded!
--
All was darkness.
All was nothing.
All was...
Light.
Rob jolted to awareness as sunshine hammered onto his closed eyelids like mortar shells on a paper shield. No amount of teleportation sickness, Locus Attunements, or early morning hangovers could have prepared him for the splitting headache he suffered in that instant. His only saving grace was that it seemed to be fading rapidly, but good god was it not fading rapidly enough.
When he could finally think things without also stabbing needles into his brain, Rob moved to stand – and found that he was already upright. The realization flipped some sort of internal switch, forcing him to pay attention to his balance again, nearly causing him to stumble. As he steadied himself, a soft texture bent under his feet.
...Soft? On barren Deadlands soil? Hesitantly, Rob opened his eyes.
And was immediately struck by overwhelming nostalgia.
Grass. A field of verdant, lush, sweeping, green grass. Straight out of an Earth national park. It stretched as far as the eye could see, redefining the term 'picturesque' in a way that stole his breath.
Rob's vision glistened with tears as he felt a lump form in his throat. He didn't know why – he'd never been a huge outdoorsy guy – but something about that sprawling grassland filled him with an almost rapturous awe. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed. Countries would have gone to war for the privilege of building their capital near this view.
Everyone should see this, he marveled. Keira first, as a date, then the rest of our–
The thought was like cold water dumped on his head.
Before he could even begin to comprehend everything that had transpired, a dour voice spoke behind him. "Unfair," the voice mumbled. "Swore off the drink decades ago. Shouldn't have to feel this."
Another switch flipped, and Rob realized that Duran was still hanging from his shoulders. Gently, he grabbed the Elder and placed him on the ground – the grass – and knelt down in front of him. "It should get better soon," Rob said, very quietly. "At least it did for me."
"I would gladly trade my few remaining years in this mortal coil to hasten the process." Duran ran his hands down his face, eyes shut tight. "Tell me. What nation have we been transported to? I feel grass underneath, yet I dare not risk the sun's wrath to see what color it is."
"You...might want to take a peek anyway."
With great trepidation, Elder Duran cracked his eyelids. They shot wide open a second later. "Green. Green!" His stately demeanor became awash with genuine, childlike excitement. "Is this Earth?!"
Rob grinned. "Since when have I ever been that lucky? Sure looks like Earth grass, though."
"Is it to your liking?"
Both of them froze. In unison, Rob and Duran turned to the side, the former summoning a sword and the latter gripping his radio as if it was a weapon.
Impossibilities awaited them. At a spot that had previously been deserted, there stood a tree. Not a towering tree, but not a small one, either. It was tall and proud, having sprouted to maturity in the span of a brief conversation.
And underneath its flourishing boughs, human children were at play. About a dozen or so, running around in circles of laughter, wielding sticks for swords and shields fashioned from twigs. Each child seemed no older than five, and each wore a long, simple, white shirt that reached down to their ankles. All of them were joyfully engrossed in their amusement.
All but one. A lone child that waved merrily at Rob and Duran, then broke off from the group, dashing forward.
Instinctively, Rob moved in front of Duran and opened up his log of system notifications. He needed to figure out what he was dealing with, and notifications usually provided insight whenever he woke from forced unconsciousness. This was no different.
Although what he found was usually less distressing than the messages displayed now.
Illusion Resistance has failed!
Illusion Resistance has failed!
Illusion Resistance has failed!
Leveling High's containment has reduced from 95% to 85%!
Illusion Resistance has failed!
Illusion Resistance has failed!
YOU HAVE BECOME UNTETHERED FROM REALITY.
The child stood before him. Its appearance was shockingly normal. Just an average human child, with chubby cheeks and a bright smile.
Except for the eyes. Where eyes should be, there was only nothing. Pitch blackness. Absence. The void at the end of the world – with two glimmering pinpoints of light for pupils.
"Hello, Heartkiller," the Blight cheerfully greeted. "We bid you welcome to our Elysium."
