by J. A. Hunter
“No, not like me. And I’m not lying. I’ve spoken to his spirit, locked away deep in the bowels of the Iredale Hold. In a place outside of time and space, which he called the Protoverse. It’s a place where exceptional souls get caught. And”—I paused, gulping, sweating bullets—“if you give me a chance, I think I can prove it to you.” At least I hoped so, or this guy was going to obliterate me on the spot.
Uncertainty flickered across the mad godling’s face, followed in short order by a wave of anger. “Ah don’t like games, mortal. Ah dinnae have the stomach for them. You try tae trick me, and Ah’ll kill you. And not just kill you.” He reached up and tapped a finger against the glowing key draped around his neck. “Ah’ll erase ya where ya stand.”
God, but I hoped I was right about this. “No tricks,” I said, dropping one hand, reaching into my bag, and pulling out the final ace up my sleeve, which I’d retrieved from the Darkshard Keep before picking up Vlad at the Crafter’s Hall. The gamer in me was loath to use it, since I could only use it once, but hey, if fighting an unstoppable god with the power to destroy the world wasn’t the right time to use it, then there never would be a right time. Besides, some small part of me felt like this particular ace had been given to me for this exact moment.
A thing of destiny, not unlike stumbling upon Eitri in the Protoverse.
In my hand was a curling horn of beaten brass, covered in hair-fine inscriptions that spiraled from a white-bone mouthpiece to a gently flared bell. The Horn of the Ancients. An artifact crafted by none other than Eitri Spark-Sprayer, given to Isra Spirtcaller after the death of the Jade Lord. The horn was a powerful artifact, capable of activating the interdimensional traveling stones at the heart of the Sacred Glade in the Storme Marshes. But it also had one special ability: it could recall the Honored Dokkalfar dead. Specifically, it allowed me to summon the Jade Lord and his brothers for one hour to fight on my behalf.
Except I didn’t need them to fight for me. And I really only needed them for a few minutes at most.
“Do you recognize this?” I asked, raising the horn, the light from the myriad of fires glinting off the surface. “Your son made it shortly before he died. He made it for a woman he loved named Isra—gave it to her so she could talk to Nangkri, the Jade Lord. The same man who gave me this.” I tapped at the crown adorning my brow.
I raised the horn to my lips, a tremble of fear and doubt running down my hands. I had no other options, though. Either this would work, or I’d be dead, the quest failed. I took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece. The horn issued a clarion call—its single note pure and perfect. The crystalline sound bounced off the ceiling, echoing around the walls; a shimmering silver rift split the air in response, the Jade Lord and his brothers pouring out, one by one.
They formed up in a semicircle in front of me—a wall of bodies—their weapons bared and ready for violence. I counted them as they stepped through the veil between planes, holding my breath the whole while. Nangkri, the Jade Lord himself, came first, followed by Ak-Hani, Lisu, La-Hun, Karem, Chao-Yao, and Na-Ang, the founders of each of the six named Murk Elf clans. But then, one last figure strode out from the portal, a shadowy, silver-skinned man who stood head and shoulders above the rest of his kin.
The shade of Eitri Spark-Sprayer, though he looked far more solid than the last time I’d seen him.
It’d been a long shot, I knew, but Eitri himself had told me that, though unrelated, he’d been like a brother to Nangkri. And I’d seen that confirmed for myself in the pages of the journal. Though that might have seemed like a mere figure of speech, I knew that to the Dokkalfar, adopting someone into the family, even figuratively, was the same thing as being blood related. So, it made sense that there was at least the possibility his spirit would be called back into the realm of the living along with the rest of his honored brothers.
“The horn has sounded,” Nangkri said, his voice strong and sure. “And so we have come, Spirit Caller. What would you have of us?” he asked, eyes never leaving the face of the gold-skinned godling standing before them. A god twisted by grief into a creature of wrath.
“I didn’t call you to fight,” I said, pushing my way through their ranks until I was standing in front of them and painfully exposed to Khalkeús, should he decide to attack. “There’s been enough fighting. Enough slaughter to last me a lifetime. It’s time for something better. Eitri?” I said, turning toward the shade, now standing at the end of the line.
The Shadowmancer shot me a sidelong look, the question obvious in his eyes. Are you sure this is okay?
I nodded.
Eitri didn’t miss a beat.
In three quick steps he crossed the space between him and his father and threw his arms around the broken god, pulling him in tight. The obsidian spikes covering Khalkeús’s back and arms bit into Eitri, but the shade hardly seemed to mind. For a time, no one spoke at all. Watching them, my chest tightened at the thought of my own dad, dead for nearly three months now. What would it have been like to have him back again, even for a second? To talk to him again or envelop him in a great big ol’ bear hug? I would’ve happily given every golden crown to my name for that chance.
“But how?” Khalkeús finally asked, pulling away, holding the resurrected form of his son at arm’s length. Bloody tears streaked the Aspect’s face.
“As I told our friend here”—Eitri swept a hand toward me—“the soul of a god, even a demigod, is a rather resilient thing. I admit, I am not what I was, Father, but I am not gone.” He was quiet, staring into his father’s face. “You know it’s time to stop this, Father. Surely you must see what this vendetta has done to you...”
Khalkeús’s face hardened, his jaw clenching tight. “But they killed ya. Immoral monsters are what the gods are, them and their Champions both. They do as they please, slaying, killing, murdering. They are capricious and vindictive, and they can afford to be so because there are nae consequences. Nae one to hold their feet to the forge’s flames. Well, Ah intend to teach them otherwise. Ah will make them learn. Ah will deliver them justice.” Almost subconsciously, he reached up, hulking hand wrapping around the key.
“No, Father,” Eitri replied with a sad shake of his head. “You want vengeance, which is not the same as justice. You’re only thinking of yourself, of your own pain. And have you considered the cost to others? How many people will die for you to get your vengeance? This man?” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Him and a thousand more like him. And if you succeed in killing the gods, then the whole world will perish.
“You too are not what you once were,” Eitri continued, tone gentle yet simultaneously reproachful. “Your wrath, your rage, it’s turned you into something ugly. You were a man of peace once, Father. You preferred to build tools over weapons of war, and it was you who pleaded with me not to get caught up in the wars of men.” He halted, eyes boring into the broken god. “You are more a shadow of your former self than I.”
Khalkeús dropped his face as Eitri spoke, as though he couldn’t stand to look his son in the eyes, couldn’t stand to see the disappointment lingering there. But something else was happening, too. Khalkeús was changing; the black spikes protruding from his back and arms were receding, shrinking back into his flesh, while the angry fissures covering his body knit themselves shut, the bloody wounds disappearing. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he looked up again, the anger gone, replaced by the face of a man who was tired. Just bone weary.
“Aye. Maybe ya have the right of it, Son. Ah always said ya were a better man than me. Still, though. It doesn’t sit right in my gut.” He slammed a closed fist against his stomach with a clink. “Someone has to hold the other Aspects and Overminds accountable.”
“Why not him?” Nangkri asked, jerking his head toward me. “He has proven he is worthy to wield the weapon.”
“But he’s a Champion,” Khalkeús replied.
“A Champion who has united the Storm Marshes,” Nangkri replied. “A Champion who h
as fought back the Imperials, showing himself to be a master of war, but also a Champion who’s shown mercy and offered justice to those who have suffered grievous wrongs.”
“And for the record,” I said, edging forward, hands raised in surrender, “I’m not here to start a war. I’m here to end one, to save a whole lot of people. And the only way I can do that is with that key around your neck.”
Khalkeús stepped away from his son, regarding me through squinted eyes, weighing me, judging me. “Aye. Very well.” He reached up and pulled the key free, the chain holding it in place snapping as though it were cheap twine. He held it out in front of him, the key swaying ever so slightly. “But only on one condition. Ah... Ah don’t want to live anymore. Ah am tired of this. Of this place. Being a god. Outliving everyone Ah’ve ever cared about. Immortality is not for everyone.”
He dropped the key into my hand.
“Ah want you to kill me. To send me on.”
That was a gut check. Despite everything that had happened, I didn’t really want to kill Khalkeús. And worse, not only did I not know how to kill him, I thought offing an Aspect, even a relatively minor one, could have dire consequences for the game. I was about to say as much when Eitri lifted a hand, cutting me off in my tracks.
“There is a better way, Father. Jack,” he said, extending a hand toward me. “May I have the key for a moment?”
That was gut check number two. I’d come all this way to get the weapon, and now that I had it in my hand, the thought of handing it over to anyone—no matter how good they seemed—felt wrong. But I knew that was wrong, too. That was the need for control, the desire for more and more power burning inside my chest. After all, getting power was no easy task, but giving it up at the drop of a hat was even more difficult. Finally, after a few moments of deliberation, I nodded and dropped my newly acquired prize into Eitri’s palm.
Eitri smiled, respect in his gaze, and nodded. “Brothers,” he said.
Nangkri moved first, clapping me on the shoulder then heading over to Khalkeús and placing his hand on the Aspect’s shoulder. The others followed, each giving me a brief nod or a kind word as they surrounded the Aspect in a ring, each one placing a hand on his golden body. Eitri was the last to join. “Take good care of Iredale Hold, Jack. She’ll serve you well.” With that, he turned toward his father, added his free hand to the ring, and lifted the key straight up toward the heavens with the other. “Godspeed, little brother.”
The world ended, or so it seemed.
Heat and light and power erupted around me like a volcano...
Roaring winds ripped away sounds and smells...
Blinding opalescent light stole all light. All sight...
Waves of inferno heat and arctic cold blasted me in turns as if I were at the center of a twister made of opposing, titanic, primal energy...
After what felt like a lifetime, the power faded, guttered, died. Reality resuming some form of normalcy. I realized I’d fallen at some point—the dusty forge floor was spread out beneath me like a picnic blanket. It was hard to think, but I was alive. After another ten minutes of just lying there—my mind frantically trying to process whatever had just happened—I had enough strength to cough and push myself upright, my legs sprawled out in front of me. Eitri, Nangkri, and the other Shadow Lords were gone. And they’d taken Khalkeús with them.
Where the circle of men had been standing before was now a smoking crater.
At its center were two items. The Horn of the Ancients, twisted, charred, and mangled almost beyond recognition, and the crystal key, which was completely untouched.
I coughed again and gained my feet. I shambled over to the blackened depression, retrieving the horn on principle, then picked up the key, which I now knew was actually something much, much more powerful. A host of messages pinged in my ear, notices flashing in the corner of my eye, one right after another.
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: The Doom Forge
Congratulations! You have accomplished the impossible: both locating the Doom-Forged relics and the location of the legendary Doom Forge and convincing the mad god Khalkeús to assemble the pieces into the Doom-Forged weapon, known as the Reality Editor! As a reward, you have received the Reality Editor, 75,000 XP, and 1,000 renown—in-world fame—for completing this ultra-rare quest. Greater renown elevates you within the ranks of Eldgard and can affect merchant prices when selling or buying. In addition, since you resolved the Doom Forge quest line without killing Khalkeús, you’ve been named the rightful heir of Eitri Spark-Sprayer and can now claim the Iredale Hold as your own!
<<<>>>
x1 Level Up!
You have (5) undistributed stat points
You have (1) unassigned proficiency points
<<<>>>
Notifications:
You’ve earned a new title: Doom Wielder!
You have received the Cursus Honorum (Rank) of Consul Magna!
You now have access to the Iredale Hold interface!
<<<>>>
Viridian Gate Online Universal Alert!
Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has completed the ultra-rare quest, The Doom Forge! His faction, the Crimson Alliance, now owns the Iredale Hold!
<<<>>>
I read over each of the notices, dismissing them as I went. As soon as I’d plowed through them, I opened my interface and took a look at the only thing that actually mattered—the thing that so many people had fought, bled, and died to get. The Doom-Forged weapon.
<<<>>>
The Reality Editor
Weapon Type: All
Class: Ancient Artifact, One-handed
Base Damage: ¥Ʀƺn75±ªƜǸ = 99:99:99:99:99
Primary Effects:
Unlocks ALL doors and locks
Charges = 874/1,000
Soul-Bound Item: This item is Soul-Bound and cannot be lost, stolen, or transferred!
All of reality bends to your will, but remember, reality is but a fragile thing balanced on the head of a pin. Even the slightest distortion can have dire consequences.
<<<>>>
I scanned the description once, twice, a third time. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what in the hell this thing actually was, how it worked, or what I was supposed to do with it.
Reality Editor
IT’D BEEN FOUR DAYS since I’d acquired the Reality Editor and escaped from the depths of the Doom Forge, which—without Khalkeús kicking around—was now just another defunct dungeon. Everyone had recovered from the dive, respawning without a hitch, and life was more or less moving along as it should be: Vogthar raids. Dungeon battles. Admin meetings. Vlad locked in his tower, endlessly tinkering with the Arcane Dampener. Pizza at Franks with Abby. I even had the Crimson Alliance reimburse Chuck from the Smoked Pig, enough for them to not only rebuild in Cliffburgh, but to open a second location.
The good news was that second location was in the heart of Yunnam, which meant Southern-style barbeque would soon be coming to the Storme Marshes.
Yep. Everything more or less as it should be.
Even Osmark was back from his Champion’s quest in the Shattered Realm—though I’d only seen him once. He seemed cagier than usual, and as much as I pressed him for details, he was extremely reluctant to talk about whatever had happened there. Still, despite that oddity, everything felt right, like we were finally moving in the right direction—getting our collective act together—except, of course, for the Reality Editor. Even after messing with it for four days, showing it to Vlad, Abby, Betty, Chief Kolle, and every other bigwig in the Alliance, no one had any idea what it actually was or how I was supposed to use it.
Experimentally, I tried actually fighting with it—the sparring session with Cutter did not go well and ended up with me getting carved up something fierce. I doused it in acid and poison to get a reaction, but nothing. And despite seeing both Khalkeús and Eitri use it to perform some strange sort of magic, I couldn’t get it to cast any s
ort of spell, and the “charges” function was still a complete enigma. When I tried to get Sophia to come pay me a visit and talk through its workings, I received a resounding silence. She, like Osmark, had clammed up—at least for now.
The only thing I knew it did for sure was open locks and doors.
All of them, no matter how complex the door, no matter how sophisticated the lock. Didn’t matter if it was a physical mechanism or a magical ward, the Reality Editor opened them all up, one right after another. An impressive trick, sure—Cutter was drooling over all the prospects—but I didn’t see how exactly the ability to pick a lock would help me kill or even minorly inconvenience Thanatos.
And so, I found myself pacing the halls of Darkshard Keep at two in the morning, the staff all asleep, the world quiet and serene. This was the same thing I’d done every night since I’d gotten the Doom-Forged weapon. I found it progressively harder to sleep with the question, the mystery, of the Reality Editor constantly weighing on my mind. I clutched the key, fingers pressing down a little too hard on the crystal, not that I was afraid of breaking it. As far as I could tell, it was indestructible, which meant I could also use it as the world’s tiniest shield if need be.
“What are you supposed to do?” I muttered at the key. There was no answer. Not that I really expected one. “You have to be more than some fancy paperweight,” I grumbled under my breath, feeling more like a mental patient every single day. “I know it. I know it! Why would you be so hard to get unless you did something amazing? I need you to work. How in the world am I going to beat Thanatos unless you do something?”
I paused next to the doorway of a seldom-used broom closet, sighed in defeat, and leaned my head up against the blessedly cool stone. My mind turned to Thanatos and the Vogthar army assembling in Morsheim.
I’d seen Morsheim a time or two—just a glimpse through a portal.
It was a barren, desolate land of rolling hills, covered in ashy pale dirt and dotted with patches of withered scrub grass and stunted, bone-white trees poking up like oversized skeletal hands. In my mind I could see the colossal twisted spires—adorned with spectral green windows like glaring insect eyes—which scraped a star-studded sky the color of an old bruise. The great Dark City. Even at a distance I could tell it easily rivaled Rowanheath or even Ankara, though it was dreadful and dreary.
