by Sean Oswald
WATCHER’S TEST
©2020 SEAN OSWALD
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
FROM THE PUBLISHER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LitRPG
Prologue
Out beyond the known reaches of the multiverse, where no planets teeming with life danced in their orbits around fiery stars, there was a place. For lack of a better term, call it a pocket in reality floating in the Stygian blackness of the void. It was not the only such place, but it was the place he felt drawn to. A member of the first race, his eyes had seen the rise and fall of not just countries or worlds but of entire universes born and ever dying before him. Those same eyes now watched this pocket in reality, a room with a single occupant. The Watcher recognized his long-lost brother and, likewise, knew what had led to him being condemned to this place. What the Watcher didn’t understand was why he was here, why he felt drawn to this place. All he knew was that it was where he needed to be. He felt pulled there, tugged by an existential question that he had never been able to answer in the countless eons of his existence. Conflicting thoughts ran through his head, which might not seem strange, but to a being of absolute order such as the Watcher, it was an entirely alien sensation.
His mind was capable of performing millions of calculations per second but yet had no answer as to why he couldn’t seem to prevent himself from coming here of all places. No little voice whispered in his ear about good or evil. Rather, he was more like that little voice for the many mortals he had overseen.
The ongoing argument in his head continued and led to the inescapable conclusion that he should not be here. Yet all of that reason fell flat. It was clinical reason, solid and sure, but feeble compared to the ache that he felt, the longing for something that he didn’t understand. For a mortal, this decision would have been relatively simple, but for a being such as he, it was anything but simple. Ages beyond the lifespan of universes had passed since last he stood upon this precipice, the edge of choice.
“Choice.” He chuckled to himself, mulling over the word in his mind and then speaking it to no ear other than his own, speaking it again and again in the millions of sentient languages he was fluent in. His laugh was for himself. “How was it that the mortals always made this seem so simple?” He was always sure of himself, never questioning his purpose, and yet he stood here. With uncharacteristic anger, he thought to himself, “Either step in and see what happens or leave this place and let all be as it should be.”
It felt as though an eternity passed during the span of his indecision, but more likely, it lasted no more than a single flap of a hummingbird’s wings. Yet the timing of it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that for only the second time in his existence, the Watcher did something common to mortals but unheard of for his kind. He made a choice and stepped into that room. The significance of this was not lost upon the cosmos in a myriad of little ways, which even this Watcher could not perceive. Not the rightness or wrongness of his choice, but rather the very act of choosing.
Crossing that threshold, he felt both alive in his choice and smothered by his surroundings. He felt cut off from an essential, intangible awareness that was as natural and unthinking to him as breathing is to a mortal. He staggered upon entering, aching at a level he didn’t even know possible. Just as he thought he would fall, he felt rough hands catch him. The room’s sole occupant had stood from his crouched position and crossed to where the Watcher entered, catching him with a display of foresight, revealing a prediction of the Watcher’s presence as well as his moment of infirmity.
Feeling those hands catch him, the Watcher instinctively pushed them away as if mere contact between these two beings of spirit and energy could contaminate him. Standing firm again, the Watcher reflexively rose to his full height and exuded his presence as only his kind could with much the same force as a supernova would express as it exploded.
For all of that though, the other before him seemed unphased. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the force pushed out or didn’t sense the tension in the Watcher, the deadly preparedness. Rather it was that he had expected it, even needed it. He welcomed the crushing force and the flow of energy that rushed out of the Watcher. He reveled in the emotions that he felt surging, reveled as a man upon the brink of death from dehydration would savor even the tiniest drops of water. Despite the pain this force brought, his only feeling was a certain greedy gratitude and his thoughts were a jumble of, “Ah pain, presence, the existence of another.” Even as the force dropped him to the floor of this room, he still clung to the fact that he was not alone. His room, his prison, his own little private hell as he had come to understand it, was no longer empty. Life filled it, the existence of another, and the lingering aura of the One.
Desperate to keep the Watcher from leaving after waiting so long to commune with another of his kind, the Condemned raised himself to a knee and lifted his hand in what would have passed as a symbol of peace or submission within the mortal realms. His voice, long unheard by any ears other than his own, spoke. First; cracking, trembling, needy, then smoothing into the dulcet tones of a practiced liar. Slowly, words
fell out as if tumbling from the core of his being solely for the benefit of the Watcher. “Wait, brother. I mean you no harm. I only sought to catch you as you adjusted to this place. I know you are not accustomed to it, if any can ever truly become accustomed to it.”
Upon hearing this, the Watcher eased his stance just the slightest, an imperceptible softening of his energy and bearing in the eyes of any mortal, but telling as volumes of biographies to the perceptions of the Condemned. The Watcher snorted and fired back a hasty retort, “You are no brother of mine.” Then more softly, “At least, you are no longer.”
As he spoke, the Watcher gazed upon the Condemned clearly and not through the veil that separates this pocket dimension from the rest of the cosmos, and what he saw shocked him. He saw a hollowness that defied reason and unfillable emptiness and an unbearable burden. When next the Watcher spoke, it was with his characteristic compassion. “How is it that you bear this?” Upon hearing those words, the Condemned felt something he had not felt in millennia: hope.
Standing upright, the Condemned sighed. “You would not understand, my brother.” When the Watcher did not correct his familiar naming, the Condemned knew beyond hope that he had him. This was what he had worked for, this was what he had planned for, this was the chance to be justified.
Breaking eye contact, the Watcher stepped to the side in the pretense of examining his surroundings, but in reality, he was simply feeling anxious. In all his existence, he had never felt such a thing and was poorly equipped for uncertainty. He wondered if he had been forever changed simply by stepping into this place, by making a choice.
Finally, realizing that his musings were accomplishing nothing and that there was no reason to put off what he had come for, he turned to the Condemned. “I would like to know how you contacted me.” As he spoke, his stance resumed some of his imperious commanding nature from earlier without the openly hostile intent.
In response, the Condemned’s demeanor darkened and he replied abruptly, “I didn’t.”
“What do you mean? I felt a summons, some sort of widely broadcast call throughout different planes of reality. I have spent the better part of the last millennia searching for the source of this signal. You must be doing something.” Tensing again, the Watcher began to speak with anger, “And I will brook none of your deceit.”
Carefully schooling the smirk which he felt, the Condemned raised himself up, pushing out on his long-faded aura. “Righteous indignation will not accomplish anything, nor is it correctly directed, for I did nothing to call you to this place.”
As he spoke, the Watcher examined him more closely, noting the way his presence was blurred and everything about him was indistinct as a shadow, or more like the face one knows well but is covered by just enough darkness to mute every defining feature, leaving one’s mind to fill in the details. Taking not only the visual perceptions but utilizing senses possessed by none but his kind, the Watcher studied closely. Then he realized that as improbable as it was for one of the Condemned’s ilk, he must be speaking the truth. This feeble being was no longer able to project a simple thought from his prison, let alone the clarion call across the multiverse that had echoed in the Watcher’s mind.
Silence reigned as these two ancient beings stood mere feet apart, staring deeply and taking each other’s measure. The Watcher lingered in his silence, struggling with an uncertainty that he had never before known. The Condemned remained silent because he was, in this moment, a salesman and as every good salesman knows: after you’ve made your pitch, it's time to sit still because the next one to speak, loses.
In the end, it should come as no surprise that the Watcher spoke next. He had, after all, come here to be sold, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. “So, if you didn’t call me, then why am I here?” he said, vocalizing the question resounding within his mind.
This time, the Condemned could not prevent the slightest of curls coming to his thin lips as he responded, “Now, you ask the right question, my worthy brother. Now you choose to think and see beyond the pap that is fed to you.” A pause fell again as these words lingered in the space between them. “I have sought for time immemorial to understand a question that is clearly plaguing you.”
Indignantly, the Watcher barked back, “I question nothing. Unlike you, I am not faithless.”
Speaking soothingly, the Condemned sought to calm the expected ire his statement had raised. “I accuse you of nothing, my worthy brother. I am not your enemy in this. In this one thing, we both yearn to know, to understand, to make sense of that which is right before our eyes.”
Receiving back no further rebuke, he continued, “You too yearn to know why He treats them as He does.”
Almost robotically, the Watcher responded, “He need not explain anything to me, and certainly not to you.”
Backtracking and approaching from another angle, the Condemned replied, “I do not seek to question Him. That day has come and gone, and I bear the consequences in my very being as you have observed.”
His tone was conciliatory, and he could see that it worked as the Watcher’s aura fell back to its passive level. Then, without waiting, he sprung the hidden barb in his argument. “But I do seek to question them. To challenge their worthiness. To test them.” And now, he allowed his sneer to appear in full.
“They are chosen,'' the Watcher retorted weakly, but there was no real fire in his response.
“I have found a way.” The Condemned spoke through his sneer, smoothing the shadows that covered his aura.
“How?” The Watcher’s interest obvious, then. “Or rather, what do you mean, you have found a way.”
“I have found a way to test them, a way for us to see if they are worthy of His regard.”
“A way? A way to what? What do you even mean? This is not possible.” The Watcher’s confusion clear in his aura as much as his words.
“It is enough that I have found a way, that is all that matters. Finally, our people can know the truth of these little specks.”
“Being able to do something does not make it the right thing to do,'' began the Watcher before being vehemently interrupted by the Condemned’s aura, which surged with a crimson hue of rage. “Of course, being able to do something is all that matters, else I would not be in this… this place.” In his rage, the Condemned was unable to find the words to express his disdain for his prison.
He repeated, “It is enough that I am able to do so. He will not stop me.”
“Allowing you and giving you permission are not the same thing. And we both know that you would never be given permission. That has already been done, and the Most High will never consent to it being done again.” The Watcher’s tone rose as his confidence in his statement did.
“He allowed you to come here, didn’t He? He allowed you to sense me in this place and to feel the same burning questions that I feel. For if you didn’t, you would not be here. If I speak lies, then call out the truth to me.”
“Perhaps...” the Watcher trailed off, not finishing his statement as he again fell into a pondering silence. This time, though, the Condemned did not let him sit in silence for long, only enough to accentuate his uncertainty. “Who could resist Him if He were to say no, so the very fact that it can be done will prove His acquiescence, His ambivalence, if not His permission. You know you ache to see this as much as I do.” Both these ancient minds worked at speeds beyond the comprehension of any mortal. Communication going back and forth between them far more efficiently than words could ever convey as a plan was hatched to carry out that which the Condemned proposed.
As they finalized the details of the plan, the Watcher said, “I will need some assurances that only a limited number will be tested and that some explanation will be given to them along with sufficient provision to make the test fair.”
“You know that I could care but little for fairness to them, but if you will supply the spark of aura that I need, then I will agree to a limited number of tests. Say, perhaps twelve test
s. It is an appropriate number. As for an explanation and provision, I will leave that to your best judgment. Simply remember that this is meant to be a test,” responded the Condemned, content in an assurance that his plan had borne fruit.
“So be it, His allowance will serve as confirmation of this choice.” The Watcher spoke more to himself than to his ally in this venture, unaware of the all too mortal trait of self-justification applied to a dubious choice and voiced often in various tongues as, “It is easier to seek forgiveness than to ask permission.”
Chapter One
“No trap is so subtle as the tyranny of the mundane- the whispered lie bought and paid for which steals away the magic of each moment in exchange for a list of duties without end or purpose or thanks.” —Memoirs of the Unnamed Mage, first Archmage of the Talus School of Wizardry, circa 1247 AE
Dave looked at his watch as he walked out of the courtroom. Another simple hearing made more complicated than it needed to be. For goodness sake, we aren’t saving the world here, but you would have thought by the impassioned plea his opponent had been making, that at the very least, he was inventing penicillin, if not outright ending world hunger. In the end, all of that pleading hadn’t helped the cause of endless paperwork. The court had seen reason and denied the motion. Dave won, but it didn’t feel like a victory. He had slain the evil plaintiff’s attorney and prevented the production of endless reams of new documents. Yet what had it really mattered? Another two and a half hours of billable time to charge his client and another corporation shielded from having to explain itself. Sometimes, winning sucked, and for not the first time, Dave wondered how he did this job day in and day out. Worst of all, all that grandstanding and crying—yes, actual tears from the plaintiff—had resulted in dragging out what should have been a simple hearing, so that now he was running late.
