March 2116(α)

Ocean Gate Tavern, Wayfarer's Launch, The Untamed West, Firmament

Rubbing my head as I pore over the list of materials that Havelock quoted me for the creation of my new sword, I feel - not for the first time - that he's telling me in a backhanded sort of way to fuck off and never darken the doors of his workshop ever again after spending the last several months hassling him into agreeing to dedicate one of his limited custom Blueprint slots for my sole benefit.

Sure, he owes me - and the Guild by extension - a pretty big favour for getting him the last bits he needed to promote himself to Master, but even I have to admit that the price I'm asking to settle the debt is pushing past what can be considered a reasonable bequest. But I desperately, desperately need a sword that can go hand-in-hand with my next Class upgrade for the foreseeable future, so I've got no choice but to exploit that debt for all I can wring out of it.

I wouldn't be so pushy otherwise. Still, as a fellow smith I'm fully aware of how obnoxiously expensive and rare some of the materials he wants for it. Speaking as an armoursmith, I don't fully understand the underlying thought process for much of it - I rather suspect that half of this is just a dream shopping list which doesn't actually have any bearing on the sword's creation - but I can't really call him out on it if I want him to actually make the sword.

The alternative would be to go try and negotiate with a member of Crystal Anvil or join a corporation guild's waiting list. Which would be far more competitive and ten times the price in just pure currency. That's if they even let me into the lobby of one of their boutiques. Slim chances of that for a nobody like me.

"Hey, Silve, what you glaring at?" Ulster pats my shoulder and places down a glass of earthy-smelling liquor, leaning in, "Hooo? Grade 8 Gravspare Powder Mix? Klensteel Pearls? Which Apostle's stockpile're you looking to rob?"

"I'm not," I smack his hand away, irritated, "How'd it go? Get your new Class?"

"Hah, yeah. Walk in the park," he boasts, running his fingers through his hair, preening like a cockerel, "Oscar Ulster, Iron Lord's Successor."

"Congratulations," I comment blandly, "I'm sure that it makes up for the years of tasting bootleather on your tongue."

"Hey, you sure you don't want to join up with my Guild?" he offers with half-baked sincerity, "We could use a good Skirmish Tank for-"

"Thanks, but I'm doing fine," I hold up my hand to stop him, "You know I'm on a 10-year contract. No offence, but I'm not going to give that up on a shot in the dark that your guild'll reach any higher than where I am now. I've got my sister's university fees to think about."

"You know I can afford to pay you more, right?" Ulster tries again, "We've got two people past Level 160 on the team now. Harkness and Elena Yates - you know, the off-healer from Void Trespasser? With Guzhutian Tech Investments behind us, we can manage top-grade Gold-Tier Raids, maybe even low-grade Platinum-Tier like the Ages Old Relic Chasm."

"I'm barely 126, I can't do that kind of content," I sigh, "Thanks for the offer, Ulster, but my answer is final."

He sighs, disappointed, "Fine. You'll regret it though."

I didn't.

---

 

August 2119(α)

Astral Knights Guild Dorm, Chicago, Illinois

Walking into the common room after my morning workout with a bowl of bran cereal and a coldbrew latte Casey bought from a coffeeshop around the corner we all like, I note that there's quite a few more people than usual for this time of day, all staring with mixed emotions - primarily negative - at a news report.

"-ested last night after authorities from the Virtual Peacekeeping Bureau received a warrant for the leader of well-known Guild, Metal Virtue, 'Iron Lord' Oscar Ulster - known in Reality as Jacob Wheels, 35 - after a year-long investigation into an online sex trafficking ring preying on impressionable youths starting out in Astral Reckoning for the first time revealed evidence that placed him as the kingpin of this despicable organisation..."

"Fucking bastard..." Ivy shakes with rage, "Kuh, it's not going to stick. Guzhutian Tech aren't going to let their golden goose get locked up. He'll walk."

"Depends on public opinion and how damning the evidence VPB found is," Casey equivocates, "But yeah, odds are he'll just be 'fined' and get back to raiding within a month."

"This isn't going to burn us, is it?" Lester questions, worriedly.

"Might do, we've been working pretty closely with Metal Virtue since Oscar left us," Ivy seethes, "God, I can't believe I never noticed this shit. Intel is my entire fucking job! How the hell did the VPB get wind of this before I did?!"

"They followed the roots back to the head," I point out, "From what that reporter was saying. Who knows how far they went below ground to pull 'nutrients' for the flower up top?"

"...Fuck your metaphors, Alex."

"You're just upset that you got one-upped," Casey smirks.

"I literally just said that, blockhead."

While they bicker I turn my attention back to the news report and clench my teeth as pictures of victims who committed suicide after getting caught up in the scheme roll by, feeling like I caught a bullet between my jaws, fired from three years ago. It just goes to prove that the grass may be greener on the other side of the fence, but there's no telling how many bodies are buried beneath as fertiliser.

---

 

Present Day

???

The scent of tea wakens me to the light around me. Slowly, I raise my hand to me stiffened neck and massage it, while I take stock of my surroundings. An office, the walls barren of decoration, the floor carpeted in plush blue fibres and the rising sun shining through a tall, arched-lattice window, shrouding the figure of a man in a high-backed leather chair at his desk, scratching away at a stack of papers with a fountain pen.

Although the decor, or lack of it speaks to a similar point in time to the one I left, I get the distinct impression that the quality of life here is far more modernised. From the furniture, to the clean feel of the leather covering of the recliner I'm on, to the neat, light-grey doublet the handsome man is wearing, it all carries that sense of refinement - and obsessive neatness, everything polished to a soft shine and placed 'just-so'.

I'm of the mindset that you can tell quite a lot about a person by observing them in their work environment, and he strikes me as someone constantly on edge and incapable of loosening his control on his surroundings. A real perfectionist.

"You are awake," he states simply, "Sooner than expected. Good."

I right myself into a sitting position, then address the man, "If I'm not mistaken, you would be Count Geronil Erment, correct?"

"Indeed," he accepts bluntly, barely a shred of emotion to be found in his voice, "You will forgive the less than gentle entrance process. It has been a great many years since I left this Legacy in the keeping of Olton. 'tis unfortunate, but all things trend towards degradation as time passes."

The way he speaks sounds more like an order to be accepted than a polite explanation. It's clear he's used to people shutting their mouths and doing as he says without question. Of interest to me is the difference between his appearance here and the stone bust depicting him. The sculptor very clearly left out the scars and the goatee on his face as well as taking further liberties by combing his dark curls straight. The air of severity and self-assured dignity as well as his excessively handsome features seem to be rather true to life, however.

"You are wondering what you are doing here," he states once again and doesn't wait for a response before answering an unasked question, "I wished to speak with you first, to take the measure of the incongruent fool that aims so far above his means. And to give you a degree of context for the second phase of the Trial ahead."

A brow raises reflexively, "I rather got the impression you were more interested in dictating your terms than engaging in conversation."

His eyes narrow, tearing his gaze away from his paperwork, "Mind your tongue in front of your better, child, if you wish to keep it."

"Is that any way to speak to a guest?" I admonish him swiftly, still in a turbulent mood, "I might be here seeking a favour, but that is a poor excuse for bad manners, Count Erment. I remind you, I am not one of your subordinates."

That gets his attention, tearing away his eyes from the papers he's scribbling away at. My body is pinned in place, his Presence leaking out through his agitation, but it's a mere drop in the ocean compared to the real deal. Am I intimidated? Certainly, even as a fading echo of what he once was, in this space that might as well not matter - he's not as restrained or half-formed as the Despairing Wanderer - but I'm not scared of him lashing out. So long as I don't annoy Count Erment so much that he stops caring, he still must honour the artifice of the Legacy Trial.

"My manner of speaking is of no concern of yours," he declares stubbornly, "This is how I address any who seek what is mine without the qualifications to take it."

I bark a laugh, "Excuses, excuses. Get on with it, then. Ask your questions."

Glaring harder, Count Erment takes a long breath and returns to his apathy, "Why do you seek my power?"

"Because I need it, and I won't see it squandered," I answer simply, not lying per se, but not bothering to launch into an explanation about the greater context behind why I'm here for this Legacy Class specifically, "Though much of the world is doing it's best to bury it's head in the dirt and forget, The Astral Eclipse is looming over Merrow once again."

His glare returns sharply, "You are hiding much from me."

"I simply have no interest in explaining things that do not concern you," I respond sarcastically, getting a sense of deja vu for some reason, "What I told you was the barest truth, and all that matters for the purpose of this Trial."

"You will explain, or this Trial is over," Count Erment threatens coldly.

"If anything I said was a lie, perhaps you would have the justification to do so," I snort, "I did not. Ask your next question, and refrain from threats you can't make good on - I'm not some ignorant, power-hungry rookie you can bully."

"Do not test my patience," he grates, temper flaring.

"Nor you, mine," I stare right back into his eyes. He stares humourlessly back.

Though he gives no hint of conceding any ground, he's still compelled to continue, "What makes you think you are in any way worthy to receive it?"

I sigh, finding this song and dance all too cliché for my liking, "Because I reached out my hand to take it."

"You think it so simple?"

"Yes."

Count Erment's eyes narrow, then shut, a single finger tapping his desk like the ticking of a metronome in perfect rhythm, "You receive evidence that a subordinate of yours smuggling vital supplies to the enemy in exchange for narcotics. How do you respond?"

"Determine which supplies are due to be stolen next, then secretly taint them with poison," I reply coldly, "Whether they are caught and executed or they return unscathed and the poison leads to losses, I win out. Regardless, they will be punished severely."

"There is a fort atop a hill you have been ordered to take, occupied by approximately 100 Level 110s. Towers on each corner. The path long and winding, it has enough supplies stored away to last a decade comfortably and mages capable of providing potable water on demand," he moves on, "You must take it in under a week, or reinforcements will come. You have 300 men at your disposal, 60 Volley Archers, 135 Great Warriors and 5 Infiltrators, all roughly Level 60. How do you do it?"

"Don't bother. My commander is clearly trying to get me and my soldiers killed," I shake my head.

"You must take it," Count Erment insists.

"Impossible," I assert, "Even one of those Level 110s could obliterate the entirety of my host in the space of a single breath. With the circumstances as you set them to be, we would be wiped out before we even see the fort by their resident Trappers. No infiltration or lure tactics will affect the defenders with that kind of disparity."

"You. Must. Take. It," he repeats, brooking no further denial.

"No," I reject him regardless, "Next question."

"....You suspect an insurrection amongst your people in-"

The questions he poses to me all lead towards a very specific intention. Ruthlessness, expedience, results at any cost no matter how slim the chances of success. Some of the solutions I propose to these moral and tactical quandaries he poses please him, but most fall short in some way. Specifically, that I am fundamentally unwilling to treat my subordinates as expendables.

I should clarify, that I'm not claiming a lack of willingness to send them to their possible demise; Speaking both from my principles and from the perspective of a reasonable and situation-aware commander, I will do my level best to avoid hopeless situations that demand too much for too little and reduce the risks undertaken as much as is feasible. There's always another option, even if you have to make one.

I'm not a callous man, blinded by dreams of glory borne from triumph against overwhelming odds.

Glory is something the dead are rarely able to enjoy. Pyrrhic victories are hardly victories at all in my book. Perhaps to Count Erment such an attitude might be naïve, but compromising who I am to lick his boots isn't in my nature nor would the insincerity of it do anything to engender endearment.

In spite of my misgivings, I play along with the leading questions until the end, keeping the more charged objections to myself as unproductive distractions from the matter at hand. Count Erment's dissatisfaction is plain to see and feel.

"One last question," he knits his fingers together solemnly, "What makes you think you are qualified to lead others?"

"I'm not," I shake my head, "But that's not really something for me to decide on, I think. I can only offer a means to an end, and others will decide for themselves whether it's worth it to listen. Some will do it for...lack of a will or purpose they truly recognise as their own, whether to abdicate the search entirely or to give them guidance to better understand themselves. Some will do it because they don't feel strongly either way and see no reason to refuse - simple inertia. Others for fun, profit, or because someone else already committed themselves - forming a chain from one to the next.

And, still others will spur it for petty reasons, or because our Paths simply do not intersect at that juncture. I firmly believe that the pursuit of individual benefit should not be mutually exclusive with the welfare of others and that in forging forward, others will inevitably follow in your wake in pursuit of their individual beliefs, desires and for the simple sake of having something to fill the emptiness they feel."

I pause and take a moment to breathe, then take a stand in front of his desk, looking down into his eyes with firm conviction, "I only hope to provide an example that people can draw inspiration from in order to better themselves and each other. Their wills are their own; They are not puppets or tools to be used and tossed aside lightly. We are all of us headed to the same destination: The 20th Astral Eclipse. I need not command every soul personally when it comes, I only need strength enough to clear the way for others to stand there alongside me."

Count Erment places his hands on his desk and draws himself up from his chair, towering a good 6 inches over me, "Your words, your resolve...are pathetic and empty of meaning. You are not a man. You are a stepping stone spouting pleasant-sounding sophistry. Creatures such as you exist to be trampled underfoot by those with a true will to dominate, and you will do so with a smile."

He inhales slowly, the light in the room dims and the air grows thin, "You are not worthy to be my successor. Begone."