As Roman recovered from his mad dash across the field, he took his time to scrutinize the exterior of the pagoda.

Below the sign dangling from the first tier was a gate forged from some bizarre living metal, like an alloy of silver and wood. Bizarre pictographs decorated the lengths of its frame, their forms blurred and indecipherable. Roman wondered if, with enough mental attributes, it would be possible to view these unknown glyphs in truth.

Beyond the open entrance lay an illusory courtyard that likewise distorted the senses. The view beyond shifted in a constant flux, one moment depicting the interior of a typical rural gun store, the next revealing an ancient, sandy arena, like the floor of the Colosseum.

Roman pinched the doorframe, careful not to let his fingers slip into the invisible portal leading to whatever truly lay deeper into the pagoda. The silverwood was soft and supple, its temperature neutral to the touch. Out of curiosity, he applied more pressure behind his grip, bringing the entirety of his supernatural strength to bear. Despite its malleable appearance, the silverwood remained undisturbed from his efforts.

The pickup truck screeched to a halt behind Roman. Muted death metal tones spilled out as Mixie shoved the driver’s door open and plopped down onto the ground. “Hands off, meat-bag. Keeper CCL has some, shall we say, erratic tendencies.”

Roman offered his worst smile. “Yeah, I noticed when he started shooting at me unprovoked.”

“Well, Lord Mammon did declare you a Nemesis, and you have rightfully been branded as an outlaw by the system.” Mixie grunted laughter into his hand. “Rest assured, if elder brother wished you dead, he would have simply atomized the entire field.”

“And catch you in the crossfire?”

Mixie shook his head. “Do not project your mortal insecurities onto me, Mister Miller. Even if this corporeal form was completely obliterated, I would persevere.”

John materialized off to the side, his arms crossed. “This probably isn’t the best spot to stand around bickering. What are we doing here?”

Roman glanced down at his spatial satchel, which now contained Bella’s share of loot as well. It was a shame he had no real way to offload much of the useless junk he’d already accumulated, particularly if he could exchange it for some sort of enchanted armor. But the Keeper had already clearly displayed his hostility.

Roman rubbed his jaw. “So this Cecil guy doesn’t want me dead. What does he want, then?”

The ground trembled beneath his feet so slightly it may have just been his imagination. The pagoda itself remained motionless, looming over them.

Mixie snorted. “Oh, Keeper CCL must not be very pleased with the nickname. I would doubt he wants much to do with you at all, though he must have provoked you for a reason. Allow me to commune with him and ascertain his intentions. Perhaps some sort of trade could even be arranged despite your foolish actions yesterday.”

Roman didn’t hold much hope for that idea, but he wouldn’t refuse the opportunity if it presented itself. Still, he had his misgivings about dealing with more of the Keepers. It was interesting how the human mind could grow accustomed to even the most bizarre arrangements once it became rooted in the familiar. Mixie’s gem eyes and pallid, lifeless face were nothing more than a mask--his entire humanoid form was a bejeweled meatsuit housing the shard of an eldritch conqueror. Roman couldn’t afford to forget what these creatures truly were, no matter how much his mind wanted to anthropomorphize them.

“What do you think would happen if I went in there?” Roman nodded towards the ever-shifting gateway.

Mixie clasped his hands together in front of him. “I could not say with any degree of certainty. There would be no way of guaranteeing your safety within the Razor Edge Pagoda. That is the true name of this building, no matter what this quaint little sign claims. If you had a neutral reputation instead of being branded an outlaw, I would think you would simply step foot onto the first floor. It would likely present itself as some sort of simple armory manned by Keeper CCL, or at least one of his avatars.”

“Okay,” said Roman. “Slow it down. So is this the same as that Chaos Gate? Some other sort of test, or dungeon, or whatever?”

“It is not the same as the Chaos Gate we visited. Even other Chaos Gates are not like one another. The Razor Edge Pagoda is the Razor Edge Pagoda. It may have its opportunities and challenges, but so do most sanctioned areas within the Playground. Such reductionist labels are useless.”

Roman closed his eyes and suppressed his growing annoyance at Mixie’s non-answers. “Okay, sure. So what can you tell me about the Pagoda, then?”

“Very little, even if I knew the intimate details,” said Mixie. Before Roman could respond, the ghoul held up one slender finger. “It is no secret, however, that our Shops are essentially a manifestation of our accomplishments. A trophy case. CCL has lived a long time, and the Pagoda reflects that. He is a warmonger, and that is always a very lucrative trade. I imagine many opportunities lurk within.”

Roman couldn’t help but think back on the unimpressive little gas station that Mixie resided in. His jaw twitched as he restrained himself from throwing out some unnecessarily antagonistic comment. As such, he resorted to his usual method of deflection: changing the subject.

“So, do you think you can accomplish something by talking with your buddy Cecil?” he said. “Last time you went ahead and chatted with one of your fellow invaders, you warned the necrodrake we were coming and Bella…died.”

Shit. As usual, his resolution to not act like a prick hadn’t lasted long. Still, the thought continued to eat away at him. He couldn’t let his guard down just to avoid hurting the feelings of a being who probably wasn’t even capable of having emotions.

Mixie looked down and away--if the ghoul was a human, Roman would’ve almost thought that he looked ashamed. “I swear an oath to you that I intended no real harm in that situation.” He glanced up, his expression hardening. “The same way you did not intend to murder her when you defeated Lady Lucia.”

Roman gritted his teeth and gestured towards the door. “Go on, then. See what you can do.”

Without a word or backwards glance, Mixie stepped through the portal, vanishing the moment he stepped through.

John shot Roman a disapproving look.

“What?” said Roman. “You two become besties behind my back?”

John snorted.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Mixie stepped into the so-called Emporium, the world around him transformed. He found himself hovering in the sky thousands of paces above an ancient battlefield.

Clashing figures of various shapes and sizes stretched far as the eye could see, and Mixie could see quite far. Despite the thick yellow-orange atmosphere--mostly sulfur, if the overwhelming rotten eggs smell was any indication--his diamond eyes had no problem making out every detail of the engagement below. Though he didn’t recognize the scene, it must have been a simulacrum of a previous Chaos Playground.

Massive wyrms flew through the air, somehow propelled along by countless gangly appendages that massaged the fabric of reality around them. Packs of Devourers swept through the air in their wake, little more than grossly enlarged maws sprouting dozens of tentacles. Myriad misshapen entities with all sorts of impossible anatomies dominated the land.

Overall, the forces of the Chaos Playground far outnumbered the smattering of defenders.

The natives were metallic humanoids boasting two heads and six arms, each clutching a variety of weapons from pointy sticks to high-powered gauss guns. They moved with incredible strength and purpose that put Earth’s residents to shame, despite their homeworld possessing at least a tenfold higher gravity.

And, as expected, they were losing. With rare exceptions, natives simply did not win out in large-scale conflicts against the forces behind the Games. That was simply not the point of the whole charade. Anyone who could resist the full might of the Chaos Playground would never be targeted in the first place.

Still, there were pockets of resistance, usually spearheaded by one powerhouse and a handful of followers who failed to match their leaders’ pace, succumbing soon enough to the meatgrinder.

So much violence.

Unlike Keeper CCL and the other warmongers, Mixie had never taken much delight in conflict. Of course, a sizable chunk of his inventory was dedicated to weapons of carnage, but he viewed the small library of rare books and massive stockpile of medicine as the real treasures in his collection.

He watched as one of the natives, who had transformed into a titanic avatar that towered over the battlefield, fell to its knees. Countless Devourers swarmed the giant, their lamprey-like mouths tearing chunks from its figure; they replicated within seconds as they consumed organic matter, until the native was all but buried beneath their gluttonous tide.

In less than thirty seconds, the Devourers moved on, a vicious flood that swept over the survivors clinging to life in that particular sector. They left little more than a steel skeleton in their wake once they were finished with the titan.

Given the immense resentment soaking into the bloody soil, it was no surprise when the skeleton sat up, turning its skull to survey the battlefield. Adjacent corpses rolled in its direction as if drawn to a magnet, their mass integrating with the fledgling gashadokuro. The immense resentment in the air sped up the creation process considerably.

For a moment, some of the surrounding natives let out a half-hearted cheer; they must have thought that their fellow warrior had resurrected and was rejoining the fight. It was true enough, but they learned the harsh reality of the situation when the skeleton charged into their midst, stomping on clusters of natives who had managed to hold out so far.

Keeper CCL winked into existence beside Mixie.

One moment there was nothing, then the next, a six-armed ghoul made from a vibrant rainbow of metals hovered in the air beside him. The standard voluminous golden robes hung from CCL’s frame, though his were patterned with a motif of tiny weapons. Prayer beads and talismans dangled from the bent arms on his left side; on the right, he held an obsidian orb, a blazing trident, and, most ridiculous of all, a camouflage Weatherby Mark V.

He had obviously modeled himself after the natives. Why the resemblance? A lingering attachment? Continuity with the scene? Mixie found he didn’t care much either way. And it wasn’t like he had much room to judge, given his own similarity to Earth’s mortals.

“Greetings, elder,” said Mixie.

CCL chuckled. “I see you finally decided to progress down your path a bit, little brother. Level five? Remarkable, after so many aeons of stagnation. Like an adult that has finally learned how to walk.”

“We are not the same, elder.”

“Clearly not.”

Mixie folded his hands behind his back and strolled across the sky. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed upon the death throes of the native army. “There is nothing interesting about you, Cecil. No depth. You are little more than an ember of pride, pretending you can still burn as bright as you once did. The simplest of bullies.”

Cecil pointed the bolt-action rifle off to the side and sighted along the scope. He grunted, fired. With little fanfare a bullet whistled through the air. Thousands of paces away, one of the massive wyrms careened out of control. Like a meteor it plummeted into the ground, gouging a great swath of destruction in its wake.

Cecil shouldered his rifle and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I hear you are not even welcome to step foot within the Temple anymore. I suppose we are inherently shameless, but even so, we are not fools. One would think you would have learned your lesson and no longer dare to show your face again. Yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” Mixie agreed. “One would also think, barring he is an idiot, that an aberration such as myself must serve some sort of purpose. To believe otherwise is to question the very root of our existences. It is to spit in the face of Divine Mammon himself.”

The ancient battlefield seemed to stutter, as if reality had glitched for one strange moment.

“The Divine has many facets, it is known,” Cecil finally replied. “Why are you here, MCXII?”

“You are the one in my territory.”

Cecil paused for a moment before laughter spurted from his mouth. He wiped a mercurial tear from the corner of his eye and flicked it away. “Oh, right, right. Your little corner shop is nearby. “

Mixie did not respond.

“Did that mortal conquer it and force you into his service? Why else would you be with a Nemesis, after all? Let us team together to wipe his memory from existence. Afterwards, you can tend to the Pagoda. Some of the corners have begun to get dusty, I must admit.”

Mixie smiled. “The Colossus spoke to me.”

Reality warped, shattered. Now the two fragments of Mammon hovered in an infinite expanse of pure white. Their physical forms were the only dimensions within the unceasing void.

“Spoke to…you?” said Cecil after an eternity. “But…what would he—what was it that he said?”

Mixie’s smile grew wider, feral. “You are the past generation, dear Cecil. You mock me for my slow progress, but at least I am still progressing. I have spent aeons perfecting my foundations in preparation for my ascension.”

Cecil bared his teeth. Though he looked as if he would love to refute the younger Keeper’s words—with violence, if need be—he understood none of Mammon’s fragments would lie regarding such a hierarchical matter. “What were you told, MCXII?”

Mixie took his turn to lapse into dramatic silence. His diamond eyes positively sparkled with glee. “‘[ HAVE FUN, MIXIE. ]’”

Cecil blinked several times. “What? But you are not a Player. Right?”

“Let us discuss what you may do for me, Cecil.”