u/DontImplantThechip

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Sharon spent the next two hours repositioning.

The garrison fell back to secondary positions, flanking the walls and manning the elevated platforms. Their role was containment. They weren't expected to survive a direct clash with the Hero, and Sharon didn't insult their intelligence by pretending otherwise; everyone knew that, if the worst happens, they'll die first, because that is the sad reality of a minion.

Minion 47 remained at the gate.

Golem 4 remained on the platform.

Sha-sha ascended to the watchtower with her bow and disappeared into the angles of shadow there.

Crow and Sharon took their positions in the open ground thirty-three meters from the gate side by side, with clear sightlines north and south, nothing convenient to hide behind.

"We're not going to ambush him?" Crow asked.

"No." Sharon rolled one shoulder, loosening the joint. "The mission is to position the golem when he comes closer. This is the best way to enter our realm; he has to pass through here. Everything else is secondary." She glanced at him. "If he moves too fast, Forty-Seven will clash with him. He can't teleport either because of our mages' anti-teleport magic. We need to slow him down to make the delivery a success. That's our job. This will make them think twice before invading again."

Delivery… Right… This is a bad plan. If things go wrong, he dies. If things go favorably, the Hero'll be our permanent enemy... this can't be the best option.

He gripped the Zweihänder's handle, then released it. Too tight. He rolled his hands, cracked his knuckles, and breathed.

I just want this to end…

The wind came from the north, carrying pine and cold earth.

And then, between one breath and the next, the gate shuddered.

The blow landed on Minion 47 like a thunderclap without thunder—a single, compressed impact that drove the golem backward three full meters, its feet gouging furrows in the packed dirt. It caught its balance, lifted its head, and swung in the same motion.

BAAM!

"K-kill?" he croaked while flying into the fortress.

Sharon muttered, "See? They tried to teleport and failed."

Yeah, very good, very... good...

The Hero stepped through the gate gap without slowing down.

Crow had seen the character renders in-game. The forum screenshots, the endless fanart. The promotional artwork spread across the loading screens. None of it had prepared him for the weight of the Hero's presence.

So this is the protagonist aura...

The Hero wore a long coat over light plate, dust-grey from the road, his right hand resting on the hilt of a sword that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic luminescence like a heartbeat.

Two more figures entered behind him.

The Mage. Crow recognized the guy immediately. Hood down, staff planted, reading the courtyard 'geometry' with the eyes of a man who'd seen too many combat zones to be impressed. The fire motif on his staff was worn thin, like a spammer of spells.

The Rogue materialized last. Or rather, he didn't materialize at all. Crow simply became aware that a third person had entered because the gate was now closed, the count was wrong, and there was a presence at the Mage's flank that hadn't been there a moment earlier. That minimal footprint made it obvious. The guy was the Rogue from the Hero's party.

Right. Okay. Three of them. Not the full party.

Where's Lily? Without her, talking'll be hard. No, it's not the best time to think about this.

He just focused on what was ahead of him.

Minion 47 attacked again.

"I k-kill weak"

It moved better than Crow expected, the repaired joints carrying through properly, the swing sequencing with real intent. The Hero sidestepped once, twice, reading the timing, then caught the third swing mid-arc with a palm block that redirected rather than stopped. The golem stumbled past him. He turned and drove an elbow into the back of its neck with enough force to crack the stone beneath its feet.

Did I see that right? This guy is way too high-level to be doing this so easily.

Golem 47 went down hard. Then it got up again.

It's buying time. Not much, but enough. Too late to talk now.

Sharon moved. Crow followed.

The Hero noticed them before they closed the gap—pivoted smoothly, the luminescent sword lifting from its loose position at his side into something ready. His eyes moved across both of them, flat and analytical, as if he were running a combat assessment.

Crow felt the attention of the Hero land on him and stay there.

The Hero's sword was glowing in Sharon's direction, but in Crow's direction, it lost considerable light.

So I am a human after all. He's clocking me as the anomaly, probably.

Good. Let him wonder.

The hero murmured something when he was close to Crow. "Mercenary..."

Sharon reached the Hero first.

She moved at vampire speed in an arc, closing the angle on his sword side, her right hand already extended with a thread of mana coiling between her fingers. The Hero tracked her, pivoted on his back foot, and snared her wrist with his free hand before the mana strand could set.

Fast.

The word didn't cover it. Crow had watched Sharon move in the courtyard during drills. He'd thought he understood the upper ceiling of her speed. He hadn't.

The Hero matched it easily.

Sharon wrenched her arm, stepped inside, drove a knee toward his ribs. He turned the knee, took the impact on his hip instead, used the momentum to shove her back two meters. She landed clean and came forward again immediately.

Crow hit the Hero from the left.

The Zweihänder swung in a horizontal arc—like a kill strike, however against the Hero it was more like a pressure strike, something to split the Hero's attention. The Hero ducked under it with one smooth motion and rose into a shoulder check that sent Crow sideways, his boots dragging for purchase. The ground didn't cooperate. He stumbled, caught himself, and was already moving again before the stumble finished.

Strong.

The status window would help right now.

He flicked his gaze to the Ring of Wisdom, triggered it, aimed the query at the Hero.

"Status" he muttered.

Ring of Wisdom.

Target Analysis: ERROR

TITLE: [THE HERO]

ERROR.

Target status cannot be accessed. Skill interference detected: 

[SEALED FATE—PASSIVE]. Information concealed by subject's native skill.

The Sage of the Ring says: "Yeah, I've got nothing. Only that he was too much mana for a warrior."

Yeah, but that's obvious.

Crow closed it.

Fine. Manual calculation then.

He struck twice more—abbreviated swings, forcing the Hero to track the blade rather than ignore it—while Sharon pressed from the right, her mana threads unwinding into longer coils now, trying to find a binding angle. The Hero moved between them with a consistency that was starting to make Crow's teeth ache.

He's handling both of us and he hasn't broken a sweat.

Sharon defeated Minion 47 in one second flat the day she demonstrated its limitations. I struggled against the same golem. If Sharon is that strong, and yet the Hero is currently managing both of us simultaneously without fully committing to either fight—

The Hero's elbow caught Crow across the jaw, clean and sudden.

—then the Hero is equal to at least twice our combined strength. Probably more; I don't know, mathematics isn't my thing. His kit is better for group fights than solo.

Crow hit the ground with his shoulder, rolled, and came up before the motion completed. His jaw sang with it.

At least twenty percent stronger than Sharon. This is for sure.

The Mage is doing nothing. The Rogue, too... I know this strategy.

But if he is only this strong, then the bomb might kill him if he's not at full health. I just wanted to talk and fix things another way. This wasn't supposed to happen. So is this the way the NPCs see the Hero? A guy that, when he comes close to everything that gives XP, he just starts swinging his sword without talking? Ah right, he said 'mercenary…'

The Mage hadn't moved from his position near the gate.

Crow noticed him. The staff's focus had changed color. Where it had been grey-red on arrival, it now glowed a deep, pressurized orange, the light pulsing in short, tight intervals.

He's been preparing that since he walked in. Explosion magic? Burn type... This is bad.

Sharon noticed it too. She caught Crow's eye for a fraction of a second—a look that transmitted everything without words.

The Rogue materialized.

He surfaced from wherever invisible things waited and crossed the courtyard in seven silent strides toward the Mage's flank. Sha-sha dropped from the watchtower simultaneously, her bow already raised, an arrow already nocked and drawn.

Good instincts.

Sha-sha released.

The Rogue moved his short blade once.

The arrow deflected with a clean ting, spinning into the dirt three meters off-course.

Sha-sha stared.

The Rogue tilted his head, something amused in the gesture. Then smirked at her.

She nocked again, loosing three arrows in a single fluid draw.

He parried all three. Same blade. Different angles. The motions were too economical; it was clear that this wasn't his limit, he just hadn't needed to do more yet.

"You're slow," he said,

Not a taunt, probably. An observation, certainly. Which made it worse.

Sha-sha dropped the bow.

The long daggers at her hip cleared the sheaths in the same motion, and she closed the distance between them in a sprint. The Rogue met her. Close quarters, blade to blade, the exchange fast enough that individual strikes blurred into a single sustained conversation of steel. She was good; Crow had seen her work in the arena and knew her technical level. Nevertheless, she was losing easily to this guy.

This is bad…

And all this was happening while Crow and Sharon were dealing with the hero.

The Rogue's footwork kept finding angles Sha-sha hadn't covered, small windows that forced her to reset. She landed three clean hits. He absorbed them and returned four. When she broke for distance, one of those four had opened a cut along her forearm that she hadn't felt during the exchange.

She pulled her bow again.

He parried the first arrow before it reached him.

"Still slow," he said,

The courtyard feels small in this battle.

Sharon had driven the Hero back seven meters through pure sustained pressure with mana threads, speed, and angles. Except 'back' was the wrong word, because he hadn't retreated so much as redirected. Now, Crow stood between him and Golem 4's platform. The 'geometry' of that was starting to feel deliberate.

He's positioning everyone in this battle exactly where he wants.

He knows where the 'key' to this battle is; this guy is too smart.

The Hero's sword lifted.

The luminescence in the blade deepened, its rhythm accelerating; it was no longer a heartbeat, more like a pulse. He met Sharon's next strike head-on, intercepted her mana thread with his free hand and simply pulled, unraveling it through raw force, staggering her.

In that step, his elbow found her sternum.

Sharon flew.

She landed hard, skidded across the courtyard on one knee, and stopped with her palm flat against the stone. The impact had stripped a section of her coat from her left shoulder, clean, like paper.

She was already rising.

She's tough.

That strike was too strong, and he barely committed to it.

The Mage's voice reached Crow and the Hero across the courtyard.

"NOW."

One word, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

This is bad. I need to close the distance so the Mage won't use magic on me, given the risk of friendly fire against the Hero.

Crow had already started moving laterally, pushing away from the Mage's sightline, instinct moving him faster than thought. He brought the Zweihänder up in a guard and drove a shoulder strike at the Hero's center, forcing him to turn, and to track the blade.

The Hero turned to Sharon instead. He crossed the distance in two steps, and planted a straight kick against her chest that pushed her clear of the courtyard's center. Four meters back. Away from him.

Away, just to put her in the blast radius. Yeah, that is really the plan, using the Mage to deal fire damage against a vampire.

Sharon landed, bounced once, and looked up from the ground just as the Mage completed the final syllable of whatever he'd been building for the last two minutes.

The staff's focus detonated.

Something with fire's face and an explosion's ambition. The projectile erupted outward from the staff's head in a compressed bloom that reached the courtyard's center in a fraction of a second, the heat pressure arriving a beat ahead of the actual impact. The Hero and Crow caught the outer edge of it and drove themselves backwards. Crow's coat scorched at the hem as the air turned furnace-hot, then instantly cold, as the backdraft sucked inward behind the detonation.

Wait… I thought the magic was going into Sharon, not me… No, that was a fire arrow mixed with explosive magic, so both the Hero and I were caught in its trajectory too.

This guy… he literally used a AoE tatic.

Crow looked at the Hero; he didn't suffer any damage from it.

Fire resistance. Right. This is bad; they are playing way too well this team fight.

The center of the courtyard disappeared into smoke.

Sharon is a vampire, so her weakness to fire is high; however, her level is way too high to be seriously damaged by that explosive fire magic.

Crow looked into the smoke, orange and black, roiling upward in a column that caught the wind and thinned at the top without dispersing below. The heat distorted everything at ground level. He couldn't see through it, and definitely couldn't see where Sharon had been when the magic strike landed.

The silence that followed lasted three full seconds.

Four.

Still, nobody moved.

The Rogue lowered his blade a little.

His eyes found the smoke column, and for the first time since entering the outpost, something changed in his expression. Tension, anxiety perhaps.

Sha-sha's daggers stayed up.

Crow watched the smoke.

Sharon moved out of the way. She had to have—

—A shape moved through the grey.

Sharon emerged from the smoke at walking pace. Her right arm—

Crow's jaw tightened.

—The right sleeve of her coat was gone. Burned away from the shoulder seam down, and beneath it the skin exposed to the blast had taken the full magic blast. The arm was intact. Functional, she held it at her side. The skin from fingertips to shoulder blazed an angry, seared crimson that deepened toward charcoal at the elbow, and every motion of that arm came with a visible stiffness.

The rest of her coat hung around her, half-scorched, edges still smoking in places.

She looked at the Rogue.

Then he looked back at her.

The smoke continued to rise behind her, and in it, as it thinned, she began to disappear. It was a gradual dimming, the edges of her figure losing definition, bleeding into the grey until only the outline held.

Then only her eyes held.

Two points of deep crimson, sharp as embers, floating at eye height in the dispersing column of smoke.

Then those too went dark.

Silence…

The Rogue took one step back. His grip on the short blade began to tighten. He looked quickly at Sha-sha and then scanned his surroundings in sequence. His face said it all.

The smoke cleared little by little. He maintained his distance from Sha-sha, eyes darting everywhere. Then, he felt it.

Sharon was behind him.

(Next)

(Chap 1) (Previous)

The geometry clown hadn't stopped.

Crow sat on the hot springs bench with his arms resting on his knees, steam curling past his face, and listened to the low, disjointed snickering still drifting through the cedar walls from whichever dark corner the thing had wedged itself into.

"...geometry... hehe... geometry..."

He'd stopped trying to locate the source. He'd stopped caring about the source too. At some point during the last 11 minutes, the sound had simply become part of the room, like the hiss of water on hot stones or the distant creak of the palace settling against itself.

Crow stood, draped the towel across his shoulder, and pushed through the hot springs backdoor that led to the change room.

Cool air met him in the corridor—the ordinary temperature of a hallway that hadn't been filled with steam. He moved through the change room, dressed without ceremony, and left the geometry enthusiast to its private geometric theories.

The kitchen found him the same way it always did: smell first, sound second. Something sizzled somewhere inside. He settled onto a stool at the central block.

Sophia was already there, her back to him, managing three things at once with finesse. She set a plate down in front of him before he asked, bread, something cured, an egg that had stopped being fully warm but hadn't committed to being cold. A cup followed. Black. Still too hot.

She didn't speak. Neither did he. He worked through the plate methodically, the way a man eats when he needs fuel fast, and let the silence hold.

Normally she’ll say something, but I understand. After what happened with her and Alice, I’d be shy too if I were in her place. Yeah, I can see the tips of her ears turning red... never mind. Better leave her alone.

When the cup was empty, he stood, rolled his shoulder once, and left.

***

The corridor outside his quarters felt longer at this hour, or maybe just quieter. He pushed the door open.

Black and gold velvet covered the walls. Across the room, a raven sat perched on the balcony—black marble, or obsidian; only the architects must know. It stared at him for a few brief seconds before spreading its wings and vanishing into the night. Crow saw it, but simply looked away, dismissing it as just another common bird of the estate. The enormous bed dominated the center, its scarlet silk sheets folded perfectly, and undisturbed. The fireplace in the corner still held enough embers to cut the chill.

Crow dropped into the chair near the hearth, elbows on knees, and stared at nothing for a moment.

Then he raised his right hand and looked at the ring.

"Don't look at me like that." The Sage's voice surfaced with the cautious energy of a man who had learned, recently, that silence was expensive. "I know that look. It's the 'I need information and you're going to provide it' look."

“Status.”

A pause. The ring pulsed once.

"Fine, fine. No need to get dramatic."

The window opened.

***

Status

Name: Crow (former name error) Soul Level 12

Title: The Spared One / Heavy Hand

Class: Soul Devourer / Grim Reaper

Situation: Pensive and Rested

STR 50

DEX 34

CON 59

INT 22

WIS 27

***

Learned Skills:

Hand to Hand Combat level 6 (+1)

Swordsmanship level 1

Persuasion level 3 (+1)

Grim Reaper Manifestation level 1 (new)

One-liner level 1 (new)

***

Passive Skills:

Quick Reflex – Your body reacts faster than your mind. Dodging strikes has become instinctive, though it doesn't guarantee good efficiency against all foes.

Enduring Soul – Your spirit refuses to break, allowing you to resist despair and pain, can continue fighting at low HP without losing consciousness. Physical wounds still hurt, but giving up was never an option for you.

Soul Devourer – Consume the essence of defeated enemies to restore a fragment of your own life force. The hunger is insatiable, and every bite carries a faint whisper of the fallen with the memories of them.

Frail Existence – Your existence is weak, you are not a full Grim Reaper. You cannot sustain your full power in the physical world, most skills are locked. Requires more Souls to stabilize.

Questionable Charm – You are seducing too many girls, through questionable means, for some reason luck is on your side in this matter. How did you even obtain this skill???

Smooth Talker – Congratulations, you’ve reached a level of audacity where common sense no longer applies. You can provoke, charm, or confuse anyone with a few syllables. Most people use blades to fight, but you can just use your mouth. How... efficient? (New)

Grim Reaper's Aura – A faint aura of death emanates from you, slightly unsettling nearby foes.

??? - */*+-/*-/2/32*-1*-/ 2/-*/123-*/

ERROR!

The user has a bugged passive skill. Its information cannot be accessed, because one does not naturally exist in this world.

Heavy Hand – Your hand is heavy. Whether you're swinging a sword or just trying to give a 'friendly' pat on the back, things tend to break. You should probably stop touching things. Or people. (New)

***

Crow read it, closed the status windows, and leaned back against the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Serious? 'One-liner'? Why do I have yet another skill based in talking?" Crow asked. "And how did I get this?"

"Well, it is exactly as written there," the Wise Sage said. "These are skills you have acquired, it’s not a magic system; you only have here what you can already use or have learned yourself. The first time is always difficult, but from the second time onward you already know it, that is why it's level 1. Mastery comes later. It is quite simple, really: your tongue has become so sharp lately that you can now taunt others with just a few syllables. Congratulations!"

“Right... now be quiet, I need to think.”

“Ok, ok,” the Wise Sage responded quietly.

The fire cracked once, throwing a brief orange bloom across the ceiling.

She wants to use that golem as a bomb. And the Hero walks into whatever we point him at because that's what Heroes do. Dutiful. Relentless. Designed to finish the story regardless of the cost.

He exhaled through his nose.

The story finishes with him either dead or winning. Those are the only two outcomes built into this world's logic. If it ends with him dead... the rest follows. The party falls apart. The fronts against this kingdom and the monsters are going to collapse. The world ends. Lily—

He stopped that thought where it stood.

She's alive. She has to be. Tomorrow, I will discover the truth.

The fire settled.

So I have one job on this expedition: make sure the Hero survives the bomb, along with his party. Whatever that requires. Alice thinks she's sending a small gift to make the Hero take some time off. But what she's actually doing is threatening to end the world faster.

The corner of his mouth moved.

But I have a plan... If that works, I change the outcome. Maybe not the whole story. Maybe just 1 page. But 1 page is enough to start.

He pressed both hands against his face, dragged them down slowly, and stared at the ceiling.

I can’t wait to retire from this military life, or should I say, forced conscription. I just want to find a farm and start chilling.

He didn't believe that was possible. But thinking about it helped. He moved to the bed and after some minutes he fell asleep.

***

Next morning...

“Geometry…”

Crow bolted upright in bed.

Nothing, absolute silence.

"Ah, it was only a dream... seriously," he muttered.

The knock came exactly when he expected it wouldn't.

Crow opened the door.

Sophia stood in the corridor in full maid uniform, posture impeccable, silver tray balanced across both forearms with the practiced ease of a professional. On the tray: a sealed envelope bearing the royal insignia, and, inexplicably, a small arrangement of dark flowers he couldn't identify.

"Her Majesty requests your presence in the Royal Banquet Hall," Sophia said, with a note of formality that lasted approximately one second before her eyes found his throat and stayed there. Then she began to drool.

Give me a break.

Crow snatched the envelope without opening it. "The flowers are a bit much."

Her head snapped back up. "They say you need to give them while they’re alive... and... just kidding!"

"Very funny Sophia… very funny. You can carry them yourself."

"I carry many things personally." She blinked, daub of drool appearing at the corner of her mouth. She caught it with the edge of her sleeve before it reached the tray. "Shall we?"

He gestured for her to lead. “Lead the way.”

She did, gliding ahead with those soundless steps that still unsettled him almost every single time, her heels making no contact, as if the floor were unwilling to report her presence. Crow followed her through the upper corridor, down the broad stair, past the gallery of unsmiling portraits and the double archway draped in dark brocade, until the smell of food reached him—real food, warm and properly prepared, not the functional fare of the kitchen at odd hours.

The Royal Banquet Hall opened ahead.

***

Long table. High ceilings. Candles burning in iron brackets at measured intervals, their light catching the edge of the silverware laid out with the kind of precision that suggested someone had used a ruler. Alice sat at the head in the royal dress, one leg crossed over the other, a small cup at her right hand.

Across the table, arranged at respectful but operational distances, sat the ones Crow had expected and a few he hadn't.

General Darius occupied the seat nearest the head of the table—broad through the chest, his armor still on, the bearing of a man who treated meals as logistical exercises. Berthold sat further down, elbows off the table in the rigid way of someone raised on protocol, his eyes moving across the room with the practiced assessment of a man who catalogued exits.

Sharon stood near the sideboard, not seated, her black hair tied back, the maid uniform replaced by something closer to light field dress with dark fabric and clean lines. She'd spotted Crow's arrival before he cleared the doorway. Then she averted her gaze.

Crow found a seat toward the middle of the table, approximately three meters from Alice, and settled.

A servant placed a plate in front of him without being asked. He ate.

Alice watched him for a moment.

"Everything is ready," she said, to the table generally. The words carried the weight of a queen. "The expedition departs after this meal."

General Darius set down his cup. "The messenger?"

"Dimitri confirmed the delivery two hours ago." She tipped her head slightly, dismissing the follow-up before it surfaced. "The Hero will be in the realm soon."

Crow kept his eyes on his plate.

This food is too good, holy...

Berthold's fingers tapped once against the table's edge—quiet, precise, more thought than sound. He glanced toward Alice with the angled attention of a man choosing his moment.

"Your Majesty. Before the expedition departs, I'd like your authorization on a separate matter."

Alice's eyes shifted to him.

"I have some ideas for improving our intelligence architecture," Berthold continued, voice measured and unhurried. "The current situation—the Hero's movement, the border activity, the secondary houses in the north—all of it requires information we don't currently have access to."

He paused, apparently organizing the next sentence with some care.

"There is a guild. Human-operated. They call themselves Limpeza."

The name landed in the room with a degree of density. Darius's jaw tightened fractionally. Sharon didn't move, but something changed in her posture—the kind of micro-adjustment that meant a different level of attention.

Limpeza? That name sounds familiar.

"An information and enforcement organization," Berthold went on. "Old roots. Significant reach inside human-controlled territory. They don't advertise their services to non-humans, but they sell to whoever pays correctly. I have reason to believe they maintain a permanent presence in the Hero's city." A beat. "To make contact, I would need to go there directly. Infiltrate, in the loosest sense. Arrange an introduction through the right intermediary."

Alice considered him for a moment. Her expression yielded nothing.

"You're asking permission to walk into the Hero's city," she said.

"I'm asking permission to walk through it," Berthold said. "The contact window would be short. The mission's requirements are—specific. I won't be specifying them further."

The silence that followed wasn't hostile, but it was definitely the silence of a woman who was unhappy.

Crack.

The sound was sharp, like a small firecracker. A hairline fracture spidered across the fine porcelain of General Darius’s cup. Tea began to weep through the clay, staining his glove.

Darius didn't look at his hand. He kept his stone-cold gaze on Berthold. "You won't be specifying them further? To your Queen? Because they are... too specific?"

Alice raised her free hand, palm open—a silent, noble command that cut the General's indignation short.

"Granted," she said, and lifted her cup.

Berthold inclined his head. His fingers stopped tapping.

Crow ate.

Whatever he's not specifying... I'll find out when it becomes my problem. And it’ll become my problem for sure.

He finished the plate, declined the second offering, and set his fork down.

Alice's gaze found him across the table. "Sharon will accompany you as field commander for the expedition. Her orders carry my authority in the field." A pause, precise as everything else. "Try not to destroy anything I'll need later."

"Naturally," Crow said.

You're the one who shouldn't destroy anything, Alice.

He pushed back his chair, the heavy wood scraping against the stone floor. He offered a brief, respectful nod to the head of the table—not quite a bow, but enough to satisfy protocol—and turned to leave. The heat of the dining hall and the smell of expensive wine faded behind him as he stepped back into the cooler air of the stone corridors.

***

Sharon found him in the corridor outside the hall some seconds later, as the meal dispersed into movement and logistics. She fell in beside him without preamble, matching his pace.

"T-the expedition leaves from the inner courtyard," she said. "Your gear?"

"Already on."

She eyed the hilts of his Zweihänder and Claymore, nodding to herself as if checking a mental list. She didn't say another word.

They descended through the palace in silence. At the lower level, near the courtyard access, Sharon stopped at a set of iron-banded doors and pushed them open.

The inner courtyard spread before him. Cold air. Grey sky pressing flat against the towers, like always.

And the two golems standing in the center of it.

Crow stopped.

Golem 4 occupied the left side, motionless on its platform. The faint violet light bled from behind the 4 on its chest—steady, rhythmic, patient as a held breath. He didn't look at it for long.

It was the other one that caught his eye.

This guy again? They'd better have fixed his head.

(Next)

(Chap 1) (Previous)

The geometry clown hadn't stopped.

Crow sat on the hot springs bench with his arms resting on his knees, steam curling past his face, and listened to the low, disjointed snickering still drifting through the cedar walls from whichever dark corner the thing had wedged itself into.

"...geometry... hehe... geometry..."

He'd stopped trying to locate the source. He'd stopped caring about the source too. At some point during the last 11 minutes, the sound had simply become part of the room, like the hiss of water on hot stones or the distant creak of the palace settling against itself.

Crow stood, draped the towel across his shoulder, and pushed through the hot springs backdoor that led to the change room.

Cool air met him in the corridor—the ordinary temperature of a hallway that hadn't been filled with steam. He moved through the change room, dressed without ceremony, and left the geometry enthusiast to its private geometric theories.

The kitchen found him the same way it always did: smell first, sound second. Something sizzled somewhere inside. He settled onto a stool at the central block.

Sophia was already there, her back to him, managing three things at once with finesse. She set a plate down in front of him before he asked, bread, something cured, an egg that had stopped being fully warm but hadn't committed to being cold. A cup followed. Black. Still too hot.

She didn't speak. Neither did he. He worked through the plate methodically, the way a man eats when he needs fuel fast, and let the silence hold.

Normally she’ll say something, but I understand. After what happened with her and Alice, I’d be shy too if I were in her place. Yeah, I can see the tips of her ears turning red... never mind. Better leave her alone.

When the cup was empty, he stood, rolled his shoulder once, and left.

***

The corridor outside his quarters felt longer at this hour, or maybe just quieter. He pushed the door open.

Black and gold velvet covered the walls. Across the room, a raven sat perched on the balcony—black marble, or obsidian; only the architects must know. It stared at him for a few brief seconds before spreading its wings and vanishing into the night. Crow saw it, but simply looked away, dismissing it as just another common bird of the estate. The enormous bed dominated the center, its scarlet silk sheets folded perfectly, and undisturbed. The fireplace in the corner still held enough embers to cut the chill.

Crow dropped into the chair near the hearth, elbows on knees, and stared at nothing for a moment.

Then he raised his right hand and looked at the ring.

"Don't look at me like that." The Sage's voice surfaced with the cautious energy of a man who had learned, recently, that silence was expensive. "I know that look. It's the 'I need information and you're going to provide it' look."

“Status.”

A pause. The ring pulsed once.

"Fine, fine. No need to get dramatic."

The window opened.

***

Status

Name: Crow (former name error) Soul Level 12

Title: The Spared One / Heavy Hand

Class: Soul Devourer / Grim Reaper

Situation: Pensive and Rested

STR 50

DEX 34

CON 59

INT 22

WIS 27

***

Learned Skills:

Hand to Hand Combat level 6 (+1)

Swordsmanship level 1

Persuasion level 3 (+1)

Grim Reaper Manifestation level 1 (new)

One-liner level 1 (new)

***

Passive Skills:

Quick Reflex – Your body reacts faster than your mind. Dodging strikes has become instinctive, though it doesn't guarantee good efficiency against all foes.

Enduring Soul – Your spirit refuses to break, allowing you to resist despair and pain, can continue fighting at low HP without losing consciousness. Physical wounds still hurt, but giving up was never an option for you.

Soul Devourer – Consume the essence of defeated enemies to restore a fragment of your own life force. The hunger is insatiable, and every bite carries a faint whisper of the fallen with the memories of them.

Frail Existence – Your existence is weak, you are not a full Grim Reaper. You cannot sustain your full power in the physical world, most skills are locked. Requires more Souls to stabilize.

Questionable Charm – You are seducing too many girls, through questionable means, for some reason luck is on your side in this matter. How did you even obtain this skill???

Smooth Talker – Congratulations, you’ve reached a level of audacity where common sense no longer applies. You can provoke, charm, or confuse anyone with a few syllables. Most people use blades to fight, but you can just use your mouth. How... efficient? (New)

Grim Reaper's Aura – A faint aura of death emanates from you, slightly unsettling nearby foes.

??? - */*+-/*-/2/32*-1*-/ 2/-*/123-*/

ERROR!

The user has a bugged passive skill. Its information cannot be accessed, because one does not naturally exist in this world.

Heavy Hand – Your hand is heavy. Whether you're swinging a sword or just trying to give a 'friendly' pat on the back, things tend to break. You should probably stop touching things. Or people. (New)

***

Crow read it, closed the status windows, and leaned back against the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Serious? 'One-liner'? Why do I have yet another skill based in talking?" Crow asked. "And how did I get this?"

"Well, it is exactly as written there," the Wise Sage said. "These are skills you have acquired, it’s not a magic system; you only have here what you can already use or have learned yourself. The first time is always difficult, but from the second time onward you already know it, that is why it's level 1. Mastery comes later. It is quite simple, really: your tongue has become so sharp lately that you can now taunt others with just a few syllables. Congratulations!"

“Right... now be quiet, I need to think.”

“Ok, ok,” the Wise Sage responded quietly.

The fire cracked once, throwing a brief orange bloom across the ceiling.

She wants to use that golem as a bomb. And the Hero walks into whatever we point him at because that's what Heroes do. Dutiful. Relentless. Designed to finish the story regardless of the cost.

He exhaled through his nose.

The story finishes with him either dead or winning. Those are the only two outcomes built into this world's logic. If it ends with him dead... the rest follows. The party falls apart. The fronts against this kingdom and the monsters are going to collapse. The world ends. Lily—

He stopped that thought where it stood.

She's alive. She has to be. Tomorrow, I will discover the truth.

The fire settled.

So I have one job on this expedition: make sure the Hero survives the bomb, along with his party. Whatever that requires. Alice thinks she's sending a small gift to make the Hero take some time off. But what she's actually doing is threatening to end the world faster.

The corner of his mouth moved.

But I have a plan... If that works, I change the outcome. Maybe not the whole story. Maybe just 1 page. But 1 page is enough to start.

He pressed both hands against his face, dragged them down slowly, and stared at the ceiling.

I can’t wait to retire from this military life, or should I say, forced conscription. I just want to find a farm and start chilling.

He didn't believe that was possible. But thinking about it helped. He moved to the bed and after some minutes he fell asleep.

***

Next morning...

“Geometry…”

Crow bolted upright in bed.

Nothing, absolute silence.

"Ah, it was only a dream... seriously," he muttered.

The knock came exactly when he expected it wouldn't.

Crow opened the door.

Sophia stood in the corridor in full maid uniform, posture impeccable, silver tray balanced across both forearms with the practiced ease of a professional. On the tray: a sealed envelope bearing the royal insignia, and, inexplicably, a small arrangement of dark flowers he couldn't identify.

"Her Majesty requests your presence in the Royal Banquet Hall," Sophia said, with a note of formality that lasted approximately one second before her eyes found his throat and stayed there. Then she began to drool.

Give me a break.

Crow snatched the envelope without opening it. "The flowers are a bit much."

Her head snapped back up. "They say you need to give them while they’re alive... and... just kidding!"

"Very funny Sophia… very funny. You can carry them yourself."

"I carry many things personally." She blinked, daub of drool appearing at the corner of her mouth. She caught it with the edge of her sleeve before it reached the tray. "Shall we?"

He gestured for her to lead. “Lead the way.”

She did, gliding ahead with those soundless steps that still unsettled him almost every single time, her heels making no contact, as if the floor were unwilling to report her presence. Crow followed her through the upper corridor, down the broad stair, past the gallery of unsmiling portraits and the double archway draped in dark brocade, until the smell of food reached him—real food, warm and properly prepared, not the functional fare of the kitchen at odd hours.

The Royal Banquet Hall opened ahead.

***

Long table. High ceilings. Candles burning in iron brackets at measured intervals, their light catching the edge of the silverware laid out with the kind of precision that suggested someone had used a ruler. Alice sat at the head in the royal dress, one leg crossed over the other, a small cup at her right hand.

Across the table, arranged at respectful but operational distances, sat the ones Crow had expected and a few he hadn't.

General Darius occupied the seat nearest the head of the table—broad through the chest, his armor still on, the bearing of a man who treated meals as logistical exercises. Berthold sat further down, elbows off the table in the rigid way of someone raised on protocol, his eyes moving across the room with the practiced assessment of a man who catalogued exits.

Sharon stood near the sideboard, not seated, her black hair tied back, the maid uniform replaced by something closer to light field dress with dark fabric and clean lines. She'd spotted Crow's arrival before he cleared the doorway. Then she averted her gaze.

Crow found a seat toward the middle of the table, approximately three meters from Alice, and settled.

A servant placed a plate in front of him without being asked. He ate.

Alice watched him for a moment.

"Everything is ready," she said, to the table generally. The words carried the weight of a queen. "The expedition departs after this meal."

General Darius set down his cup. "The messenger?"

"Dimitri confirmed the delivery two hours ago." She tipped her head slightly, dismissing the follow-up before it surfaced. "The Hero will be in the realm soon."

Crow kept his eyes on his plate.

This food is too good, holy...

Berthold's fingers tapped once against the table's edge—quiet, precise, more thought than sound. He glanced toward Alice with the angled attention of a man choosing his moment.

"Your Majesty. Before the expedition departs, I'd like your authorization on a separate matter."

Alice's eyes shifted to him.

"I have some ideas for improving our intelligence architecture," Berthold continued, voice measured and unhurried. "The current situation—the Hero's movement, the border activity, the secondary houses in the north—all of it requires information we don't currently have access to."

He paused, apparently organizing the next sentence with some care.

"There is a guild. Human-operated. They call themselves Limpeza."

The name landed in the room with a degree of density. Darius's jaw tightened fractionally. Sharon didn't move, but something changed in her posture—the kind of micro-adjustment that meant a different level of attention.

Limpeza? That name sounds familiar.

"An information and enforcement organization," Berthold went on. "Old roots. Significant reach inside human-controlled territory. They don't advertise their services to non-humans, but they sell to whoever pays correctly. I have reason to believe they maintain a permanent presence in the Hero's city." A beat. "To make contact, I would need to go there directly. Infiltrate, in the loosest sense. Arrange an introduction through the right intermediary."

Alice considered him for a moment. Her expression yielded nothing.

"You're asking permission to walk into the Hero's city," she said.

"I'm asking permission to walk through it," Berthold said. "The contact window would be short. The mission's requirements are—specific. I won't be specifying them further."

The silence that followed wasn't hostile, but it was definitely the silence of a woman who was unhappy.

Crack.

The sound was sharp, like a small firecracker. A hairline fracture spidered across the fine porcelain of General Darius’s cup. Tea began to weep through the clay, staining his glove.

Darius didn't look at his hand. He kept his stone-cold gaze on Berthold. "You won't be specifying them further? To your Queen? Because they are... too specific?"

Alice raised her free hand, palm open—a silent, noble command that cut the General's indignation short.

"Granted," she said, and lifted her cup.

Berthold inclined his head. His fingers stopped tapping.

Crow ate.

Whatever he's not specifying... I'll find out when it becomes my problem. And it’ll become my problem for sure.

He finished the plate, declined the second offering, and set his fork down.

Alice's gaze found him across the table. "Sharon will accompany you as field commander for the expedition. Her orders carry my authority in the field." A pause, precise as everything else. "Try not to destroy anything I'll need later."

"Naturally," Crow said.

You're the one who shouldn't destroy anything, Alice.

He pushed back his chair, the heavy wood scraping against the stone floor. He offered a brief, respectful nod to the head of the table—not quite a bow, but enough to satisfy protocol—and turned to leave. The heat of the dining hall and the smell of expensive wine faded behind him as he stepped back into the cooler air of the stone corridors.

***

Sharon found him in the corridor outside the hall some seconds later, as the meal dispersed into movement and logistics. She fell in beside him without preamble, matching his pace.

"T-the expedition leaves from the inner courtyard," she said. "Your gear?"

"Already on."

She eyed the hilts of his Zweihänder and Claymore, nodding to herself as if checking a mental list. She didn't say another word.

They descended through the palace in silence. At the lower level, near the courtyard access, Sharon stopped at a set of iron-banded doors and pushed them open.

The inner courtyard spread before him. Cold air. Grey sky pressing flat against the towers, like always.

And the two golems standing in the center of it.

Crow stopped.

Golem 4 occupied the left side, motionless on its platform. The faint violet light bled from behind the 4 on its chest—steady, rhythmic, patient as a held breath. He didn't look at it for long.

It was the other one that caught his eye.

This guy again? They'd better have fixed his head.

(Next)

Author's note: Thanks for following along so far, everyone! If you’re enjoying it, please leave an upvote to help us reach more people. Also, I’d really appreciate it if you could point out any grammar mistakes or parts that sound a bit off. Sometimes my brain slips or my keyboard just fails me.