Brent Stinebaker
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II-14 Challengers (I)
🕑 Added 2024-11-09 13:38:50 +0000 UTCThe one policy I have for facing someone with a Legendary-Rarity Class Specialization is turning the fuck around and getting my ass out of there. Listen, I know some of you new guys don’t want to hear it, but you need to realize your ass isn’t going to be the hero in every story, okay? There are monsters down here—just absolute maniacs that love to do nothing but feed their Class and kill and fight and whatever other fucked up thing for more power.
Trust me: I died at my computer playing WoW. I know what unhealthy “farming” is like, and they take it to the next level. They don’t have any “life” to speak of beyond war or conquest. They are driven on a level that—like, they make a baby between Hitler and Michael Jordan seem normal.
IGNORE THE SHITTY METAPHOR! HERE! SIMPLE WORD FOR SIMPLE FUCKS: YOU! NO LEGENDARY? SEE LEGENDARY? RUN FAST! RUN! RUN AND HOPE THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT KILLING YOUR ASS!
If you’re asking yourself if you are the guy—if you have what it takes, then you don’t. You just don’t.
The true killers don’t question, they just are.
-The Trespassers’ Compendium
II-14
Challengers (I)
Seven markers appeared on the simulated representation of the Claimed Hells—seven markers that projected seven windows, each showing a different individual. Each one was someone that belonged to a Circle, a champion, Wei guessed, for the coming contest.
"These are your competition," John Bishop declared. The Trespasser looked at the eight identified figures and regarded them with something between an amused sneer and a measured glare. "Mepheleon’s called a contest of champions, and these are the highest performers we’ve identified. And the one that wins will grant their Circle WarmasterPrivileges for this invasion.”
“Warmaster?” Wei said.
“It is a fancy way of saying ‘cannon fodder.’” Nils grinned. “But humor aside, Mepheleon and his forces are competing against other System-hosts as well. And the Claimed Hells cannot be divided, so having a single, recognized Circle leading the invasion allows for some order. Some. Enough.”
Bishop continued. “These eight Knights and Marquises are the ones to watch. Their Circles are pushing hard behind them to serve as the initial wave, so make no mistake here, they’re going to be hard targets to drop.”
“The benefits for the winner are clear as well,” John Doe said. “The Circles are in eternal deadlock due to their constant warring. For one to be granted superior privileges ensures an unrivaled level of influence. Enough for decades of dominance at the least. This will also ensure greater friction between the squabbling fractions in the Claimed Hells, further cementing the Harbinger’s role as both king and kingmaker.”
"The clincher here, though, is this: Any organization can run; any entity or even an individual of worthy merit can earn the right to stand at the very forefront of Hell's vanguard,” Bishop gave Wei a meaningful stare.
Wei frowned. "Two months to the invasion… It feels like a hurry. The other forces in the Fathoms… are they the reason for this accelerated pace?"
"No really," Bishop replied. "It’ll take them time to reach Earth, but they need specific constructs to do so. Crossing the Source Currents isn’t easy for most people. The Claimed Hells and their Black Towers have a unique advantage when it comes to invasions. That’s what makes this place the diaspora, after all. But the main thing here is control.”
But another angle grew clear to Wei. It was as Bishop had said. Mepheleon liked keeping his Circles infighting, but he also favored Wei in ways the young master couldn't fully understand. Even before Wei understood his System's full importance, Mepheleon had sponsored him, offered him armor and a new spear as a gift or a loan for the journey to come. Now, the more Wei thought about it, the more this position of Hell’s Vanguard seemed fine-tuned for someone unaffiliated with the circles, unaffiliated with any faction to claim—someone like him.
It is a high likelihood that the Trespassers' Lodge and the Harbinger are in league with one another. The feeling was unshakeable for Wei. Yet, he couldn't quite tell why, or how true the bond between them was. Wei considered asking Bishop or the other Trespassers outright, but even with all the aid they had rendered him, everything Mepheleon had done, something told him this was the wrong move to make. He was a valuable investment, an essential asset for this invasion of Earth, but that didn't make him equal. That just made him an essential tool, and Wei had no interest in playing someone else’s game. Best he kept his suspicions and growing intellect to himself; to spread it too far, to let others know what he thought too much, might just see him constrained, and truths hidden from him.
"So what am I to do with these seven champions?" Wei asked, though he had a good idea.
"Before we get to that," Nils said, taking a good look at Wei, "you should know how this contest is to be decided. The prize of Hell’s Vanguard is won through Significance—A currency of recognized popularity. It entails your Significance in battle, the Significance of besting your foes intellectually, the Significance of friendship and connections, even. Every feat you achieve will build your Significance, and once you are an individual of sufficient Significance, then the right of conquest belongs to you."
"So how does one claim this Significance?" Way asked.
"Quite simple," Nils continued. "Individuals you directly kill legally or in a combat zone will have all the Significance they've gathered given unto you. Individuals who have no chance of winning this competition—which are the bulk of the Sinners—can also give their Significance to another. Each individual Sinner only has one Significance, no matter their level, but they can be amassed in others, gifted or traded. And due to Essence deficiencies, only Knights and Marquises are considered for this. And so the Black Theaters will see major performances in the coming days. Artists working to influence the masses for one Circle or another.
“They can also be bought in the Grey Bazaars," Moonscar added, "or negotiated for directly if you have the proper contacts within the Circles."
Taking all that in, Wei felt slightly less confident about his prospects. Certainly, he was a growing terror on the battlefield, but matters of trade and diplomacy weren’t strengths he had the time to develop yet. He'd learned about them, but held little interest, nor had his masters and mother particularly pushed him on it in years prior. He was only at the beginning of his education for matters of leadership and logistics. His home was destroyed.
"Don't worry," Nils said, speaking directly to Way's concerns. "The Lodge will make sure you're properly trained and prepared for these things to come. We might even do some engineering to make sure things happen in your favor." The way the Terrible Surgeon spoke made Wei want to take a bath.
"Your goal in the near future is simple," Bishop began. "You want to build up as much Significance as you can in as little time as you can. Right now, these eight," he said, gesturing towards the eight windows that housed the challengers’ profiles, "represent the most likely victors for the title of Hell’s Vanguard when the time comes. And killing any of these eight will shoot you all the way up from being a newcomer curiosity in the claimed hells to a dark horse contender for the throne."
"Very well then," Wei said. "And you say that this significance can be given willingly or taken through rightful death?"
"Yes," Bishop replied. "It means you can't go around murdering thousands of people in the Heights, even if you can survive the reprisal from the Tribulator. That just means those votes of Significance are lost. If you murder some people in the unseen spots of the Balance or manage a killing spree in the Base…" Bishop tilted his head and shrugged. "Well, that's fair game, right? There are rules, and then there are laws. Learn the former. Don’t get fucked by the latter."
"I see," Wei said. "Well then, show me my challengers. Let me have a glimpse of my foes, so that I might know who I am to break, and who I am to claim."
"Right on," Bishop said. He looked at John Doe. "John, you want to give him the lowdown?"
"Sure," John Doe replied.
Before they could begin, however, Wei looked between the two and frowned. "Are you two related somehow?"
Both Trespassers paused.
"No," John Doe said, quite directly. "Why would you think that?"
"Because both of you share a name—a family name."
Bishop let out a slight snort. "Yeah, no, you got it the wrong way around. Bishop’s my last name.”
“Not his actual last name,” John Doe said.
“Yeah. And you’re actually called John Doe?”
"I strongly dislike you Bishop. I wish you would have died at Karstan." John Doe’s words were blunt and casual.
"Right back at you, John."
Wei regarded Bishop for a moment. "Why does it seem like everyone hates you and my father?”
"It's the inevitable curse of being a spook, son. Nasty business makes you smell. But someone’s gotta do it.”
"What is a spook?"
Bishop ignored Wei and just waved toward the Fighter to begin the introductions.
The first figure to pop up was a Hivekin—a Hivekin that wore a strange set of goggles and held up what looked to be a transparent vial.
"This one here is Badsong, representing the Circle of Gluttony..."
***
Another test slave convulsed, shivered, and dropped. She let out a series of ear-piercing screeches as her arms twisted, clawing at nothing. Her legs kicked, barely pounding against the bone-shaped cage. She let out a struggling sound of absolute agony before, suddenly, a death rattle sounded from her throat. Her organs liquefying, a pool of piss spilling out from beneath her as she finally succumbed.
"Too strong still," Badsong declared. Another loss. Another failure. But the experiment was getting closer. He retracted the psionic tether connected to her mind and noted the ecstasy she experienced. His new mass market potion was getting closer for deployment. He just needed to blunt the Constitution requirements more.
A series of sobs and muttered whispers of despair filled his laboratory. Rusted gears groaned from the clockwork architecture around him, and demons slotted new cages filled with slaves into the wall. Millions of Sins were made and lost in an instant for Badsong—his drugs bringing money in, his experiments, materials, and slaves becoming the cost.
The Hivekinheld his lesser arms behind his thorax, observing the state of his newest experiment. A smear of blue powder trailed down the corner of the dead girl's lip. She had been the most useful purchase—a testing slave there, surviving the last half-dozen batches. She had known impossible pleasure granted to her by his earliest pills, absolute agony when he was making potions for the Circle of Wrath, and now she knew nothing but peace, quiet, and final death.
But it wasn't a complete loss, for within her torso, something began to wriggle and writhe. Her heart was mutating, her liquefied organs slowly becoming sustenance for something to be birthed. Slowly, spider-like legs began twitching out from her mouth, through the insides of her eyes.
"You're a monster. You're an absolute monster!" one of the newer test slaves cried out from the far corner of the room.
Badsong marked them out offhandedly. He would give them a few more doses than the others. If they survived, good. If not, well, it would ensure discipline at least. Right now, though, the intensity of his drug was still too strong. If it was to be a mass market drug, he needed to control it at sub 600 Constitution Advancements. Anymore, then most would simply collapse.
To make it lower, though, would mean those of a higher level would barely feel anything at all. Specialized drugs for Counts or higher Tiers were novel challenges, but they didn’t make nearly enough for his tastes. Of course, Earth would present other means to produce his tonics. It was a hollow Essence world, and if that was something to go by, then perhaps substances sourced from the Hollow areas would allow him to create some absolutely effective drugs…
More experimentation was required…
***
John Doe finished his brief introduction of Badsong, and Wei found himself blinking at what had just been told to him. "A Hivekin," Wei said, dully. "A giant intelligent bug that deals in illicit potions and pills."
"Yeah, he's a drug lord," Bishop said. "The perfect, pure, cold, piece-of-shit kind. Not your average Walter White."
“What is a Walter White?”
“Some shows I’m gonna need to have you watch as homework, some time, kid.”
"Not right now, Bishop," John Doe said. He pointed to another window, and this one enlarged as well.
Here, Wei saw a well-armored orc, his skin a rugged black, his dreadlocks knotted with ornaments of brass and metal. In his hand was a strange implement. Wei couldn’t quite call it an axe, though it held two wicked and curved heads on the side. The shaft, though, caught his eye. It seemed to be something created from jagged briars—and they bit into the orc’s skin, burrowed under his arm, and made his muscles swell to an abnormal level…
"Why did everything in the Claimed Hells need to be so biologically disgusting?" Wei sneered.
"Kalrus the Forgemaster," John Doe said, "newest acquisition of the Circle of Wrath. He’s also a Trespasser.”
Bishop chuckled and shook his head. “This motherfucker used to work for Lockheed, so you know he loved his job in the past life. He might just love it enough to try and get back for personal reasons..."
***
"This right here," Kalrus said, his voice echoing louder than the magical artillery magical barriers behind. In front were legions of Knights fighting in the base, pushing to control the space between Pride and Wrath for the past two years. “Is the Chulainn-II.” He flipped the two-headed axe in his hands and summoned a slave he held in his Inventory.
A boy, no older than ten, stumbled out, eyes wide with fear.
Hellhounds and other beasts slavered and drooled, while some of the Knights jeered and cheered.
Slowly, the slave turned to face Kalrus. Only for the orc to chuck the massive ax at him, haft-first.
The boy cried out—caught the axe on reflex. Immediately, the briars and composed its haft burrowed into his supple skin, tunneled into his muscles, and began infusing him with Wrathful Essence. The child’s pitched scream deepened into a demonic bellow. He grew. He grew rapidly, tearing out of his rags, muscles pulling his skin apart, breaking and reknitting bone. In seconds, the boy was crossing three-meters in height and only continued to grow.
“Now,” Kalrus said, “if any one of you think you got a shot of dropping this kid, step up. You do it, and there’s a million Sins in it for you. Promised by my lawyer.”
Just then, Kalrus’ lawyer popped up and showed a contract.
A few Knights shrugged and approached.
Only to immediately turn into bloodied mist as the boy lost control. Screams and shouts echoed from the gathered legions as the once-child turned into a rageful wrecking ball of destruction. Geysers of gore and blood sprayed out from the trenches as the child killed and killed and killed. He would be dead soon. The Warp Spasm ability the axe gave would kill anyone that lacked the Constitution to wield it. But until that time, the boy would perform at the upper limits of his Class-Tier—which was Knight. Which was enough to butcher all these underperforming neophyte Sinners, as was the will of the Counts.
“Hell, son. Color me impressed.” Former General and now Prince of Hell Douglas MacArthur leaned back and took in the carnage through Kalrus’ feed. “You turned a pretty useless kid into an artillery shell.”
“Still got a problem with the Constitution, sir.”
“Ah. Just mix this one with your last pattern. The uh, Nemean Lion Jacket. We’ll throw them into the Gray as a mixed deal. Maybe if you make the requirements worse we can fuck the Lusties again. Give them the what for like last time.”
Kalrus grinned. “Yeah. I think I can manage that, sir. Now. About the project…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you your votes. This thing is practically ours, anyway. Once we corner the weapons market for the lower Tiers, there’ll be nothing the other Circles can do. Not for another century. I mean, we’re going to be fighting a war, for Christ’s sake. What are the performers supposed to do? Dance harder?”
MacArthur laughed. “Ah. Gonna look forward to finishing old business.”
“Yes, sir,” Kalrus said as the blood finally stopped spraying in the distance. Focusing his Perception, he saw his slave had finally succumbed in the mud and gore, clutching an overworked chest. “So do I, sir.”
Comments
Joe ?
Ah man china's so screwed. There's something weirdly terrifying about picturing slouching, squinting, pipe smoking Douglas MacArthur as a prince of hell.
Brent Stinebaker
Next chapter being edited
LtDan
Wtf Dougout Doug in hell.
Mimic
I guess they really do regroup in hell
Cosmoros Subs
What a fucked up world.
