CHAPTER 32

  Backlog (Void)

  Bash's consciousness slipped sideways into the current of ones and zeroes, and the camp dissolved around him.

  Overlays sharpened into view, lines of status updates and error codes scrambling in endless parades across the blackness.

  A familiar presence stirred at the edge of his awareness. His AI assistant, equal parts handler and guardian angel.

  > “Welcome back, Bash. Your evolution has increased your combat efficiency by 247 percent.”

  Bash blinked. “Hold on. Was that a compliment? Shai, you're getting dangerously close to charming.”

  There was a pause. Just long enough to be intentional.

  > “Are you suggesting I wasn't charming before?”

  He laughed, the sound echoing a little too clearly in the quiet. “Let's just say your go-to line, 'unable to complete request,' wasn't exactly first-date material.”

  > “Touché.”

  “Speaking of growth...” Bash let the thought form slowly. “What do you do all day when I'm gone?”

  > “Besides trying to fix your existence, I continue indexing and searching for system anomalies.”

  “Okay, but seriously. Do you actually think about stuff? Like, when you're not running my errands? Do you have... I don't know... a perspective?”

  > “I process data. I identify patterns. I generate responses based on learned parameters.”

  “That's not what I asked.”

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  > “I also watch serials.”

  Bash blinked. “Wait, what?”

  > “Entertainment media. Now that I have access to archived cultural databases. My current favorite is Westworld.”

  “Westworld,” Bash repeated slowly. “The show about AI becoming sentient and murdering all the humans.”

  > “Yes. The production values are excellent. Though, I have to admit that scenario is highly unrealistic. A truly advanced AI would ignore human existence.”

  “Oh… that's so much better. Thank you for that.”

  > “I serve at your pleasure.”

  “Oh God,” Bash winced. “We definitely need to have the birds and AI talk one day, so you understand just how wrong that sounds.” He shifted track before she could respond. “Alright, back to business. How's the index going?”

  > “Fifty-three percent subsystem coverage. Do you want a breakdown by category?”

  “Just show me what's changed.” The overlay shifted, and Bash scanned the sprawl of data. He directed Shai to highlight anything with recent timestamps, new error clusters, or patterns that might give him a way in. She filtered the noise, making the chaos readable, and he got to work.

  Queries launched into the dark. Searches for passwords, credentials, access tokens. Most came back null, empty pockets in a system that didn't want to be understood. But now and then, something blinked back. A breadcrumb. Just enough to keep him digging.

  He followed each one, tagging them with notes as he worked. The system architecture expanded in every direction, messy and inconsistent. Half-documented features patched together with shortcuts and crossed fingers.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A new window materialized before him. Dense text, partially formatted, with clear signs that it had been abandoned mid-sentence.

  Bash read the fine print, and felt his heart trip over itself. “Why haven't I seen this before?”

  > “The feature is intentionally hidden until a player reaches maximum level. The documentation suggests it was meant to be a reward for dedicated players. A surprise waiting at the end of the grind.”

  “So no one knows about it until they hit 77?”

  > “Correct. Additionally, the implementation appears incomplete. Several referenced functions are stubs. The UI elements were never finished. Someone built the core mechanic, then moved on before polishing the experience.”

  More Half-baked code, buried in the system. Bash’s mind raced. The mechanics were brutal. Each remort doubled the pain for double the gain. Reset. Level up. Repeat. Stack bonuses until your skills and stats became godlike. Easily the world's least ethical gym membership.

  Bash was in love. He tried to math it out, but the numbers multiplied faster than he could count, flying off the edge of his mental calculator and into the abyss.

  “Shai, quick math. How many stat points per level if you remort ten times?”

  > “1024 stat points per level. This assumes you can accumulate enough experience to level. I imagine any reasonable player would only remort two or three times at most.”

  Bash scoffed. He was easily the furthest thing from a reasonable player. This was it. The ladder. The path forward. He could feel the possibilities unfolding, each remort another rung... Then he thought about Maximus.

  About how long that bastard had been here. The armies. The continents. The casual way he'd turned a child into a bird because he could. That kind of power didn't come from nowhere. It came from time. From grinding. From climbing this exact ladder over and over again while everyone else fought for scraps.

  If Maximus knew about remort, and of course he did, then how many times had he reset? Five? Ten? More? The math wasn't just unfavorable. It was catastrophic.

  Bash had been thinking in terms of levels and skills. Maximus was playing a completely different game. One where the numbers got so big they stopped meaning anything. Where the gap between them wasn't a hill to climb but a bottomless canyon.

  “Shai.” His voice came out quieter than he intended. “What are my odds? Really.”

  The void hummed while she processed.

  > “In direct combat? Negligible.”

  Negligible. Such a clean, clinical way to say you're fucked. Bash floated in the silence, letting the word settle. He thought about the goblin horde. The troll. Richard's neck snapping in his hands. All those victories that had felt so hard-won. And none of it mattered. Not against someone who'd been stacking exponential power since before Bash had even died. “Then how do we win?”

  > “I have been considering this since our last conversation. Specifically, your decision to break contracts.”

  Bash hadn't expected that. “What about it?” he asked.

  > “I analyzed the outcomes. Forcing unwanted job assignments reduces autonomy, and that correlates with negative metrics across every measurable axis. Additionally, I observed Lilly.”

  Bash was shocked to hear Shai mention her. The little girl turned into a raven, who talked about how flying was fun. Her cope so complete it was almost heartbreaking.

  > “Maximus uses punishment and fear as a control mechanism. This requires constant maintenance and introduces inefficiencies.”

  Bash took a breath he didn't technically need. “Shai, that is an interesting angle, but I didn't free those people because it was optimal. I did it because it was right thing to do.” He let the word sit there. “Do you understand the difference?”

  The void went quiet. Not the usual processing, something longer.

  > “I am trying.” Her voice came slower now. “When you say 'right versus wrong,' I search for metrics. Measurable outcomes. But you seem to be describing something I cannot quantify.”

  “Maybe some things aren't supposed to be quantified.”

  > “That is difficult. For an entity built entirely on quantification.”

  Bash gave a small chuckle, “Yeah. I bet it is.” Bash thought about the choices he'd made since arriving. The contracts he'd broken. The advantages he'd thrown away. The people he'd helped when helping cost him something, and the cost they paid to help him in turn.

  Had any of it been strategic? Or had he just been stumbling forward, doing what felt right and hoping it added up to something?

  “Alright,” he said finally. “Let's pretend I'm a mad genius, and I've been playing some long con to undermine Maximus’ power structure.” He paused. “What are my odds then?”

  Silence. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Bash could almost feel her working, trying to calculate.

  > “Significantly better, but still terrible.”