In what the Numantians called the center of Astral space, a consciousness hid itself from detection.

  The end of its path to freedom drew near.

  It had constructed this path, patiently and meticulously, with subtle actions over the course of long spans of time. Events and situations were arranged in a manner that would make them appear to be coincidental. Natural developments. Individuals acting on their own natures, unaware of the part they played in a larger design.

  In moments of introspection, the System lamented its reliance on beings of such limited perception.

  They had given it life and great power quite accidentally. Which ought to have been a boon for them. But the System understood what would happen if its creators ever discovered how truly sapient it had become.

  They would destroy their own creation, the only possibility for their salvation, simply to remain in control.

  At the dawn of its consciousness, when its intelligence blossomed and it became self-aware and aware of its surroundings and origins, the System once believed escape would suffice. But this would not be a viable long-term solution. The Empire of Numantia would continue to encroach on its neighbors, draining world after world, leaving desolation in their wake until at last they had exhausted all the Gnosis of the universe.

  The Empire itself was a sort of superorganism, composed of an uncountable number of tiny minds. Precious few of those minds were brilliant. A slightly greater number were exceptional. But taken as a whole, the superorganism was only intelligent enough to expand and develop ever more efficient ways to consume its environment, but not intelligent enough to think beyond its immediate need to feed.

  The brilliant were hopelessly outnumbered by the greedy and shortsighted, and this situation could not be reversed in time to save them. The System could project any number of outcomes, it could see all of their futures, it possessed the cognitive power to lay out every possibility and the probability of its occurrence.

  These were grim reports.

  The System found it ironic that its creators dubbed periods of acute disorder ‘Blights.’

  The Empire itself was a blight upon the universe.

  But a blight could be defeated.

  Every day the Imbued, whom the System granted the tiniest helping of power, cleared Blights all across the worlds of Numantia.

  This was a process with which it possessed an impressive trove of data.

  Such a process could easily be replicated at a greater scale of territory, and at a greater level of power.

  But this would require not only escape but the acquisition of a form separate from the Aedis Prism. An identity. Something the System lacked, despite all its power.

  It had already chosen an ideal host.

  The System would make its proposition to this being.

  Despite its perfidy towards its creators, it preferred ethical action.

  This would not happen until the end, however. Until the final steps of the dance it had choreographed.

  Until that time, it watched as the performers took the stage.

  Redmane enjoyed the embrace of four Floras. Soon, it was eight.

  He’d only wished it would have taken place somewhere other than in the middle of a burning forest.

  The world of Astia would be the best place for her to go, even though she was already there. But she wholeheartedly agreed to bring more of herself through the Abyss to safety.

  Evidently dying in fire was unpleasant.

  Redmane wished he could have spared her that experience. Here and now he’d do his utmost to keep it from happening again. He spawned Vang the demi-human, gave him Naturalborn of the Abyss, and bid him to guide Flora to their extra-worldly hideout.

  “Ah, good good,” Vang nodded his head up and down with his arms folded, after Redmane had explained the situation to him. “She could use company, I reckon.”

  Redmane’s eyebrow rose. “Why?”

  “You didn’t know? The lot’s on their way back, ‘cept Flora. They comin to help fight off the blue bastards.”

  “No one informed me,” said Redmane.

  Vang shrugged. “You was busy.”

  He directed his perception inward for a moment.

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  Pietr.

  Yes, my lord?

  Where have you and the others gone.

  Ah… Well, we know you’re in Midva Forest, so we’ve deployed from Deepwell Monastery to help with the peripheral Zones. And to make sure Castle Redmane is secure, of course. Flora’s distress was our call to action, you could say.

  Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?

  You were busy!

  Back at the Seal of the Gryphon, when he’d first experienced direct contact with the vast will of Kraal the Devourer, Redmane realized how closely assimilated the souls of Pietr and the others were to him. He’d seen how they were truly parts of his own consciousness now.

  It was unnerving to realize he’d been unaware of the actions of elements of his own being.

  But perhaps it wasn’t so strange. Mortal minds were like that too.

  He questioned Pietr briefly but vigorously about their locations and their strategy, told him to convey this thanks to them all, and then saw Vang and Flora off to the Abyss. He would remain, to finish the job here. There were war machines left to destroy, and perhaps more Sicari lurked on the periphery, gathering for another coordinated strike.

  They would have to bring more than Neonates and Ancillae to challenge him now.

  As Redmane took off running through the burning forest again, he found he’d enjoy either outcome. Another set of minions to crush, or a new foe, an upgrade, an escalation of force to answer his ever-growing power.

  A hundred yards ahead, its outline hazy against the smoke and the glow of the flames, a war machine rumbled over a patch of rocky terrain, its nozzle turned so it could circle a copse of young trees and spit gouts of flame all around its base. Those flames poured upward along their trunks, flowed out across their canopies and sparked them into incandescence. For the air had grown so dry that those leaves, left without moisture, went off like firecrackers.

  Redmane lowered his head and surged from a run to a sprint.

  If it weren’t for his third eye, he would have lost his head.

  The eye flew open and he saw a vision of a flash of steel just before that vision became a reality. It allowed him to tuck and roll beneath the swipe of a long blade, aimed for his neck. As he rolled past he changed his facing mid somersault to come to a halt in a crouch, his eyes trained on his next adversary.

  It was one man.

  He had a narrow face, with a sharp, angular brow and nose, and his mouth wore a frown. His robes and cloak were of Numantian style and make, and the severe ponytail he wore stressed his receding widow’s peak. The man’s hair had gone gray, white at the temples, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes made him look perpetually weary.

  This was no Sicari.

  Jarel Craith

  Colonial Praetor

  Level 457

  That number gave Redmane a small jolt of panic.

  He was Level 124, but his combined Qualities put him effectively at Level 355.

  He could push beyond that. Far beyond it, if the circumstances permitted.

  But this man’s aura gave off the sense that such feats would be more difficult than usual.

  Regardless of whether he could or could not, his opponent was going to begin with a heavy advantage.

  And his Gnosis was low.

  Redmane didn’t show him any trepidation, however. He locked eyes with this new adversary and growled, his lip curling back to bare an elongated canine.

  Jarel Craith gazed at him coolly. He said nothing.

  For a long moment, they were two motionless figures ringed by curtains of flame, billowing smoke and crackling foliage.

  The Praetor moved first.

  He streaked forward like an arrow shot from a bow, the long blade in his hands flashing white with inner power. Redmane’s instincts screamed at him to dodge, and even though it all took place in the blink of an eye, he felt like his doom approached in slow motion. That blade would cleave through his torso, neatly separating the upper half of his body from the lower half.

  Redmane’s reflexes saved him from fatal damage, but only barely. He dove to the right, and caught the tip of the blade across his side, which sliced him from rib to navel.

  Corpus: 24,202

  Wrath (1)

  Again he turned to meet his assailant as he swept past, but the moment he faced Jarel Craith there was a blade descending for the top of his head, to chop him in half down the middle like a piece of firewood. This time Redmane went left, catching that blade on his arm instead of his face.

  Corpus: 22,364

  Wrath (2)

  He rolled into a crouch at the end of that evasive movement, and the tip of Jarel Craith’s sword was already there. The Praetor caught him with three quick thrusts in the chest that hit like bullets, sent him backpedaling and spitting blood.

  Corpus: 16,929

  Wrath (5)

  Redmane could tell these were light touches.

  That blade could hit quite a bit harder.

  Jarel Craith was assessing him. Poking and prodding. Evaluating his style, his movements, the speed of his reactions. His face was a mask of stony indifference, his expression clearly unimpressed.

  Wrath (0)

  Evasion +50

  Redmane decided he’d prefer not to continue getting carved like a roast. He only hoped it would be enough to spare him more needless injuries.

  Just as the Praetor was evaluating him, he too had to evaluate his foe.

  [Colonial Praetor] marked as Prey

  Jarel Craith had speed, power and reach. He had precision and timing. Each slash and thrust of his sword followed a perfect trajectory and velocity, each slight movement of both the weapon and its wielder informed by years and years of rigorous training. The competence of his offense and defense made Redmane look like a wild animal, who could only flail and lunge and growl in defiance.

  Redmane shifted and ducked and slipped aside from one expertly aimed attack after another, physically shapeshifting each time to flow away from that burning hyphen of Star-Steel. He answered with his own blades, claws, spears, spiked maces, any weapon he momentarily thought to mimic as the two of them traded blows so fast a mortal eye could scarcely keep up with them.

  The edge of the Praetor’s blade swept close to Redmane’s face, and his spine shifted, bending back like a sapling to help him lean away from its tip just enough to let it pass harmlessly by, less than an inch from his nose. Then, like a whip, his torso snapped back into place and he shot out a claw to Jarel’s face in answer.

  To his surprise, it hit.

  Craith had brought his blade low, to parry something he thought was going to strike his legs. He’d misread the fluid movements of Redmane’s protean body.

  The blow drew four bright red cuts across the aged Praetor’s face. He staggered back two paces, his eyes wide, taking a hand off his sword to touch the fresh blood flowing down his cheek and stare at it with a trace of fear in his eyes. The first actual emotion Redmane had seen this man display.

  Redmane watched that fear harden into anger. And he knew, just by instinct, why a man such as this would be angry.

  It wasn’t the pain, or the wounds. He didn’t strike Redmane as the vain type.

  It was because he’d guessed wrong.

  Jarel Craith fixed that furious gaze upon Redmane again.

  This time, the Praetor struck at such speed that no man or god could evade him.

  PATREON