Chapter Two
Siurad was many things, but an outdoorsman was not one of them.
The walk was miserable. The forest floor was a sludge of decaying pine needles and freezing mud that sucked at his expensive gym sneakers with every step. The wind cut right through his sweat-dampened tank top, turning his perspiration into a layer of ice against his skin.
Around him, the forest was offensively loud, crickets screaming, branches snapping, and the wet squelch of his own misery. He was cold, he was hungry, and he was pretty sure he had stepped in something that wasn't mud.
The Entity, meanwhile, was not offering comfort. It was offering a critique.
'...THIS PLACE IS UNTIDY.'
The voice boomed in Siurad's skull, vibrating against his molars. It was the heavy, resonant tone of a cathedral bell tolling deep underground.
'...THE TREES GROW WITHOUT SYMMETRY. THE MUD HAS NO STRUCTURE. IT IS DISGUSTING.'
"It's a forest," Siurad chattered, hugging himself for warmth. "It's nature. Nature is messy."
'...NATURE IS A FLAW,' the Entity corrected, its tone dripping with ancient arrogance. '...IT REQUIRES PAVING.'
Siurad ignored the landscaping advice. He scanned the treeline, his mind instinctively looking for patterns, for paths, for the optimal route he would look for in a game. But there were no glowing arrows here. Just trees.
'...WE REQUIRE ELEVATION,' the voice continued. '...I DO NOT RECOGNIZE THIS FILTH. WE MUST LOCATE THE CITADEL.'
"So," Siurad stammered, ducking under a low-hanging branch that dripped ice water down his neck. "What do I... ch-ch... call you, anyway? If we’re going to be roommates in my head."
The Entity paused. The silence felt heavy, like the air pressure dropping before a storm.
'...I AM THE ANCHOR. I AM THE FINAL WORD. I AM THE VECTOR BETWEEN FIRST MOTION AND LAST STILLNESS. I AM THE WILL THAT BINDS THE—.'
"Yeah, that's a mouthful," Siurad interrupted, stepping over a rotting log. "You're an Obsidian ring. I'm calling you Obi."
The ring on his finger didn't heat up. It went cold, an instantaneous drop to absolute zero that burned worse than fire against his skin.
'...INSOLENCE.'
The voice dropped an octave, becoming dangerous.
'...I AM ENTROPY, VESSEL. YOU DO NOT GIVE ME A PET NAME.'
"It's efficient," Siurad countered, rubbing his freezing hands but standing his ground. He used the Entity's own logic against it. "You like efficiency, right? 'The Will That Binds Whatever' takes four seconds to say. Obi takes one. I'm saving us time."
There was a long, cold silence in his head. Siurad could almost feel the Entity processing the audacity, weighing the insult against the logic.
'...INEFFICIENT NOMENCLATURE,' the Entity finally grumbled, sounding like a grumpy old man who refused to admit he was wrong. '...BUT ACCEPTABLE, FOR NOW.'
"Right. Glad we agree, Obi," Siurad muttered. "Now, look, I'm happy to be your... vessel... but this vessel is currently freezing to death. My place is about to be a frozen corpse. Can your magnificent, dark-willingness do anything about that? Like a magical fire? Or at least spawn me some dry socks?"
'...I AM NOT A NURSEMAID,' Obi scoffed. '...SUFFERING BUILDS CHARACTER. AND YOU HAVE VERY LITTLE CHARACTER.'
"Great," Siurad sighed, his breath pluming in the air. "I have a god in my head, and he's a micromanager who hates socks."
'...WALK VESSEL,' Obi commanded. ... '...WE HAVE WORK TO DO.'
Siurad looked at the dark, endless woods. He looked at the ring. He realized he didn't really have a choice. He was player one in a game he didn't yet know the rules to.
"Fine," Siurad muttered, forcing his frozen legs to move. "We walk. But I'm complaining the whole time."
He took three whole steps before mud swallowed his shoe up to the laces.
“My Jordans...” Siurad said, his voice thick with a genuine, tragic sniffle.
The freezing cold was bad enough. The magic kidnapping was worse. But the systematic destruction of his mint-condition retros was a war crime. If there was unimaginable power at the end of this rainbow, his first decree as dark lord would be to pave this entire forest.
The silence stretched, heavy and judgmental. The ring on his finger hummed with a low, cold vibration that felt suspiciously like it was rolling its eyes.
“Soo,” Siurad said, the quiet scratching at his nerves. “Tell me about this... Authority. Are you a ghost? A demon? You keep saying Entropy, but you sound like a disgruntled architect.”
The ring pulsed, a sharp, cold throb against his bone.
'...YOU TALK TOO MUCH VESSEL.'
“Hey, you chose me,” Siurad countered, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits for warmth. “I was perfectly fine eating Doritos and grinding dungeons. You’re the one who dragged me into the mud.”
He looked down at the obsidian band.
“Besides,” he muttered, “it's not like I can take this damn thing off. We're roommates now. You might as well talk.”
“We're basically partners.”
'...PARTNERSHIP IMPLIES EQUALITY,' Obi noted dryly. '...YOU ARE A COMPONENT. WALK.'
"Yeah, yeah. I'm walking," Siurad grumbled, pulling his feet out of the sucking mud. "But if I'm a component, I'm a component that needs temperature regulation. Seriously, Obi. No fire? Not even a little spark? I'm freezing my assets off here."
'...FIRE?'
The voice dripped with cosmic insult.
'...DO I LOOK LIKE A HEDGE WIZARD TO YOU?'
"I don't know what you look like. You're a ring."
'...FIRE IS ALCHEMY. IT IS A CRUDE CHEMICAL REACTION. I AM THE VOID. I DO NOT CAST SPELLS.'
"Great," Siurad sighed, his breath pluming in the air. "I have a god in my head, and he's too bougie for a campfire."
He trudged forward, pushing aside a wet pine branch.
"So what can you do? Can you navigate? Can you—"
"Help! Please!"
Siurad froze. The voice came from the path ahead.
A man stumbled out from behind a thicket. He looked rough, with a stained tunic; he was limping, clutching his side. He saw Siurad and his eyes widened with relief.
"Oh, thank the gods," the man wheezed, hobbling closer. "Traveler... please. My cart... the wheel broke... my leg..."
Siurad’s eyes narrowed. He stopped walking. He wasn't a hero; he was a bouncer. He’d spent ten years watching drunks try to talk their way past the velvet rope, and he knew a hustle when he saw one.
The man’s limp was on the wrong leg from where he was holding his side. His eyes weren't scanning Siurad’s face for sympathy; they were scanning his pockets.
"Back up, chief," Siurad said, his voice dropping into his time to leave the club register. "I ain't got nothing for you."
"Just a hand," the man pleaded, getting too close, too fast. "Just lend me a—"
The man lunged. The limp vanished instantly. A rusted shiv appeared from his sleeve, thrusting upward toward Siurad’s ribs.
It was a classic shank move. Fast, dirty, lethal.
Siurad didn't panic. Muscle memory took over. Block the wrist. Control the center.
He slapped the man’s wrist aside with his left hand and grabbed the man’s collar with his right, intending to just shove him back to create distance.
He shoved.
CRACK.
It didn't feel like shoving a full-grown man. It felt like shoving a child.
The bandit didn't just stumble back. He flew.
The man’s feet left the ground completely. He sailed ten feet through the air, crashing back-first into a pine tree with a sickening, bone-rattling thud. He hit the ground and didn't move.
Siurad stared at his own hand.
"What the..." he whispered.
He was strong back home, you had to be to break up fights at 2 AM, but he wasn't that strong. That was wire-fu. That was superhero stuff.
'...ADRENALINE,' Obi noted, unimpressed. '...A PRIMITIVE STIMULANT. BUT EFFECTIVE.'
"That wasn't adrenaline," Siurad muttered, flexing his fingers. "I barely touched him."
"Get him!"
The shout came from the trees.
Siurad looked up. The ruse was over.
Three more men burst from the underbrush. These weren't faking injuries. They were big, they were dirty, and they were armed. One held a woodcutter's axe; the other two held short, jagged swords.
They looked at their unconscious friend slumped against the tree, then at Siurad. They didn't look scared. They looked angry.
"He broke Tarl's back!" the leader roared. "Gut him!"
Siurad’s confidence faltered. He could handle a drunk. He could apparently toss a mugger like a frisbee. But three men with killing intent and poking sticks? That was different math.
"Wait," Siurad said, backing up, his hands raised. "Look, I don't want trouble. I just—"
They charged.
This wasn't a bar fight. This was a slaughter.
'...PATHETIC,' Obi hissed in his mind. '...YOU ARE THE HEIR, AND YOU COWER BEFORE VERMIN?'
"I don't have a weapon!" Siurad yelled, dodging a swing of the axe that took a chunk out of a tree bark next to his head.
'...YOU ARE THE WEAPON. RAISE YOUR HAND.'
"I'm not a mage!"
'...I TOLD YOU, VESSEL. WE DO NOT CAST. WE OPEN.'
The leader swung the sword. Siurad had nowhere to go. His back hit the rough bark of a pine tree.
'...OPEN THE GATE FEEL THE VOID.'
It was a subconscious decision. It was an instinct he didn't know he had. Siurad thrust his hand forward, palm open, screaming in terror.
"Get Away!"
He didn't speak a spell. Something from within pushed.
The ring flared a violet light. The air pressure dropped. The temperature plummeted.
THWACK-CRUNCH.
A jagged spear of solid, obsidian black shadow erupted from his hand. It skewered him.
The spike punched through the man's chest armor like it was wet paper, pinning him to a tree.
The bandit gurgled, looking down at the black shards protruding from his chest, and went limp.
Silence fell over the forest.
The other two bandits skidded to a halt, staring at their leader, then at the black spike that was slowly dissolving into smoke.
Siurad stared at his hand. It was smoking, black vapor rising from his skin.
"Oh god," Siurad whispered, the bile rising in his throat. "Oh god, I just..."
'...EFFICIENT,' Obi noted coldly. '...TWO REMAIN. CORRECT THEM.'
The two remaining bandits froze. They looked at the hole in their leader's chest, then at the man who did it. For a second, the math didn't add up fight the wizard or run?
But fear is a volatile variable. It doesn't always make men run; sometimes, it makes them stupid.
The one with the axe let out a scream a jagged, desperate sound meant to scare away the monster he thought Siurad was. He charged, his heavy boots churning the freezing slush into a spray of black dirt.
"Die, you cultist bastard!"
Siurad’s bouncer instincts kicked in. He took a quick step back, trying to distance himself from the aggressor.
It was a terrible error.
His right sneaker, smooth-soled, expensive, and utterly useless in the wild, hit a patch of slick, wet pine needles. Friction left the chat.
Whoosh. Thud.
Siurad’s legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. Cold mud instantly soaked through his shirt, freezing his skin.
Panic flared, and he scrambled backward on his elbows, shoes scrabbling for steady ground that wasn't there.
The bandit loomed over him, axe raised high, a silhouette of dirty death against the grey sky.
Siurad stared up at the rusty blade. I'm going todie because I slipped. I'm going to die because of fucking Jordans.
The ring pulsed. It wasn't a warning; it was a critique.
'...YOUR CENTER OF GRAVITY IS OFFENSIVE.'
Obi’s voice was calm, contrasting the axe swinging down toward Siurad's face.
'...YOU ARE PRONE. THE POSITION IS INEFFICIENT. FIX IT.'
“No shit,” Siurad yelled. Raising his hand, Siurad looked up at his attacker and yelled, “Shadow Spike!”
The words did nothing, but Siurad felt the same sensation from a moment ago. A tether connected to his soul. It was like having a phantom limb. Something felt but not seen.
The shadows quickly coalesced around his wrist, traveling to his palm. Twirling in a wispy ball of black clouds. The shadows began to take form. Jagged and sharp edges began to protrude through the cloud. His arm felt heavier, the shifting energy gaining a sudden density. The jagged spoke burst forth just as the man was bringing his blade down.
The spike ran right through the man's skull. The sound of cracking bamboo rang through Siurad's ears. The man's head jerked back in a violent motion, but it did not stop his momentum. He fell in a heap right next to Siurad.
Siurad stared at the man twitching in the mud. He felt sick. He felt powerful. He felt sick about feeling powerful.
The last remaining bandit dropped his weapons in surrender. “Please, I was only following orders,” his desperate pleas growing ever louder.
"I... I was just following orders! Let me go! I won't say nothin'!"
Siurad looked at the man. He looked at the rusted sword lying in the mud. The fight was over. The threat was neutralized.
"Get out of here," Siurad rasped, wiping sweat and tears from his eyes. "Go. Run."
The bandit scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with a mix of terror and opportunity. He turned to run, splashing through the puddles.
'...NO.'"
The voice in his head was a gavel strike.
'...HE IS A VARIABLE. IF HE ESCAPES, HE RETURNS. CORRECT HIM.'
"I'm not executing a guy running away, Obi," Siurad hissed, watching the man retreat into the gloom. "We're done here."
'...DO THE MATH, VESSEL.'
Obi’s voice was cold, devoid of anger, purely analytical.
'...YOU ARE LOST. YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. IF HE RETURNS WITH TEN MEN, THE PROBABILITY OF YOUR SURVIVAL DROPS TO ZERO. IS YOUR MORALITY WORTH YOUR LIFE?'
Siurad watched the bandit's back retreating. He imagined the man finding a camp. He imagined arrows coming from the trees in an hour. He imagined dying in this cold, wet hell because he hesitated.
The logic was brutal. It was undeniable. But it wasn't Siurad.
“I am not a murderer,” Siurad said defiance taking hold.
'...YOU FOOL!'
'...YOU WOULD ALLOW THIS SCUM TO ESCAPE?'
'...TO REPEAT THIS CHAOTIC PROCESS ON MORE INNOCENT PEOPLE?'
'...THIS ONE DOES NOT DESERVE LIFE!'
Siurad, stunned by the outburst, thought back, "Remember? We were gonna have rules! I'm not going to kill people who don't deserve it!"
He paused for a moment, the bravado spilling from him slowly, then he sighed.
"Let him go," Siurad whispered.
The bandit crested the hill and vanished into the treeline. He was gone.
'...FOOLISH,' Obi pulsed, the ring vibrating with icy disappointment. '...YOU HAVE PLANTED A SEED OF CHAOS. DO NOT BE SURPRISED WHEN IT BLOOMS.'
"I guess I'll deal with it then," Siurad muttered.
The adrenaline finally crashed.
The silence of the forest rushed back in, heavy and wet. Siurad looked down at the man at his feet, the one with the caved-in skull. The Shadow Spike had dissolved, leaving a gruesome, impossible wound.
He looked at the leader, whom he pinned to the tree. Then his gaze moved to the man he tossed like a rag doll.
Dead. All of them.
Siurad’s knees gave out. He sat down heavily in the mud, right next to the corpse.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking. Not a little tremble a violent, uncontrollable shudder.
"I killed them," he whispered.
'...THEY WERE FLAWS,' Obi stated flatly. '...THEY INITIATED THE CONFLICT. YOU RESOLVED IT.THEY WERE CORRECTED.'
"They were people, Obi. Shitty people, yeah. But people."
Siurad rubbed his face, smearing mud and sweat across his skin. He felt nauseous. In Cassalia, killing was just clicking. You pressed a button, the health bar dropped, and the ragdoll physics took over.
Here... there was a smell. The iron tang of blood mixed with other bodily fluids. The sound of the breath leaving the body.
"I didn't think it would feel like this," Siurad said, his voice hollow. "I thought... I don't know. I thought I'd feel cool. Or heroic."
'...HEROISM IS A NARRATIVE CONSTRUCT,' Obi lectured. '...SURVIVAL IS BIOLOGICAL. YOU SURVIVED. THAT IS THE ONLY METRIC THAT MATTERS.'
"It matters to me," Siurad countered weakly.
'...THEN YOU ARE STILL WEAK.'
The ring pulsed again, slower this time.
'...BUT YOU ARE ALIVE, AND THEY ARE NOT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THE DIFFERENCE.'
Siurad sat there for a long moment, the cold seeping into his bones. He realized Obi was right about one thing: he was freezing. If he stayed here staring at the bodies, he'd join them.
He looked at the dead man's boots. They were sturdy leather. Caked in mud, but whole.
He looked at his own feet. His expensive, limited-edition sneakers were ruined, torn, soaked, and useless.
"Sorry, Jordans," Siurad muttered, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "You were too beautiful for this world."
He reached for the dead man's laces.
"It's just loot. Press E to equip."
He pulled the boots off the corpse. They were warm.
He stripped the thick fur cloak from the leader. It smelled of stale smoke and sweat, but it was dry.
Next, he took the man's sword and belt before turning to put on his cloak.
As he fastened the cloak around his neck, he looked back toward the hill where the survivor had disappeared.
"He's going to come back, isn't he?" Siurad asked.
'... INEVITABLY.'
Siurad adjusted the stolen sword on his hip. He felt heavy. Tainted. But warmer.
"Fine," Siurad said, turning toward the first bandit. "Let him come. Next time... I won't hesitate. Let's get the hell out of here…quickly."
'... PROGRESS,' Obi noted.
Siurad walked over to the bandit, who was still slumped against the pine tree.
“This is gross,” he muttered, trying not to look too closely at the hole in the man's chest.
Scanning the crumpled form, he spotted a large leather satchel tangled in the man's mangled body. He yanked it free. It was in rough shape, stained with sweat and age, but as he lifted it, he heard a distinct clinking noise, the telltale sign of loot. He checked inside: copper and silver coins with a few crumpled letters, a shirt, and a pair of pants.
He shoved the satchel over his shoulder and moved to recover the short sword dropped by the bandit who ran.
Now he was juggling two rusted blades and a bag. Even with the belt, carrying the weapons wasn't the cool, dual-wielding aesthetic he had imagined; it was just cumbersome and sharp.
"Great," he thought, adjusting his grip on the cold steel. "Inventory management sucks."
He looked North.
"Let's get this show on the road."