An Unwavering Craftsman

"I feel ridiculous," complained Damien, lying on his back on the frozen earth, glad that his increasing level made the cold tolerable despite his relative dearth of clothing.

"Less talking, more grinding," demanded Grace.

"Fine..."

He raised both arms and legs, shoving them into the tier three king slime that was arched over his body. A minute later, [Tailoring] stirred, informing him that he'd successfully completed a pair of tier three elbow gloves and long boots. With his elbows and knees locked up, removing his limbs from the slime wasn't possible, so Grace ordered it to arch higher instead, before plopping it back down to dissolve its previous hard work.

It neatly removed its earlier secretions without harming Damien at all. Mostly. His limbs were permanently smooth and clean-shaven, these days, but he considered that a small price to pay. At least he still had limbs.

Over the past week, Grace had levelled enough to control a tier three monster, and to control it well enough to avoid any further mishaps. Damien, meanwhile, had levelled enough to select [Runic Embroidery]. Lana had beaten him to it, having purchased [Runic Engraving] a day earlier. Greenhair was, alas, still behind.

It was the simple truth that alchemy was harder to cheat at. If Damien was restricted to proper tailoring and Lana to proper smithing, they'd both be progressing far more slowly. The best Greenhair had been able to do was to set up a dozen replicas of his equipment, so he could brew multiple potions at a time.

"It's not that I'm complaining about all this experience, but in what possible way is this tailoring? I'm supposed to be a craftsman, not a slime's plaything."

Grace said nothing, but instead responded by having the slime splat down onto Damien, engulfing his entire body. His skill pinged once more, informing him of his successful creation of a tier five bodysuit, before the slime spat him out, leaving him completely immobile.

"Okay, sorry! I promise to stop complaining! Now let me out!"

Lana giggled from her position closer to the adamantite pool. With her increasing level, the heat was bothering her less, but she was still relying on a constant supply of numbing and regeneration potions. In a saner scenario, she'd have taken a perk or two to help her handle the ambient temperature, but right now she needed to save every single slot in case she and Damien needed to compensate for Greenhair not reaching level eighty.

Fortunately, there hadn't been any further attempts to stop them, nor had Damien's dreams been invaded.

When the dragon had first taken them, Damien had assumed the demon had originally drawn its attention, but it had brought them here to make use of their classes. He now knew that wasn't the case; the residents of sanctuary could pick their own classes, after all, and their meal-time discussions had revealed that tier one options were available to almost everyone. Why now, then?

The dragon talked little. It hadn't allowed them back into its lair, and descended upon them only to deliver supplies or order them to switch up their methods as they levelled enough for more efficient options to become available. It certainly hadn't explained why it took them, or its beef with the Five. It called them traitors and liars, the same as the demon, but had refused any discussion on what they lied about or who they betrayed.

Unfortunately, spending hour after hour, day after day, mechanically inserting limbs into a slime gave Damien's mind plenty of time to wander. Trying to ponder the nature of the world while having so little information—and not even knowing how much of the information he did have was false—was an exercise in frustration, but he simply had nothing better to do. The most he could do was try to protect his friends...

... And family.

What were the chances of there being two dragons in Hrellflan? Damien was under no delusions that the dragon who had taken him was the same one that had destroyed Whitehaven, and was trying to take revenge on his parents. Had it succeeded? It was obviously still alive, so his parents hadn't won. It was unwounded, even, although it could have healed itself before Damien woke up. Damien found himself unable to ask about it. He told himself it was because telling the dragon he was related to the people who killed its spawn would sour their working relationship, but in reality, it was because he didn't think he'd cope with knowing they were dead.

Then again, even if they were still alive, being the parents of a demon-summoning murderer, condemned by Illumis himself, wasn't going to help them any. Viscount Flemming would have a bad time of it, too. It wasn't even a complete lie anymore; Damien had watched the guards die, popping like balloons, eyes launching out of their faces as their heads were squashed, winding up in even worse condition than the melon he had used to demonstrate the house wards what seemed like a lifetime ago. He didn't know how widespread the damage to Thale had been, and hoped no innocents got caught up in it, but he was definitely responsible for the deaths of a few who, days earlier, had been amicable to him.

He justified himself by saying their deaths were on Illumis' head. He'd had to choose between giving in and dying as a criminal along with Lana, Greenhair and maybe even Grace, or fighting back in the only way he could. Besides, if he had given in, and his parents by some miracle survived, Shigeo would likely have rampaged and been responsible for far more damage than the deaths of a few guards.

The day's grinding eventually drew to a close, and the trio dragged the reluctant Greenhair back to Sanctuary. Another meal in the mess hall, and another night in the home they'd been allocated. Someone had been in to clean. Damien wondered who. The downside of their crushing grinding schedule was that they'd never got to know anyone who lived there. Hopefully, once they'd reached the level requirement, that would change.

Or maybe it wouldn't. It was something else Damien was worried about. What, exactly, did the dragon intend to do once they'd gained the capability of making infinitely powerful magical items? Did it want them for itself, and if so, what would it do with them? Would the dragon rampage against the entire world, destroying every priest and shrine of the Five? Or every kingdom, even.

Equally worried about the past, future and present, Damien curled up in bed, trying to get some sleep before the grinding continued, and hoping he wouldn't dream about slimes again.

"A̵̟͇̻̓̈́ ̵̖̻̱̃l̴̫̈́̽ͅī̸̳̥̈̄â̸͉ͅr̷̝̈͜ ̶͉͗̕ẅ̵̲́͒̋a̵̪̾ͅś̷̝̤͔̑ ̸̜͇̘͠c̵̝̣̱̍a̶͈̯̺̅̆̓u̸̡̩̎̂g̷̢̛̥̩h̵̫̗̤̅̀t̸̅̏ͅ ̶̳̺̿͊ĩ̸̯̲ň̴̻́͋ ̶̨͙̹͋a̷̙͛͠ ̷̳̝̘̇̇l̵͙̐ì̴͈̫̘e̷͈̝̍̂.̵̡̞͐ ̵͇̆A̸̳͕͐̕ ̸̢̟̗̇́͂m̴̲̒ǘ̴̜͈̏͗r̴̗̣̃̽d̷͙̉̾̈ḙ̵̔̿r̵̬̐e̸͕̽r̷̨̛̰͒͜ ̴̡̪̐̾͝ḑ̸̱͓͂̾i̶͓̪͌̐̽s̷̤̙͝t̶͍͚̔̀̚͜r̶̰̃â̶̢̩c̴̻͓̆t̸̟͈̂̓̒e̶̞̍͗́d̸̼̀̌,̶̼̩̕ ̵̣́͠ą̴̤̗͊ṋ̸̋̆d̸̩̀̿ ̵̟̪̃m̸͔̝͒ù̶̪̘͜ŕ̵̡̂͜d̴̩͇̜̎̽͗e̷̪̿̂r̶̙̼̄́̃e̸̛̩͘ď̶̡̎ ̵̢̝͈̿̆í̵̬͝n̷̛̲̊͊ ̶̬̀̎t̴̬̘͔̋u̸̻͆̐́ṟ̵͙̝͝n̷̩̜͆͑̽.̴̜̔̒ ̶̤̞̫͋Ť̴͍̞͉̔͝h̵͇̻̊͝è̸̦̓ ̷͖͉͌b̷̧̦͔̎͒e̵͉̭̒t̸̡̘̮̒́͑r̸̳̓͘a̷͓̓ỹ̴̧e̵̘̫̞͛r̶̢̪͔̀̎s̷̜̙̈́̄ ̴̪͔͗͂r̸̗̩̰̅e̷̡̓̈́͝d̴̫̭̀ṵ̵̳̈c̷̩̋̅e̸̝̮̔̀͠d̸̞̱̹̿͂̑.̶̪͋̚͘ ̷̻̀̂W̵̺͈͓̎o̵̗͒̒̈ǔ̶͖͛́n̸̦̉̇d̴̹̳͈͌́ȩ̵̱̈͗̆d̵̳̚.̴̹͇̀ ̶̪͍̾W̵̡̺͖̉͠e̷̥͚͆̄͂a̵̱̪͒̚̕k̶̡̲̋e̴̙̠͌̀n̵̡͈̓̅ę̷̌́̉d̸͚̈́͘͜.̸̛͙͆͛ ̸̖͇̳̚͠T̸͍̳̈́̇̀ͅh̴̳̎̈́͜é̷̬̪͝ ̸̨͓͇͐͌t̶̘̺̘̃̂r̵̹̘̈͊͑a̸̙̟͍̔̌̕ì̸̝͔̅t̶̹͉̉̈́̈o̶͕͠r̷̢̞̣̃̐ş̶̥̥̑͛̊ ̵̙͉̽̚s̴̠̉e̴̩̰̞͆è̶̖̗͙͗̂ḳ̴̬̑ ̷̥̹̤̑ṿ̸̹̔̈́̚ȅ̶͇̮͜n̷̹̱̕g̶͖͋͑e̶̫̿͒a̸̧̞͆͐͂ñ̷̠̘c̸̮̄̈́̃e̶̫̾͝.̵̱͚͐ ̶̪͉͎̅Ď̸̳e̵̯̲̔̈́͜͝ŝ̴̲t̷̔ͅr̷̟̘̄̊̚ū̷̮̿͂c̷͙͒́̓t̴͕̻̄͜i̶͎̭͊̿̚o̷̤̮̰͌̀̚n̸̨̪̰̚͘͝.̴̙́͗͘ ̸͔͠D̸͇̰̆̃e̶̮̪͑ȧ̸͍̆ͅt̶̬̮̎̍͠ȟ̴̬ͅ.̶̙̬͎̈́̈ ̷̡̠̎̋T̴͖̋h̶͎̞̮̅e̶̻̅i̷̢̦͌̉͠r̵͉͔̲̿̃̇ ̷̘͓̿̆p̶̪͈̚͜u̶̫̦̽̊ṕ̴͓͓̘p̶̝͝͝e̷̩̦̦̕t̶͖̂͝s̴̘̞̙̓ ̵̮̦̹̀͒͂r̴͇̍̔e̶̟̤̐͘a̵̻̎͊͛c̵̖̎̽̑ḧ̵͔̟͎́̔̍ ̸̀̅͜ọ̵͖͛ǔ̸̠͖͎t̶͍̥͔́̍ ̷̛̪͑̄t̸̤͆̒̕ó̷̡̓ ̷̩͚́͒̽ś̴̢̰͛t̴̘̹̓͜r̷̰͓̪̀̉ì̴̹̚k̴͕͗͋͘e̷̗̪͐͝͠ ̶̠̌̃̚w̵̰͍͛͜h̷͕̃͝͝e̷͚̚r̶̢̖̭̽̊e̶̡͈̍̄͌ ̴͓̙̿̕t̴̞́̍h̵̤͝ĕ̷̩̠͗ḯ̷̼̍r̶̰͑ ̶̞̝̦̐̈̉ȩ̸̡̦̇y̶̙̙̓̈́͂ͅẻ̶̠͓ś̴̢̮̆̚ ̸̧͖̞̋a̴̠̓̔̾r̸̡̖̳͐̓ḛ̶̀̌̿ ̶̤̳̈̽̅ͅb̴̼̂͑l̵̝̘͍͛́i̸̻̭͔̓͆n̵̮̺̑͂d̵̜͆͜.̸̖̳͊̽ ̶̧̣̘̽̑̓T̸͓̏͠͝ͅḣ̸͍͔̕é̷͕̭͎͠ȳ̶̞̚ ̵̡̜̂͆͘ͅw̵̬̱̎į̸̈ş̶̱̅h̴͓̠͛͐ ̸̝͊̊ţ̴̲̿͘ŏ̵̯͌ ̴͖̯̊̈́̕c̶͕̻̔ơ̶̤̟̠m̷̤̯̍͌e̷̛̤̝̜̿ ̷̭̓̀͝f̴̟̞̓͆͝ơ̴̮͉͔̓̏ŕ̵̗ ̴̠͑y̶̥̎́̇õ̴͈̘̜̒̕u̴̦͛̔͝,̸̯̣͑̂̅ ̴͙̦̲́̋̚b̸̻̘͂̇̃ŭ̵̦̪̥ţ̸̺̍ ̷̞̈́͗͊t̸̘̏͝͝h̶̬̞͂e̵̛͍̒̿i̵̦̭͗͘r̴̠̆ ̶̨̮͌̕͜p̷̯̣͍̄̆l̶̹̲̠̇o̸͖͉͌͌͛t̷̝̩̭̂s̶͔̥̫̾͌ ̸̣̜̚̕͝s̶̼̩̕h̵̻̑a̵͇̳̘͂̑̈́ĺ̶̜͜l̷̬̖͌͝ ̷̞͇̽ͅḇ̵̢͕͆͝e̴̱̐̀̾ ̷͇͔͙͆͆̏r̸̥͐ù̵̬̤̼͝í̵̭̺̆n̴͚͇̖̐ȅ̷̟̓̈d̸͎̩͓̈́̄̒.̶̦̃ ̸̤͙̰́S̸̫̠͆ȟ̶̳̞́͝a̶͍͐̇t̶̯͗ṱ̴̨͊͜e̷̥͐͘ṛ̷͙̓̌e̷̬̯͖̔d̸̝̗̎͝.̴̩̍̋͘ ̴̢̖͐̍͂͜Ś̴̡̬͙͗t̷̤͎̬̋̈́͗ŕ̵͇̆̎į̷̺͉̈́͝c̵̱̿k̶͈̹̼͊̉̀e̶̘͖̋ͅṅ̵͇̤̈́̔.̵̼̌ ̷̧̯͊̿T̶̻̽̚h̵̬͊̕͠e̶̠̒̇͆y̷͉̦̣̎ ̶̞̙̂͑s̶͖͓̙̅ȟ̵͖̺̤͐̇â̷̖̭͒̒l̷̨̼͘l̸͇̀̒̊ ̵̉̇̚͜n̵̳͝o̸̲̪͝ͅt̶̘̹͋̂̾ ̸̛̲̃̏r̶̨̊ê̵̛͈͋ą̶̮͌͒ç̵̜̀͊̓h̷̨̬̽̈́ͅ ̷̜̿ͅy̶̩̽́̎ó̶̪̣̈́̌ù̶̢̗͝,̷̖̗̋̇͜ ̴͇̬̄f̵̨̥̻̾o̸͉̘̐̃̌r̵̜̽ͅ ̷̛̈́͜ẏ̴͇̟̓̕o̴͇̭͆̿͜ű̵͔̬ ̷̙̄ͅw̵͎̳͆̌ͅi̴̤̤̐̚ḻ̵̀ͅl̸̠̹̚ͅ ̴͇̗̫̏̂ć̴̬͍o̸̧͒̎m̵̗̔e̸̗͍͓̽ ̵̻̔̔t̸̲̜̂̏o̴͉̎̈́ ̶̘̑́t̴̡̲͑͠h̵͈̳̲̃̉̔ë̶͍͚́͜m̴̨͕̠̀̌̈́,̴̨̖̪͒̒ ̷̦̰̥̕a̷͙̐̿n̴̻̚d̶͇̿͂ ̶͓̈́f̵͍̬̗̐̇̓ȃ̸̢̦̞͑̒c̶̱̜̄̊e̵̡͛͌̃d̵̝͇̉̊ ̶̧̮͇́̓͌w̴̭̅i̵̯͎̋t̴͖͓̥̑͛h̴̟̪́̓̿ ̷̯͗̉t̵̮̝̰̎h̴͕͌e̷͍̽į̷̧̰̚r̵̳͔̄̌ ̵̤̈́v̶͚̓̔͗i̷̝͑̑ó̸͖l̸͇̭͒ẻ̴̯̪n̶̗̬̎̎͝c̵̙̝̝̾͌e̸̥̟̳̋,̷̧̰̫̒͝ ̸͈̟́̏͐ͅy̵̼̋̇͘o̵͚̰̳͋͂̅u̵̩͐̍̕ ̵͔̯̔̄́s̴̫̯̾̈́h̷̬̐ả̴̟̣l̴͖̼̙̚ĺ̶͓ ̷̘͕́̕c̷̙̽ą̴̺͚̈́l̸̦̮̓͐l̴̼̘̎ ̷̧̤̭̈́m̵̛͓̀͜e̶͓̕͝.̸̡͎̰̀ ̷̡̡̦̍̀̓B̷̡͚̱̃r̴̞͝͝í̵̧̼͒n̶̡̛̼͇̏g̵͇̈́̈́ ̷̻͐̌͝ͅḿ̷̨̮̳̅e̷͙͚̊͜.̵͚̊̈̉ ̴̥̅S̸̹̦̫͐̈́u̶̩͒m̶̼̬̔̒m̶̜̭̮̔o̸̥͝n̷̡͐̑̿ ̶̧̟̟̈́m̵̡̘͕̈̃e̵̟͙͌ͅ.̷̜͖̳̈́ ̶͉̹̓Ć̷̩á̷͙̘̇͗l̵͓̕͠ḻ̶̈́̑ ̷͉̬̗̿̏m̶̬͐͐ÿ̸̱͓̺́̔ ̴̮̤̯̾̎n̶͓̦̪̍̔͌ą̵̥̲̇m̷̞̰͊e̷̜̼͑͜,̸̬͓̍ ̶̟̤̾̆͛A̸̢̙͚̓͒̍͋̑͐͘͝ȑ̵̝̥͔̩̱͎̄͑̋̊̉̉̕͝͠à̸̛̘̩̙̪̀̓̇̀̒̓͠c̵̦̺̟̫͖̜̜͊̃̀̀͒͘͝h̷̡̺̞̗̝̓͒̒̏̀̑͆̇-̶͍̙̠̰̾̽̉̓̀͜͜͠ͅą̸̭̹̬̖̤̼͚̘̓̑͐̆ͅc̵̢͔̥̦̳̳̹̳̱̲̎͂͗̈́̏h̸̫̪̖̱̣̭̘̥͇̉̊̄͑̀̋̓͘ą̷̛̖͙͓̱̱̫͗͌͗̿̈̋n̸͓̱̲̼̮̻̏͌̅̇̇̈̉̈́͊̕ö̶̺̪͈͍̝͉́̒̆̿̽̓̈̉͜l̴̡̧͕̳͙̼͕̘̔̎̈͆͋͘͝͝,̴̮̞͇͗̾̇ ̶̧̖̬̽ǎ̶͙̥̦̿̄n̸͙̏͛d̸̻̅ ̵̨̑͝l̶̟͌è̸̟̻̜̈́͝ṱ̸̛̜̝̈́͌ ̶̣̰̄̇̇t̵̛͍̼͌̀h̸̦̳͓̽̔ę̴̡̥͋ ̶̖͉͇̍̍̀ș̸͛̿ͅk̵̛͓̀̎ǐ̸̯̿͊ē̸͍͔̮s̵̺͓̐́̏ ̷͙̻͎͐͆̏a̷̘̖̥̽͒n̸͇̞͒͑d̴̲̼͈̈́̾͐ ̸̺̐s̷̤̖̽̀e̶̲͚̗̊͋́a̸͍͛s̴͎̪͂̾̅ ̷͕̈́̒r̴͍̈́̈́u̷̙̰͎͋̌̕n̵̜̊ͅ ̸̯̭̋̉̚r̴̨̐̂ë̵̜́̀d̸̢̪͐͝ ̷̝̒̌̀o̶͕̟̪͋͐̿n̷̟͍̔͊c̵̹̦̣͊e̷̝͕͌ ̴̑̇͜m̷̜͒ö̶̜̠́r̶͖͚̋e̵̘̤̺̓.̶̣̓"

Damien's eyes snapped open, blissfully unblinded and leaking only a small amount of blood. Perhaps he was getting used to the voice of the demon, or perhaps it was the generic toughness boost from his increased level. Either way, while it was still the middle of the night, if what the demon said was true, the armies of the Five were already on their way.

It was too soon; none of their group were close to level eighty. Even if the army started off on the opposite side of the bowl, they'd arrive long before Damien's party could reach the required level. The dragon hadn't said it would immediately kill them; only if it looked like the island would be breached. How long would that be? But then, the demon had claimed Damien could make the entire problem go away. All he needed to do was call it a second time.

Damien rolled out of bed and dragged on some clothes. Surely this was important enough to warrant attention from the dragon? He quietly slipped out of the house and made his way towards the lair. He didn't make it up the mountain, though, on account of the dragon already waiting impatiently for him outside the town gates.

In the temple of Gaia the Mother in Hrellisti, the central place of Her worship in the kingdom of Hrellflan, Shigeo faced off against Marquess Cryscrin, who was covered head to toe in plate-mail and held a two-handed warhammer in an aggressive stance. Behind him stood the [Archbishop of Gaia]—the highest ranking member of Gaia's clergy in the kingdom—and several of her subordinates.

"Ask him," demanded Fleta, tearing open a sack to reveal a naked man, covered in wounds and one leg missing, with blood oozing from the hastily applied bandages. His black hair and blue eyes matched those of Shigeo, although his slim build made the two look unalike. In fact, it left him looking more like Damien.

"If you think..." started Cryscrin.

"ASK HIM!" roared Shigeo, cutting him off.

"Stand down, Lord Cryscrin," said the archbishop. "Let's do as they say, and when their claims prove meritless, their madness shall be laid bare for all to see."

"Very well," he replied, his expression invisible under his heavy adamantite helm.

The archbishop intoned the words of her [Truthseeker] prayer while staring at the trembling captive, and then asked what Shigeo had demanded she ask. "Did you kill Darren of Greenhill?"

"Yes."

The reaction was immediate as the expression of every priestess and capital guard in the hall switched to surprise.

"What?" asked the archbishop on autopilot, the answer having been the complete opposite of her expectations.

"I said yes!"

"Why?" she asked, utterly dumbfounded.

"I dunno! I was hired by some guy in a bar to stiff the man and make it look like a ritual. I'm sorry! I thought it was just a hit from someone he'd pissed off. I didn't know it was..." he looked around wildly, stuck in a room with two tier eights, an archbishop and a large band of spectators. "... this."

"Who hired you?"

"I really dunno! Just some guy in a hood. Was always careful to hide his face."

"But Illumis said..." started Cryscrin.

"No, a priest of Illumis said that another priest of Illumis said that the [Oracle of Illumis] said that Illumis said that my son was the murderer. And one of those steps involved a far-seeing orb. As for who hired him; Fleta, if you please."

With a frown, and precisely zero of her usual mirth, she tossed the contents of another bag at the priestess. This one was missing all four limbs and his mouth was tightly gagged.

"Sorry for his condition," she said with an expression that suggested she was not at all sorry, "but he really didn't want to cooperate."

One of the priestesses stepped forward and ripped out the gag, allowing the captive to spill out a torrent of abuse. "Heathens! Heretics! You dare defy the will of Illumis? He speaks to me, and I am an instrument of his will! He will..."

What he thought Illumis would do was left unsaid, because at that point the archbishop completed her new invocation of [Truthseeker]. The screaming died down as his already unfocused eyes dilated further.

"Did you hire this man to kill Darren of Greenhill?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Illumis himself demanded it of me. He said the world was in danger and I needed to act to save it."

That obviously caused a reaction, the room filling with the sounds of rustling as the audience shifted in surprise.

"Did your prayer fail?" asked Cryscrin.

"No, but it only forces the target to tell what they believe to be truth. It's unable to pierce this veil of madness. Unless Sir Shigeo wishes to claim that Illumis himself is involved in this deception."

Shigeo was, indeed, having highly blasphemous thoughts in that direction, but without proof, he didn't dare speak them, nor did he really believe them himself. In his mind, there was a far more plausible explanation.

"No, that guy is definitely bat-shit crazy. Who knows what words someone whispered in his ear, claiming they came from Illumis?"

"Hrellflan has suffered multiple, highly damaging incidents, over a short time span," said Fleta. "Dragon attacks, when they so rarely leave the Thief's Wastes. The unexplained destruction of Thale. This attempt at triggering what would effectively be a civil war. And, more recently, a demand from the temple of Kakkerxat the Mighty that we send our strongest fighters overseas for a crusade against the dragons. Thanks to anger against the dragons due to Whitehaven, the palace ordered the dispatch of two tier eights, more than we'd otherwise have supplied, and the only remaining two are here at each other's throats. A substantial chunk of our army went with them. We've been left so defenceless that it's hard to view this as anything other than an attack on our kingdom. Efforts to soften it up as a prelude to an invasion. A raft of goblins could probably conquer the island by this point."

"The communications came from the Holy Theocracy. Are you claiming they are attacking us?"

"Not necessarily. Perhaps a priest in the temples was bribed or threatened into sending a false report. Or maybe someone discovered a high-tier spy class that allows interfering with the far-seeing orbs."

"Hell, for all we know, someone out there has a class capable of sending false oracles," added Shigeo.

"It's equally possible that someone has used mental manipulation to mess with these men's memories, to make them falsely believe they are guilty," pointed out Cryscrin. "I know you well enough to know the lengths you would go to to protect your family."

"Take that guy to Darren's wife then, and see if she recognises him. Although no doubt you could claim I messed with her memory, too. Use [Truthseeker] on me, or maybe I've modified my own memories to lie more convincingly. Or how about we just stand around and argue while we wait for..."

Shigeo's tirade was cut off by a strange chill in the air, along with the scent of blood. The light streaming in through the windows flickered and failed, the hall plunged into darkness.

"... Or maybe it's too late," continued Shigeo.

In the Holy Theocracy of Jurelli, in the temple of Kakkerxat the Mighty, a resounding crack resonated through the main hall. When the light returned a minute later, it revealed that the previously pristine statue had three thick gashes running through its shield. The priests watched on in fear as the statue's sword, previously held in a tight grip, gradually toppled and fell, smashing into the floor and shattering, showering the room with fragments of marble.