Oh come on, I think. You didn’t complain with Mirzayael’s leg.
That was entirely different! It was hard and crunchy and was almost like a less delicious rock. This is dry and flakey and gross.
Mirzayael chuckles as she listens in. “Then it will really get a kick out of the feathers.”
An enormous pile of multicolored harpy feathers is stacked in a haphazard pile on the floor of the red room, next to an empty space where the much less colorful pile of dracid skin had been just a few moments before. Nek had given me a disturbed look when I asked him what we needed help gathering, and Dizzi had about fallen off her chair laughing. She’d been more than happy to go around asking for harpy feathers, at least.
Go on, I nudge. You had one of these already. You liked it!
The Dungeon Core dubiously takes a look at the harpy feathers, then pulls all of them into its Inventory at once, like a kid trying to swallow a vegetable whole so they don’t have to taste it. It shudders.
There! It is done with the awful treats. It does not think these were treats at all. They were more like medicine.
You don’t know what medicine is, I tell it.
It knows about it from me, and medicine is the opposite of tasty.
“You’ll have to give it that,” Mirzayael says, amused. “Did it work?”
I check the catalog in the Map Interface and grin. “In fact, it did.”
- Arachnoid
- Dwarf
- Dracid
- Felis
- Harpy
- Human
“That’s all the species in the Fortress accounted for,” I say. I check my Role Range stat next. “Up to thirty-four point two five percent,” I tell Mirzayael.
“What does that signify?”
“I can travel about three and a half kilometers from the city’s center of mass,” I say. “The city itself has a radius of about a kilometer, so that means I can go about two and a half kilometers beyond the city walls.”
“Is that enough to reach the ground?” she asks.
“Almost,” I say. “The Fortress’s buoyancy leveled off around four kilometers above sea level. We could maybe tweak some settings and try to lower it a bit, but if I just barely reached the ground that wouldn’t give me a lot of wiggle room: I’d pretty much need to stay directly beneath it.”
Mirzayael frowns. “As you said, you’ve catalogued all the species in the Fortress. And reconnecting the defensive spell circles to the throne helps a small amount, but not much. What else can we do to extend your range?”
“There are more species out there than just the ones who live in our Fortress,” I say thoughtfully. Marlowe’s crew had a few elves, which looked much like those I’m familiar with from Earth fiction. On the fishing boats, I’d caught sight of some sort of aquatic species called nereids, which were slightly shorter and covered in scales and fins, though they seemed to not have any trouble being out of the water. And there were also the lamia, with a human torso but a snake’s tail in place of their legs. So at least three more species for me to track, which means there’s bound to be more I haven’t even encountered yet.
Echo, can you give me a list of all intelligent species on Lusio? I ask. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask before as I’d just assumed all the people we’d run into represented the full variety of species on the planet. The Fyrethians hadn’t mentioned others—but they’d also been stuck underground for several hundred years. In retrospect, the question seems obvious.
And happily, Echo obliges.
“Cambion, Dhampyr, Elf, Goblin, Halfling, Lamia, Nereid, Orc,” I repeat aloud. “Oh my. That’s more than I was expecting.”
“Ah. I’ve heard of some of those,” Mirzayael admits. “They appear in a few of our older stories. I wonder if they fled before Fyreneth fell, or if their numbers dwindled thereafter?”
It’s an interesting question, though not directly relevant to our needs. “I hope it will be as easy to acquire biological matter from these species as it was with harpies and dracid.” For the species with hair, at least, I think that should work for Echo’s needs. (Though, it would be quite a lot of hair.) But nereids, at least, didn’t appear to have any. I hope they shed. I desperately would love to avoid needing to come up with body parts, like we did with Mirzayael’s leg.
Mirzayael laughs suddenly.
“What is it?” I ask.
She displays one of her rare open-lipped grins, showing off her thin sharp teeth. “I was imagining Nek’s face when we ask him to add all this to the trade register. Elf hair. The skin of a lamia.”
I cough out a surprised laugh, too. Those are certainly unnerving things to include on our list of desired goods. More delightful nods to my role of The Dark Lord, however unintentional it might be.
I mean… it is merely a coincidence, isn’t it? Whatever assigned my Role couldn’t have known I’d form a Pact with the Dungeon Core, or needed biological matter to fill out its catalog. Though just about every Dark Lord-like sign I’ve noticed has been tied to the Core, in some way or another.
I shake my head. Confirmation bias. I’m seeing patterns because I expect them to be there.
“But there is one more way I can increase my Role Range,” I say. “Admittedly one I’ve been neglecting, though it’s not as though I’ve had time to dedicate to it. Leveling up should increase my abilities, which in turn should increase my Range.”
“Oh?” Mirzayael raises an intrigued eyebrow. “What would that entail?”
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“Leveling up my spells, largely,” I say. “Which in turn requires consistent practice with them. I have Spark, Blaze, Fireball, Jet, Psionic Link, and Psionic Touch at my disposal.”
Mirzayael settles back with clear interest. Training is something in her wheelhouse. “Walk me through them.”
I sit on the edge of the desk and lean back on my hands. “Spark I’ve largely not had use for since we were able to turn the lights on in the palace,” I say. “I don’t really use Psionic Touch at all either. I’ve no use for speaking into anyone’s mind who is already close enough to touch. Blaze and Fireball are mostly offensive, which I haven’t needed since the Jorrian battle.”
“You use Jet consistently,” Mirzayael says.
I nod. “That one I’ve leveled up to Level Seven simply from how often I’ve used it these past few weeks.”
“What do these levels mean?” she asks. “Is there any tangible benefit?”
“For most of them it means they cost less mana, so I can use more spells for longer,” I tell her. “With Jet, specifically, I’ve found it easier to control; it takes less conscious effort to think about. Though I suppose that could also simply be from practice.”
“Interesting,” Mirzayael muses. “These levels sound like arbitrary markers for the natural progression of one’s magic. Using a spell over and over again of course makes you more efficient at casting it. And as you said, the more you practice something, the less difficult it becomes. This is true for all magic I know, not just yours.”
“It is interesting,” I admit. “I’ve asked Echo about it before, and she said something similar; though other people aren’t aware of their levels and stats, they still have them. From what I can gather, it’s prescribing them quantitative approximations of qualitative traits. And the System seems to help… accelerate the development of these metrics.”
That produces a frown from Mirzayael. “A guiding hand helping you to become powerful more quickly?”
“It does sound a bit ominous,” I agree. “Though it’s not just me, remember. Ollie is in the System, too. And if there’s us two, I’m certain there’s more. The real question is: why us?”
“Your reincarnation?” she suggests.
“It could be,” I agree. “But then that shifts the question to: Why would reincarnation grant us such access?”
Mirzayael shakes her head, and I don’t have an answer, either. This was one of the first questions I’d asked Echo when I’d appeared on this world, and I’d received a firm
“At any rate,” I say, returning to the present conversation, “the last spell I have access to is Psionic Link, which I exercise with you and Ollie every day, so that one I’ve been working on, at least. Oh, and Psionic Sense, of course. I’ve used it a few times with Ollie, but not often enough to level it up.”
“Can you use it with anyone?” Mirzayael asks.
“Anyone I’m Linked to,” I say.
She stares at me for a moment.
“I haven’t used it with you!” I hurried add. “And only with Ollie when I ask him first. That would be a terrible invasion of privacy!”
“Of course,” Mirzayael says. There are more complex thoughts behind her response, but I pointedly don’t go looking to find out what they are.
“Well, it seems you could be practicing more spells throughout the day,” Mirzayael says, getting the conversation back on track. “Your Spark, for instance—even if it’s no use to you, it also seems to be a trivial mana drain, and if you constantly have one going, that should help you with these Level Ups, correct?”
“It would,” I agree. “Though small mana use seems to contribute less to the level progression.”
“Pity,” Mirzayael says. “So your level progression is limited by your mana pool.”
“Well,” I say hesitantly. “Not exactly. Spells are just one way to level up.”
Mirzayael perks up. “Oh? Why didn’t you say something? What are the others?”
I hesitate, because I can predict exactly where this will be going. “Combat,” I admit. “Dealing damage and taking damage both contribute.”
Mirzayael grins. This one feels significantly less good natured.
“You mentioned this System also gives you healing abilities,” she says.
“Yes,” I reluctantly admit.
“Then it’s settled,” she says. “You will participate in sparring and combat training going forward.”
I grimace. “I’d really rather not. I think I’d be better served operating in scientific capacities—”
“Fyre,” she interrupts, giving me a hard look. “You lead this city by my side. You will be a target to our foes. Your sanity hinges on remaining within these walls, unless or until you become more powerful. What if someone attempted to assassinate you? Or even merely kidnap? What if Ollie isn’t there to help?”
My mouth goes dry at the suggestion. Even if we’d been in battle before, it had never really hit me until just now that I will become a target for some people, no matter how kind I try to be, no matter how many allies we make. No matter what, there will always be those looking for an opportunity to take advantage of; there will always be edge cases.
And she’s right. Alone, I am not particularly strong. Outside of the Dungeon Core’s area of influence, I am limited to just my Fire and Psionic spells. And if I am pulled outside of the Role Requirement’s range, I stand to be driven mad, and would have little in the way of fighting back.
And what would happen to Ollie, then? I need to stay out of danger for his safety as much as my own. In fact, if I became strong enough to not need protecting, would that help subvert Ollie’s Role Requirement as well?
“You can’t afford to not be strong,” she says firmly.
“You’re right,” I admit. “There’s always just so many more important things to be doing. How will I find time to learn combat skills on top of everything else?” I glance at my arm, and sadly pinch my skin. Like all harpies, my physiology has traded muscles for agility.
Mirzayael laughs. “Weight training was not what I had in mind. You’re a mage. You should learn to fight like one.”
“Leveling up my spells?” I ask. This seems to have gone full circle.
“No—learning how to fight with spells,” Mirzayael says. “Evaluating which to use at what time. How to strategically ration your mana. How to position yourself to use them to their fullest effect.” She pauses. “Although a bit of basic self-defense couldn’t hurt either.”
She makes a good point; most harpies used ranged attacks in the Jorrian battle. Wind spells and arrows seem to make up the majority. I doubt my abilities to learn a bow and arrow, and without wind arcana to guide it, I’m sure I’d make for a very poor archer. But I have my fire spells, and those can be long range, at least.
“You want me to join your guard drills?” I ask.
“No, no. That wouldn’t suit your strengths. And everyone witnessing your lack of combat abilities would not help with public image.” She taps at the chitin on one of her legs. “I will train you in private. We can co-opt one of the unused halls in an underground tier of the palace. That should give us plenty of room to work with.”
I hold in a groan. “When in the world do we have time to work this into our schedule?”
“Well, we’re merely talking now, aren’t we?” Mirzayael teases. “We can repurpose some of these check-in meetings. Practice sparring while we share our daily reports.”
I cannot express how much I dislike this idea. But it seems to be perking Mirzayael up. “We can add in a session before bed as well. And if we wanted to wake up early—”
“One at a time,” I beg. “At least ease me into it.”
She chuckles. “Alright, alright. We’ll ramp up to more frequent sessions. Come! This should be fun.”
“Now?” I ask, the resignation already setting in. “But we are scheduled to descend to the Delta for trade talks tomorrow morning. That’s less than fifteen hours away.”
“Exactly.” Mirzayael snatches up her spear and excitedly pushes herself to her feet. “A whole fifteen hours. Come! We have no obligations scheduled between now and supper.”
Grimacing, I use some slate and chalk to write out a note on where we’ve gone for anyone who might come by looking for us. Mirzayael is waiting for me at the door, her face lifted in good spirits. She practically trots down the hall as we make for a remote, empty hall.
Think she’ll go easy on me? I glumly ask the Dungeon Core. I can abruptly relate to its reluctance to carry out its duties and eat the dried skin and feathers we’d given it earlier.
The Dungeon Core doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
No, I think with a mental sigh. You’re right. I don’t think she knows the meaning of taking things easy.
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