Day 38, 6:30 PM

  I’ve led Lucy and Gila out of the fortress. We kept to the edge of the throng of people going to see the burning, and I slipped them away from the crowd, towards the jungle. They are familiar with the terrain, the wandering wildlife is nowhere near as dangerous as the fifth floor of the dungeon, since humans aren’t the only food around. Besides, the girls have wandered those wilds plenty of times without getting hurt.

  We have agreed on a meeting point, and as I check my mental list of things to do, all seems well so far. Should I fail and die, they can just return home. If they don’t want to associate with Edna, they can just go home. Even if they snitch on us, it will be too late, and they won’t know where we’re going, because I sure as hell don’t plan to take the road.

  As the crowd shuffles around me, I recall another chase, ages ago. Just me and her, a whore and a madman slave, running from an entire kingdom. God, Manny, I miss you.

  I had a passing thought of treating Edna like Manny, of giving her a chance to become my lover. Manny told me I need to forget her, replace her with other women. But I simply can’t do that to my goddess. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  The crowd stops in a clearing. I don’t know if it’s the same meadow where they burned me and where my life on Everrain began. I decide that it is. What’s about to happen should be equally monumental for me as my violent rebirth, and the fact that they are taking place at the same location seems poetic.

  I have eight available attribute points remaining, and the next moment I have zero. Four went into strength, four into agility. A funny thing, this frail body with a bunch of levels can now beat my old god of war body into a pulp.

  I step through the crowd, careful not to trample anyone. At first I move gingerly, fearing any incidents from my sudden increase in strength, but as soon as I touch someone, they just move out of the way. I don’t shove them, they don’t topple or anything, they just move to the side voluntarily, seemingly unaware of the action.

  I advance slowly, unwilling to cause a ripple the inquisitors might notice. Still, I reach the front row in a matter of moments. There’s a priest again, ten inquisitors clad in red robes, and four guards to keep order.

  The guards wield clubs, inquisitors all have poleaxes, and finally the priest is unarmed. The guards stand in front of the crowd, while the inquisitors surround a massive pile of sticks. Edna is tied to a tall stake set at the center of kindling, ready for burning.

  Her eyes are out of focus, her face a smear of blue, black, and green. She’s still wearing her own dress, albeit torn and stained with blood, probably hers.

  The rain intensifies as night draws close, and I’m certain burnings in the downpour are an act of sadism, one fortunate for Edna. Otherwise, they would’ve burned her before I came to help.

  The priest starts listing false accusations. He claims Edna is the agent of the wormlords, spreading blight and mutated monsters, clearing a path for them to advance closer to the castle. She eats little children and leads men into the depths of the woods to spawn more mutants.

  My lips stretch into a smirk.

  Listening to his nonsense, a stroke of inspiration hits me, and I commit myself to risk everything to save Edna. I will die to save her, burn the world, die while under redo, whatever it takes, even if I have to go through another death or redo spiral.

  A sane person would ask themselves why, but anarchist’s level up condition almost jumps before my eyes.

  Help a person wrongfully penalized by the authorities, heedless of the consequences. Had they accused Edna of being a mage, and burned her because that’s the law, I would stand no chance at leveling up, but slandering her so they could burn her alive, now, that’s an anarchist’s pet peeve.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Just in case, I have to wait to see if they would go through with it. The person needs to be penalized, not accused or threatened. So, I listen to the zealot’s mad drivel, then watch him carry the torch towards the pile of kindling. The fire hisses and dances in the rain. I draw my dagger and squeeze its enchanted wooden blade between my thumb and forefinger.

  The torch touches the kindling, my dagger whistles through the air, there’s a thud as the blade sinks into the back of the priest’s skull, and the man falls. Unfortunately, he lands on the pile of flammables, torch-first.

  I run out of the crowd, my staff whirling through the air, and smashing an unsuspecting inquisitor’s skull into mush. The crowd reels, but before they even scream, I brain another inquisitor.

  A scream breaks the spell, the crowd starts running away from me like a stampede or whatever giant bugs do in Everrain, and I’m left one against twelve, with fire spreading rapidly beneath Edna’s feet.

  The inquisitors point their poleaxes towards me, but I smack the shaft of the one nearest to me, the polearm flying out of his arm, straight into another’s face. A portion of my mind cheers, elated by Battlefield Mastery, while the more focused part of my consciousness pays attention to the middle portion of my staff.

  Batsy II hits the disarmed inquisitor’s nose with more force than a truck. Bones crack, his head snaps back at an angle guaranteeing a broken neck, carrying with itself the rest of his body.

  The wet sponge-ground squishes as bodies fall. It’s been mere moments, I’ve downed four already, but fire races through the pile of twigs and branches.

  The smoke and smell of burned wood spreads, reminding me of how little time I have.

  Four inquisitors holler, rushing towards me, while two others approach more conservatively, spreading to flank me. Those two are probably more dangerous than the four.

  The guards hesitate. They are watching the carnage, probably wondering what’s happening, who I am, and realizing that the whole situation is well above their pay grade.

  The first rule of battle is eliminate the weak first. They will stab you in the back while you fight the strong, or they will create opportunities for the strong, their weakness making them lethal. So, I run from the charging inquisitors, straight for the guards.

  I roar, brandishing my staff, and they turn around and flee in terror. In the corner of my eye, I see the inquisitors are still after me. I slow down, pretending I’m looking after the guards, but turn when the first inquisitor enters my reach.

  He’s keeping his poleax above his head, the fool, swinging it down towards me. Batsy II spins with me as I pivot. I dodge his ridiculous attack with no trouble, and my staff finds his ribs without error.

  Bones shatter, and he spews blood, flying straight into his ally, tripping up a man with a sharp, long-shafted ax. Unfortunately, he keeps control of it and doesn’t behead his buddy, but the tangled mess of two inquisitors does block the third, leaving me one-on-one with an unlucky bastard.

  He swings at me, I’m tempted to grab the shaft and kill him with his own weapon, but such moves are reserved for the two veterans. Instead, I duck. Batsy II is useless right now, still held like a club in my right, so I close the distance, and punch the reeling man in the throat.

  He falls, choking, and I glance back, the guards are still running away. Even if they turn around and rejoin the battle, it’s a lost cause.

  The only problem is the fire, it’s already licking Edna’s legs. I don’t make direct eye contact, watching her in the corner of my eye, but I can still clearly see that the old magae’s eyes are open wide while muffled screams escape through the rag crammed into her mouth. Four inquisitors left, one tangled with a corpse, the other smart enough not to advance towards me alone, holding a defensive stance above his prone comrade.

  The vets are still maneuvering to flank me, rage burning in their eyes, but their movements measured, revealing no immediate openings. Those two fought against the odds and survived at least once.

  I keep to my strategy, strike the weak and don’t go after Edna. If they realize how important she is to me, they would use her as a shield, a hostage, or worst of all, they might kill her outright out of spite or zealotry.

  I charge towards the two. The smart one makes a mistake and steps back. At the last possible moment, instead of lashing at him, I spin and smash Batsy II at the one lying down. He raises his polearm to block with the shaft, but he’s too weak, his prone stance horrible. His arms buckle, and Batsy II goes through his skull like a hot knife through whatever they use here for the idiom.

  The smart one is shocked, his face bloodless, and I use the moment of fear to storm his defenses and break his neck.

  I heave a breath. The vets close in, their eyes livid, blood flooding their faces, marbling them red.

  It’s one against two, and my time is running out.