"Rob!" Elder Duran's face brightened as he sat up in his bed. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Had some free time," Rob grinned, taking a seat. The Elder's room was tidy and well-cared for, seeming to have been dusted just recently. Books and papers were stuffed in every corner, but in an organized way, so that their owner wouldn't lose track of where anything was. "You available to chat today?" Rob asked. "I can always come back if-"

"By all means," Duran assured. "I've little else to do except lay here and ponder the meaning of existence." He rubbed his beardless chin. "Out of curiosity, why isn't Keira guarding you?"

Rob jabbed his thumb behind his shoulder. "She's waiting outside. Wanted to give us some privacy. Figured that there probably aren't any assassins hiding under your bed."

Duran chuckled. "None whatsoever, last I checked." He smiled. "I must say, it's always heartening to see that twinkle in your eye when you speak of her. You both deserve the happiness that you bring to each other."

Diplomacy let out an as Rob sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "It's...yeah, it's going pretty freaking great. She's the best."

"If I may offer a suggestion," the Elder interjected, "put additional points into Endurance. High-leveled Combat Class users are inherently energetic. Considering the amount of time you two spend on nightly affairs, the added stamina will likely be necessary."

"Ha ha," Rob deadpanned. "That's the sort of joke I would've expected to hear from Meyneth, not you."

Duran tilted his head. "Joke?"

Rob blinked. A moment later, he gulped, wondering just what was in store for him in the future. "...Noted. ANYWAY, how are you holding up? Feeling better these days? You seemed to be doing well at our weekly meeting."

The Elder glanced down at his bedridden body and sighed. "In the simplest possible terms, yes, my health has improved. Enough for intermittent bouts of activity, at least."

He raised his hand and slowly clenched it into a fist. Halfway through the motion, Duran winced, his fingers trembling slightly. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm fit to return to combat. Now or ever. I would only be a burden."

Rob lowered his gaze. Elder Duran had been inundated with Corruption for close to a month before having it Purged. And much like if he'd suffered under a deadly poison for an extended period, while the cause of Duran's affliction was long since cured, the toll it took on his body remained. "I'm sorry," Rob blurted out. "If I'd moved faster-"

"Don't start with that," Duran chided. "You saved my life, Rob. The only reason that I still draw breath is because of your haste in Attuning to multiple Loci of Power. Blaming yourself for factors outside of your control would be a disservice to both your efforts and my gratitude."

Feels kinda nice, honestly. "You're right." Rob smiled. "I won't blame myself. And thanks for the gratitude – it means a lot. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Elder Duran hesitated, his expression turning crestfallen. "Actually, I believe that I must be the one to apologize," he began. "It pains me to say this, but your magic lessons will have to be postponed indefinitely. You've reached a degree of basic expertise where reading spell theory from parchment won't advance your mastery of the arcane arts any further. In order to assist you, I would need to participate with a more active, hands-on style of teaching, and I'm...not up to it at the moment. Too tired." He mumbled the last few words. "Once again, I apologize. I understand that part of your impetus behind visiting is-"

"Dude," Rob interrupted, eyebrows raised. "Let's be real; I was never going to be a mage. Not enough time to invest in that career path. It's been months and the best I can do is give people a static shock tickle. Which, admittedly, is hilarious. The lessons were fun, but I was really just living out my nerd fantasies. Only reason I even put stat points into Magic is so I can get more MP to use for my Class Skills. Our lessons haven't been about the lessons for a while – I simply wanted to spend time with you."

Elder Duran's mouth fell open. For a moment, his eyes watered. "I..." His voice was scratchy. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't need to." Rob's smile softened. "Let's just have fun and forget everything else going on in the world for a few hours. Interested in continuing Earth storytime where we left off?"

Duran beamed at him. "Always."

--

Zamira beckoned Malika and Orn'tol inside, suppressing her amusement at their nervous expressions. They practically tiptoed forward, softly closing the door behind them with the care of disarming a Dungeon trap. Malika was fidgeting in place, shoulders taut, and Orn'tol would have been acting the same if he wasn't making an obvious effort to suppress his anxiety.

"Is that you, Zamira?" a boisterous male voice called from further inside. "Are the little ones with you? Bring them in – dinner's almost ready."

"I'm not a little one," Orn'tol mumbled under his breath. Zamira pretended that she didn't hear him, instead leading the siblings past the cramped central lobby and into the kitchen. Succulent smells caressed their noses, and by the way Orn'tol and Malika's were sniffing the air like a pair of dogs, it was apparently reminding them that they hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal in a very long time. Zamira's parents greeted her cheerfully as she entered; her father with a broad smile that stretched from ear to ear, and her mother with a more subdued expression that was no less warm.

"So wonderful to see you," her father said, embracing her in a brief hug that he quickly disengaged from. Any longer would have set off her sensitivity to touch, but he knew where her limits lay. "And you've brought guests! What a fortuitous turn of events – why, it just so happens that I erred when preparing tonight's meal, and accidentally cooked too much for one sitting. Here I was, worried that it would go to waste."

The corners of Zamira's lips twitched upward. "You knew full well to expect company, father."

"Lower your voice, Zamira!" her father said, in an audible stage whisper. "Lest you expose my chicanery to our esteemed guests!"

His reaction was silly and over-the-top. If it'd come from a person with less charisma, the mood might have turned awkward, but setting people at ease had always been one of her father's strong suits.

As Orn'tol and Malika watched the farce play out in front of them, some of the tension in their postures receded. Malika was giggling under her breath in a frankly adorable manner, and Orn'tol no longer appeared as if he was knowingly walking into an ambush.

Zamira glanced away from them, hiding the look of gratification on her face. One of the basic tenets of setting people at ease was to not let them know that you were attempting to do so. That went double for young Elves who were accustomed to putting on airs of maturity. The less that Orn'tol and Malika became aware of how closely their mental states were being scrutinized, the better.

As proof of that strategy's effectiveness, Orn'tol spoke up a moment later, having gathered enough courage to join the conversation. "What did you cook for dinner?" he asked, quietly.

"A fantastic question!" Zamira's father gestured towards the stove with a dramatic flourish. "To answer: I'm not entirely sure. The Fiends forgot to replenish our food stores this week. Now, I don't blame them – our presence in Fiend territory is new, and they're unused to Elven eating patterns – but that did result in a paucity of choices for tonight's meal. As such, I've combined the remnants of our cupboard into a mystery conglomeration of sorts."

"Let it be known that I was against the idea," Zamira's mother said, with an amused half-smile.

Orn'tol sniffed the air once more, brows furrowed. "It does smell appetizing, at least. Should be edible."

Zamira's father nodded. "Of course! Of...course." He paused, gaze flitting towards the stove for a split second. "On a completely different subject, do either of you possess Poison Resistance?"

"We share a weakened version from Rob while in his Party," Malika answered, her face sparkling with excitement. "Are you implying that we'll need it?"

Zamira's father averted his eyes. Without saying another word, he walked over to the stove, picked up a spoon and dipped it into their would-be dinner. The soup was thick, amber-colored, and full of assorted bits of food, some which Zamira did not recognize. To his credit, her father didn't hesitate before plunging the spoon into his mouth.

"...Hmm." He raised one eyebrow, then the other. "Odd texture. Strong flavor. Like charred helyx meat, mixed with potatoes. Aftertaste is...quite delectable, actually. Yes, this will do nicely."

He turned towards everyone else and put on a wide grin. "I declare the mystery conglomeration to be a success! There's no accounting for its long-term effects, but alas. If we are to die, let us die with happy smiles and full stomachs."

Malika snickered and Orn'tol smiled. Minor reactions, in the grand scheme of things, but to Zamira, they were victories to be cherished.

Several minutes later, everyone was seated at the dinner table, enjoying their foray into the culinary unknown. To Malika's disappointment, Poison Resistance didn't activate for anyone. Once their hunger – and curiosity – had been sated, the group naturally drifted towards idle chatter.

"Fiendish literature is utterly fascinating," Malika explained, with a hint of mild fervor. "You'd think there would only be tales of killing Humans and whatnot, and many are like that, but there are also plenty about Fiends falling in love with members of other races. Overcoming the barriers of language and geography, winning the approval of their peers with the purity of their love...or tragically dying in the attempt." She let out a dreamy sigh. "I absolutely must finish Hornless Heresy when I return home. If Valian and Valora don't end up together at the end, I might just cry."

"Their stories seem wistful," Orn'tol posited. "As if there's a theme of loneliness running underneath the main narrative. They may be embarrassed to admit it, but I think that at their cores, the Fiends dearly wish to be accepted by the rest of Elatra."

Zamira's mother nodded in approval. "That's quite the astute observation,"

At her praise, Orn'tol looked away. "I like their theater shows," he mumbled, almost as if it was a crime to do so.

"There is no shame in that," Zamira herself assured. "I've been studying the concerts put on by Fiend songstresses, myself. Their style of singing is distinctly unique from ours. It's more soulful – which is fitting, I suppose."

Her father leaned forward, barely-suppressed mischief clear on his expression. "Say, Zamira, would you mind giving us a performance-"

"I refuse."

They laughed, and Zamira couldn't help but smile. This pleasant family dinner atmosphere was everything she'd hoped for when inviting Orn'tol and Malika over. They needed something to fill the void left behind by their late parents. Zamira's parents could never replace them, not completely, but having a semblance of family structure in their lives would be of great benefit to the siblings. She could already see them feeling more at ease as time went on. Rob had been doing a stellar job as their surrogate big brother, and so far, going a step further was proving to be a success.

This is the world I want to create, Zamira thought, as she swept her eyes across the table of cheerful faces. No broken families. No lives ruined by pointless war. It was a fanciful notion, but not one without precedent. Rob's Earth didn't have monsters infesting the lands, and its regions weren't separated via colored foliage and races of markedly different biology. So many of Elatra's problems stemmed from the necessity of ceaseless conflict and arbitrary dividing lines between societies. With those removed, Elatra would become a place of peace and unity, free of bloodshed, just like Earth must be.

So she assumed. Zamira wasn't interested in asking Rob to clarify. Earth to her was a symbol, and that's all it needed to be.

In truth, she knew that her dream would never come to pass. One person couldn't alter the foundational structure of society. But in her eyes, it was better to strive for a lofty goal and fall short than to settle for less at the very start. If she could achieve a half, a quarter, even one-tenth of the future she envisioned...that would mean she had done well.

A world of bonds and togetherness. Zamira laughed as Orn'tol described a Fiend who'd asked him for an autograph. That is the way. No matter how cruel life may be, bonds are what will keep us sane.

--

Traitors, the lot of them.

Dragon Queen Ragnavi's glare sent the Healers in attendance turning tail and running for their lives. They didn't even beg permission to leave. Just as well; suffering their presence for one instant longer would have been too much for her to bear. She could respect their survival instincts, if not their healing expertise, which was proving remarkable in its ineffectiveness.

'We possess no updates for you at this juncture,' she recalled, claws digging into her throne. What pretty little excuses you always think up. Constantly diverting responsibility, trying so hard to appease me, like a dog presenting its belly. Perhaps matters would be different if you spent less time rationalizing your failures and more time curing my Corruption.

Ragnavi's aura began to leak out, slowly melting the steel throne she was sitting on as if it was made of candle wax. She didn't bother tamping the effect down. Chairs could be replaced. Healers, too, which they'd soon discover if they continued upon this path of inadequacy.

Her HP, however, was not so replaceable.

HP: 1434 / 1434

Stamina: 1398 / 1400

MP: 2000 / 2000

Status Effects: Madness (Simmering), Melancholia, Corruption (-683 of Base HP, -1366 Total)

One ill-advised encounter with a Blight was all it'd taken for her durability to be permanently cut in half. More than two months had passed since that day, and despite her Healers' initial assurances that they would develop a spell to remove Corruption, their progress thus far amounted to devising different variants of how to say "we have nothing, please don't crush our skulls."

Objectively speaking, Ragnavi knew that killing them would be pointless. They were the best Healers in Dragonkin territory, meaning they were the ones with the highest chance of discovering a Corruption purging spell. Executing one or two in order to motivate the rest was a tempting proposition, but that approach wouldn't bear fruit, either. They were already trying their hardest, if only because they knew their lives were hanging precariously in the balance.

At what point did all of that stop mattering, though? If the Healers were doomed to never develop a countermeasure for Corruption – an outcome that was looking increasingly likely as time passed – then what was the purpose of their continued existence? What use was a Healer that could not heal? Really, allowing Ragnavi to hear their screams dance within her ears was the very least they could do to repay her for their collective failures. It might even distract her from the Corruption's searing pain that she was forced to endure every second of every day.

The only reason Ragnavi hadn't already succumbed to those urges was because indiscriminately killing Healers would reflect poorly on her reputation. At the thought, she shuddered from head-to-toe, like someone had walked on her grave. Tylrud's teeth, I can't believe that my social standing is something I need to pay attention to again. She was still the strongest Combat Class user in Elatra by a wide margin, but the Corruption had weakened her HP to the point where she could tell that some of the more reckless nobles were starting to get ideas.

Treasonous ideas.

Ragnavi didn't begrudge them for their ambitions. She would have respected them less if they hadn't been thinking of ways to depose her. What kind of self-respecting Dragonkin didn't take advantage of an enemy's weakness? No, what truly rankled her was the fact that she wouldn't be able to meet their schemes with the full might of her power. She was...fuck, she was crippled. There was nothing else to call a Combat Class user missing half their HP.

Dread started to creep into Ragnavi's heart – a feeling she quickly overwrote with fury. I wonder how many of my Healers have accepted bribes? she seethed, teeth bared. One? Half? All of them? There was no shortage of people who would benefit if she never recovered from her affliction. The nobles planning to usurp her, for one, but also those outside of Dragonkin territory as well. Stonewarden Grant of the Dwarves outright loathed her. He'd stated as much on numerous occasions. Seneschal Sylpeiros of the Elves didn't dislike her to quite that degree, but he would shed no tears if she was stabbed in the back, and in all likelihood would jump at the chance to be the one holding the knife.

And of course, there was the Blight. No entity in Elatra would profit from her demise more than it would. Even in her weakened condition, she was still the only person who could stand against the overwhelming power of a fully-formed Blight and live to tell the tale. When she fought one again – when, not if – what would happen? Would she merely die in combat, or prevail after being infected with yet more Corruption, reduced to a withered husk perpetually writhing in agony?

This cannot continue. Ragnavi started pacing, leaving molten footprints in the floor as she walked. I need to regain at least some semblance of my full glory. Either that or find a way to gain Levels so I can increase my Vitality. Somehow, the latter prospect seemed even less plausible than curing her Corruption. She was Level 93 by now, and leveling up had long since become a borderline impossibility. No Dungeon ever grew large enough to provide her with reasonable EXP. Killing a fully-formed Blight – the equivalent to a living natural disaster – had gained her a meager two Levels for her trouble, and she wasn't planning to attempt a repeat of that feat anytime soon.

Ragnavi let out a snarl as she punched a hole through the wall. She missed the Scouring, some days. Leveling up had been so easy back then. A Utility Class Human provided very little EXP, as much as a single droplet of water, but kill enough Humans and those droplets combined would become rainfall. Now all the Humans were dead – barring one cockroach whose days were numbered – and Ragnavi was out of easy EXP to gain.

...

...No. No, she wasn't.

Ragnavi imagined a mental map of Elatra, a sense of calm surety settling over her. After several minutes of consideration, she honed in on an Elven settlement called Riverhaven, located at the southern tip of the continent. While technically classified as a city, Riverhaven was fairly isolated from the rest of Elven territory, lacking both Message Crystals and Teleport Crystals. If its populace fell to a 'Blight attack', then the rest of the continent wouldn't learn of its fate for weeks. Especially if there were no survivors left to tell the tale.

For a moment, Ragnavi hesitated. She'd idly contemplated going on rampages before, but there was a world of difference between daydreaming and committing to an action. Dragonkin and Elves weren't currently at war, and these Elves in particular had done her no wrong. This wasn't an action that Ardrud would have approved of – not in a thousand years.

Then her Corruption flared up inside her, stabbing Ragnavi's nerves with blinding pain, and the moment passed.

Riverhaven is decently populated, she thought, envisioning the scenario. Assuming that a standard garrison of Combat Class users are stationed there, ranging from Levels 20 to 35, and that the civilian masses haven't fled without my knowledge, then the combined totals of their EXP should take me a third of the way to Level 94.

It was a start.