Meyneth waited.

Meyneth waited longer.

Meyneth waited longer still.

Her patience was rewarded with the sound of faint, imperceptible breathing, the same as it had been for the last several hours.

With no small amount of effort, she tore her eyes away from Vul'to's unconscious body. There was only so long that one could watch over a friend, fruitlessly hoping for them to recover, unsure if they ever would. A day had passed since Vul'to's soul was placed in the Soul Eater's body, and so far, his condition remained unchanged. He wouldn't wake up, he didn't respond to external stimuli, and his Status Screen was still a garbled mess of the unknown. The Physicians were close to declaring him comatose, and had begun making preparations to feed him so that he wouldn't starve in his sleep.

But at least he was alive. As long as he was alive, hope lived as well.

You'd better rejoin us soon. Meyneth briefly gripped his hand. For both our sakes. She didn't know what she was going to do with herself if Vul'to didn't wake up. Even if the rest of Riardin's Rangers forgave her, she never would. He was only in the condition he was now because of her. The Soul Eater had dealt the blow, but it was her incompetence that forced Vul'to to put himself in harm's way. If she'd moved faster, thought quicker, fought harder...

A bitter grimace crept across her face. In the past, when under her parents' tutelage, Meyneth had sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a friend who supported her. Unconditionally, and without reservation. Someone who loved and cared for her, to the point where they'd be willing to sacrifice their very life for her sake.

She wished she could return to those days and strike the ignorance out of herself. Reality wasn't like the desperate daydreams of a lonely girl. Having someone sacrifice themself for her didn't feel affirming. It ached, like hot lava pouring on her heart. As if she'd failed her friends, herself, and most of all, Vul'to.

Meyneth's eyes flickered towards his face, inspecting him for changes, and a sense of unwanted revulsion washed over her. Vul'to's new Fiendish appearance was going to be difficult to reconcile. She couldn't help but associate it with a monstrous, soul-eating abomination; not one of her dearest friends in the world.

Unfortunately, she'd need to grow accustomed to to it – Vul'to's surgery only succeeded in the first place because the Soul Eater's body was primed to accept Elven souls. The Clay of Life could potentially house his soul, but it was designed to work for Diplomacy, a soul not yet attuned to a body. Unless Rob's Surgeon discovered a way to cheat death even more than he already had, this unfamiliar Fiend laying in front of her was Vul'to now.

Will he be the same Vul'to when he awakens?

Her thought was mercifully interrupted by a knock on the door. Meyneth tensed, recalling what happened the last time someone knocked, before relaxing when she realized that her four hours were up. Riardin's Rangers had been taking turns standing vigil beside Vul'to; they wanted one of them to be there to greet him when he awoke. Meyneth was hesitant to leave his side, but the others deserved a chance to come to terms with his condition, and further self-flagellation on her part wouldn't help anyone right now.

She still extended her claws and adopted a fighting stance in preparation. She turned the doorknob, pulled, and took a quick step away. Instantly, Meyneth's adrenaline surged. FIEND–

Oh. It was Faelynn. Meyneth stood there, frozen with mild embarrassment, as her claws hovered an inch away from the terrified Fiend's neck. "My apologies," Meyneth stated, pulling back. "I am somewhat...on edge, as you might imagine."

"Y-yes," Faelynn muttered, idly rubbing her hands across her neck. "Can't fault you for that."

She trailed off. The two of them locked eyes like a pair of skittish house cats, each silently begging the other to speak first. "What are you doing here?" Meyneth finally managed to ask. "If I'm remembering correctly, Rob was supposed to take over once my vigil ended."

"I offered to take his place," Faelynn explained. "It seemed like he needed some time alone." She paused, lowering her gaze. "Assuming that's alright with you. I would understand if-"

"None of us blame you for what happened to Vul'to," Meyneth truthfully spoke. "Nor do we blame all Fiends for the actions of one." That, she was less sure of, at least insofar as it applied to the rest of Riardin's Rangers. For her part, Meyneth bore the Fiends no ill will. She'd met too many of them who treated her with fairness to start judging them at this juncture.

Faelynn's posture slackened. "Thank you." She smiled. "Rest easy, why don't you? I think you need it as much as Rob does."

She's being rather kind to me, Meyneth belatedly realized. Must not be aware that I threatened to slaughter hundreds of Fiends. The Soul Surgeon had agreed to keep silent about that incident, citing concerns regarding a public outcry, although Meyneth doubted that he would do so forever. No secret stayed hidden in perpetuity. For now, though, Faelynn remained blissfully ignorant of the massacre that had been narrowly avoided.

"I threatened to slaughter hundreds of Fiends," Meyneth immediately stated. She paused, giving Faelynn a few seconds of burgeoning shock to comprehend what she'd just heard. "It was how I convinced the Soul Surgeon to operate on Vul'to. And if he did not acquiesce, I would have carried out my threat in full."

Faelynn opened and closed her mouth several times. "I thought..." she began, in a tone tinged with anguish. "I thought you didn't blame us for what happened."

"Correct."

She gaped at Meyneth as if the Dragonkin had grown another head. Faelynn averted her eyes, staring blankly at nothing in particular. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned to face Meyneth once more. "That will take me some time to look past," she admitted. "However, I also recognize that you were in a desperate situation. Vul'to's life hung in the balance." Her claws twitched. "Just...don't do anything of that sort again."

Now it was Meyneth's turn to avert her eyes. "I won't," she mumbled. "Why are you..."

She couldn't find it in herself to finish the question. Instead, Meyneth skirted past Faelynn, retreating from the room, shoulders hunched. Damnit. This guilt would be far easier to bear if I could find someone to hate me properly.

--

I must not hate the Fiends, Zamira repeated. I must not hate the Fiends. One person is not a representative of their race. I must not hate the Fiends. Peace cannot be attained if I hold resentment in my heart. I must not hate the Fiends.

She rubbed her temples, sighing. Why was training her mind so much more difficult than training her body? Swordsmanship came easy. Convincing herself to be the kind of person she wanted to be? Like beating at steel with her bare hands. She wasn't even sure if she'd made a dent yet.

...If I hate the Fiends, that means I'll have to hate Faelynn, too. Zamira recoiled, the thought provoking a much stronger reaction within her than anything else she'd tried so far. Faelynn didn't deserve to be hated. Not at all. And if she didn't, then none of the other Fiends did, either.

Even if some of them were soul-eating monstrosities who targeted her friends.

Zamira perked up as her mother entered the room. The older woman walked forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Zamira?" she began, tentatively. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course." A break from her mental training would be welcome. "What is it?"

Her mother hesitated. "I was merely wondering if you know of a way to cheer up the little ones," she asked. "They are acting...reserved. I'm beginning to grow worried."

Zamira winced. If I knew, I would have done so myself. How was she supposed to bolster Orn'tol's and Malika's morale when she was scarcely faring better than them? Any words of encouragement she had to offer would be no more than halfhearted lies.

"Just be present for them," she ended up saying. "Your presence itself will soothe their worries. I speak from experience when saying that."

Her mother smiled. It was brilliant and beautiful, letting Zamira forget everything for a single, comforting moment.

Then a voice in the back of her head reminded her that Vul'to was comatose and showing no signs of improvement.

I must not hate the Fiends.

--

Orn'tol held Malika close as his sister dozed in his arms. Sighing to himself, he deactivated Heightened Senses as voices from the other room barely reached his ears. Zamira and her mother weren't being as quiet as they thought they were.

Honestly, he mused. Don't know why they're so concerned about us. So what if he and Malika weren't saying much? That was normal. It didn't mean anything. They were just resting; nothing more.

And besides, what was there to say? What happened to Vul'to was terrible, yes, but hardly surprising. Bad things happened to people all the time. In this instance, to one of their friends. Eventually, it would happen to more, possibly Orn'tol himself. That was simply how the world worked.

He'd understood that since eight years ago.

Orn'tol closed his eyes. For some reason, he suddenly felt tired. Maybe if he took a nap, things would be better when he woke up.

--

I told them to be careful, Keira seethed. I told them to watch out for assassins. I told them so many fucking times. The populace of Acrastor City parted before her as she walked down its streets. She didn't need to say anything to make them steer clear; the look on her face was sufficient. But did they take care? Of course not. Overconfident idiots, strutting around like they're the ones with Danger Sense. When Vul'to wakes up, we're going to have *words*.

She resisted the urge to grab her greatsword and start swinging it into the ground. I should be with everyone else right now. 'We need space' my pale ass. If they're not going to protect themselves, someone has to fucking do it. Don't care if it intrudes on their oh-so-important solitude.

For the dozenth time that day, Keira barely resisted the urge to activate Message and start shouting into the 'group chat' – as Rob called it – until someone allowed her to attend them. Logically, she knew that they required a period of respite to process what had happened to Vul'to. She also knew that they wouldn't let themselves be caught unawares so soon after one of their own was ambushed. Her protection wasn't strictly necessary.

Neither of those conclusions did a damn thing to soothe the electric wrath surging through Keira's veins. Why in the world hadn't she been there yesterday? Danger Sense would have detected the Soul Eater's intent the moment he knocked. Instead, while her friends were being targeted by a fucking lunatic, she'd been...boxing. Indulging her frivolous urges, smiling and laughing, as Vul'to's soul was ripped from his chest.

Keira grit her teeth so hard that she nearly cracked a molar. Fighting was all she knew. What good was she if she couldn't be there to safeguard the people she cared about?

...I need to hit something, she concluded. Without Diplomacy finding out. It'd probably tell me that my coping mechanisms are unhealthy. She snorted. We'll see if it still feels that way once it gains a body with muscles and adrenaline.

As Keira considered how best to find an acceptable target, her Heightened Senses picked up shouting from a street away. She raced towards the sound, excitedly wondering if there was a convenient thug for her to rough up – only to find a sight that was disappointing in every conceivable manner. Two small crowds were standing on opposite ends of the street, one consisting of Elves, and the other consisting of Fiends. They were yelling at each other with rising vehemence, seeming on the verge of coming to blows. As Keira listened, she caught snippets of what they were saying, gleaning the crux of their argument in short order.

"-your people attacked-"

"-not one of ours-"

"-demand justice-"

"-is a hero-"

"-just like the rest-"

"-care more than you-"

Keira slapped her hand on her forehead as she came to a realization. Fiendish Auto-Translate was still rare among the Deserters, and as far as she knew, Elven Auto-Translate had yet to propagate among the Fiends at all.

Neither crowd even knew what the other was saying.

She let out a bout of uproarious laughter. It was loud, mocking, and cut through the clamor like a sharpened knife. Both crowds gradually quieted as they turned to look at Keira, their expressions morphing from outraged to embarrassed, as if they were children caught sneaking sweets before supper.

"Oh, by all means," Keira snickered, once she'd finished laughing. "Continue. I was looking for a distraction, and who doesn't love watching a good farce play out?" She made sure to repeat her words in Fiendish, wanting to make absolutely fucking sure that everyone knew precisely what she thought of them.

"Lady Blightkiller," an idiotically brave Elf said, stepping forward. "The Fiends...Lord Vul'to was-"

"Do you think I'm unaware of what happened to Vul'to, you waste of breathable air?" Keira kept her tone neutral, as if she was commenting on the weather. "What you think you know is irrelevant to me. I want you to explain why you believe what happened to Vul'to justifies this nonsense."

"We know that look in their eyes!" A Fiend exclaimed. "They think we're murderers! This, after we gave them shelter in our city, and when we've done them no wrong!"

Keira put on a blissful smile. "True, true. You've done no wrong, and my fellow Elves were fools to blame you." She tilted her head. "And I'm sure you attempted to de-escalate the situation, rather than exacerbate the wayward emotions of bereaved people who've lost one of the pillars of their community. Otherwise, you – as the group in a superior position of power – would be acting entirely immature. Isn't that right?"

It was funny. At the beginning, Keira had assumed that needing to translate her words into Elvish and Fiendish would temper her emotions, dulling their intensity by way of simple repetition. Instead, the opposite was true. Saying everything twice only served to remind her of how utterly maddening the last twenty-four hours had been, keeping the fires of her rage burning bright in her soul.

"Do any of you have the faintest idea of who Vul'to is?" Keira stated, bits of fury slipping through the cracks in her demeanor. "Not as one of your heroes. As Vul'to. He's the type of man who wants everyone to get along, and I can assure you that he would be very saddened if people started fighting over him like this. Whatever prompted this exchange is immaterial. Your actions are an insult to his name, and I will. Not. Stand for it."

In one motion, Keira drew her greatsword and lifted it into the air. The crowds held their collective breath, frozen like prey before a charging Vraal. Then she slammed her sword into the ground, spearing it inside the road, leaving it stuck upwards. Cracking her knuckles, Keira stepped forward and assumed a fighting stance, fists up.

"You have two options," she said, in a low undertone. "Disperse and reflect on your behavior, or continue blathering and face punishment. Personally, I recommend you choose the latter. I've been looking for ways to raise my Brawling level."

Intimidation Level Increased! 7 -> 8

Keira frowned as the Elves and Fiends scurried off. The roads were left clear in an instant, leaving her standing there alone with her fists up as if she was about to box the air.

Shit. Overdid it. Keira sighed as she retrieved her greatsword. That probably hurts my reputation among them, especially once word spreads, but so be it. The Grand Overseers will fix it with one of their publicity stunts.

Regardless of the potential fallout, Keira didn't regret her actions. Nipping hostilities between Deserters and Fiends in the bud was imperative – and secondary to ensuring that they didn't use Vul'to as an excuse in the process.

She couldn't have Vul'to blaming himself when he returned, after all.

...I still need to hit something.

--

Rob shifted in his chair. Five seconds later, he shifted again. No matter how many times he tried, he just couldn't get comfortable. It was a pretty swanky chair, too, so he knew the problem was him. Jittery nerves, possibly. Really, with how much PTSD he was piling up, it was a miracle that it didn't happen more often.

He poked Diplomacy, wanting to ask for advice on how to calm himself, but they were still in power saving mode. The Skill seemed more tired than usual today. Which was a tad worrying, and something to mull over when other things weren't occupying his mental space.

Like...well. Vul'to.

"Is there anything I can do?" Elder Duran asked, jolting Rob out of his thoughts. "I don't mean to rush you, but you've been sitting there for quite a while." He smiled, speaking in his kindly grandpa tone. "If your mind feels like a tangled web, then perhaps I can help unravel it?"

"I just need a bit longer," Rob muttered. "Thinking about stuff. I..."

He paused, sighing. "Actually, sorry. Don't think this is going to work today. Sorry for wasting your time."

Duran let out a concerned note of protest, but by then, Rob was already halfway out the door. He immediately turned into a less occupied side road, pulling on a hooded cloak so that it was more difficult for the occasional passerby to see his face. Which was a piss-poor disguise that had the effect of making him appear shady as hell, but...eh. Looking like a creeper was a small price to pay for not being approached by anyone. He really wasn't in the mood to entertain random people's sympathy, well-intentioned or otherwise.

Time passed. The sun crept across the sky, close to being swallowed up by the void horizon as midday became afternoon. Rob sank into quiet contemplation while he hiked through the city, and after three hours of aimless wandering, came to the conclusion that sorting out his thoughts on his own was going to be tougher than he'd hoped. It turned out that emotions were weird and didn't come with an instruction booklet. He was also maaaaybe too accustomed to having a helpful voice in his head with cheat code-level emotional intelligence.

Certainly bodes well for when Diplomacy gets his own body, Rob grumbled to himself. I can't be bugging them for advice forever. They'll have their own life to live. Maybe I should take some Psych courses when I get back to Earth – in between all the therapy, that is.

Rob was in the middle of planning how he could wrangle free tuition out of being Level 51 when an earthquake nearly knocked him flat on his stomach.

It said something about how long he'd been in Elatra that his kneejerk response was to assume that he was under attack. Rob steadied his balance, sword in hand, watching the ground for giant evil molemen or whatever the world was going to throw at him next. His paranoia was justified a moment later when the shaking intensified – right as the ground began to split open before his eyes. The gap widened slowly, starting and stopping, groaning like a rusted hinge being forced apart. Its expansion ceased when it was about twenty-by-twenty feet wide, forming a perfect circle in the center of the road.

And then...nothing. Instead of a swarm of monsters erupting up from the bowels of the earth, Rob was left waiting as his nerves frayed more with every passing second. He placed a Waymark point down and activated Not a Scratch, carefully creeping towards the opening, ready to hit the panic button at the first sign of trouble. Several Fiends followed him from a supposedly safe distance behind, curiosity overriding their survival instincts. Inching forward, the group continued until they were just outside of the hole's edge, vaguely surprised that nothing had popped out at them yet.

"Well how about that," Rob muttered, as he peered inside. The hole looked normal until twenty feet down, where empty air abruptly transformed to pitch-black darkness. It was a sight that Rob had seen three times in the past.

When entering Dungeons.

"Is the Black Wind coming again?" A panicked Fiend hissed from behind Rob. "I thought that Nevermore City was cleansed of Corruption!"

"Be at ease," a second, more sensible Fiend stated. "While you may have never witnessed a Dungeon's birth before, it does happen in the midst of cities, albeit rarely. You need not worry – Dungeons are weak in their inception. The Combat Class users will expunge it soon enough."

"Sounds good," Rob said. A flash of blue motes covered him, storing his hooded cloak within Spatial Storage. "I'll get right on that."

The group of Fiends gaped at him, realization gradually dawning on their faces. "Roy?" The sensible Fiend uttered. "You were Roy?"

Wow, Rob marveled. Apparently, I should've worn a hood on the journey into Merfolk territory. They never would've known I was there. "Yup, that's me, last time I checked." He stretched his limbs. "Gonna beat up the Dungeon and be back in a jiffy. Feel free to take bets on how long it'll take me to clear it."

"You shouldn't trouble yourself," the Fiend suggested. "A fledgling Dungeon of this caliber is below your Level. You'll barely gain any EXP whatsoever."

"Yeah, but I'm going anyway."

The Fiends exchanged confused glances. "Why?"

A savage grin that showed too many teeth spread across Rob's face. He summoned a Firebomb from Spatial Storage and spun it on one finger like a basketball. "Stress relief."