The attack happened too sudden, too unexpected, and at the worst possible hour to boot: The wee hours of dawn. Before the villagers could suspect a thing, wooden watchtowers were already set ablaze.

Flaming in the dark like hellish torches heralding the end, they were. Worse was to follow soon after as misery never comes alone. It was prime time for panic, painful moans, unreasonable shrieks, shrill cries, faint yet desperate begging and distant, cruel laughter; not her right time.

Colonna hurried through the brightly lit back alleys leading to the village’s heart that was at a certain distance from her sleeping quarters. For fear of little movement all day long making her bones rust and muscles atrophy, she’d chosen a house at the village’s perimeter and contently walked from there till the temples each early morning.

Never had she thought that someday she’d regret this decision from the bottom of her heart! Along the way, she encountered many hysterical, half-asleep sisters trying their hardest to find the closest kin in all this fiery mess. The truth was, they were most often only contributing to the disaster with their own two hands.

Throughout her wild dash, countless prayers left Colonna's pale lips: Begging for her ancestors’ blessing during this unheard-of calamity, pleading for mercy for the innocent and more, going through the long list of Saints in an attempt to push fate towards their favour if only a little.

Useless in the end for sure, since… something wasn’t right at all. With air that humid and an overgrown meadow as garden storing moisture daily, it was an art to light a fire–––and that was for cooking while inside the well-insulated hut!

And now that blaze… who would ever believe it just so happened it was a freakish display of nature’s wrath? The shamaness was faithful towards the rules, embraced tradition as one should and advocated their ancient teachings wherever she could, but she wasn’t blind in her zeal.

If they angered some ancestor with something, that’d be an acceptable explanation for the sudden fire outbreak just as many tribal prophecies and warnings foretold. Even so, there was a limit to everything. Only the Devil would have such timing!

Colonna agilely dodged a burning curved beam that was once part of a beautiful dwelling at the very last moment, as she tried to make sense of the worsening situation. It surely was not her first time doing so either in this rather young morning.

Yet all she came up with were leads pointing to the darkest possibility of all. Colonna only had one clue worth pursuing–––the timing. Why would burning stuff wait until everyone had fallen into blissful slumber before engulfing an entire village from every direction simultaneously?

The latter part of her consideration was the most important, an explanatory variable she’d to identify before it was too late, or so she believed. But too late it was already without her noticing.

Given that the villagers wouldn’t be so stupid as to set their homes on fire, the only logical conclusion was that something–––or worse, someone–––was responsible. Sadly–––thanks to recent developments–––the shamaness had a good idea who to blame.

‘But that can’t be–––shouldn’t be! Because it implies…’ The lamia, rudely torn from her thoughts by another dwelling collapsing in the immediate vicinity, increased her speed once more and held on to her hope like a drowning woman clutching the sole rescue rope available.

Eventually, she was bitterly disappointed. A few blocks further down the alleyways, she closed in on the shrine, or what precious little was left. Her innately vertical eyes suddenly froze in place, narrowing to extreme slits.

There it melted away like butter in a frying pan, her hope–––as did her reasoning. In the face of a true nightmare, nothing mattered anymore. Filled with bone-chilling disbelief, Colonna let her head wander, eyes vacant.

Severed limbs were stacked up to a sizable, bloody pile on one side of her field of vision, mangled priestesses she saw flung around, dead or pitifully groaning on the other. Ash, eerie grey-white flames slowly consumed their sanctuary as diabolical laughter accompanied her stay.

Nothing but the location reminded her even remotely of the lovely huts of yesterday. She had to discover with horror that sacred totems seared desolately in a semicircle around the shattered, shrine-like memorial slabs and... menspawn crammed together, celebrating the most recent plunder in a rush, their wicked actions harming the surviving yet defenceless even as Colonna watched on.

Cut up, smoked or roasted for fun as the bandits apparently found it hilarious to see her close kin writhe in pain, screaming their throats hoarse. Some young ones were hauled off, their fate far too harrowing to put into words.

When Colonna saw them, the triumphant had the same privilege too. Yet all their fervent eyes made them believe to perceive was a saddened, rare, mature beauty with bloody tears streaming down her sensual, pale cheeks.

One ripe for picking. It didn’t take long for the hormone-driven bunch to let her be for the moment, coming together, gesticulating loudly, letting fists speak and cries of pain consent till the winner was made out, an ill-reeking male colossus nearing her in big strides like the demon he was.

Colonna took no note of the jeering man consumed by lust and his own twisted desires. In her eyes, it was way more important to understand the disaster’s extent. ‘What... just what happened here...?’

A few hours earlier, there was no smouldering hellhole in this place, but an ancestral feast in full swing as they sought protection for their valiant warriors, a pious prayer beseeching for their comrades’ glorious return with little sacrifices.

Now... the altar in her memory gave way to a deep hole, the pious turned into lifeless dolls to be played with as menspawn desired, the rusty ground and cut flowers, a swamp of muddled blood.

Was this still their sanctuary, their souls’ home? Did the ancestors forsake their children...? Regardless of their many prayers? ‘Why do the heavens allow this?!’

The man approaching her stumbled past Colonna as if his goal was something else, before he burst open like an overripe tomato, drenching her in blood and gore.

A feat the old lamia didn’t even seem to notice. It proved, however, to be quite the wake-up call, as the jeering group fell oddly silent, their faces distorted in disbelief. What they thought was easy prey was by far the biggest obstacle left in this shell of an empty village.

Colonna, on the other hand, had made no further move–––for now. With almost pious attention, she observed the headless stuck on perfidious poles around the fireplace. There were still some white marks on them, she could tell…

With eyes glassy and tongue bitten bloody, the prestresses’ reproachful gazes made her soul shiver in guilt. Sweat ran down her face, icy streams from the netherworld for sure.

Bitter tears made her world dissolve in despair, her spirit shaken, her heart bled in silence. For she’d come too late. These penetrating, lifeless eyes could no longer forgive the remorseful shamaness, for the owners had already…

Then, her wandering gaze came to an abrupt halt not far from menspawn now scrambled together in an attacking formation. ‘Why?!’ Another load of murky tears mixed with blood ran down her bloodless cheeks as she spotted all the familiar, young headless bodies in the carelessly tossed aside bloody heap further in the disaster zone.

People she watched grow up, lamias she had joked with only yesterday, aspirants who’d but sparks in their eyes as they watched the priestesses doing their work with dignity and conviction. They had their entire lives in front of them, now all ruined!

How it burned. Deeper. Faster! Deeper and deeper! A holler, abandoned by the world, drowned out even hellish fire for a short moment. Yet seconds later, it reignited with eerie satisfaction, heralding the end that was to come, for a true monster had awoken.

Something unspeakable was born, that night. Another nightmare–––yet of a different kind entirely–––bared its fangs, demanding bloody tribute. Those eyes! Bloody, glassy, reproachful.

‘Eyes…!’ Colonna was no longer aware of her surroundings, for all she saw were condemning eyes amidst a thick haze of red and black dust closing in on her. And how they burned in judging anger!

What dare move, no longer did so afterwards, yet what was dead remained so even after her thundering revenge. With clothes saturated in blood, slowing her like chains she eventually abandoned, the beloved shamaness was oblivious to her victims.

The desperate cries for forgiveness from another unfortunate group she’d stumbled upon bellowed near her ears. Colonna didn't take notice. There was nothing capable of empathetic reasoning left within her. Even if there was, Colonna would not care. Not one bit.

Ironically, her wild rampage attracted the invaders like honey did bears. The longer she raged, the worse off she was–––though menspawn was surely not of the same opinion. She reaped lives, she slashed, hacked, crushed, destroyed!

And sobered up in the middle. Not for long, though. Aggrieved by the doleful fate, bolstered by an even madder desire for revenge, the shamaness rediscovered her wits, and her movements became even trickier, erratic, unpredictable.

One moment she shredded formations, tore through the masses, the next she hid in the dark, stalking unsuspecting prey with icy, dead eyes. More than once, she definitively seemed to have come back to her senses yet again, but... ‘those eyes!’

Bloody. Glassy. Judging. Reproachful. Compared to the festering holes in her soul, the glossy, accursing eyes that followed her like hell’s judge, what was a mere collapsing body worth?

She was responsible. Under Colonna's call did all the soldiers sortie. The shamaness should have been more careful, more discerning, more cunning. Yet she'd been hoodwinked by the idea of false safety.

She knew it. She knew it all too well! Madness closed in on a tighter embrace.

While in one particular village a cruel showdown took place, the undisputed mastermind stood in front of a half-collapsed stele, which was desolately sloping over a porous ledge.

Not just any stele, of course. It was the last stele he was missing. Linlin didn't need any damn knives to confirm that. Sown around lay rotten parts of former utensils, an accumulation of broken objects and vines that conquered collapsed huts, carving deeply into sturdy rocks.

And in between–––at irregular intervals–––unfathomable profound chasms broke the mediaeval mountain village's stony patterns from which ill-reeking, sulphurous smoke was still spilling out.

Just earlier that hour, Linlin had closely examined one of the larger stone huts, carefully palpating the countless cracks, digging in the blackened soil, mumbling some hypothesis as if half-drunk, puffing deeply on his cigar for minutes.

He'd unexpectedly found a cluster of obsidian-like stones under a thick layer of dust. Linlin had also spotted the shrunken, mummified owner peacefully lying in what reminded him remotely of a bedroom. Evidence suggested that one night, out of nowhere, nature had played a nasty card.

Firstly, to aid this theory were the mortal remains’ whereabouts and in particular their position speaking volumes. Secondly, disaster must have struck at night. Pansy’s theory was underlined by another observation.

One of many made by analysing the dilapidated remains of this abandoned village. Had it happened during day hours, the utensils wouldn’t wait tidy in their respective corners where they had been left for later use. Nor would the remains be mostly stuck indoors.

‘Seismic activity,’ Pansy grumbled, ‘they didn't suffer long.’ ‘Mmh.’ Linlin consented absentmindedly, his gaze glued at the stele at which many claws tore, silently wondering if he could squeeze in there and avert being torn to bloody shreds.

To understand how our hero came to this village, recent events must be highlighted. After Linlin had played it safe and passed out for show after hastily casting [Folly-a-Boo] on the brainless bastard to save his family jewels, he later really did so due to [Gluttony]’s unavertable drawback.

Then he’d eventually woken up to faint again, as feared, for the same reason. When he opened his eyes next, Linlin wisely chose to keep quiet for the first several minutes.

But this had only concerned his physical activities, not the many thoughts coursing through his mind, nor the countless distress calls he unconsciously sent out into the world at regular intervals.

Our hero's body had then felt the rising levels of adrenaline and promptly utilised the hardcoded emergency protocol of his ever-mutating genes–––a new addition as of late. The change new skills brought to the body was so much more than any of the two personalities could hope to grasp in a flash.

The duo was too overwhelmed to even consider dwelling deeper and getting to the bottom of it all. Whatever was happening to them could be analysed later–––or so they thought in unison. The mission wasn't complete yet after all!

For this peculiar situation, Linlin had gotten just the right skill–––a gift that also made him feel overstuffed. Lady Luck’s worn out blessing, some twisted humour, so to say.

[Hivemind] Level 1

There exists communication beyond plain words, exchange beyond the concept of structure and information unbothered by rationality. What was once linear is now four-dimensional, linked to the State’s evolution. Beware, collectivity is of a diverging path to individuality. Varying psychic energy consumption when addressing node(s).

Warning: Potentially Stressful.

Level-Up Requirement │ Bioenergy (125)

Comment │ Infringement in a sole ruler’s sovereignty often costs the head…

Whether it had been his innate inability at handling such calls, or the weakness of the signal itself–––or perhaps a combination of both factors–––it had been in vain. Initially, that is. Perhaps Linlin really was just too clumsy with the newly inputted add-on?

Or was the language he’d used wrong? Did ants speak in codes? Or rural dialect? ...did they even speak? In any case, a few extremely uncomfortable hours later on the back of that macho man, an answer had finally come to him.

'Come to think of it, we almost believed ourselves to go bonkers back then.' 'Who would ever believe a human being proactively asked for orders by ants?' 'Well, they asked quite nicely. I still shudder from the impactful banging on our mental door.'

'It was like the shouting of an entire battalion of soldiers with their blood boiling for action.' 'Right. Orders in who knows which language. It was real work hindering them from eating our outraged pack mule.'

'Who can hold it against them? For better or for worse, we seem to be perceived as something akin to a commander. Just which honest-to-God soldier watches by as their commander gets beaten to a pulp, is in agony and cannot free himself alone?'

'Piffle! What sort of commander are we if we cannot convey the simplest of orders? Doesn't matter. I still see that bloated face full of fear as the tramp escaped. Delicious!'

'Just one thing, Pansy. Why did you spill truth and lies at the last moment? Free information is not something you'd give even with a knife pressed to our neck.'

'Stupid... think a bit more and you might get the gist of it. No, forget it. If you do, we better set up camp first.' 'But it's early morning.' 'Precisely. Long story short, it's another contingency plan. Might be of use once the operation's over and we turn into binmen.' 'Uhh... controlled information leak?' 'Bingo!'

As both personalities continued to joke freely, they steadily but surely suppressed another batch of recent memories: The very rough ride fraught with as many difficulties as dangers.

Controlling ants like one would a car had backfired splendidly. Now add to that finding difficult terrain and an ever-increasing number of ants that flocked together to form the monster train that was now in front of and all around them...

It was truly no wonder both personalities wanted to forget these events as soon as possible. As for why they'd turned onto an ant-magnet, Pansy couldn't tell.

Only much later would the duo be informed that the reason for the speedy rally of dutiful scouts had been Queen Azariah’s life signal he constantly emitted. Though greatly diminished on his persona, it shone as brilliantly as the moon at midnight for all her children.

'Enough explanations, Stupid. How did Grandmother Killthee say it again? Don't dwell on the past, live today.' 'Was it not: Size the day?' 'That's an ancient Roman saying. Grandmother Killthee was many things, but she surely wasn't a philosopher or Roman, ancient or modern.'

'And this matters because...?' 'You found an item by following the orc's instructions. You still don't know what it does. Can't imagine that dangerous fella just bestowed upon us useless junk.' 'Hmm... fine, fine. The claw... I'll have it figured out in no time.'

'Oh and... while you're at it. Remember not to burden the ants with complex commands.' As if on cue, Linlin turned his head sharply and watched silently what he'd seen playing out already. The stele was being rammed, clawed, gnawed and banged upon by as many ants as the space around the ledge allowed for.

This did not change even after their little discussion. Linlin sighed deeply, took out another cigar, lit it and smoked in peace. All he'd wanted to do was let the ants know about his mission so they might help on their own accord in some way or another. His meddling did him no good.

Now Linlin didn't know if he could squeeze in without forfeiting his life. After all, no matter how small and deformed they were compared to the real deal, this ragtag group still boosted much more mass than Linlin's poor body could endure. If at a crucial moment communication went wrong... the duo truly didn't want to think about the consequences.

Suddenly, Linlin felt an unusual wave of weakness washing over him, much different than the System’s gradual reduction of control when another of [Gluttony]'s countdowns drew near. In shock, our hero dropped everything he had been holding in his hands–––including the strange claw.

‘What the heck was that?’ ‘My bioenergy...’ ‘Halved in less than a second. Are there traps left strewn around, or something?’ ‘No...’ Linlin shook his head and squatted down, his abyssal black eyes seeking the unknown claw now shining in pale yellow.

Linlin grinned imperceptibly. The sensation lasted less than a second, but he believed there was something left to discover, a lead to follow to be exact. Like the rough location where his energy had disappeared, or what he’d held in hand at that time.

‘Maybe...’ The agent reached out his hand and touched the broken end of the idiosyncratically twisted claw. “Bingo.” He muttered. The lost bioenergy returned all at once, hardly reduced.

‘That... explains a lot.’ Linlin’s gaze wandered once more to the dilapidated stele, his lips suggesting a weak smile. ‘Suppose we can’t deny the orc’s wish now...’ ‘Unlikely.’ ‘Darnation.’

While Pansy once again went back to deduce all possible and impossible events this could lead to, Linlin reached the stele's base and sat down for a moment, positively surprised at the small room the ants freed for him without his explicit meddling.

This was exactly what he needed! With both hands holding a tight grip on the blunt end, he pressed the pointed side resolutely against the rough surface. No matter where they were, barriers needed energy to sustain themselves.

This energy had to come from somewhere. Azariah sure wouldn't tell him to destroy the stele without a very good reason. So, the clues put together painted an obvious picture.

The moment he touched the stele, a surprised hiss left his lips in reaction to the incredible amount of pure energy entering his body immediately after.

Luckily for him, that potential source of deadly disaster behaved very tamely and didn’t act up at all. The only real problem now was how to successfully stop the ants from volatilising the situation and how to not explode due to being greedy.

Every tremor caused the ridiculous energy deposit within the stele to tremble and Linlin's heart to flutter. There was no need for Pansy's confirmation to understand that any strong interference might blow up the whole stele right into his face.

At the end of the day, Linlin was no ant that might survive this with a cracked carapace or so. Our hero retained enough humanity that such an unlucky event will undoubtedly claim his life–––or at least more than half of it, if especially lucky.

That and a truckload of other considerations gave Pansy all the motivation necessary to abandon all dignity and sophistication, just to make his desire known by using mouth, hands and feet, thoughts and grunts alike.

As the Master Strategist obviously couldn't disturb the delicate operation, he made do with pictures instead. Having not done anything comparable, the quality suffered.

Ants wouldn't be too fussy to mind his amateurish display, no? The disgrace wasn't something Pansy could shrug off. Yet was this an attempt with a high chance of success? The two weren't convinced at all.

Meanwhile, Elder Shadow became the protagonist of a very interesting and also very bizarre theatre-ready scene he couldn’t describe other than with one word: Nightmare.

End of Part I