Aren did not even have time to count how many opponents he had. On a glance, there were about two dozen combined orcs and adventurers, but the ones he would face, or attacking him, was an open-ended question.

There were at least two. The archer who seemed confused at the prospect that Aren was not dead, and the black-haired man in dark-red robes that held an arm out, fully extended and braced at the wrist with his other hand. Aren saw that pose before — many famous Warlocks used that pose. They did not channel energies through a focus, like ordinary mages, but they did so through their bodies. However, nothing gave away what type of Warlock this individual was. Judging by his gear, and his teammates, they were members of an alliance. Alliance classes were tuned to perfection, with iron-clad skill sets that provided tremendous offensive and defensive capabilities.

Knowing the mage was a Warlock did Aren no good. The base class may not even be that important. The real flavor came from the additional abilities the alliance offered the class with.

The warlock suddenly became shrouded in dark-crimson fire, similar to Aren’s [Surge]. The fire at first appeared behind the Warlock, forming two fan-like jets like wings, which then suddenly swept forwards, slamming together and expelling a tremendous wall of fire.

Aren could feel the blistering heat of the ability even before it reached the half-way point, but Aren wasn’t concerned at all. He was riding a high of tremendous morale and, more importantly, following the directions of an entity that could, on small scales, read minds, and on large scales, bathe the entire world in nuclear fire.

The death line never even came close to the Warlock. Or the archer for that matter. It already knew, and by extension, showed Aren the path he must take. Behind the pillars.

Lightning surged once again, blinding and deafening unfortunate victims nearby as Aren used [Flash] with his quickly dwindling supply of Lightning energy. The [Surge] from earlier had almost completely drained him, and though his ability to gather more Planar Energy through the [Energy Generation] skill was working overtime, it was not enough.

Movement is Charge, Leviathan once told him, and judging by the death line, that was not a meaningless adage.

The wall of fire ejected from the Warlock in a cone-shaped blast failed to slam into Aren, who seemingly teleported away behind a column, instead washing over the walls in the back of the chamber, and obliterating two columns in its path. It was potent enough to melt stone, and Aren was certain that if he were caught in its blast, he would’ve instantly died.

The One-Eyed King ran his fingers across the massive blade, and chanted something in his native Hell Tongue, causing blood-red runes to flare into existence and glow along the blade’s surface. A black and red miasma exploded from the massive orc, shrouding him in the darkness of counter-intuitive faint light.

“Barriers now!” Aren noticed a warrior in white plate shout — possibly the leader of this group — as he positioned his shield in front of him, and soundlessly chanted a prayer of his own. Glittering golden light flared outwards from the shield, creating a half-dome of hexagonal-patterned light in front of him.

But it was too late. When the One-Eyed King released his ability, it came as a wave of black and red fog, forceful enough to peel off stone tiles from the floor, and blast them at incredible speeds outwards. The bow-shock of the miasma and the warrior’s protective barrier flared out into a vortexing tendril that carved over a nearby adventurer and cleaved him in half, right down the middle.

A few others had even less luck. Those not completely protected from the blast were stripped down to their bones, and even the bones turned to ash and dust under the influence of the black miasma.

Aren managed to avoid the frontal blast of the miasma simply because he was not the target of the orc’s fury. The royal guard was similarly not affected, even though some of them were directly in the path of its annihilating, granular substance.

“Regroup!” The warrior shouted and the adventurers — the remaining dozen or so of them — reacted immediately, closing down the ranks and creating a unified front.

Aren understood why his death line did not cover the adventurers. He would stand no chance. Not the ruthless efficiency of orcs, or the deadly breath of demonic orc kings, could compare to the ingenuity and fighting power of veteran adventurers. Even though the power of a Calamity was fearsome and overwhelming, as evidenced by the fact that it reduced three adventurers to dust and cleaved one in twain, it was not enough against the might of Humanity.

But could the might of Humanity stand up against the ability of AGMI? Whether the death line was generated by Leviathan, or the LAGI of Singularity, was of limited consequence. It was calculated probability — influenced causality — that made it such a powerful tool. Now that Aren thought about it, it was likely the reason behind his own Calamity status. However, that implied that it was due to Priscilla, and not Leviathan. Or did it? The LAGI of Singularity analyzed the ghost of a person when generating a character. The mind, and all its mechanisms, were like an open book to the LAGI. Before he met Priscilla, Aren had no intention of becoming involved with Singularity. Even if he had the death line capability back then, he would’ve never used it, because he simply wasn’t interested in Singularity. Priscilla’s quest changed everything, however.

Perhaps the LAGI gave Aren the Calamity status because it knew that Aren would shake up the world on his quest.

These thoughts, and even the observation of the general battle, were in the distant parts of Aren’s mind. At the center of his focus was the death line and his objective. He felt light on his feet, calm of mind and body, with a deep-seated belief that his actions brought him closer and closer to his ultimate goal. He was under the impression that he could do nothing wrong and that potential mistakes glanced off him like twentieth century bullets off of superalloy armor.

He felt invincible.

His shadowblade carved through the thin thread of the death line without any sensation of impact or resistance. If anything, he felt his movements quicken, and his force increase exponentially the more he followed the line. It was as if imagining he was under water, but the line before him created a cavitation pocket of air or vacuum, liberating his movements.

He practically floated over the ground, his feet rarely touching the cold, hard surface of stone beneath him, and when they did, a shock of lightning reinforced his muscles and increased his kinetic power.

He was practically floating, turning and twisting in the air the way no living, earthbound creature could. He truly did seem like an agile fish in water, or a nimble bird in flight. When he bounced off the columns, they cracked and caved under his power, but his touch seemed feather-like and superficial. When he stepped on the ground, for brief moments, the tiles fractured and exploded under his overwhelming might, and there was always that brief flash of lightning, that low buzz of chirping birds that revealed the secret of his profound motion, but also buried his more important secret, hiding them in plain sight.

He was a spellblade, with lightning abilities. His skill — not his skill set — was so deep and awe-inspiring that the adventurers could not help but assume that he was a professional. To them, Aren was a person who competed on the world stage, and although they have never seen him on the screens in the real world, not all competitions were streamed live. Many of the greatest battle fields and proving grounds in Singularity were like that.

And this thought terrified them. The same way Aren felt before, the idea of giving up a Calamity, because someone bigger and more important showed up, they themselves now also felt. Here he was, a lonely, skillful monster, about to snatch their fame and glory from under their noses. And the question on their mind was: give it up, or fight for it?

But Aren wouldn’t give them a chance to decide.

He twisted his body in the air, avoiding the reach of the royal guards who were attempting to close their ranks and protect their leader, but the slippery, agile Lightning Blade managed to land in their midst, so close to their ranks that it made fighting nearly impossible. They had spears and large bulky shields that worked well when their formation was a box, but when their formation was a half-circle, with the one they were trying to protect immediately next to their target, their options became limited.

Not that the One-Eyed King cared about such considerations. The massive orc swung its massive sword in a circle, and Aren could feel the profound energies infusing it — it was an ability similar to Aren’s Reaping Sword.

The death line was quite clear towards what it wanted Aren to do, and his body reacted on its own, with muscle memory he himself never developed. Basic Swordsmanship almost sounded like a joke to Aren now. He felt as if he had held and practiced with a shadowblade since the day he was born. The movements and opportunity-seeking came as second nature to him, and he dived under the sweeping edge of the runed greatsword, which passed millimeters above the tip of his nose, close enough to feel the cold radiating from the blade.

The royal guards were not so lucky, cut down and cleft in two at the knees by the horrifyingly sharp, vorpal edge of the arcanely infused weapon. The guards did not so much as even yelp in pain, and still attempted to thrust their spears at the grounded Aren, from their own now grounded positions. Even as they bled towards their own deaths, hurtled beyond the threshold of life and death, their efforts were all for the sake of their King.

The gleaming, black-metal spearheads produced a screeching noise as they carved across stone towards Aren, but failed to find purchase as Aren executed a palm strike against the ground itself, and launched himself up and above the deadly weapons.

And then, in mid-air, Aren twisted and unleashed a [Zenith Strike], from the Vessel-Breaker Palm ability, against the orc. He twisted in mid-air, as he reached the apex of his rise, and like a spring-loaded mechanism, untwisted and unleashed a palm-blow against the One-Eyed King’s shoulder with explosive force.

Aren could see the shimmer of air, as the molecules were compressed under the force of his palm, infused with Spiritual energy — another arcane resource — and blasted through the massive orc’s internal structure, rattling him.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Debilitating moderate wound. Enemy stunned.]

It was not immediately obvious what the [Zenith Strike] had done to the orc, internally, but outwardly, it didn’t seem to have done any damage.

But now, Aren was vulnerable — the recoil of the impact had sent him away from the massive orc, sprawled out in the air as the royal guards aimed their spears at him.

[Halo].

The sudden explosion of light and sound, and the ring of electrical energy around Aren had made it very clear that what some thought was vulnerability was nothing more than a trap. The shadowblade carved through metal-hafted spear and metal-armored skin and bone, dispatching threats in an instant.

Although, it only resulted in four severe wounds, and no kills, it bought Aren enough time to change his trajectory in mid-air with a [Falling Moon]. And like a comet, he shot down, following the death line with unerring precision.

The One-Eyed King, despite being stunned, managed to avoid the biting edge of the shadowblade, and, stumbling, kicked at Aren. It was terrifying, to Aren, the way the death line could predict the course of a battle, even this long into one, with so many variables — human and otherwise — around him.

Aren sidestepped the kick, even going as far as to deflect it with a half-kick of his own, and send the massive orc both spinning and falling towards the ground.

The death line culminated in the One-Eyed King’s throat and Aren’s shadowblade followed its deadly trajectory, singing a triumphant note as it whistled through the air, and plunged into the orc’s neck.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Fatal. Fatal strike negated! Severity: Critical wound.]

To Aren, it seemed like the metal pauldron he had struck earlier with the [Zenith Strike] came off the latches and interposed itself between the orc’s neck and Aren’s blade, limiting the impact of his stab.

But Aren wasn’t surprised. He was not even worried. He had seen this happen once before. Even though his death line ended, for once, Aren had absolute faith in it. Perhaps it was because of his high morale, or the fact that he was guided by Leviathan — or the LAGI of Singularity — but he was confident that following the death line would result in death, no matter what.

So he stood there, not even moving, as the royal guard surrounded him, opening a path for the One-Eyed King to escape from Aren, and recover his bearings, and Aren did nothing.

He stood calmly, shadowblade in hand and sparking electrical energy into the ground.

The One-Eyed King rose to his feet, more than capable of glaring with just one eye to let Aren know how furious he was. He roared something, angry and defiant, and Aren thought he even heard a bit of relief in the King’s voice. After all, he just avoided certain death through dumb, blind luck.

But to Aren, whose calm mind was in the eye of a storm of emotion screaming at him to fight or to flee, the King did not evade death. He only delayed the inevitable.

A massless shadow formed behind the King, and two daggers flashed with light as they caught the light of a nearby torch, and then plunged into the King’s neck. They plunged once, then twice, and even as the orc King fell to the floor, screaming and wailing, and refusing to die, the shadow — Damien — did not stop stabbing.

The final stab went through the King’s one remaining eye and silenced him forever, as the stunned group of adventurers watched, slack-jawed at the stellar performance and terror-inspiring figure of a still and calm Aren.

[ For one to rise, another must fall! An anonymous group of adventurers have sowed the first seeds of their world-wide fame by slaying the One-Eyed King, a twisted, demonic remnant of the Orkin Horde. The Coalition of Light rejoices as they claim another victory in the Games of Fate, and celebrate the anonymous heroes. ]

[ Your reputation with the Coalition of Light has improved to Renowned. ]

[ Your rank in the Adventurer’s Guild has improved to Silver. Report to the Adventurer’s Guild to obtain your new tag. ]

[ Your rank in the Coalition Army has improved to Soldier Second-Class. Report to the Coalition Army to receive your rewards. ]

[ The Pantheon of Light smiles upon you. ]

Overwhelmed by the notifications, which further included various limited blessings from the Gods — too many for Aren to consciously perceive — and the more threatening notification he received, caused him to stumble backwards, with a splitting headache, and fall onto the King’s throne.

The adventurers, even the royal guards, stared at Aren and Damien, and, to them, it might have looked as if Aren just took his rightful spot on the King’s throne, rather than helplessly stumbling into it.

Surprisingly, the adventurers cheered for Aren. They cheered for him. It was a standing ovation. Friend requests and private messages, further congratulating him, flooded his conscience to the point that all he could feel was a blistering white-hot headache that turned his vision almost entirely red. He had spent so much time in the virtual world by now, overwhelmed by sensation that it was no wonder that he was half-considering committing seppuku on the spot just to make it stop.

The royal guards, devoid of their master, tried to make an orderly retreat, not even questioning Aren’s superiority or right to rule, but did not make it very far. They were cut down by the organized group of adventurers, who tried to win points with Aren.

But Aren could neither hear nor see them. Later on, Damien would relay to the group what happened. The adventurers, certain that Aren was a professional player, tried to befriend him, recruit him, and even join him. They were not even disappointed when Aren did not answer any of their requests, and if anything, this even made them even more certain of their false belief regarding Aren. Aren would not even tell them his name, or class, but rumors would already fly by then that a legendary hero of the past — from Singularity’s greatest era of exploration and First Clears — has returned. To them, this was not only worth giving up the Calamity Kill, but also the treasures and rewards. In fact, just being polite to Aren and introducing themselves, and leaving their contact information with Damien, was more than enough reward. After all, in the real world, exclusive interviews would earn them far more money than killing a low level Calamity ever would. Not to mention the possibility of creating an alliance with Aren.

But it wasn’t the headache that stunned Aren into a semi-conscious stupor. It was a particular set of notifications.

[ By slaying the One-Eyed King, you have unlocked your Calamity power. Types: Overt, Predator, Exponential Growth, Corrupter, Reaper, Calamity Hunter. ]

[ You have unlocked Priscilla’s Blessing: Intelligent monsters will not stand in your way, and some will even help you achieve your goal, increasing your rapport with them to the level of Beloved. Should a creature stand in the way of your quest — monster or otherwise — your entire group will benefit from the effects of Priscilla’s Will, tremendously increasing your fighting strength, luck and morale. However, if given the choice, you may never accept positive fame or glory, form alliances or lead a Guild, and any accidental fame, glory or positive rapport will instantly become negative if your quest and intention is revealed. Priscilla must never return to the world. ]

[ Your Calamity Rank has increased to F. ]

[ You are a [???] Calamity. ]