His attempts at cultivation ended unexpectedly when he fell into an exhausted slumber, dreaming of furious battles with vicious orcs, giant rats, and CSA Rangers before waking up with a gasp, feeling both wonderfully refreshed, and foolish for having so utterly let his guard down.

"But damn if I didn't need the rest," he acknowledged with a yawn, cracking his back before stretching his arms, reloading his crossbows, and heading back to the rooftop, glorying as gloom turned to true darkness lit only by stray slivers of starlight mostly hidden by the thick cover of clouds.

Taking a moment to go over the fights, he acknowledged that he had been as foolish as he had been clever. Taking out the Shaman and almost killing the Chief might have been tactically sound moves, but not when it was just himself, having now alerted the whole damned orc army to his presence and his existence. And fighting them in the daylight had neutralized one of his sweetest advantages, even if he had done his best to control the terrain.

Because the high ground might have helped a heck of a lot with the rank and file, but those Javelineers were feared for a reason. A Standard class at the very least, grabbed by skilled orcs and humans far more powerful than him. He shivered in recollection of just how well that javelin had pierced his pillbox fort on the rooftop, even if the lead shot had been deflected harmlessly away.

One thing was for sure. Even if he could reshape his bulwark in whatever way he could imagine, he’d be a fool to underestimate those Javelineers, all the more so since he hadn’t even spotted whoever had been sniping at him. He assumed it was a group, and hadn’t dared to waste a moment looking back.

He could only hope their number didn’t include Jerry.

He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, focused on what mattered.

Sure, he had enjoyed his little diversion, savoring the remembered screams and the desperate bulging eyes of his fallen foes. But now wasn't the time to wage a one man war. His objective was the same as it had been since joining, however informally, Morlekai’s crew. To scout out the area alongside his friends, determine the state of the bank securing their prize, then claim an absolute fortune in gold.

After he and his friends successfully pulled off their heist and fled for Freetown? He could always come back and exact the bloodiest vengeance he could imagine. And he would do it with the added benefit of whatever powerful arcane tools, top-tier equipment, and mercenary aid an absolute fortune in gold could net him.

“First the gold, then revenge,” he thought to himself as he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, all the while taking full advantage of his infravision, any building with anything like sentinels easily flaring to life against the shades of warm and cool blue that his environment had become. He didn't bother checking if the brilliant torches of human-sized figures he spotted blazing against the peaceful gloom on the rooftops of a handful of buildings were unleveled citizens or deadly sentinels. He just avoided them all as best he could, while slowly making his way to 27th Avenue.

And there it was.

An imposing edifice of Greco Roman architecture, the marble-faced hotel was both magnificent and gaudy, with its massive fluted columns and vaulted ceiling that had no real place in Doric architecture, but certainly fit in with the theme of absurd displays of ostentatious wealth.

La Maison Hotel was a poignant reminder of treasures lost and halcyon days of glory that never quite were, and apparently, the adopted home of the orcs.

“What the fuck.” Eric shook his head at the sight of not dozens but scores of orcs armed with bayoneted flintlocks or thick iron shields with axes and cleaving swords secured at their waist, or orcs equipped with a handful of javelins and lighter shields with the lightest looking armor among all of them. All of them wore half-sleeved mail hauberks of uniform construction at a minimum, the bulkiest of them supplementing that with breastplates of steel, and half helms as well.

Their massive hands had four instead of five digits, and their skin, ranging the gamut of puce green to ochre red, was covered in sparse patches of bristly hair. But what truly disgusted Eric was the petty vindictive malice and hate that all but radiated from their snorting, squealing countenances, a twisted cross between boar and man.

Eric gave a frustrated shake of his head. The fact that the former owners had land and pull enough to affect a romanesque plaza in the heart of this city showed just how far old money and pull had ingratiated this hotel with the social elite of this city. Only now, the square below was being used as the perfect staging area for abominations that would love nothing more than to take those self-satisfied power brokers from the old world, and devour them with the same savage delight Eric once attended barbecues.

He flashed a hate-filled glare at the squealing man-killers below.

On the one hand, he wanted nothing more than to rain death on his foes from the alley across the plaza right in front the gaudy hotel that had been his family’s home in the city for so many months. But that would do nothing for his friends, still trapped in the emergency bunker, he feared, now forced to accept a bitter truth that he had long buried deep in his gut.

His Consumption of West Kengsington Undercity Domain hadn’t just drained it of magical potential. It had destroyed it utterly, space warping and contracting such that he himself had been forced to flee, and he could only hope that the ping in his interface was right, that somehow the Maison Hotel’s demesne had remained unaffected by the destructive warping of space, just beyond the underground bunker.

If he remembered correctly, even his interface had declared that tiny little sanctuary part of the Sylvan Domain. He could only hope and pray that it meant his own dark daring hadn't inadvertently killed his friends.

But the one thing he knew for sure was that he could never go back the way he had come.

For those tunnels no longer existed, and as far as this reality was concerned, never had.

Eric glared at the guardians securing the entrance to the building, spotting over a score of musketeers set up behind rapidly constructed rubble barricades by the front entrance, peering suspiciously at all the neighboring buildings they had no hope of seeing anything from, thanks to the harsh light of multiple spit roasts cooking meat Eric dared not even think about, while the clearly higher level Javelineers and even some heavily armored infantrymen were all taking their ease, rolling dice and moving unidentifiable pieces on a chessboard of all things, or just drinking from animal skins, slumped over in a light doze.

It was clear they weren’t expecting anything in the dead of night.

Which made Eric even more glad that he now had access to all of his undead bulwark once more, visualizing his greater lizard carcasses shaping themselves in a very specific manner, using only bones, ligaments, taught hide, and the steadily draining Soul Reserves of his own will to form a construct like none he had ever dared before. But only after spending nearly half an hour cautiously approaching the building’s rear entrance, all the while plagued by guilt and worry for his friends.

It was still was too far to jump from the lip of the building just behind La Maison to the hotel proper. Yet much to his heartfelt relief, it was not too dear an expanse for his most adaptable treasure to bridge.

Congratulations! You have successfully reshaped your former bulwark to an arching bridge!

Perception check made.

Flesh Sculptor Skillcheck made!

You have successfully placed your bridge exactly where it needs to be, avoiding the risk of raising countless alarms, should the far end of your construct crash down upon the roof of your former hotel.

Flesh Sculptor is now Rank 16!

Heart in throat, Eric slowly made his way across, feeling a cold spike of dread more than once when his structure creaked strangely, even feeling a throbbing headache coming on when it began to tremble oddly right in the middle of his jaunt.

At which point he sprinted the rest of the way, sighing with relief when he successfully made it across, immediately reclaiming his bridge, with only a fourth of his temporary Soul Reserves depleted.

“Stop! Intruder! You know Champion protocol! Identify yourself at once!”

Eric hissed and spun around, catching sight of not one but two musketeers who had spotted him from the rooftop.

Damn! Of course there were eyes on the roof. Not even the puffed-up chieftan of these orcs would be stupid enough to leave such an exploitable vulnerability. So why the hell had his Infravision not picked them up? Did they only patrol the roof in rounds, popping up when Eric had been focused just on stabilizing his bridge?

He held back a groan, knowing that hardly mattered now.

Because if those flintlocks were fired, he would most definitely be in deep shit, even if every single lead pellet failed to hit him.

Fortunately, his mouth was already formulating a response during the endless moment his mind was busy processing what to do.

"No time for that, fools! The Sylvan Alliance is making its move! You can see their fires to the south!” he roared in their own tongue. And perhaps it was the natural arrogance of his mien, the way he so fluently spoke their language, implying both a common cause and a sense of dominance and superiority that they instinctively respected.

Especially when it was heightened with the adrenaline spike of alarm elicited by immediate excitement and peril.

Of course the orcs weren’t necessarily stupid, but they were clearly caught off guard. And when overlarge porcine brows furrowed as they caught nothing but the flickering bonfires to be expected in the distance, it was already too late.

You have critically struck Orc Musketeer at the base of the skull!

You have critically struck Orc Musketeer thrice in the back!

With the gentlest squeeze, his instantly summoned crossbow spat a brilliant flash of death in the back of the neck of one orc, dropping it instantly. Eric, taking no chances, shot the second orc just as it grunted in surprise between the shoulder blades, sensing it arch its back in surprise and agony, diaphragm stiffening with shock, damage, and impossible heat, crushing any sound before it could utter a word. But he didn't stop there, didn't dare, firing quarrel after quarrel into its back and finally its head, his only goal to leave it so far gone it lacked the wherewithal even to operate the clumsy flintlock firing system before it stiffened and grew utterly still, the flashing message crossing his interface still not enough to keep him from racing forward to touch and claim both corpses… right before their puffed up frames could explode into very visible flame.

Congratulations! You have slain two Orc Musketeers before they could make a sound!

Charisma check successful!

Find Weakness is now at Rank 9!

Fortunately, their deaths had been near silent, or at least nothing to be heard over the shouts and good-natured chaos of the plaza below. As far as the brilliant flashes of light went, they had only been visible for a moment before cooking inside an orc or being dispelled and re-summoned back into storage.

But still, he knew he'd be a fool to stick around the rooftop when what he wanted was below even the basement. So with a quick final scan, he darted for the rooftop door he had last used what now felt like a lifetime ago as a frustrated youth trying to get the courage to break free and live his life on his own terms. The farthest thing from the killer he had forged himself into, a veteran of multiple engagements who had already lost 22 years of his life and gained abilities beyond his wildest dreams, and a body beyond any Olympian.

Of course, he had only taken his first steps along an Adventurer's path in this brave new world, filled with so much terror, tragedy, and potential for power beyond anything anyone could have ever fathomed in the world forever left behind. Because level 9 was only a pale shadow of what many pod survivors had no doubt already achieved, and just the first milestone in his own personal evolution.

Eric was now more determined than ever to level up, to ascend, to become a force to be reckoned with. An adventurer that no mocking orc would dare think of as easy prey, ever again.

But once upon a time, not that long ago, he had been a naive boy with just a single dark deed staining his soul, and his whole life ahead of him. A life that he’d like to think could have been sweet indeed, once he had finally broken free of his mother’s suffocating nest.

He shook his head with a sympathetic smile for the idealistic youth he had once been, wishing that version of himself a peaceful, happy life, assuming there was any truth to the multiverse equations, before focusing every iota of his being into making sure his present life would be just as safe and secure.

And that meant approaching the rooftop entrance with steps as quiet as any mouse and his senses on overdrive, knowing that all it took was a single sniper’s bolt or bullet to rob him of all his future dreams for good.