“Truly high levels- by which I mean 30 or more levels-- so often bring not just power, but arrogance. One becomes derisive of anyone who is not a peer in strength. I ever refer people back to the Saga of Steeleye, wherein the eponymous managed through guile, cunning, surprise, and a great deal of luck and help, to defeat a tyrant twenty levels higher than him. Such events are once-in-a-century events, yes, but they do happen. Those that fall to their pride are, I think, unworthy of the levels they have.”

Oreanen Vainen, ruminating on the unique hurdles of possessing high levels

Zara was not fast, for her level. Her body, her training, her disposition, and her Class; none of it led her towards swiftness, alacrity, and grace. But that was something one forgot, if they didn’t weigh things properly-- that she was not fast for her level. She still could, when properly motivated, cross a dozen feet in a blink. Her single, concentrated blow knocked Wilholm off his feet and sent him crashing into Saral too quickly for her to sidestep.

Zara grabbed Helena and slung her over her shoulder, then went for the main gates as Saral and Wilholm were scrambling to get to their feet. More than a dozen low-level tried to apprehend her, but she was through the broken gates and out the other side, moving at a quick clip; though she wasn’t built for speed, her size allowed each of her strides to be twice the length of another person’s. And like any good burgeoning folk hero, as soon as she went among the rioters on a nearby street, their rage refocused on the guards trying to apprehend her.

Her and Helena’s escape ws, at least for a time, assured.

🟌

Stillbottums slammed his hands on the table, glaring at Devoleon. “While you were moving your pawns around and stirring up dissent, Andrium died.”

Devoleon went completely white, eyes widening in surprise. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Rioters, insurgents, a powerful individual getting through the main gates. All of which you should have accounted for. But I will deal with your failure later. For now, I need information. How many spellcasters of level 35 or higher are there on Esultare?”

Devoleon snapped his fingers, using a silent Talent, a several inch-thick book bound in dark leather appearing in his hands. He skimmed it quickly, then paused and shook his head. “None.”

“Unsurprising. Level 30?”

“One, in Gontad. Staunch non-combatant, and over seventy years old.”

“Being old didn’t stop Andrium.”

“True, but conscripting the most revered in Gontad into our highest ranks would be a political nightmare, and, more importantly, she would never be loyal to the Throne over her people.”

“Alright, fine. Over level 25?”

“A Frostlander , and a nomadic in the northern Plains area. The latter hasn’t been spotted in over five years, but the former might be promising. He’s fairly young-- not yet fifty-- and has a lot of good leadership Talents and battle spells.” Devoleon read further. “Ah, but we slew his brother four years ago at the Siege of the Spiraling Tempest, and the rest of his family a year later, all for insubordination. I doubt he’d be amicable towards us either, to put it lightly.”

“Still, bookmark him. Above level 20?”

“There’s more than a score of options there, my liege.”

“Find, pick one and…” He trailed off as Devoleon raised a finger, reading further. “What? What is it?”

“I’ve neglected to check this portion of my notes for more than six months, so forgive me for being a bit slow to grasp the full picture. Apparently the Resistance either poached them, and they’ve gone underground, or Andrium killed them on suspicion of treason. The handful that don’t fall into either of those categories either immigrated to other continents where their skill sets were somewhat less called for, but they were safer, or they have gone into seclusion.”

“Well, work to draw them out! Are there really no accessible, loyal spellcasters with more than 20 levels left in my entire kingdom?”

Devoleon nodded solemnly. “The truth is that Andrium is irreplaceable.”

Stillbottums huffed with irritation. “I know that. Fine, then. At least I have you, Wilholm, and Saral as competent subordinates. Meanwhile, I must write my proclamation of ascending to Kingship.”

Devoleon had a strange look in his eyes at that, and said, hesitantly: “Wouldn’t you want to have a write it for you, sir?”

“No, old friend.” The said, shaking his head, fire in his eyes. “It has to come from my hand. It’s the way of a true ruler.”

🟌

Greg turned to Bim, face pale. “Look, I have a new Talent-- I don’t know exactly what it does, but I have some ideas. From what I learned from Rivenstead when he mentored me, it is a partially passive, partially active Talent with a wide application. I think, if I focus it…” He gritted his teeth in concentration. His eye twitched, and he said: “.”

He rose from the path, his vertebrae aching and his body feeling raw and worked-over, but restored to full functionality. He got out of the bath, Bim proferring a towel and turning to give him some privacy as he dried himself, took off his drenched clothes, and retrieved some plain white clothes from a nearby storage closet. They sufficed, though they fit loosely.

“I wish I had a bathing room this nice.” Greg said, half-smiling.

“Yeah, you can have it, at the low low price of conquering and subjugating a dozen peoples, and having an ocean of blood on your hands.” Bim said, looking around at the marble and gold filigree in the out-of-the-way room few frequented, the wealth on display just an afterthought. The room was just a side-show, commissioned by a war machine so glutted with gold that an amount equal to a laborer’s life savings could be spent without blinking. Bim shook his head, trying to dispel such deep gloom from his thoughts, and half-smiled, eyes a tad sad, back at Greg. “If we succeed-- when we succeed-- this sort of gaudy, insultingly wasteful indulgence will be toppled. We’ll make a better, freer world, Greg.” He sidled toward the door, putting an ear to it, then giving his compatriot a thumbs up before reaching for the knob. “But first we have to get out of this deathtrap of a palace.”

🟌

Wilholm, without armor or sword, scrabbled up from the ground. Saral rose, glaring at him. “You’ve ruined everything! I can’t believe you would allow yourself to--”

Wilholm’s eyes darkened, and he cut her off without another word. “If you say another word, I will kill you.”

Saral scoffed, drawing her blade. “You might have more levels than I do, but you’re harmless without your equipment. Now, we need to root out any Resistance leaders we can find, and clean up your me--”

Wilholm didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. He wrested Saral’s blade away and, in a single, almost too easy slash, had cut her head from her body. Barely winded, he turned to the assembled guards, who had fallen silent in horror. “As of now, I am your field commander. You report directly to me, and I report to His Majesty. You are all summarily conscripted into my personal soldiers. You will fan out in groups of four as per standard procedure, seeking any smaller riots you believe you can handle. Conscript every Watch member, soldier, or guard you encounter into your efforts. Use lethal force as you see fit, and do not hesitate to act quickly and harshly to choke off this treason at its roots.” As he strode off toward the gates, one guard moved up, speaking hesitantly.

“Sir, don’t you want new armor?”

Wilholm shook his head. “I must level, soldier. There’s a war coming, a war that will stretch across the world. I must be as powerful as possible to face it.

Level 18!

🟌

Bim and Greg crept through the halls, hiding from guard patrols and dodging behind statues and columns whenever a servant or watchman approached. After a handful of excruciating minutes, they got out onto the back lawn and made their way out towards a back gate. Two guards to either side noticed their approach, and called for them to stop. Quick as a dragonfly, Greg had swept each man’s legs out from underneath him and, with a well placed blow to the head, knocked them unconscious.

By the skin of their teeth, all four members of the team had made it out alive.