Bog Standard Isekai

Aberthol walked at the head of a tremendous army. He walked a little bit to the side and behind Lothar, as if he were his shadow, or maybe his attendant. A cupbearer, or more accurately, an orb-bearer. He’d activated the spell Lumina had pointed out when he got the Lightmind. The Great Conduit. She’d asked him not to use it until it was time for Arcaena’s walls to come down, and that time was now.

He walked in something of a daze, and for once not because of any kind of apathy. Instead, it was the sheer amount of primal forces being channeled through the orb that shone in his mind like liquid titanium, overwhelming his ability to focus on the present. Light and sound were only the means of channeling the power; the real forces were the people he connected to. They represented everything the allied nations could bring to bear against the Wyrd. The [Bards] sang, all of them grouped together in a secure location, playing a single song of holy preparation for the task ahead. It was slow and ponderous and even so, nearly overwhelming. Most of all, he felt the power of Joaoz Resende, the highest level [Bard], but each of the others lent their power and he could hear Davi’s voice in the mix.

Greater even than these, was the power of the Fate wielders. [Readers of Fate] to see and scout, [Weavers], [Soothsayers], and [Oracles] to summon and guide Wyrdic power, and [Witch Hunters] and [Curse Breakers] to direct the energy into a weapon. All of this power, and its only purpose was to support Lothar in tearing down the walls.

If he had only been a normal [Illusionist], Aberthol wasn’t sure if he would be aware of all of this, but as a [Delusionist] he could lend his meager power as well, to be not only a conduit but to adjust and react as the person on the ground nearest to the action.

The first portion of the journey was through Prinnash’s camp itself, though in a brief show of cooperation, there were tens of thousands from the other two armies present at all, everyone gathered to watch Lothar walk towards his destiny. They held candles to light the near-dawn, and watched in reverent silence. Most eyes were drawn to Lothar himself, in his brilliant golden armor. They mostly skipped past Aberthol to watch the men marching behind him. Only five thousand had been chosen for this. He wondered what the watchers were thinking. Was it envy or relief, to see the men who would breach the walls first while they stayed behind?

Marksi had come along, even after Aberthol tried to forbid it, but that was only because there was no one sneaky or fast enough to stop him.

The Lance, on the other hand, he’d successfully kept at the camp. They’d been outraged when Aberthol explained that they couldn’t come along, but he was glad that they weren’t here. This mission was certain death; at least the [Weavers] in his spell thought so. Besides, it wasn’t his decision alone. The soldiers they brought were plain infantry, nothing special. No [Knights] came, and no war machines, and the great beasts had long since returned home after the army stopped being able to feed them. No, these were regular fighting men, and not even the best of them.

He remembered once, as Mark, he’d asked a cousin who was in the army why they even still had infantry. He wondered if they would eventually modernize to the point that the rank and file would all get replaced by highly competent specialists, like the Rangers or the Marines. He’d been told that the one of the oldest doctrines of war was the victory condition: You won when your infantry was marching down the main street of the enemy capital. It didn’t matter how many missions you completed, how many civilians you bombed, or how many soldiers you killed. You didn’t win unless you had an infantry and that infantry was marching down the main street of the enemy capital.

The army behind him was not going to do any fighting at all. Their job was to march. No, not even that. Their job was to be seen marching.

They walked behind Lothar. Lothar unwavering, face forwards. There was no sign he was impatient with the walk. He smiled and waved. He stopped to clap a hand on the shoulder of a man here, paused to speak a few encouraging words to a man there. Always playing to the crowd. Always acting the hero. Scarred and scowling Aberthol behind him must seem a jarring contrast.

They passed the army and then began to walk across the area of empty ground between the armies and the city. This had been farmland when they arrived, with the empty leaves and stalks left behind after the harvest. Now even those were gone, devoured by the starving men who just wanted to fill their bellies, even if what they ate didn’t provide any nutrition.

“They say you will betray me,” Lothar said, out of the blue.

That’s likely true. After Lothar took down the walls, his mother would arrive and forcefully revert him back to the [Broken Doll]. Then Aberthol would kill him to prevent him from being turned against them. “And what do you think?”

“I think you will try to betray me,” said Lothar. “I will repeat my warning from before, no, my vow: I will not allow myself to fall here. I will not die the death of Gouwan.”

He wouldn’t die the death of Gouwan, because Gouwan had died a hero’s death. Lothar was going to die after having all his delusions stripped away. After the puerile mask of the [Paladin] was torn free and Lothar was faced with the fact that he’d never moved on from being that scared, wounded child in the dark, Aberthol would do him the greatest favor imaginable and…

Aberthol’s head throbbed. This was… this was familiar. He’d been there. He’d gotten to the end, and had been given a choice, and he’d chosen to move on. Gods, how he wished he’d been able to choose otherwise. How he wished he were strong and good enough to choose life, but he couldn’t do it, not when he knew what life had in store for him. He’d chosen the other path. To go to peace and rest and leave this dismal world behind. So… so why was he back here? His head throbbed again.

Aberthol blinked a couple times, shaking his head. His head throbbed, and he let out a gasp of pain. Not real, not real, not real, not real, not real…

“What was that?” asked Lothar.

“Nothing,” said Aberthol. “What were we talking about again? Oh, right. The servants of Arcaena believe they can turn you. They believe there is a great lie that they can reveal to you that will turn you against us. I will stop it, if I can. Should a [Witch] attempt to speak to you, I’ll blind and deafen you.”

Lothar’s eyes rose in surprise. “Every word of that is true, save one. You believe there is a truth that they might reveal to me, that would turn me against the armies of the four nations.”

“The truth they might tell is worse than a lie. It will obscure more than it reveals,” said Aberthol.

Lothar snorted. “A tad cryptic, don’t you think? It’s to be expected. Your kind have a flair for the dramatic.”

“You got me there,” said Aberthol with a shrug.

“I called you a dirty mirror before, or something of the sort? And I prove myself most prescient again, because this is another way in which we are alike. I have a flair for the dramatic as well.”

Aberthol narrowed his eyes, not sure what he meant.

“You [Bards] whose song moves with us as a chorus of ghosts: Sing a song of triumph. It’s time to endure her first strike,” shouted Lothar.

Aberthol didn’t know what Lothar meant, they were still a good distance from the walls. Maybe spellcasters were launching artillery from atop them, he still couldn’t see even that far into the city. What he did know was that Arcaena hadn’t tried anything like that before. The music swelled, sounding eager and optimistic.

Lothar had no shield, only his great, glimmering broadsword, but when he held up a hand, palm out, a giant golden shield appeared before him, covering ten feet to either side and thirty feet into the air.

Only then did Aberthol see what Lothar was defending against. The ground swelled in front of them, growing up and darkening until a mass eight feet high had risen from the ground. It came to a head, the top growing white, like the earth had grown a disgusting gigantic pimple.

He’d seen this before; Arcaena used it to cover her forces’ retreat sometimes.

“It’s going to explode!” Aberthol cried.

Lothar smirked and Aberthol snapped his mouth shut. Right, he already knew. Hence the shield.

The pimple exploded. A wave of obliterating necromantic energy passed over them and around them, but Lothar, Aberthol, and the army behind them were completely untouched.

The explosion covered a quarter mile area, scouring the landscape clean and leaving smoking, melted earth in its place. It was gone as quickly as it came, and Lothar stepped forward onto scorched and crackling ground. The music swelled, a chord of triumph and then a victory march.

Marksi looked at Aberthol. A significant look. It said, I never realized this before, but some humans are kind of cool!

Aberthol shook his head.

The army moved forward. Then they were at the wall. Lothar closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, he ceased to be human.

That was the only way that Aberthol could describe it. He’d already known that [Paladin] was Legendary, and he thought that he knew what that meant. Lothar had powerful Skills, cheat Skills, a totally unfair truth-finding ability on top of overwhelming martial prowess and who knew what else. He thought he knew what to expect, but he hadn’t even guessed the half of it.

Lothar floated up into the air, gentle as a feather, not because he had a flying Skill, but because he’d simply released the earth from the duty of needing to pull him down.

At Lothar’s command, a golden sword the size of an oak tree appeared in the sky. Its appearance caused the choir of [Bards] to shout for joy. The fate-workers in the group spell surged in power, ready to defend or destroy any evil that got past Lothar, hearts full in the confidence that nothing would.

The sword stabbed down, piercing Arcaena’s shell like a knife into an apple. The defensive spell shivered, a wave passing around the city like a ripple in a pond, and then it broke, shattering into pieces.

Arcaena’s spell was not just defense, but also retribution, and it turned to Lothar, looking for a target to vent its anger.

Aberthol snickered, and then started laughing. Lothar had more than adequate defenses against this kind of curse and… he didn’t even need them. This was Arcaena’s spell, so it could only work against her enemies, and she had nothing on Lothar. In the eyes of the Wyrd, there was no amount of scorn, condemnation, hatred, spite, or even annoyance that could be cast upon Lothar from Arcaena. Not after what he’d suffered in her queendom, under her allowance. Not after what she’d done to him.

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A little of the spell clashed uselessly against Lothar, but the major part turned and searched for another target. It saw Aberthol. Surely, there couldn’t be two people here that Arcaena had wronged so badly that her curses wouldn’t take hold on them.

The curse struck him, but found no purchase there either. He was partially under Lothar’s protection, and the other part didn’t need much protection. Laughing, Aberthol brushed the curse aside as if it were a little bit of dirt on his shoulder.

Alert! You have earned a new Achievement!

Curseward

You have undone multiple curses by triggering them against yourself and then resisting them.

You…

Processing…

Curseward has been merged with [Scarred, but Healing]

You have increased resistance to curses. You have a passive recovery from curses, proportional to your physical recovery speed.

Healing speed increased. 305% -> 325%

Oh. He hadn’t seen a lot of improvement to [Scarred, but Healing] after getting armor. Just an extra percentage here and there as little bumps and scrapes healed up. That was nice. Did that mean his [Bitten] curse was going to go away? The mind alteration demerit didn’t always get covered by his resistance to Mental Manipulation, not when it wasn’t an enemy doing the manipulation.

His head throbbed, harder than it ever had before, and Aberthol stumbled, nearly losing his footing from the sudden pain. Maybe it was a warning, because he really should be paying attention to the battle, not looking at his status screen.

The shell around the city continued to crumble, enough that Aberthol could look inside. He’d been seeing inside all this time, but there had been an interruption in the connection between his brain and his eyes, and he hadn’t been able to remember what he was seeing. He realized that his eyes had traced the curves of that massive dragon a dozen times…

There was a dragon there. Massive, eight hundred feet long, with no arms or legs but wings that shouldn’t have been large enough to carry it. No one told them that from the way it snaked around in the sky. More monsters lurked in the city, giant monstrosities of every kind. Some were giant versions of natural animals, like the giant bear or the gigantic raven, but others were simply monsters, strange and terrible.

Marksi batted Aberthol’s cheek with his tail.

“Yes, I know, Marksi. We have a fearsome dragon on our side as well.”

The city itself was massive as well. It was the largest by far that he’d seen in this world, maybe five times as large as Fortmouth which was the biggest he’d seen until this point. It was beautiful and orderly, with straight streets, public parks, statues and monuments, towers and citadels. He remembered it from when he’d lived here, but now after spending so much time in the outside world, he could see how much of a contrast it was to the dirty, smelly cities of Prinnash. The city was pleasant to look upon, but the fortress citadel of the [Witch Queen] rose above it like a frostbitten thumb, swollen and dead and needing amputation.

The monsters attacked. Some were quick. Some were slow. Some shot knives of bones, and some spit acid. Some had skin made of natural armor stronger than steel. Some weren’t even physical, and attacked mind and spirit.

Lothar crushed them all. He carved a leaping [Dire Wolf] straight in half as he strode through it, then stepped to the side to avoid a spiked turtle that slammed into the ground. A casual flick of his sword sliced it in half, then his sword arched up to block the hammer of an ogre. He sliced through both hammer and ogre and continued to walk forward.

Aberthol found himself watching the golden, glowing sword. It seemed to move on its own, not more than a bright glowing dot on the massive scale of the monsters Lothar killed, but everywhere it went, evil fell.

The music swelled at first, urging and pressing Lothar to greater strength and valor, but it graduated, slowly to simply sounding impressed and celebrating the glory of this great man.

The giant raven lunged downwards and caught Lothar, hefting him in the air, and the [Bards] cried out in alarm, thinking something could finally challenge the [Paladin], but soon Lothar was on the raven’s back. He let go of his sword, letting it float next to him, and then used both hands to tear off one of the massive wings. He tore off the other and then rode the raven into the ground. They crashed on a street, but the shockwave caused two buildings to either side to crumble to the ground.

A pack of werewolves sought to take advantage of his crash and pounced as soon as he hit, but Lothar stepped easily from the cratered cobblestones and the golden dot of his sword carved through the werewolves like a bright and jagged meteor.

Marksi bobbed up and down, telling Aberthol that they should join the fight.

“Don’t be stupid. That raven was level 60,” said Aberthol. Then he winced as his head throbbed again.

Arcaena’s giant dragon entered the fray, breathing a blast of gray and blue fire that covered an entire city block, Lothar included. The [Bards] didn’t doubt that Lothar was fine, and Aberthol didn’t either.

Lothar rose into the air, shining like a rocket. He was so high up and the dragon was so large that it was difficult to make out his form. A golden flea, bouncing against an anaconda. For a while, it was only possible to track the fight by the long wounds that Lothar carved into the dragon along the way. The wounds bled dark blood. This dragon was undead, and not any weaker for it.

He lost Lothar for a moment, then dragonfire struck the [Paladin] and was turned aside against his giant golden shield. A giant sword appeared and slammed into the dragon's stomach. A volley of golden arrows landed on the dragon’s hide, doing little damage and causing it to lash out.

It breathed fire again and again, sometimes bouncing off Lothar’s defenses and sometimes missing altogether, but when it hit the city below the stone melted and the ground was blasted into craters and canyons.

The [Bards] were faltering. Many were sobbing and few could keep their voices. They were overwhelmed, with joy, with hope, with the unbelievable might of this man. These monsters would devastate the army. Thousands would have died. And here, Lothar fought them alone, and it wasn’t a fair fight.

One of the dragon’s eyes popped, and then Aberthol saw Lothar again. With an Invisible Eye, he watched Lothar move across the dragon's forehead. At the base of the skull, he stabbed his sword down the hilt and ran in a circle around the body, plowing it like a field. Even that wasn’t enough to separate the head.

Lothar jumped, curved around in the air, and then flew into the wounded neck. Light exploded from the Paladin, and Aberthol felt it sizzling against his skin. He touched it, but no, he wasn’t sunburnt. This was a holy light, burning away the unworthy parts of him. There were a few of those.

Pressure slammed into Aberthol’s brain again, and he held on for dear life. No matter what, he needed to keep the spell going. He could not lose the Conduit.

The head separated from the dragon’s body, and began to fall while the rest of it thrashed and spun in the air. Then black tendrils of tar shot from the wounded neck and latched onto the head, catching it in the air and pulling it back towards the body.

Lothar chanted something that Aberthol couldn’t hear. Words that weren’t for him. A pillar of light fell from heaven, piercing straight through the center of the dragon and then striking the earth with a crash that vibrated the stone at Aberthol’s feet. It was bright, too bright, and the strange burning feeling was ten times as powerful as the previous blow.

Aberthol screamed in pain, clawing at his face despite the fact that none of the burning was physical. His head throbbed. He was slipping. He was going to lose the spell. Give it to a split part of his mind? But that would just give the other mind the same problem. Who could he give it to?

There. A conscious thread. It was running on so little time that all of the abrupt changes in his psyche had never forced it to dismiss. A tiny little portion of his mind, gone unseen and unremembered. Until now.

Aberthol passed the spell to the baseline backup he’d made when he’d taken [Delusionist].

Brin kicked again. One last kick, and the barrier in his mind was down and he felt himself leaking into the space that Aberthol had carved out for himself. He was finally free.

“You put me through a hell of an ordeal,” Brin said. Since nothing was never easy, all three of them were here, present with illusionary bodies, as if this were Class Selection. No doubt the Conduit was to thank for that.

“I was protecting you!” Aberthol said. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone? Why did you come back?”

“When did I ever say I want to be protected? I want to live my life,” said Brin.

Aberthol shut his eyes tight, eyes that had long ago lost the ability to make tears. “Dismiss me.”

“No way. Return,” said Brin.

“Trust me. It’s better this way. These memories, they’ve been swimming around in our meat brain, but we haven’t had to face them until now. I think that was a blessing, another mercy from Solia. You don’t want to see what’s in here.”

“I told you I don’t need to be protected. Not from you. Return, Aberthol. I volunteered for this. I agreed to carry your burdens when I agreed to a second chance at life. Return, and let down your burdens. I’ll take it from here,” said Brin.

Aberthol looked to the last member of the group. The baseline. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re both insane,” said the baseline. Looking at Aberthol, he said, “You… you’re a [Broken Doll], or something close. And Brin, you’re a [Delusionist]. You’re evil, and you’re not thinking right.”

“Give me the Conduit,” ordered Brin.

The baseline clutched the orb closer to his chest. “I should turn off this Conduit right now and we should run. That’s what you made me for: For thinking clearly. Well, I’m the only sane one here and I say we should get out of here. Look at this! Look at this city! Why are we here? Do you think there’s a single thing to be gained here? And when did we ever decide that this is our fight? This is madness.”

Brin looked at the baseline with sympathy that burned like Lothar’s fire. “You are a coward.”

The baseline stepped back as if physically struck.

Brin pressed. “You’re the preserved memory of the version of me that took the easy way out. You wanted an evil Class because you wanted to be able to do terrible things without having to take responsibility for them. You thought you would have to murder, steal, and manipulate to get to this point, and you wanted to be able to say ‘It wasn’t me, it was the [Delusionist].’ But I kept my nose clean, loser. I kept my integrity intact. So return. You were never needed.”

Eyes wide, and lips trembling, the baseline handed Brin the orb and disappeared. Brin turned to Aberthol.

“You still don’t have to–”

“Ssh. It’s ok,” said Brin.

Aberthol disappeared, and finally, Brin was whole again.

Sanity restored.

Please choose from the following Skills.

Upgrade - Shape Glass

Glass that you form into mirrors now has the ability to become the shape that viewers expect and show them what they expect to see.

Amplified Casting

The maintenance cost of Light and Sound magic is reduced by 40%. The concentration required to maintain all magic is reduced by 98%. You can now imbue illusions with purpose in the Wyrd, allowing them to absorb ambient light to empower themselves and convert excess to Mana.

Upgrade - Say What’s True

Increase your ability to convince a target of the truthfulness of an illusion. Physical damage will now greatly increase the effectiveness of this Skill.

The System really hadn’t made this one easy on him. But he’d already decided, and he didn’t want to second guess himself now.

He took [Amplified Casting]. Splitting his mind still kind of hurt, like touching a bruise, but a couple threads were fine. He started crafting a bunch of light absorbers immediately.

The System still had something else for him.

You have a new Achievement!

Terrifying (Epic)

You have scared away an enemy commander more than twenty-five levels higher than you.

You are terrifying, and give off an aura of menace to all who see you. [Say What’s True] is greatly empowered when inspiring fear. Your Split Minds will be more certain of their assigned identities.

Phew. He was really glad Aberthol didn’t get that last Achievement. Tenerer was still looking out for him.

He still held the Conduit and the spell was maintained, but many of those watching were growing extremely confused at Brin’s complete distraction. He looked up just in time to see Lothar carve a minotaur into four pieces.

A great rumbling laugh came from ahead, near the center of the city, and then something massive moved from around an eight story building. That building had only barely concealed him. It was a giant. It was the giant.

Maggart, the Fallen Keeper of the Garden

Level 70

Undead

Maggart was gentle and respected in life, as the chief gardener of Iustus III. He had Skills for stimulating growth and maintaining life. In death, his talents have been bent to their opposite, as has his disposition.

Arcaena had not spared any expense in outfitting the giant, nor in his weaponry. The amount of shining dark metal covering the giant would’ve outfitted a hundred men with room to spare, and it wasn’t blacksteel. It radiated a power akin to Brin’s own armor. He held a spear in one hand, and a chain in the other.

He also wasn’t alone. An entire three Lances of [Dread Knights] stood alongside him.

Brin looked to Marksi. Marksi nodded. Brin grinned. He gripped his orb tight, and his spear tighter.

“I missed the dragon. I am not going to miss out on fighting a giant.”