by Oliver Mayes
Bartholomew’s eyes remained fixed on the combatants as they closed in. His smile flashed and the iridescent runes etched into his skin and robes briefly pulsed. It started around his feet and ended in the tips of his horns.
“Oh Daemien, you grew up in a different time. You were once the only human occultist. You’re not aware that we’re often cannibalistic. When these new students set out, they won’t just have to contend with the rest of the world as you did. They shall also have to contend against each other, and their predecessors, and those who come after. Only the strongest survive, but those that do thrive. We are not a weak species.”
A yelp from the other side of the arena drew Damien’s attention back to the fight. The weaponless girl had slowly drawn back, then come to a stop. The two who’d arrived to attack her had found each other instead and were fighting each other in the pitch black. It took a while, since they mostly missed each other, but eventually the occultist swinging his thighbone in broad sweeps brought down the shattered-rib stabber. Only for the previously weaponless girl to collect the shattered rib after it clattered to the floor in the dark and stab the victor in the back. She was the only player left.
Bartholomew clapped.
“Winner, winner, craven sinner!”
He began to methodically pulse purple light from his body and she relaxed. Although she still had to navigate the rats, the first of her trials was at an end. Bartholomew turned to Damien.
“I have a certain gift to bestow upon a worthy candidate. I shall return as soon as I’m done.”
Bartholomew floated away, drawing in his latest victim with hypnotic pulsing purple light. Damien looked to the old location of his first and most successful base. Although the alcove indicating the entrance was long gone, Damien knew exactly where it had been. It was strange, but he kinda missed it there.
On the other side of the floor, Bartholomew was recruiting the survivor to his cause. Damien didn’t bother crouching. The level gap ensured his Shadow Walker skill would be more than enough to prevent her from seeing him. He couldn’t hear Bartholomew speaking from that distance, but he could easily make out the blazing lights burning demonic runes into the floor in front of his new recruit.
Damien focused. He’d heard about this, but he hadn’t seen it for himself. And given what he’d heard, seeing really would be believing. The runes were all finished simultaneously, and an imp hopped out before throwing gang signs. Damien focused on it, bringing up the basic information above its head. So it was true. It was another Noigel.
As if one Noigel in the world wasn’t enough.
Having “blessed” her, Bartholomew continued his speech a little longer and then floated upward, leaving her to commence rat purging. Damien could scarcely reconcile that he’d gone through the same ordeal himself. At his current level and with everything he’d learned, she seemed light years away from reaching him. Yet it had only been a few weeks.
He felt a twinge of nostalgia, accompanied by a surge of sympathy. Her first task would be learning how to deal with Noigel. Bart turned off his disco lights and floated transparently up to where Damien had awaited his return. He held up a finger.
“One more thing.”
Bartholomew clapped his hands together and then spread them apart. A series of portals opened across his final floor, from which spewed a new infestation of rats. After a few seconds, and with a further twenty rats added to his dungeon’s menagerie, Bartholomew lowered his hands and the portals closed.
“So all that time you were giving me quests to remove rats from your dungeon, you were the one who put them there in the first place? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”
“The former, most assuredly. The rat infestation may be manufactured by me, but the inconveniences of sharing living space with oversized rodents are extremely real. Your own experience has formed the basis of the suffering and betterment of your peers and I continue to occupy a rat feces-laden basement so they might follow in your footsteps. There is no higher honor I can bestow.”
“I wouldn’t mind the honor of being told the truth every now and then.”
“But Damien, I already told you: I hold liars in higher regard. At least liars possess some sort of self-preservation instinct. I hope you didn’t come here merely to squabble. Come, let me have a look at you.”
Without waiting for consent, Bartholomew held Damien’s chin and twisted his head this way and that, then skirted around to examine him from every angle. It was strange, but for all his maniacal scheming Damien trusted Bartholomew implicitly. They’d come a long way together, and everything had turned out alright.
So far.
Bartholomew finished his inspection and cooed lightly.
“I see you can contain a full demonic horde now. Excellent. Yet you still haven’t achieved even a fraction of the power you’re capable of. Interesting times.”
“Yeah, about that. I haven’t learned any new combat abilities for a while. I was wondering if you had any advice about what I should do next.”
There was a long pause. Bartholomew was looking at him listlessly, a rare phenomenon. Perhaps there’d been some kind of glitch in the game? That would be even rarer. No sooner had Damien opened his mouth to pursue his inquiry than Bartholomew made his thoughts plain.
“Daemien. While you are a superb occultist, you tend toward more orthodox means of killing people rather than through the application of infernal magics. I may be capable of stabbing people to death, but I don’t do it with any great finesse and it’s certainly not my area of expertise. I made it very clear you were straying into unfamiliar territory from the very beginning. Did you forget?”
Damien was thrown into the all too familiar situation of feeling like everything was his fault, without having the faintest idea what his critic was referring to.
“I’m flesh and blood, Bartholomew. Not a machine, if that concept has any meaning to you. I don’t have total recall and everything you’ve told me would be quite a lot to remember. Can you run it by me again?”
Bartholomew glazed over for a fraction of a second, then delivered a scathing review of Damien’s tactics, already almost a month old, with exactly the same tone of voice he’d employed the first time round. This time he had more facial muscles and skin to convey the full extent of his snideness with. Damien wasn’t a machine but Bartholomew was, whether he knew it or not. His delivery of the lines was word perfect, bringing Damien right back to his first steps with the occultist class.
“Your choice of tactics was...interesting. I’d have expected you to use Maleficium spells from afar, with imps for defense and Shadow Walker to escape from danger. Instead, you relied on imps for attack and defense and used Shadow Walker to engage your opponents in melee. You’re aware that you have magic at your disposal now, yes? You don’t have to use rat bones anymore.”
It was eerie, but it was also spot on. Bartholomew glazed over for another fraction of a second and then he was back in the room.
“The truth, seeing as how you hold it in such high regard, is that your unique style demands you invest more in your physique than your mind. While you certainly possess an abundance of wisdom, enough to summon and control a demonic horde, you lack the intellect to employ anything beyond the most basic infernal magic.”
He saw Damien narrow his eyes and rolled his own.
“You’re not stupid, Daemien, we both know that. You’re just...” Bartholomew waved his hands around in the air, searching for the words that wouldn’t make this worse. “Not...cerebrally...inclined?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Low intelligence. Got it. When can I expect some abilities for more physically inclined occultists?”
Bartholomew sucked on his teeth and winced. He almost looked sympathetic. Oh holy hell. This couldn’t be good.
“Daemien. Occultism is in essence a magical art. Your unique style has worked remarkably well, but since you’ve already mastered demon summoning, the time has come for you to return to the path I o
riginally laid out for you.”
“You’re telling me occultists never get any agility-based abilities at all, aren’t you?”
For once, Bartholomew was out of words. He simply held his palms up and shrugged. Damien mulled it over. He was intent on increasing his agility stat, but Bartholomew would have him put points in intelligence instead. That was not an option. He was already level 42. He’d no longer enjoy the absurdly rapid leveling he’d experienced while his class was still relatively unknown, so there’d be little immediate improvement to his combat abilities. Meanwhile, his enemies would continue putting points in attributes that granted them immediate benefit, putting him at a significant disadvantage.
Wearing gear with intelligence would increase the damage of his spells, but it wouldn’t allow him to learn new ones. That was calculated by a combination of your level and natural stat points crossing over the required thresholds. If he abandoned agility in favor of intelligence, he’d still be inferior as a caster for at least twenty levels. Maybe more.
For his sacrifice, Damien would not only be forced to change the playstyle that won him the competition, he’d also lose much of the nimbleness that ensured his survival against superior numbers. Furthermore, his already selected traits worked superbly with agility as his secondary stat, but he’d passed over many others that would’ve been better choices were he relying on spells for damage. That alone ensured his character would be permanently gimped.
No thank you.
“Bartholomew, that won’t work! I have a very specific way of doing things, and it’s the reason Aetherius was defeated and you have people literally killing each other to be taught by you. I have to do this my way, but I need your help to do it. You’re exceptionally wise and powerful, you must know something that can help me?”
Bartholomew crossed his arms and pouted despite Damien’s overt flattery.
“I’m sorry the rare and incredible gifts I bestowed on you were only half to your liking. Let me just rifle through my Bag of Holding and see if I have any occultist tomes on the lost art of stabbing people.”
Bartholomew dramatically thrust his hand shoulder deep into the bag. A strange spectacle, since from the outside it looked only large enough to accommodate up to his wrist. Damien pursed his lips and indulged his former master as he rummaged around in a silly pantomime of actually looking for something.
Bartholomew pulled out a rabbit, which he glibly chucked over his shoulder to join the giant rats; an umbrella decorated with a green bird’s head on the handle; a spidery-looking white gun with a wired-up potato inexplicably stuck on the shooty end; a silver sword with a ruby the size of an egg embedded in the handle, which Bartholomew hissed at before quickly dropping it back into the bag; and a weird wand coated in what appeared to be dwarven engineering, identifying itself in Damien’s HUD as a ‘Sonic Screwdriver’.
The display would’ve been more entertaining for Damien if Bartholomew wasn’t using it to mock him. Bartholomew dropped the wand back into the bag and threw his hands up.
“How unfortunate! It appears the lost occultist art of inserting pointy things into people’s bodies until they expire is, truly, lost. Perhaps because we gained the ability to blow our opponents apart from the inside out at long range? We may never know.”
Damien withdrew his dagger and brandished it in Bartholomew’s face. He was annoyed, but not so annoyed that he’d take on his former master in a fight. Instead, having waved it around to try and provoke some sort of reaction, Damien twisted the handle so the vampire could examine it up close.
“Oh yeah? If there aren’t any occultist abilities based on physical combat, where did this Sacrificial Dagger come from, then? And these Adept Robes with agility instead of intelligence?”
Bartholomew raised an eyebrow at the mentions of stats on items, but ignored the immersion break to keep a hold on his argument.
“I specifically crafted those items for you. They didn’t even exist until I took you under my wing and found out you were set on ignoring my advice. I was all but forced to, when it became apparent you were headstrong and self-absorbed from day one. Let me refresh your memory.”
Bartholomew blinked before launching into another sterling reenactment of an early interaction with Damien. Only this time, he was mimicking Damien. With a whiny, nasal, slightly breaking voice.
“The spells attracted too much attention. They were dangerous to me and they were dangerous to the imps as well if I missed. This way was much—”
Damien was seething. Bartholomew cut his reenactment short.
“I see you’re angry. Good. How do you think it felt to have my teachings eschewed by an ungrateful little whelp who would’ve died without my help? Did I insist you follow my instruction? No! I encouraged you, and waited for you to come to the realization I was right by yourself. Only, as we know, that never happened. You cut a swathe through Rising Tide and eventually even brought Aetherius to his knees. Which is all the more remarkable given the strategies you employed.”
Bartholomew raised himself to his full height and glowered at him. He was a full head taller than Damien, and undoubtedly more physically able thanks to his vampirism. Once upon a time, Damien would’ve found this extremely imposing. However, now Damien was twelve levels higher, although Bartholomew was still undoubtedly more powerful. More importantly, he knew Bartholomew cherished him. Damien was certain he would not be harmed, despite the posturing. This did not decrease the severity of his former master’s tone.
“Your strategy has worked incredibly well up to this point, but has no further room for growth. The only way for you to proceed is to embrace the full extent of my gift. It might not be convenient in the short term, but it will undoubtedly reap rewards in the long term. I tell you this as a Master of the Occult, as your former master and as someone who has both benefited from and is still invested in your success. Tell me now, Daemien: how will you proceed?”
Damien was having another flashback, triggered by Bartholomew’s carefully chosen words: ‘How will you proceed?’ That was the line that had followed Bartholomew’s ultimatum when they first met, that if Damien didn’t accept his offer of becoming an occultist he would be violently and excruciatingly murdered. He hadn’t had a choice then. He did now.
He stared back into Bartholomew’s face evenly.
“I refuse. Your way is great, but my way works better for me. I won’t change how I operate when it has brought me success. Not even if it’s your style, and not even if you compel me to. If you won’t help, I’ll find someone else who can. If no one will help, I’ll make it work by myself. My methods define me. I won’t abandon them for anyone.”
He and Bartholomew stared at each other. One of the many ways Bartholomew outstripped Damien was in staring contests. Seriously, he had giant pitch-black fishbowl eyes. Damien wasn’t sure he even blinked at all. But after a while, without his eyes leaving those of his charge, Bartholomew nodded slowly.
“I see. In that case, you are ready.”
Bartholomew raised a white-hot finger and tapped Damien on the forehead. Given the conversation that had preceded it, Damien could hardly believe a quest notification was popping up in his HUD:
‘There’s Always a Bigger Fish – Find Bartholomew’s master. Part 1 – Enter the Dark Tower.’
“Whoa, you have a master? You’ve been holding out on me, Bartholomew.”
“I’m rather selective regarding who I choose to invest my time in. Though I possess far more of that particular resource than your average denizen of Arcadia, I nevertheless do not waste it. My master is considerably less tolerant and exponentially more long-lived. I would not deign to send someone in his direction unless they were worthy. This is the highest honor I can bestow on members of my flock, do not take it lightly.”
“I thought your rat-infested dungeon and your kill-tastic tribute to one of the worst hours of my life was the highest honor?”
“I lied.”
Hmm. At least he’d finally pro
vided Damien with a new quest. With this, he’d have original content to put on his channel, and with any luck a boost to his combat skills as well.
“Can your master help me advance as a close-combat occultist?”
“Oh, I should think so. One way or another. Whether he will help you is another matter entirely. He is not easily impressed, less easily coerced and all but impossible to deceive.”
“He sounds like a laugh riot. Is that where you get it from?”
“Not at all. In fact, his main concern with me is that I’m far too kind.”
Bartholomew’s face split in half, his skin stretching back and his maw unhinging to reveal as many of his rapidly elongating rows of teeth as possible. It was the most sickening smile Damien had ever seen. It had been bad enough watching Bartholomew grin with feeling in his obviously monstrous, inhuman state. Seeing a vaguely human countenance encompass the same display made him seem every inch the eldritch abomination he was. It got the point across, though. Bartholomew’s master was probably not a very nice man.
“I see. Well, thank you, for that. You can close your mouth now. Oh, one of your fangs appears to have snagged on your bottom li— no, you’ve got it. That’s cool. Anyway. Where can I find this bundle of joy?”
“He is beyond. Outside the Human Realm. Past the Wastes, across the Outer Ring then through the Inner Circle. Into the most unholy site in Arcadia, the Dark Tower. And then a little further still.”
“Lovely. Could you, uh, could you mark it on my map?”
4
One Small Step Forward for a Man
It was shaping up to be a productive morning. Damien had thanked Bartholomew profusely and left him to his endless rolling deathmatches. He was certainly a glutton for punishment, just not his own. Damien had his own grueling challenge ahead, but he wasn’t fazed. He was excited. This was exactly what he needed: a long, mysterious quest, with no emphasis on player-killing and the potential to advance his character’s build. He could repair the bridge between himself and the community while providing valuable information about the outside world at the same time.