We weren't conscripted this time. We made a choice, not to forgive or forget or move on, and the consequences of that will (hopefully) echo in eternity. It's true we're compelled to battle, but only by the ragged remains our hero's own resolve. No wandering into a glade, no summoning ritual, none of the bullshit counterfactual consent that the Divinities did. Real agency.
The decision was made, the bargain complete. He felt the weight of each Curse settle upon him like leaden shrouds. But with them came a spark of power, swift and irrepressible, coursing through nerve and vein, awakening some part of the Hero that had been. Sublime electricity like a held breath, like the stillness before a storm, skin of the world so paper thin that with a fingertip's exertion he could brush through, touch the capillary-walls of the weft between realms.
'Before a storm' is accurate, since we're about to swan dive into some serious shit. But this is a beautiful take on the proverbial world of cardboard. To put it another way, "It is the world that has become insubstantial, relative to me." We don't have phasing powers, but there's a similar feeling here. No limits, no boundaries we can't breach in time. I wonder if Bleach Quest's Aizen would be a suitable Cursebearer? He'd kill for the power of unlimited Progression.
He was not fully restored. Nowhere near the fullness of his power, still but a shadow of the man that he was, soul and memory tattered with holes. That was the cost in selfhood that he'd burned to strike down the overlord.
Between this and the quote stating that by the time the hero had avenged himself linear time wouldn't be a concern, we may have underestimated the heights our man fell from. Wielding the King's Scepter and he's still a shadow of himself... paradoxically it gives me hope, since he attained that level in only eleven years without the power of Progression.
But it was strength enough to start again, and with strength came even a dull flicker of hope.
Does the same for our hero too, who thought he'd depleted that resource long ago. Hope is a fossil fuel, hate a nuclear reactor.
When entire world had abandoned him, this being - cosmic monster, impossible horror, whatever it was - had reached out its hand. Whatever its reasons or timing, it alone had given him a chance. Had offered respite, or vengeance, to a tool so thoroughly expended that even the dim shadow of a future had seemed a faraway dream. He would not forget, that every tomorrow onward was possible only because of this being today.
"Thank you," he said, as it turned to leave. "I'll pay you back one day."
And like that, my already high esteem for our protagonist rises further. This is a hero we can root for. Dedicated but not deficient in honor, vengeful without being cruel. Reaching out despite theodicy and the Brand of the Wretched, feeling gratitude and appreciating the magnitude of this gift? It's a touching feat of empathy and the Accursed deserves thanks. Sisyphus and Prometheus' burdens pale in comparison. This isn't straightforward altruism, but he likely could have found a way that didn't depend on sharing his strength. It's what he's known for, after all.
So I hope that sentiment will endure the eons of strife and he can eventually keep his promise, perhaps even joining the exalted ranks of the High Cursebearers one day. I'm curious about those fellows; are there any Combat-types among them? Notable individuals, names or titles preceded by a definite article that we should know? Or just other Cursebearers in general? I'm a sucker for tidbits of lore and still trying to wrestle the regret for passing up the Praxis into submission.
The Accursed raised an eyebrow, slight amusement in its eye. "See that you do."
Somehow he felt, despite the vast gulf between them - transcendent overbeing and depleted wretch - that those parting words were no cosmic transaction, but merely an agreement between men.
Amused by the pluck, but not dismissing the sentiment. Positive displays of emotion from him are rare as hen's teeth. That he's capable of them at all's cause for yet
more hope and the hero acknowledges the humanity underlying the unfathomable power, thinking of the Accursed as something other than 'it'. All in all, a great scene.
On a meta level, though? I'm logging every word, because 'advice and/or instructions from the Accursed' are crucial for the Tyrant's Doom.
And then the Accursed was gone, the world resuming its mundane pace, footsteps thudding outside his door. Soldiers come to collect his presumptive corpse.
He inhaled deeply, the tug of the Geas like a hook through his chest, and let it carry him forward, to another world than this.
The Accursed only knows what they'll think when they find no body, or how they'll explain this to their superiors. How was the assassination carried out, anyway? He intervened right on the brink of our demise. The description's sparse, no hints of an immediate threat, nobody else in the room. Did they just leave him to bleed out? Seems negligent.
Plenty of time for sentimentality if he survived. In the meantime there were other debts to pay. And these would not be so pleasant. To fulfill the mission of his vengeance, the first step was simple.
Live, and grow strong.
When in doubt, acquire power. And it sounds like we'll need a
lot of power. Having done the isekai thing once before, he's under no illusions about this being pleasant. His backstory was tragic enough to elicit sympathy from the Accursed. I wonder how many people even qualify to bear the Apocryphal Curse?
There was no jarring transition. Barely had the impression of passage touched him before he arrived. He was standing on a hill of green grass under blue skies. The sun was stark and brilliant, a mailed fist of light bearing down. A breeze was blowing, cool and soothing but with the faintest scent of charcoal. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and took his bearings.
The Geas has preferences, huh? Blue skies, a bright sun high overhead, pastoral idyll tarnished with violence. This probably doesn't match the surreal beauty of the Manifest Realm, though. Wonder if high levels of Accretion can eventually induce
findross terraforming? Territories are supposedly valid targets for one's legend, which may be the secret needed to unlock Coalescence. But ultimately it's a good thing he didn't land there, can you imagine the Tyrant's Doom interacting with the Implicate Duty? Shocked pikachu faces for
days.
The mission of his Geas unfurled in his mind, the task upon which he'd wagered his life.
Conquer at least nine-tenths of the Human Sphere and rule for a period of no less than fifty contiguous years. Time limit: twenty-five hundred years.
To think he's younger than Seram, not even thirty. We'll need to increase our lifespan unless we want to rely on Indenture for immortality (we don't) to even last that length of time. It brings the scope of this shit to the fore, that his life up until this point's scarcely more than a hundredth of a percent of the time we could spend in this world. Not that he remembers more than a fraction of it. 937 octillion years is a number so vast it doesn't feel real; twenty-five hundred years takes us back to well before the birth of Christ.
He was unused to rulership, and his first attempts at politics would have killed him were it not for the Accursed's intercession. It would be a change of pace, to say the least.
It's one for us too, I was surprised to even get the option for Indenture again, but the conquest mission makes for a nice change of pace. Fifty contiguous years of rule with the Apocryphal Curse and Decimator ticking away is going to be challenging. The Human Sphere doesn't give us a sense of the size either. Is it a region of space? A flexible amount of territory under the influence of a magical paradigm? A dimension that isn't contiguous with other Spheres?
But how much at all remained of the man he'd been? His name, his titles, half the memories that comprised his identity had been burned from his soul in the final conflagration of his battle with the Tyrant. He recalled that he had come from Earth, a planet of sophisticated technology, born in a land of the far East... or was it the far West? He had been a schoolboy, on the precipice of manhood. He had stumbled into a glade. The contours of his mundane life remained, but its details slipped like raindrops through his fingers.
I'd been assuming he was American, going by the western ideals in the absence of cosmetic details. But that even he doesn't know is just painful. It's surprising he remembered enough religion to ask if the Accursed was the devil, though I guess he didn't get to finish the question. We've underestimated the toll his past took on him, which is not an error I thought possible. He lost his
name? Surely someone reminded him in the wake of the tragedy? My expectations for that wretched realm are low, but... wow. We should get this guy to a mirror, maybe we can guess nationality from the appearance and give artists some details to work with.
All those memories he'd sacrificed in order to hold more tightly onto what truly mattered. The names and faces of those who'd fought besides him. Who'd given themselves so that he could live, shell of a man that he was. Those he'd befriended. Those he'd admired. And those he had loved.
Doom of the Martyr would've been a good fit for him. This is painful and poignant, yet more evidence of the ordeal he went through. The Slumber being dreamless by default might've been a mercy to Dread. To quote Roland, "I'm afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid my dead friends will come to me, and that seeing them will kill me."
He would seek vengeance for them, and for himself. Whatsoever architects had engineered the misery inherent to their lives, he would cast them down. No matter how high their thrones, how unassailable their power, he would not rest until they lay broken before him. And he would bring back all who had died to the Tyrant, when he was strong enough to keep them safe. There would be power enough even for that, someday. Power enough and more, if he was to someday keep his promise to his benefactor.
Vendetta's the most optimistic option. It's not that he saw Three Wishes and turned down the chance to resurrect his wife and child, it's that he wants it all. Vengeance and them all back, not just the woman who fell in the final battle. This eases some concerns about his mental state and sows the seeds for a great and tragic narrative arc.
Someday. If he survived. If he completed this mission, and all the missions before him. So he was to be a tyrant? So be it. But the time for deliberation had passed.
And thus does the dream of democracy die, without a word spoken to mourn its passing. Not the greatest sacrifice he'll make.
There were more pressing concerns. A short sharp bark behind him, unnaturally loud, and he whirled to see a pack of armored creatures loping towards him, hyena-like mouths tasting the air. The frontmost pair charged, leaping forward with uncanny coordination, fangs bared and slavering.
Casually he adjusted his stance. The creature on his left sailed harmlessly by as he drove his bare fist into the one on his right. Its chest all but disintegrated, the shock of his strike describing a perfect circle of sky where its torso once was.
Oh hey, our counterfactual killers in the timeline where Sword won. Does the Geas just not do initial safety? Makes sense for a Curse to be maximally inconvenient.
He twisted, reaching back with his hand to grab the first creature by the scruff, hurled it with catapult force into the ranks of its fellows, and leapt, falling like cannon fire into their midst. The force of those twin impacts sent the beasts into brief disarray, and he killed swiftly as they gathered, slaying three more before the pack regained its cohesion. Retreating slightly, they coalesced around him with an easy, dauntless fluidity, the dozen disjoint appendages of a single mind.
These beasts remind me of the wolf pack Arthur first fought, low-level creatures with advanced coordination. The strength and speed he displays here are nice, but with this build-agnostic update I can't help but wonder how he's doing this with Accretion, which doesn't provide explicit physical enhancements.
He'd never found any enjoyment in killing the Tyrant's men, offering surrender when practical. But he'd no such compunctions about the Tyrant's monsters. Despite himself, the once-hero smiled. It'd been too long since he'd killed something properly.
Having fun, huh? Is that... legal? You mean to say we're not bound to a grim existence of stoically trudging from conflict to conflict? This is good, though, since if we get Hunger the visceral pleasure of combat will mean he's better adapted to life as a transcendent shounen murderhobo.
They sprang at him again, a whirlwind of fang and claw, but he swung his palm outward, neatly bisecting the creatures at his front, and shoulder-checked his way to the other side of their perimeter. Encirclement broken, the rest turned to flee. They didn't get far.
Nice to see he's still got it. One
Hand Arm Fury; Anys Syn, eat your heart out (before we tear it out)!
Supplies would be a factor, he mused. He wondered if these monsters were edible. But their bodies dissolved quickly, melting away in the few brief minutes of his scrutiny. Likely not edible, though it was unclear how exactly his status as a Cursebearer had altered his physiology.
Cue speculation about what the fuck a 'Sphere' is and restrictions on travel between them. It could be that these are just drones from the jackal-dragon and I'm reading too much into things, but half the fun of reactions is overanalyzing and going on tangents. Also, I shed a tear for the Talon here. They're not edible, but they could've been! Talon + Brand of the Champion + Regalia would've been a very RPG experience. Reloads, side-quests, lots of loot. 'How does killing goblins give you coins? That shouldn't even be possible, who's
minting these?' 'It's
magic a Remittance, I ain't gotta explain shit.'
A second pack approached, larger in numbers, though little more bothersome than the first. Still it seemed wise to track down and eliminate the source of these creatures before he began to tire. As he crested another hill, he could faintly make out a city on the horizon, smoke in countless tendrils twisting upwards from its walls. Grand spires of white stone jutted upwards from the fortifications.
Investing in Endurance to let him fight continuously could be good, he's unlikely to be as limited by will as Seram. Or Wits, if Seven Seals wins so he can handle more Sealing on the fly. Though it's not clear how the Progression interface will work, knowledge of vidya was probably cut in the name of expediency, one reason the aforementioned build wouldn't have been good for the hero. Looking forward to getting him a name, or at least an epithet, playing the pronoun game got exhausting with Nameless, who never made the transition into a title. Accursed willing, we won't get it from Gisena.
Looming above were two grander figures still. The first was an wurm-like monster covered in armor plates, towering and vast, its top a grotesque cross of dragon and jackal, lower half a single muscular tail. It was locked in the throes of battle with a vaguely humanoid abomination, bipedal and armored as well.
Is that an EVA? I anticipated giant robots, but not so soon! The tech level's a little idiosyncratic, if there aren't any roads and the city they're fighting in is stone. They're
inside the walls too, so even if the 'good guy' wins we might be in for some collateral if it falls in the wrong direction. Or explodes, kaiju rarely go out cleanly.
A pang struck him at the sight of that second giant, as if the marrow in his bones had gained magnetic charge, to orient now in its direction. There was an affinity between them, not that of friends, not quite allies, but... a sense of camaraderie, as if in all of the vast, lonely universe they were the only two of their kind.
This could be another Cursebearer, bound to the same task by the Doom of Rivalry. But I suspect not, since 'the only two of our kind' were Control's words, used to describe the bond shared by him and Seram, both summoned heroes.
1566 words, not covering the options to get this out the door.