I push away the nightmare, the relived memory, and breathe deeply. I swing my feet off the bed, leaving the soft, almost sensuous comfort of the mattress. The blanket rolls itself back up, fur parting a little, and I frown at the enchanted stitching it shows off. Expensive. Decadent. And wasteful.
“What the hell is going on?” I wonder.
I admit, I’m hoping someone will answer me, but the room is empty. In features, the room is much the same as the blanket and bed. Over-the-top luxury but understated in form. Nanite-based furnishings that form with a thought, restrictive arrays all around to ensure privacy and increase Mana density within. Soft lighting that is perfectly suited for human normal levels of sight. There’s even the faintest hint of vanilla, lavendar, and chocolate in the air, meant to calm.
“Awake finally?” Ali says, drifting out of the wall.
“What the hell happened to you?” I say, feeling a flash of irrational anger. Where was he? Where was Mikito when I was being beaten? Humiliated.
“Getting my ass handed to me,” Ali replies. “The Psychic had a Spirit of his own. Trapped me almost as soon as the fight started. I couldn’t get out.”
I frown, not recalling the enemy Spirit. Then again, that doesn’t mean much. Unlike me, who can make do with buying Skills and the like, Ali is constrained to some extent by the System. His strength is directly proportional to my true Level—so about one entire grade down. He’s the equivalent of a Master Class Level 14 Linked Spirit, which means if the other Spirit was Linked, Ali would be at a major disadvantage.
Still…
“I guess you’re not as good as you think,” I say. Ali glowers while I wave at him. “Mikito?”
“She’s fine. A little banged up and nursing the mother of all headaches, but she’s good. Being linked to you means she’s got more defenses than most against Psychics, but it wasn’t an easy fight.”
“What was?” I mutter rhetorically. I then ask the most important question. “Now, where the hell are we?”
I barely notice the wall open, falling apart as the nanites act upon the unspoken command of the one who enters. She’s tall, beautiful, regal, and scary at the same time. Golden hair tumbling down behind her back, pointy ears that suit the angular, heart-shaped face, and piercing blue eyes that strike a chord deep in my soul.
“Perhaps I can answer that.” The speaker’s voice is low, throaty, sensual. The kind of voice some women get naturally and others via a pack-a-day habit.
My loins stir involuntarily as a flood of notifications roll by my eyes. Most are beaten down, but the charms she wields leave their mark upon my mind, my body, and my emotions. I find myself turning, disregarding my lack of proper clothing as I face her.
That I conjure—successfully—my sword into hand only elicits a small, mysterious smile from her. “Who are you?”
She arches an eyebrow and tilts her head upward. I flush, realizing what she means, and look up to stare at her Status.
And find my jaw dropping.
The Lady of Shadows and Lies, ???? (??? Level ???) (L)
HP: ???/???
MP: ???/???
Conditions: ~Emotional, Mental and Physical Skill Manipulators~ (Put some pants on, boy-o!), ???
“Thousand hells.”
***
After she crooks a finger at me, I find myself following the swaying, green-dressed, form-fitting figure down the corridor. Out of portholes, I catch the occasional glimpse of surf and deep water, blinking creatures with way too many teeth and not enough points in Charisma. I watch it and her, all the while conjuring myself some clothing.
Because.
We don’t walk long before I enter an oval dining room. I manage to make it three steps before my eyes land on the figure dominating the room. And I find myself sinking to my knees, my legs giving way beneath me. If the Lady of Shadows is regal and queenly, a dream of a goddess of beauty given life, the one who sits, lounging with his feet on the table, is her opposite.
But more so.
The pressure he exudes, the dominance of the room crushes me, like being forced to give a speech before millions of disdainful mortals. Like the first time I tried to ask Angela out on a date in tenth grade, as her friends cut me down with their eyes. Except this time, the eyes can truly cut, the contempt crushing my will and bones. My heart hitches, pausing between beats.
No notifications, no indications the effects are driven by the System. Even my new System-enhanced senses are quiet. This is not a Skill or an Aura. This is the man’s sheer presence, the legacy of what he, who he is.
He’s a stake driven into reality, a reminder of who I am, what I am. How little I truly matter.
My head bows, my eyes close, and I find myself biting my lower lip. Anger roiling and thrashing deep within me smolders, catching fire. Reminders of past failures compress around my sense of self, and it doesn’t extinguish my ego but gives it fuel.
“This trick again,” I growl the words out. Or try to. It comes out slurred, mangled. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t say it for them.
Just for me.
I push, shoving back against the pressure, against the metaphorical chains that attempt to bind me. Fingers clench into a fist that pounds the floor once, then again. Pain flares down broken knuckles, but it’s pain I can use.
I use it to stand, to meet the man’s eyes. Meet and realize they’re reptilian in nature. Golden, with slitted pupils and a fire burning deep within. Meet and note he’s smiling.
It’s smiling.
So I smile back, though mine is more a snarl. I shove back as hard as I can and my heart speeds up, having restarted at some point. It beats fast, but it beats. My breathing evens out, even if it’s deep. The pressure, that was at first too heavy to bear, becomes manageable. Like most tragedies, time and will make it bearable. If painful.
“The Dragon,” I state, naming him.
My eyes travel to the side, blink as I spot another anomaly. Floating above a chair is a single twisted eye clad in a robe. The eye looks, feels familiar, bloated with fat and power. The library aids me, offering details.
“The Weaver.” I incline my head toward the eye.
It blinks but offers no other indication.
“You might as well let her up too,” the Lady cuts in. I follow the small gesture, the way she turns her body, and finally notice Mikito.
She’s kneeling, one hand gripping Hitoshi, the other on her knee. She is grimacing in pain and determination as she struggles to stay upright. Something in her eyes, something in the way she holds herself makes me wonder if she is trying her hardest.
Or waiting for the opportunity to thrust that polearm through the oh-so-tantalizingly-close dragon.
The pressure releases like a pop and Mikito draws a deep, unhindered breath, as do I. I offer her a half-smile before regarding the trio, making one more quick sweep for others. None that I can see. Which means almost nothing among this company.
“So. You saved us,” I say. “Why?”
“Not even a thank you?” the Dragon asks. Like the Lady, his Status is empty of any useful information.
“If you did it from the kindness of your hearts, without agenda or expectation of return, sure. Thank you.” I let the silence drag out a little. “But that’s not why you did it.”
The Lady slides into a chair, leaning back in it ever so slightly. The chair reforms to make itself more comfortable and, conversely, also emphasize her figure. Not that she needs any help.
The Weaver blinks. Once.
“No, it’s not,” the Lady says. A slight movement and a drink appears, forming above the table and allowing her to snag it. The pale, amber drink within the dainty fluted glass with a handle reminds me of whisky or tea.
I stay silent while she sips her tea and the Dragon stares at me as I stand there, waiting. Mikito shifts slightly, putting herself directly behind the most obvious threat. The silence drags on until such time as the Lady conjures a wooden, tiered display of snacks reminiscent of a snooty high tea restaurant.