He stopped, the mention of “levels” resonating within him, reaching some vague knowledge he’d locked down deep in his memory. It wasn’t something he’d ever needed to call upon, so Keaton hadn’t thought about it since learning such things.
“There you are. Use that sharp mind of yours and I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she taunted, her laugh sounding at once like the melodic tinkling of bells… and the scrape of someone’s fingernail against glass.
Keaton thought back to the brief stint he’d spent in school. When he’d grown up, the king had instituted a law saying all orphans needed to receive at least five years of schooling so they could grow up to be productive members of society. Meaning, of course, that they’d been taught what they needed to know to work in a mine or die on the front lines of a fight that wasn’t theirs.
For a brief time, though, Keaton had been placed in a class of wonders. A class where he’d been taught about Anima and the systems that governed its usage. He’d been told about the levels of advancement for one’s personal self as well as the powers they commanded.
He’d also been told that advanced manipulators of Anima were able to commune with Anima itself, seeing information right before their eyes as if reading it from a book.
Keaton drew in a sharp breath. “But I’m not a Manipulator. I’m not even sensitive to Anima. I was put in those classes by mistake.”
“You humans have such restrictive views of who can and cannot use Anima, and how they can use it.” The daemon shook her head. “Did you never find it strange that you almost always knew the perfect marks? That you could tell when someone was just vulnerable enough to be swindled out of their hard-earned coin? That you knew which heartstrings to tug so that you could endear yourself to others and stay alive that much longer?”
“That’s just instinct,” he protested, not liking the way she laid his tactics out before him. “Street smarts.”
“Call it whatever you like, but your ability to interact with Anima is not new. You’re simply able to channel it into something a bit more strategic now.”
It made no sense, and yet when Keaton thought about it… maybe it was more than just luck. Maybe he could comprehend the systems of Anima after all. But why was he being given information about…
“The Labyrinth is the name of this place,” he said, feeling like an idiot for not realizing that sooner. “But I still don’t understand. How can I see all of this information? The dungeon’s level, the number of minions…”
“Did you not feel the transfer of energy from the crystal to you? The siphoning of life force from the previous dungeon lord? You humans truly are as infants with these things, I swear.”
She draped herself over the crystal in a way that might have been comical were the situation not so dire, her plump lips pursed in a pretty pout.
“I felt… something…”
Keaton had never considered himself to be stupid. There were some concepts he had a hard time understanding, but he wasn’t stupid, and when he allowed himself to think logically, the answer was easy to find.
“I’m… I’m the new lord of this dungeon. That’s… that can’t be right. I didn’t—”
Didn’t what, exactly? Sign a contract? Shake on a deal? He’d killed the old dungeon lord. He’d fed the crystal his own blood. He’d done everything the daemon had told him to do and—
“You tricked me,” he growled out, gripping the blood-stained dagger as if it would be any help against a daemon.
She looked completely unfazed, even going so far as to roll her eyes at him. “Oh, yes. I tricked you into a lucrative career path. A new life where you can be more powerful than you’ve ever dreamed.”
“A life as a dungeon lord,” he hissed, an icy chill settling over him as reality began to take hold. “Someone who enslaves people. Tortures, maims, kills just for the joy of it. Someone evil!”
The daemon scoffed at that. “I see your poor understanding of Anima is rivaled by your idiotic perception of morality. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, given what they teach your kind.” She sighed, then spoke slowly, as if explaining herself to a child. “All I have given you is a tool. What you choose to do with that tool is up to you. A stonemason can choose to build a shelter for the infirm, or he can choose to build a prison to hold those who are not of his kind. Your morality dictates which of those is ‘good,’ and yet in both cases, he uses the same tools to get there. Do you understand, Keaton?”
His choice. He’d never really had a choice before. The idea of stealing only from the rich, of choosing only the marks who deserved it was nice in theory. It made him feel better about himself. But the reality was that those with fat purses would always pass on their losses to the people they controlled. Vassals, tenants, subjects they ruled over. Taxes would increase to make up for the paltry sum he’d taken, and good people would suffer regardless.
Keaton had always done his best within the confines of the system that ruled his life. He’d broken mostly even in terms of morality, but there’d never really been a meaningful choice. Rob one man or rob another. Pick one tavern to cheat dice within or pick another. Choices, but ultimately not ones that had any impact on his life.
The only meaningful choice he’d ever made was to pursue Elena; to try and make himself a better man for her sake. And the memory of how that turned out left a bitter taste in Keaton’s mouth.
Could he actually be in control of his own destiny? Could he make a better life for his own sake, not someone else’s? Was it really possible to use the tools a dungeon lord was provided to make something he could live with?
“Those are the questions, hm?” The daemon smiled playfully at him. “I’m afraid I cannot answer any of them, darling. What I can say is that you are not bound to this dungeon. You can leave as you wish, so there’s no risk in seeing what comes of it…”
If he could walk away, leave all this behind with no consequences, then maybe there was no harm in it. He didn’t have to be evil just because he was a dungeon lord, right? No one was going to control what he did. He was the one in command of this entire dungeon now. He could fill it with helpful spaces — spaces built for people like him who were just trying to get by.
And maybe having a little bit of power and control over his life was appealing. The peace he’d found with Elena was just an illusion, but this didn’t depend on someone else. All of it rested squarely on his shoulders.
His destiny. His choice.
It sounded too good to be true, and Keaton had learned enough life lessons to know that it likely was.
“What’s the catch,” he asked, directing a hard gaze up toward the daemon.
“The catch?” she lifted a hand to her ample breast, long, curved nails almost seeming to cradle the flesh. “I’ve given you this great gift, and you think—”
“Don’t bullshit me. A daemon’s ‘gift’ always comes with a catch, so what is it?”
“Oh, very well.” She slunk down from the crystal like a cat sliding off a bed, then stretched in such a leisurely way that Keaton felt an urge to yawn. “The ‘catch’ is just that I have a vested interest in your rise to power, my lord.” A suggestive smile graced her lips as she approached him, running one of those long fingernails down his chest. “And a hope that you will one day scratch my back as I’ve scratched yours.”
“So I owe you a debt.”
“Call it that if you wish. I prefer to see it as a favor for a favor.”
Keaton hated being indebted to anyone. He’d always tried to avoid it, no matter the cost. There were already so many situations where he was powerless — he didn’t need to feel that way with anyone else.