God Class, page 29
All fell silent again as they moved forward, the information weighing heavily on Silas. He felt like a fool. Despite believing he was the center of this dream, or game, or whatever, these people had seemed so vivid. It was easy for him to forget that they had their own histories, their own struggles. They were not pawns in his game of chess but were each important pieces in their own right. He could not help but feel a little selfish for not considering the others.
In the distance he could see Argor, Burbles riding on his head, and they had stopped in a particularly dense patch of forest where the canopy had been solid enough to block a majority of the rain, leaving a near perfect ring of dry land large enough for the group to rest. It may have only been a small patch of dirt, but for Silas it was an oasis.
He was soaked, half clothed, and exhausted. Every strand of muscle in his legs felt like H’Alik had set them on fire, his back ached, and his head pounded like a distant war drum. Silas had also not had any solid rest since he had arrived, despite the strain he had been putting on himself since the moment he arrived. They could sit, they could sleep, maybe they could even start a fire. Argor may not care, and Burbles definitely wouldn’t, but he knew Tulk would feel as relieved as him if they could just have some form of mild comfort.
“You both need to rest,” Argor said as they approached, as if reading Silas’s mind. “Flesh and blood are weak to the elements and must recover. I know this… I know many things now.”
“What gave it away?” Tulk grumbled sarcastically as he approached the dry patch.
“Your demeanor, sluggish behavior, poor attitudes, general disposition,” Argor answered.
Silas chose to ignore them as he stepped food on solid, dry ground for the first time in hours and immediately plopped down. He rested his back on a large tree, ignore the discomfort of the dry wood digging into his back to instead bask in the freedom that was dry land. Without the rain falling over him, he could enjoy the rhythmic beat of rain drops splashing on the leaves a hundred or so feet above him as if it were ambient music. Silas shut his eyes, placing his hands behind his head and sighing in relief. After a moment, Burbles scurried up and placing herself on his lap, settling down to rest as well.
“Any chance we could start a fire?” Silas called out, eyes still closed. “Even a small one?”
“With what? Do not see a dry branch in sight, other than the Guardian. And no access to flint for a fire, stones are too wet right now. Be lucky the ground is dry, human,” Tulk grunted, but Silas took no offense. They were all tired, and it affected everyone differently.
“I believe I may be of some assistance…” Argor said, trailing off and looking around the area with its glowing eyes.
It crouched down in the center of the circle, both of its hands pressed to the dry dirt. It made a humming sound, but Silas did not think it sounded intentional. It had been abrupt and subtle, and he thought it could be that the Guardian just did not know how to communicate with its own Helper properly without some kind of verbal element to it. After a moment, its glowing eyes dimmed a bit, then brightened more than they had been previously as if a star exploded in their wooden skull. Silas’s own eyes went from half shut to wide awake.
The ground before it moved a little, a small mound like an ant hill forming and growing between its hands. Soon, the dirt gave way to a wooden structure, about the size of a basketball and shaped like a crescent moon. It broke through the confines of the earth and continued to rise, the bottom of the crescent connecting to a long wooden shaft. It was rough, yet beautiful. There were knots on the wood, and natural lines and creases, but ultimately it was a structure born of the pure power of nature.
Silas recognized it immediately as a staff, and his grin widened. He wanted it.
Before Silas could speak, the ground spit out another one, and then one more. Three near identical staves rose and stood in place, their bottoms partially submerged in the dirt and their height reaching just over Silas’s head. He practically drooled seeing them. There was no doubt that they did not have any special quality to them just yet, but Silas knew that there was a way to do so.
Hey, voice thing, Silas thought to himself, watching the staves carefully. What abilities do I have that would allow me to turn those staves into something powerful? Like an enchant item power or something?
[Question accepted: Item enchantment abilities list]
[Ability: Sacred Bounty. Type: Celestial, Spirit. Rank: Catastrophic. Cost: None. Cooldown: Single cast. Duration: Permanent. Effect: Allows for items to be enchanted or imbued with magical properties, increasing their effectiveness and value. Upon casting, Sacred Bounty will automatically enchant all items in Galleon of rare quality or above with randomized properties]
[Promote Object. Status: Locked. Requirement: Sacred Bounty must have been cast, an enchanted or imbued object]
[The Bonding of Souls. Status: Locked. Requirement: Sacred Bounty must have been cast, the hearth of an elemental spirit, an item of rare quality or above]
Silas grinned wider. Seeing as how Sacred Bounty was not listed as one of the locked abilities it must have been obtained when he reached level 13, or possibly even 12. He could not stop the images in his mind of powerful staves shooting lightning, swords roaring in endless fire, bows that shot arrows of pure shadow energy. The possibilities were endless, and it sounded like Sacred Bounty was just the catalyst to much greater rewards later. He almost frowned after realizing the implications of using this ability though. It would not be his items that were imbued, but all items of value.
For their group it may be only the staves. Silas’s clothes were of low quality, and even the gauntlet Tulk had given him couldn’t possibly hold any significant magical properties. Tulk’s weaponry and equipment, while decent by Goblin standards, were all pretty much junk as well from what Silas could tell. But, someone like the emperor he had heard so much about would surely have stockpiles of high quality weapons, armors, jewelry, and all kinds of objects that would almost certainly raise his power tenfold. Then, there was H’Alik. If the Shaman Arsonist, who already had tremendous power as it was, had enchanted daggers to deal with on top of it Silas would see no way of ever taking her down.
Before he could decide what to do, Argor raised one if its arms and, with a powerful swipe, broke the three staves in half.
“What?! No!” Silas shouted, jumping up and sending Burbles to the ground.
“No!” The crab gargled back in its own angry tone, staring up at Silas and clicking its toxic claws.
Argor raised its other arm and smashed the staves again, breaking them into more pieces. It arranged them into a campfire formation, and Tulk shook away his own astonishment to walk over and help the Guardian set them in a way to better circulate airflow. Silas watched, slack jawed and crushed. Images of himself, crescent staff in one hand and a fireball in another, vanished. He felt as if every fantasy novel wizard and sorcerer were laughing at him, and he sulked back to his tree.
He knew Argor could probably make more, but the initial sight of them being crushed to firewood still didn’t feel all that great; being weaponless as it was.
“There,” Tulk said, admiring the intertwining fragments of the staves. “That’s how you build a campfire, Guardian. See?” He looped a green gnarled finger around it, visually showing how the fire can breathe. “A good campfire is more than a pile of wood to set ablaze, it is one that will last the longest and warm the most.”
“I see now,” Argor answered, fascinated by it all. “Thank you for showing me this, savage green one.”
“Tulk…” the Goblin growled and moved back to his own tree, sliding down to a seat. “Still need fire though, like I said. Your wood trick was fun, but-”
With an outstretched hand, Argor sent out a flare of swirling, dancing, verdant flames. They were the color of fresh grass or healthy moss, unbelievably green and bright. It was only a small pulse of it, nowhere near the power of H’Alik’s fire, but it slowly moved down towards the arrangement and settled on the wood. The green flames behaved strangely, almost laying across the wooden pieces rather than consuming them or charring them. They grew like puddles of spilled water grew, slowly spready over the staff pieces until they were completely coated, then it slowly rose in height until it had a glow like that of a large lantern, and it gave just subtle hints of warmth rather than that of real fire. The group had to move closer just to feel it at all.
“Faerie Fire,” Argor said, once all had scooted closer. “I do not fully understand its purpose, and the person who now lives in the dark of my thoughts speaks in riddles. However, I had rightfully assumed that a fire was just a fire, despite its title.”
Silas noted that Argor not only had the Helper just like him, but that it was struggling to understand it. Given what he knew already, it was possible that it had given Argor information just like Silas would receive, which meant they were all receiving a series of gaming stats, quests, and interface screens that probably made no sense. He made a promise to spend time with his new companion and try to help it sort it out. But that only brought up other questions for Silas.
Why had Tulk not come up as someone who could receive one of the seven gifts?
As if reading his mind, Tulk spoke up.
“Alright, human,” Tulk nodded thoughtfully. He stared into the dancing green embers as they gently swayed on the logs, moving his eyes to Argor and Burbles before looking back at the flames. He sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh that sounded more like he was unloading some kind of heavy moral burden. He turned to Silas, clearly swallowing his pride. “What does this old trainer have to do to earn these powers of yours?”
Labu LaRella, legendary living island of the four great seas.
Some pondered if it had a mind of its own, and others spent years of their lives tracking it in the hopes of finding a depthless creature who pulled the island along as if it were on a rope. There were even those who wondered if the island were a creature itself, like a colossal turtle roaming the four great seas in search of somewhere to call home. What was strangest of all was that the island never sank, it did not bob up and down with the waves, it did not collide with other land masses. The island just moved like that of a blind elder wandering their home on instinct alone.
Fujiwara Sonju didn’t care for all of the theories and rumors.
To the head of rebel House Sonju, it was just an island. A magnificent, legendary, extraordinary island to be sure, but still just an island. He cared not about its course on the ocean, or its ability to always remain above the tide, he only cared for how it saved his people. It kept them from the grip and eyes of Rainier, it provided bounties of fruit, root vegetables, and fish, and it allowed them to truly see Galleon in all of its vast wonder. Sonju had nearly no complaints.
Except that it was small.
The island had seemed so vast years ago when the fleet admiral had first come upon it with a small group of his most trusted soldiers and advisors. It would take half a day to roam it from one side to another, more than enough for the few dozen that would follow him in his rebellion to be sure. Even better, Sonju was the only navigator he knew of that could track the island’s movements and find it no matter where it shuffled off to. Surely if there were others than Rainier would have found the island by now and sent it to the ocean’s depths. But the emperor had not, and this was a small beat of pride for Fujiwara Sonju.
He had not anticipated the hundreds that would now live under his banner.
Labu LaRella moved at a steady pace today, a bit faster than average but not nearly as swift as he had seen it move in times before. His dark hair blew in the wind like a warrior’s cape, his admiral’s jacket flapping at his sides. He stood on Watchtower A, a tall structure set at what they had assumed was the head of the island. The island never changed direction, often making broad circles if it wanted to, meaning that this would surely be the front, which allowed them to dock their ships with heavy chains in the rear to avoid collisions.
Atop Watchtower A, Sonju could see the glossy sea spread out before him for infinite miles. Waves rose into peaks and crashed before him, the calming sounds of sloshing oceans making him feel at home. It represented emptiness for him, but an emptiness that was malleable. A true sea of possibilities and adventure, that is what his younger self believed.
He sighed as he turned around and viewed his people.
Building structures was difficult here due to the lack of resources. Most of the stronger homes had taken months to build properly, with long moments in between where they would have to make waves in their ships for the nearest port to gather more supplies. This left them with a handful of houses that were worthy of the name, and many eyesores that left an ache in his gut.
Throughout the years, House Sonju did what they had to do. This resulted in the taking of some smaller fleet vessels, or even passenger ships, by force. For the sake of his own honor, Fujiwara Sonju always ensured the innocent were taken to the nearest town they could dock in with most of their supplies in check, but the forces of Rainier did not have such an easy time. Piracy was not what Sonju wanted his legacy to be, but as he looked out on the many ships run aground and repurposed as housing units, he knew it was what they needed.
It looked more like a ship graveyard than a true city, but it would not always be this way. Sonju told them this as much for their sakes as for himself.
“Captain,” a woman said, making her way up the watchtower holding a parchment scroll in one hand and a flintlock pistol in the other. She worked her way to the top of the tower and stood before Sonju on the landing, placing the pistol to her chest and making a deep bow. “Representatives of House Cilipe have arrived, they bring this from their parliament, sir.”
Sonju looked around uncomfortably, keeping his hand low but waving the woman upward. He spoke harshly under his breath.
“Come on, Djamila, get up. You know I hate this charade.”
Djamila smiled, standing back to attention and running a hand through her sea of thick, dark hair. It had been adorned with various treasures she had been gifted from civilians saved during raids by Rainier’s soldiers. There were small gems, trinkets of gold and silver from precious metals, or the occasion perfectly crafted seashell representing various family heirlooms. They bedazzled her hair like stars in the midnight sky and glimmered in the sunlight. Badges of honor, worn with insurmountable pride and respect.
“It is House Sonju, yes?” She replied, a bit of snark behind her words. Her eyes, large and watchful, met his and he could not help but share her grin. “If it were House Bashar then you would be bowing to me.”
Sonju stepped forward just a little, keeping appropriate space between them for any prying eyes on the island below. The wooden railing would block most of them, so he moved his hand to hers, sliding over her dark knuckles with his calloused hands as if by accident as he accepted the scroll from her. Their smiles never dulled.
“If it were House Bashar, I’d bow gratefully,” Sonju answered, then began unrolling the scroll. “Perhaps I’ll bow anyway.”
“And perhaps I will toss you off of the watchtower,” She added playfully.
“Perhaps I’ll bow anyway,” he repeated.
Djamila Bashar chuckled a bit, hiding it under her hand as if she were scratching her nose as Sonju read over the document. His face went from joyful to indifferent the more he read. Sonju almost took on a bored expression, as if reading something he had been forced to read ten times over. He extended olive branches to both of the primary rebel Houses in the hopes that their combined might may turn the tide. It was not something he regretted, their connections had been mutually beneficial, but there were moments where he questioned how things could have been different. Perhaps Serrula would still be alive, then he would not have to read this notice at all or entertain her emissaries.
He sighed, shoulders slumped, wind being taken out of his sails.
“So, I should assume it isn’t the Empire’s surrender?” Djamila queried with a raised brow.
Sonju shook his head. “More of the same. They are leaderless; voiceless. They want to hold an election on who will represent their faction and have requested I act as the arbiter.” Sonju sighed even louder. “Great. Politics.”
Djamila shrugged. She holstered her pistol and put her hands on her hips, staring out into the blue sky and rolling seas.
“I don’t know,” she said, the sunlight reflecting in her eyes like two distant suns. “They respect you; they need you. I’d consider it a badge of honor.”
“You…” Sonju said, slipping his hand onto hers. “Have not spent enough time in the capital, princess.”
“Shut it,” she remarked, swatting him away. “A princess of desolate sands is no princess at all. And, I’ll have you know, I am grateful to the former Gods above that I have not spent any time in the capital.”
The two shared a laugh as they made their way down the curving stairs of the watchtower together. It was a somber laugh, full of harsh ironies and truths that were so apparent they could only be met with humor. They moved the rest of the way down in silence, coming to the bottom and walking through the makeshift streets of their makeshift town. Wooden ships rose around them, vessels turned into homes that sprang up like small mountain peaks cutting into the sky. People moved from one to another, hauling food or supplies as needed, and restocking the various shops they had created.
Markets, butcheries, bakeries. A small blacksmith forge, a tailor and a leatherworker. There was a gunsmith that, while ill-equipped, managed to service their wide arsenal of ranged weaponry, which was one of the few things to separate House Sonju from the armies under Rainier.
It was a costly choice, but worth it.
The emissaries of House Cilipe were waiting at the bottom of Watchtower C on the eastern side of the island. Sonju had signaled them with a long-distance alchemic flare days prior to give them an idea of where they would be located. It was a risk, it always was, but only the emissaries of Cilipe truly knew what the flares meant. To any nearby port city or town, it would look like thin trails of glittering smoke, but the emissaries would scout it right away and let their parliament know that they are making contact with House Sonju. Though, Sonju could do without their strange methods.
