Sam didn’t go with Mari—Diana—to meet his parents. He’d had his conversation with her, now they could have theirs. He didn’t know what would pass between them, if they would come up with the same solution or if they, being both older and wiser—hah, or at least one out of the two—than him, would find some different ground to stand on.

Now he stalked the halls of his dungeon, barely knowing where he was going. The fire in his breast had finally banked, warm embers still alive but no longer threatening to burn his soul to a crisp. But now the fire in his mind roared to life, burning hot and bright as it tried to digest everything that had happened to him in the last hour or so.

It was all spinning out of control. All coming at him too fast, from too many directions. Araxesendenak was bad enough, and would have required more than he would have imagined that he had to give just to deal with that threat. But there was Quentin’s mysterious mistress to deal with as well—and damn him if he hadn’t forgotten to ask the damn dragon any questions about that person. Maybe he could still message him, see if he’d be willing to divulge anything about her.

And there was Melloram. Some of it, anyway. Looking to him for salvation from a lich king. Except there was also Councilwoman Milthorne, who would probably throw a hissy fit when she discovered what the majority of the town was looking to do, and who would probably try to have Sam assassinated somehow. And, now, beyond that, there was Apollyon. And Mar—Diana. And the fallacy of the world. And. And and and. Too many ‘and’s piled up one after the other in his brain, feeling like they might explode at any moment.

He could feel himself being stretched in too many directions. It was like he was back in the dungeon… Gods, just a bare week ago, being pulled between Rakun and Cora and an unknown faceless entity that wanted him dead.

Of course, he’d managed to get through that, hadn’t he? Maybe he could do the same thing here. He had allies. He had friends and family, people upon whom he could rely even as they in turn relied on him.

Except half of this stuff he couldn’t even talk about. Not if Apollyon was right, and Sam wasn’t ready to test the theory that he might be lying. If he was, no harm no foul. If he wasn’t, then the System would turn upon him, and presumably the combined might of these Five.

He found himself at the dungeon gates. They were heavy steel and timber edifices, built to withstand siege engines and dragon fire, guarded by two of the higher-level kobolds who nodded at him as he approached.

“Churrus, Seresh,” He nodded back. He’d taken trouble to learn the names of everyone who followed him, after the battle with Rakun. “I’m heading out, I think.”

“Sure thing Chief,” Churrus said crisply, turning to a lever and yanking it down. Mechanisms unspooled within the gate, and it swung ponderously open, letting in a blast of cool night air. Gods, he was even losing track of time. He’d forgotten how late it was.

“Are you well, chief?” Seresh asked, her tongue flicking out, testing the air. “You seem distracted.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he said with a wry smile. “Keep an eye out for dragons.”

“We shall,” they both said solemnly.

Sam checked his equipment before stepping out. Thumb Bane hung by his side, his harness was equipped and at about half-power—he’d have to remember to put it on charge tonight—and all his abilities were available to him. Given the events of the past week, he’d decided it wasn’t prudent to go anywhere without being armed to the teeth.

On a whim, as he walked, he went into his inventory and withdrew the bolt-thrower he’d looted from the minotaur. It appeared in his hands, and again he was struck by the solidness and craftsmanship in the weapon.

It was semi-automatic, automatically loading a bolt from a sprint-loaded clip in the stock. The clip could, when empty, be quickly stripped out and another one inserted in its place. Mana runes glowed quietly all up and down the frame, some of them adding power to the bolts as they left the barrel, some of them designed to launch the bolt itself with power greater than a crossbow of this size. It was a very well-thought-out, powerful weapon.

And dammit, he should have grabbed the others while he’d been in the red room. Damn damn damn. That was the problem with moving so fast. You forgot things. Missed things that were right in front of your face. He growled and shoved it back into his inventory, shaking his head in disgust.

The moon was full tonight, and cast weird shadows across the shattered ground. This whole area outside the dungeon had been ripped apart, raised, folded, and sundered anew by Cora’s awakening, leaving it a thousand square yards of blasted no-man’s land of boulders and crevices and gullies in between the mountain of God’s Thumb and its new hill cousins around and across from it.

And let’s not forget I still need to get the rest of the crew back, too, he thought as he walked. Too much. It was just too much. Still. He thought he’d gotten past this before, that he’d managed to learn the lessons of delegation and choosing your battles…

The problem was, the battles seemed to keep choosing him.

He snorted a laugh as he trudged down across the broken ground towards the lights of town. What was his plan? Why was he even going this way? No immediate reason presented itself. He just needed to move, to be away from the dungeon, and Mari-Diana dammit—and everything else.

He just needed a moment to breathe.

The problem, he thought after a few more silent steps, is I’m constantly playing catch-up against creatures who are more powerful and know more than I do.

He always felt three steps behind and twenty exchanges dumber than everyone he was facing. And… If he was being honest, it was probably right that he felt that way. For all the power of his Heirloom Weapon and Harness, for all the strength his Guardian Powers gave him, for all the strange build combinations he could achieve with that Unfettered Access racial ability, he was still only a level 8.

A level 8 going up against creatures dozens of levels higher than he, if they even adhered to the concepts of levels at all. Apollyon surely didn’t have a level. Araxesendenak was so old and so powerful he practically transcended the idea of levels altogether. And that ‘mistress’ of Quentins…

He stopped about a hundred yards from town and frowned, something the dragon had said came bubbling back up into his memory.

(Paraphrasing): Thou declared thyself her enemy with thine own words.

“When the hell did I do that?” he asked aloud. He turned in place and stared back the way he had come, at the dungeon in the distance and past it, as if somehow he might find answers in the rocky terrain.

Who the hell did I declare myself an enemy of?

It must have been recent. After his reincarnation as Guardian. People who commanded the fealty of dragons didn’t spend effort to squish level 6 19 year-old inventors. No, it had to be after he’d bonded with Cora.

Something to do with Sally? He frowned. That didn’t sound possible… Unless maybe that mysterious third sister she kept talking about? Could she have that kind of power?

Might as well ask.

Sam: Sally. Question. Is your sister, the one you won’t introduce to me, trying to kill me with dragons?

Sally: … That is the single dumbest question I have ever been asked. Are you high?

Sam: Look, the dragon said I pissed someone off with my own words, and said ‘she’ wanted me dead because of it. I figured the only ‘she’ I might have cheesed off is your sister. How about it?

Sally: Butter-boy, you are cute, but you’re dumb as a left-handed hammer. If my sister could sic dragons on someone, do you think I would have been working for my jackass guardian that whole time?

Sam: Oh. Right. I guess not, huh?

Sally: Hey, looks like the hamster finally woke up. Tell that little guy to hydrate more before he starts working that wheel. Anything other stupid questions you’d like to ask? Like maybe if I’m the maharajah of the kumquat kingdom? Or if I’m secret planning on murdering you in your sleep? Spoiler alert, the answer to at least one of those questions is ‘no’.

Sam: Right. Sorry Sally, just trying out possibilities.

Sally: Well while you’re checking possibilities, did it ever occur to you to maybe check your messages and see if you inadvertently pissed anyone besides me off in them?

Ah hell, that was actually a good idea.

Sam: Thanks Sally. I’ll do that.

Sally: Whatever.

Sam smirked and went to pull up his menu. The Map tab was open, having remained so after his time in the White Room. He was about to tab over to his Messages menu when a flash of color on the map caught his eye. He looked, saw himself represented by a gold dot, right in the center of the map like always. And—

A trio of red dots closing fast from the east. To his right.

He spun, Thumb Bane appearing in his hand.

Then he dove to the side, feeling the kiss of wind as a crossbow bolt passed his shoulder, right where his heart would have been had he been a second slower.

And even as he dodged, he saw a flash of light and felt the impact of something—A spell!—slamming into his chest. A warning message flared in his display, red box with flashing yellow letters.

You have been Gob-Smacked.

Status Effect: Disconnected! You may not use the message system for 1 minute/caster level minutes.

Status Effect: Spellbound! You may not cast spells with a verbal component for 10 seconds/caster level.

Status Effect: Silenced: You cannot utter a vocal sound for 1 minute/caster level.

Well. Shit.