“What took you so long?”

“…”

“I expected you days ago.” Gerard tapped his watch. “You’re late.”

For a few seconds all Dorian did was stare. “You’re alive.”

Gerard spread his hands. “I was given a last-second warning. Call it Fate.” There was that quirk of the lips again, so fast it was nearly a twitch. The tiniest of smiles.

“You’re alive,” said Dorian again. Words seldom failed him. For him there was usually no such thing as ‘nothing to say,’ for ‘nothing’ was so easily filled by ‘nonsense.’ But right now his tongue felt like a plank of dry wood in his mouth. “Gerard?”

“Indeed.”

There was a long, heavy, almost uncomfortable pause.

Which was punctured by Sun chucking her Jingu Bang with a battle-cry that sounded more like a dying gasp.

Gerard tilted his head just enough to let the edge of the pan sail past the curve of his eyebrow. Not a fraction of an inch more.

“Who the fuck are you?!” cried Sun.

“A wine connoisseur. A gardener. A servant. And, most recently, homeless. Possibly soon—an accomplice to insurrection.” Gerard arched a brow. “And who are you, might I ask?”

“Sun Wukong the Ninth, heir to the Wukong lineage. Stay back, buddy! You don’t know who you’re messing with.” She tried snarling like a pit bull. She had all the menace of a chihuahua.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Gerard mildly.

“Down, runt,” said Dorian in a far-away voice, putting a hand on her head. She let out a sort of wheeze which somehow managed to have a questioning inflection. “This is... Gerard. A servant of mine who I’d thought lost forever. Until just now.”

“But you needn’t take my word for it,” said Gerard, unruffled. “We met when you hunted me as Salas Godhunter in the 14th century. But I gather a handful might know that. Something more personal, then—your least favorite color is gray, for you claim it is the color of entropy. And most recently, you smashed my tea table after your last run.”

Gerard sniffed. “I quite liked that one.”

“Fuck. It is you.” Another pause. “Hells, you old stick, I could hug you!”

“…Please, spare me.”

Gerard eyed him warily, slightly tensed—ran a worried eye over his goop-soaked form—and Dorian laughed. Gerard never had been a touchy one at the best of times. And now was as far from the best of times as Dorian could recall.

“Don’t worry,” snorted Dorian. “Your coat’s safe. Hugging’s not my style anyhow. But my, my. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see you.”

“I’m pleased to see you as well, my liege. Despite the circumstances.”

Dorian opened his mouth. Gerard beat him to it.

“No, your bodies have not survived. Nor your treasures, unfortunately. Escape was something of a last-minute affair…”

Grumpily, Dorian shut his mouth.

“Though I have come bearing gifts.” Gerard gingerly stepped out of the way of a slush-surge gripping half the walkway.

“May we speak elsewhere? This place…” He wrinkled his nose. “Saddens the soul.”

***

A ladder up and they were out on the streets of Ur. Streets that ranged a plethora of monsters—a sampling of the most nefarious species in Hell. The demons alone dripped dark qi everywhere. With so many diverse flavors of horrible, Sun and him, caked in waste, hardly stood out.

Gerard handed them masks anyways. They clung to the face, flat and matte black, showing the eyes and little else. A secondary cloaking spell seemed attached to it; it flowed over his body now, subtly damping his aura, blurring his features. “You’ll find you’re rather famous—infamous—in the city already. We must take care.”

“Am I, now?” said Dorian, amused.

“The Kingdom blames the deaths of two of its heirs—and the permanent disfigurement of a third—on you. The bounty is quite astronomical.”

“How much are they offering?”

“On the order of twelve thousand…”

Dorian whistled.

“… peak-grade Spirit Stones.”

“Saints!” He nearly jumped at that. That’s ‘top-shelf-of-the-Auction’ type money!

“Most from Jez. But the Kingdom added another slab.”

Dorian pressed the mask a little tighter. With that kind of money he wagered half the Kingdom knew his face.

“…But I have arranged a safe house. Let us speak further with fewer prying ears about. Follow me,” said Gerard. They struck out along a curved stone path.

The city of Ur was arranged like spokes on a wheel. There was a curved path at the middle, circling the King’s palace—the center of the wheel—those crimson spires they’d seen in the distance, sprung up like a giant trident, flush with gold-green flags, walled off by golden fencing and so many arrays they looked like a giant translucent dome of pure qi.

It was here that the Royal Auction would be held.

For now, the spokes that were far more interesting. Each was a wide street crammed full of bustling shops, except each street was also themed for one kind of good. They passed the metalworkers’ street, paved with steel, which rang with hammered metal, sparks showering out of every other window. Suits of armor—a bronze breastplate for a dragon, a silver helmet made for minotaurs—were put on proud display before flung-open doors. Dorian passed over it. His scales would serve just fine, and metal would only slow him.

What drew his eye more was its neighboring street. The Martial Street. Gyms on one side, each dedicated to a specific Martial Art. An open-air gym where greased-up minotaurs wrestled for all to see atop mats so worn they looked like soggy bread. A gym for jiangshi to train their bites, sharpen their teeth. An aerobatics gym for flying monsters, and giant sinkholes were the lava-dwellers did battle. All teeming with life.

The right side was mostly Technique shops. Stone signs hung from gleaming redsteel rafters. He’d stop by one of these for a fist Technique soon. Even better if he could find a Martial Art tailored to dragon-bloodlines. He doubted he’d find one tailored to the Torchdragon itself—Torchdragons were stupid rare—but even an adjacent art would help tremendously.

“Sir, it is always possible to return later,” said Gerard gently. “We have business.”

“Sure. Just one thing! I’ll be quick.”

He was off before Gerard could dissuade him.

Four shops down on the gyms side, a plaque had caught his eye.

[THE SPIRIT PAVILION] It read. It was embossed in gold and set on the front face of a three-floored pagoda made entirely of silver. Two round windows shone from the second floor, gleamed like smiling eyes. A square doorframe made the pagoda’s gaping mouth. There was no gate itself; you went in and out as you pleased, apparently. Spirits didn’t think much of boundaries.

“Isn’t this that ghost-fighting thing?” Sun’s voice floated at him from behind. “Grandpa always tried to make me do it.”

“Spirit fighting,” corrected Dorian. “They’re headquartered in the ghost realm. But they have outlets in cities across all of Hell.”

The premise was simple. For aspiring fighters and seasoned vets alike you’d ideally wish to test your strength and train yourself—without the threat of constant mutilation. Even hard sparring at a high level was a life-and-death affair.

The Spirit Pavilion offered folk a chance to do battle in the Spirit Plane. It was fighting without fighting, a simulation of sorts where the spirits, attached to spirit clones of their bodies, did battle in a kind of sandbox world. There was even a popular and highly lucrative sport made of it, with championships and grudge matches and a cottage betting industry. Something to consider, perhaps, later on…

He did plan on visiting the Ghost Realm—now that was an intriguing place, and excellent for martial and Dao progression. A visit was in order after this Ur business. It was also the Spirit Pavilion that did the Multiversal Rankings of Gods, Empyreans, and Godkings.

That was what he was after now. After all his strength was all over the place. His qi was far beyond a God of the same level. His Bloodline lagged behind. His Dao was a beginner God’s. Where did he stand overall?

The Multiverse’s rankers would know. He strode up to a counter, where a ghost-lady greeted him. Or, more accurately, looked at him in a ‘what-do-you-want?’ sort of way, her aged face sagging with loose skin, drooping her mouth.

“One ranking crystal, please.”

“Ten low Stones.” Low-grade Spirit stones. It was Gerard who forked them over. The lady all but chucked the crystal at him with a levitation spell.

“Thank you!” said Dorian to nobody in particular, since she’d already turned away. That was the thing about ghosts. The worst had already happened to them, so why did they need to give a shit, really?

He clasped his hands over the crystal’s surface, poured in some qi, and gave the thing a light shake. Then it felt, for one instant, like he and the crystal were one—he was outside himself, the outside world fading to dull echoes of itself, a blur of light and color. A vast eye seemed to open up before him. It scanned him head-to-toe. He shivered. The instant passed.

[Assessment Complete.]

[User Dao Level: God]

[User Rank: 184]

[User Percentile: 99.998%]

Hm. 184th strongest God in the Multiverse. Not awful, considering only my qi is even sort of up to snuff…The Dao Fruit were a good start! But the rank’s hardly anything to be proud of.

Most Gods would be ecstatic at such a rank! But of course Dorian was not most Gods. All this meant was there were still 183 Gods ahead of him. Almost all of them were at the peak of their Dao as Gods; some chose not to move to Empyrean on purpose. Some of them had held those positions for millennia. The distance between him and the top dozen or so Gods was still vast. This was a Multiverse of billions! The elite at each power level, even God were monsters in the truest sense. Those top rankers could handle the typical Empyrean with ease.

First he’d gather the bulk of his resources here at Ur. There were some serious heists to be made.

Then some intensive martial training at the Ghost Realm and its legendary Pavilions was in order…

The journey to Empyrean was nothing like the journey up to God. It was nothing even like the journey to Demigod. This was where the true grind began—but also where monsters separated themselves from mere men.

Soon, he vowed to himself.

“Done?” said Gerard.

Dorian took a long look at the opposite street, where colorful clumps of stores hawked Martial Techniques. “For now.” He tore his eyes away. “Right—on with it!”

So much to steal, so much to buy, so much to train, so much to drink, and eat—so many ranks to climb…

Speaking of—

He turned to Gerard.

“So where is this safehouse, anyways?” said Dorian. “And you said you brought gifts?”