5.29

“Prophecies are very limited in reliability, a prophecy proclaiming ‘No man shall ever slay you’ simply means a female would be doing the dirty work.

P.S. Remember to exile all women from the capital. Gotta make sure I live forever.” - Personal memoirs of Tyrant Cornelius the Monarch Bane, best known for progressive tax reform and dying a slow death of gangrene after getting scratched by his pet kitten Zoe.

It began slowly, the man returned to the city, hiding in his manor. His mouth was forever silent on the nature of what happened in the tower, but occasionally, he glanced hauntingly at the clock.

The first sign was an obsession with where things should be, of how they should appear. Alone in a massive manor, he spent his days cleaning every speck of dust by hand.

The clock showed the time 7:46.

He began reading books of law, of how places were governed, yet his hand kept moving to make ‘corrections’. Those who commit crime were undesirable variables, variables that should be removed. No matter how small the crime, should an entity act outside of the predetermined path it needed to be removed. A petty thief or a mass murderer, all deserved to hang.

The clock showed the time 8:13.

Despite being reclusive he began to tour the city, nay patrol it. He saw where people, animals and plants deviated from the natural norm, and he removed them, speaking magic for the first time in years.

The clock showed the time 9:29.

He saw something in that portal, in that gateway to another world. A God called Fenkai. It was the sole ruler of its plane and had brought eternal and lasting peace and order. It was a great god, a god that was needed.

For people here hurt and killed, they refused his truth and would rather succumb to the chaos of their nature rather than the true law of Order. They were flawed and needed Fenkai’s guidance, for men were not meant to govern themselves.

The clock showed the time 10:58.

The great work needed to be complete, and the mage would do it alone. He would reopen that portal he so foolishly closed. He would let the Great God Fenkai back into this realm. He would bring Order.

“Nesiseer?” a woman’s voice rang out.

The man once known as Nesiseer turned around, “Yes?”

“What have you done?” she asked, her face distraught, “you have killed hundreds! You killed Galadand and everyone in the tower! What happened to you? What did you see?”

Questions, unneeded in an Ordered world. This woman was one that was not present during the Great God’s descent. Her confusion was understandable, but she posed an undesirable element, and such elements needed to be… needed to be…

Nesiseer blinked, looking at the woman before him, “Beatrix?”

The woman took a step forward, “Yes?”

Nesiseer turned to the side, where a clock stood.

A clock that showed the time 11:24.

“Oh no,” Nesiseer stumbled, his legs suddenly weak as the weight of his actions suddenly dawned on him. “What have I done?”

The woman, Beatrix, rushed to catch him, and gently she asked, “What did you do?”

Eyes haunted, Nesiseer spoke, “I dug too deep and I found a God of Order.”

“Order? But aren’t they generally good-”

“NO!” Nesiseer yelled, eyes widening with fear, “I saw it! I saw what was inside that world! People reduced to automata! Men becoming naught but cogs in a greater machine! Free will destroyed for the sake of Order. It is a God focused on preserving humanity, but it has achieved it by making them all puppets!”

He pushed off the love of his life, “No no no no nononononono…”

Nesiseer stared once again at the clock.

11:27.

The clock would only count up, it would keep counting up until it finally hit 12 and Nesiseer truly lost his free will.

“His Order is that of a tyrant’s madness, his peace that of a king’s fish tank,” Nesiseer spoke. “It is already too late for me.”

“What are you speaking off Nesiseer?” Beatrix asked, “Explain further!”

And Nesiseer shook his head, “This god cannot be allowed to be known, for that is how he begins to worm his way in. I cannot allow his madness to spread.”

He had a sudden moment of epiphany, a sudden clarity of thought, “Order must be balanced out by Chaos.”

“I said explain yourself Nesiseer!” Beatrix said between tears, “I can’t help you if I don’t know!”

And the man who was once Nesiseer laughed. “I cannot trust my thoughts anymore Beatrix,” he took out a single coin from his pocket, “so I shall trust the only thing truly fair and unpredictable. Something truly random.”

And he flipped the coin.

The next moment, the man who was once Nesiseer dragged out the burnt corpse of the woman he once loved. Outside were dozens of men and women clad in arms waiting for him. To make him answer for all his crimes.

And he laughed, in his other hand he held a clock that no longer showed time and he thought the last sane thought he would ever have, that of his friend’s last words. ‘Oh Shi- Fenkai.’

Galadand had meant to say ‘Oh Shit’ before his mind was taken over.

The man who was once Nesiseer laughed, for the strangest joke came to his mind, “I am Simon! Follower of Osshiven’Kai! Come and face me and know I am a Chaos that opposes Order!”

Dustin fell out of the memory, panting on the ground as the battle was fought around him.

The cultist of Osshiven’Kai was naught but a single leg standing with half a torso and an arm, but it was enough for him to grab Utoqa by the head and throw him into the sky. The lizardfolk crashed into the mage tower, toppling it.

Tai was sweating, barely pacing herself as she cut and cut at the cultist. Several dozen pieces of him were already scattered around the battlefield, kept trapped by Celine, but it was a losing battle.

Only a single moment of hesitation, fueled from her battles without rest, was enough for the cultist to land a single hit, throwing her to the side.

“Well well, I see you have seen the Truth.”

“Why did you show me that?” Dustin uttered. Voice husky as if out of breath.

“I don’t know,” the cultist shrugged, before branding his die, “want me to roll on it?”

Regardless of why, Dustin understood.

Osshiven’Kai was an imaginary god. It did not exist until that man who was once Nesiseer made him up. It was a god of chaos, made for the sole purpose of fighting that alien god. The Order that constantly searched this world’s reality for weakness, so that it may descend and bring about the worst kind of peace. And that he was spared in a sense, for he did not view that god directly, save for learning its name.

Dustin understood that the monster before him was ultimately a force for the better. A force for balance, else Order consumes all.

“If you are good, why do you do this?” he asked. “Why attack us? Did you roll the die on it as well?”

And the man smiled, “Why you should know this Oracle. Why don’t you just use all three?”

“All three?”

“All three Paths that make you an Oracle.”

And Dustin did.

“Observe.”

And memories flashed by his mind.

“You saw that unchecked True Magic could lead to the death of civilisations, so Eve fixed that,” the Historian spoke in an almost admiring way. “She taught the World restraint. She created the Law of Limitations.”

I raised my eyebrow, gesturing him to continue.

“Where the [Developers] failed was that they attempted to push far too complex and specific solutions,” the Historian explained, “as such, Indiri drifted before the World could fully implement it, thus creating sections where it would not hold and places where they eventually evolved past that solution. So, Eve chose to add a single, very simple rule.”

“Limitation,” the Historian said, his hands twitched for a moment, likely wanting to do a dramatic flourish but stopping himself before he did. His hands continued to write as they had been.

“Things have a limit, they have a cost, they have conditions. The expression of magic needs these things. Mana and aura essentially only exist to give magic a cost.”

“The stronger the magic, the greater the cost. The spellcaster needs to gather certain material components, do rituals, speak incantations or make somatic gestures. The condition could even be something as simple as just spending time to learn a technique or spell.”

“How very video game-like.”

…

“Not necessarily,” he answered immediately, “you could attempt to take both, but in doing so you would either destroy one or both or merge them together. Whatever you do, the end result cannot be greater than one.”

…

I stared at him, “Can’t I just take one and get the other later?”

“You could,” he answered, “but not in the near future. You saw what Eve did, in this world limits matter more than strengths. Attempting to cheat will make them both weaker, or worse,” he paused, staring at me head-on, “the World will attempt to remove it.”

My brows furrowed, to which the Historian took as an indicator to continue, “Attempting to take a power without the proper limits or capability may result in calamities visiting you. Each trying to remove the unearned power somehow. If you can survive these calamities with the power still in your grasp, then the power will be considered yours and earned, if you do not, then you will not only lose it, but something more as well.”

…

Within the flames, Noam saw it, the Path of Spitfire. Not the fake he holds and wields, but a truth he could take.

And he hesitated when he realised it could only be gained in taking. However rightfully he earned it, the man would lose in the same way he lost Biting Words. It was an equivalent exchange. A transfer from those worthy and those who weren’t.

The world said he deserved this power.

Noam let go, the flames sputtering out, revealing the heavily burned but living man underneath. His knees collapsed underneath him and Noam fell to the ground. The strange, altered world where they fought disappearing as others rushed to check their wounds.

Dustin’s cap soon loomed over him as the myconid looked down.

“What did you gain from that,” his friend calmly said, his anger impossible to notice unless you knew to look. “You permanently lost a spell, took severe damage. You got nothing.”

Horror seemed to paint the myconid’s face as he began to realise, but he had to confirm, he had to understand it truly.

“Analyse.”

And he saw the truth of the world. A thousand scales, each in precarious balance. He saw himself as one of these scales, so grossly weighed in his favour that the world placed an opposing weight. If it were just the Oracle class it might’ve been fine, but he was also a Traveller. One or the other, both bent the scales against his favour. So the universe changed, a train crashed and Dustin was forced into a collision course with the Accumulation of White Lies. And he saw in front of him, he saw the Accumulation of White Lies, he saw it fall, he saw the worshipper of Osshiven’Kai rise onto the scales.

A power would be faced by likes or opposites or counters. A fire would be met with fire or would be put out with water or earth. The powers to gain knowledge would be faced by the same or the powers of erasing knowledge.

It was just like Noam’s rap battle with that forgotten bard, a Clash. In winning against Noam, the bard stole one of his spells forever, strengthening like with like. In understanding the Accumulation of White Lies, Dustin gained the ability to Predict, strengthening a power by having it beat its opposite.

“Predict.”

And he understood. The Accumulation of White Lies was immune to physical damage, but it had an Achilles Heel in that it was the concept of lies and deception made manifest. Thus enough people witnessing it would kill it instantly. A similar weakness existed for this cultist, a weakness he could grasp with Predict and beat him as well. He had to grasp it, for they were his challenges, challenges for the Diviner to complete. For only in grasping knowledge could these monsters be beaten.

But he saw what would happen should he beat even this madman. Another monster, another beast for his balance was still off, because after the battle with the Accumulation he had obtained Predict.

But he had not earned it.

He earned the right to one power, Observe, and the ability to use another, Predict. Two very different things.

And he saw the scales crashing down even now, for in facing the cultist, he learned three great revelations. The knowledge of the Seventh Hell, of Osshiven’Kai’s true origin and purpose, and the knowledge of balance that he was seeing right now.

If he beat this cultist, he would earn Predict, but not the knowledge it brought him, so another monster came. One that would need to be beaten by him using his Paths and could not be beaten anyway else. For they were his challenge.

And he saw what lay in front of him. An endless cycle of battle, against monsters that controlled knowledge itself. A Path that forever escalated, one that grew like a snowball kicked off a mountain. Every battle he would earn one of his powers and gain a new one, a cycle that went on until nothing was left to challenge him, until he became a god, a Domain, unchallenged and immutable.

Yet the only god he saw in his mind was the Historian, clad in no chains yet he was a slave to that book. Forever doomed to continuously record the history of the world. To the point it was a genuine risk to even save his lover.

Or he failed and perished along the way.

This was his Fate. This was his Karma.

Dustin learnt the truth of the world, everything was Balanced.

That did not make it fair.

Shakily did the myconid rise to his feet. “Is this my future? An endless fight against horrors just like you?”

“Perhaps,” the cultist non committedly answered, “I always believe Fate can be changed.”

Can he even commit to this Fate? “Show me your face Declan.”

And Declan did, showing him a face with a bloody red eye. A face with dried blood half wiped off.

That was what happened when the Accumulation of White Lies stole a single eye.

Can he afford to risk it again?

Dustin looked around him, Noam unconscious in the orphanage, Utoqa lost somewhere amongst the stone rubble, Tai’s body slumped against a shattered wall.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck it all.”

And with both hands he reached into his eye sockets, pulling out the eyes of Observe and Analyse. And with them Predict began to crumble, its foundations gone. The connection to Declan disappeared as Dustin stood alone in his mind once again.

Dustin tossed the eyes of gods that he did not earn like trash onto the ground, “I renounce all claims I have to this power and to the title of Oracle. May another that is worthy take it!”

The goal at the end was not worth it. To try until death to beat this system and for what? Earn everything and become a slave to a Domain. Lose and suffer for it, knowing you wasted all the effort to get there.

And when the goal was not worth pursuing and the path too difficult, Dustin simply gave up, like he always did.

But was it truly the same?

A sacrifice to preserve not only his life but those of others, to potentially steer away this madman summoned by his own ignorance. Nay… not ignorance, for he was warned. He was warned of the risk but took it anyway because he didn’t believe in them.

“So I am still a fool in the end,” he murmured.

But in response to his grim determination, the cultist simply laughed, “That was cool and all, but all that did was make me beatable by other people again. By means not restricted to knowing.”

Eyes that defied all description stared into Dustin’s hollow sockets. “Who's to say I don’t continue?”

And the cultist stepped forward to throw the die again.

Except that instead, his remaining foot landed squarely upon the upright blade of a glowing red dagger.

“FINALLY I TASTE TRUE BLOOD!” the dagger yelled as the cultist lost his balance, dropping the die. He reached to grab it, but a puff of green spores covered his eyes, fumbling him for a moment.

And a yellow shadow grabbed the die before it was allowed to land.

With the last wisps of his power, Dustin saw one final thing.

And a Magus Nobalite OTK deck.

A player who was forgotten. Hidden in obscurity, it won an unexpected victory.

“Huh,” the cultist murmured, seemingly unsure as Yellow ran away with the die, his foot still pinned to the earth by Celigarn and vision still slightly obscured by the poisonous spores of Greenie. The cultist reached for where Yellow ran off, but suddenly, his hand jerked away.

“I break the Finger of Tools,” Celine said. The thumb of the severed hand she held fell to the ground.

The cultist glanced at her and shrugged, “I guess that’s that.”

He easily hopped off the blade, eliciting a scream of desire from Celigarn. Uncaring of the fact he was missing half his body, the cultist simply grabbed the two eyes on the ground, “And let’s count our debts and balances, settled.”

The world rippled like water before everything finally began to collectively move again. The cultist smiled as he hopped away, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dustin the Oracle No Longer. One who was Thrice Blinded.”

And like that, the madness of the town called Lake Bayt finally, and truly ended.

Slowly, a single poorly made doll with red buttons for eyes stopped its writing. Its fingerless hands dropped the chalk as everything finally finished.

“Is this how it ends?” the boy’s soul asked. “A monster leaves with what it wants. The people who came and saved us lying on the ground?”

And something answered. Within the mirror, a reflection of a ragged boy, his eyes red from weeping, a reflection that had no true counterpart in reality.

“It is,” the boy in the mirror answered.

“They lost,” the ragged doll protested, “they were hurt and broken, people died. Sister died, everyone is dead. Is there nothing to be done about it?”

The boy in the mirror simply looked wistful, “There are many stories of Good triumphing, of Evil failing before Good. The Black Dragon is slain, the Good King takes the throne, the orphan leaves their abusive aunt’s home and meets their true parents who love them, or grow up to love a child twice as much. This is not our story. We are helpless to solve our suffering because we are children. Young and powerless to all the others that be.”

“I remember them all,” the doll said, “I don’t want to, but I remember all of them. I want to forget them.”

“You never will,” the reflection answered, not unkindly. In its eyes were the sights of a dark place, where a madwoman sought apotheosis at the expense of hundreds. “We are children born in horror, forever scarred by it. This will follow you to the end of our days.”

“But I don’t want it to,” the doll answered.

“It won’t leave you,” the reflection answered, “but I do know a trick.”

“What is it?”

“I once met a writer,” the reflection said, “he was strange, he travelled the world as if on the run, changing his name on the regular. And he once told me this,”

“Even a baby knows horrors exist, they cry all day even when lying in their cradle. Our tears are nothing special,” the reflection said. “The man told me that instead of trying to ruin the world, I should try to help it.”

“Help it?”

“Even babies know the existence of horror, of evil and all things bad. So instead of trying to teach a lesson already known, he told me I should try to teach them how to beat these monsters. To force them back.”

“But they were beaten as well,” the doll answered.

“But still they killed It. Still, they forced the crazy man away. Without expecting anything in return, they bled, they fought, they won. Fairy Tales might not exist… but they do. They are real. Not a knight in shining armour or a good king. They are kids like us, who saw something bad and didn’t let it hurt anyone else.”

“And why should we help? Why should we help anyone in this world that hurts us?”

The reflection’s eyes grew wistful, “because if we don’t make an effort to try to make things better, what do we have left but our scars? Do we want to spend eternity in nothing but pain?”

The doll shook its head.

“With enough time, maybe the pain will lessen,” the reflection answered. “With enough time, maybe you can pretend to forget. We won’t ever forget it, but we can try. We won’t ever save everyone, but we can try and perhaps… Perhaps even if we can’t remove pain, one day we can make a child believe in fairy tales again.”

“And isn’t that something worth crying over?” the reflection said as it began to fade, “So go out, child of pain and horror, go out and make fairy tales believable again.”

“Will it work?”

“I don’t know,” the reflection answered genuinely. “I’m still trying it myself.”

The doll shined with the soul of a boy hidden within. The danger now passed, the boy finally returned, clutching a doll of a Weeping Child.