Death: Genesis

Zeke stood, overlooking the town and struggling all the while to repress his repulsion. It wasn’t easy, considering the advanced state of decay. He asked, “How many?”

“Seven thousand,” answered Adara. “We couldn’t get an accurate count, but that’s the estimate.”

He just shook his head, then ran his hand through his hair. It needed to be cut, but he hadn’t had much opportunity for grooming over the past few months. First, he’d been occupied by his recovery, then the ongoing war against the Radiant Host had demanded his attention. It felt like that was his entire life, now.

“Are you okay?” Adara asked.

Zeke sighed, then looked at the half-orc woman. She looked almost entirely human, save for her build being slightly more muscular than most other women he’d met. In addition, her skin had a slightly green tint that was only visible in direct sunlight, and her incisors were a little larger than normal. Otherwise, there were no other visible indicators of her complicated parentage, and Zeke could no longer pretend that he didn’t find her incredibly attractive.

But that wasn’t only her appearance at play. Instead, he was drawn as much to her personality – as well as their shared interests – as he was to her looks. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that their relationship had progressed incredibly quickly. In the wake of nearly killing himself, he’d been vulnerable and mostly immobile, spending almost all of his time in the Crimson Spring. Adara had acted as his liaison with the army, delivering daily reports as to the progression of the war. Eventually, they’d begun to bond, and that had soon become something neither of them could ignore. What followed could generously be called a romance, but to Zeke, the relationship they’d developed just felt comfortable.

And that wasn’t a negative, either. There was something to be said for the sort of antagonistic relationship he’d shared with Abby. From the very beginning, she’d nurtured an enormous inferiority complex that had often made their pairing feel like a battle. For his part, Zeke had been blind to that, at least until it had driven her to sabotage his meeting with Micayne and nearly get Pudge killed. After that, he saw it all so clearly, but that clarity didn’t mean he didn’t sometimes look at those memories with fondness. At the very least, the relationship had been exciting.

With Adara, things were very different. In her company, Zeke often felt that he’d found his other half. They shared much of the same drive, and they’d both spent most of their lives mired in one battle or another. Their goals were similar, and she was understanding without being judgmental. In short, she was a perfect partner, and her presence in his life was one of the reasons he hadn’t completely descended into melancholy.

Yet, he couldn’t escape the consequences of his actions.

“I sometimes feel like my entire life is built on a foundation of corpses,” he admitted.

“It is. That’s the nature of this world. It is one of constant conflict.”

Eveline added, “She’s not wrong. From what Oberon said, that’s the whole reason for the afterlife’s existence.”

“I know,” Zeke said, wishing Eveline would stay out of his private conversations. He didn’t mind her input, but if she was going to add her thoughts to the discussion, he wanted her to manifest visibly so that Adara would know that the conversation featured a third party. “I just wish it was different. I didn’t set out to be a killer, to destroy everything in my path. But that’s what I am, now. I can’t remember the last time I participated in a conflict that ended peacefully.”

“I know,” Adara said, stepping closer. She snaked her arm around his waist, leaning into him in a half hug. “You can’t change the whole universe.”

But he could.

Eventually, at least. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That battle he’d briefly glimpsed was overwhelming, but the entire reason for the Framework’s existence was to funnel warriors into that conflict, all with the hope of eventually winning against forces intent on unmaking existence.

Zeke didn’t have a name for the enemy, but their nature had been made clear. They weren’t like demons, who had, at one point, simply been people. Sure, they’d made mistakes. Some of them were outright evil.

“Most,” Eveline pointed out. “There aren’t many demons with hearts of gold.”

“Okay. But that’s kind of my point. The real enemy isn’t evil. It’s not good, either. Those don’t even come into it. They’re just opposed to us,” Zeke explained. That was why he’d begun to refer to them as the enemy. He didn’t even think he was capable of comprehending why they did what they did. They were too alien to understand. Perhaps they didn’t even have a reason. Maybe they were just acting according to their natures. Whatever the case, the stakes were clear. One side would win, and one would cease to exist. That made his own allegiances obvious.

“I know a lot of people who wouldn’t mind the world ceasing to exist,” Eveline countered. “Blessed nothingness is better than the bleakness of their continued lives.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. That was as alien a concept as the nature of the enemy. The notion of giving in was not one to which he could even begin to relate.

“That’s because you’re a fighter,” she said. “And you’ve never really lost. Most of these people have been losing – often through no fault of their own – over and over since they were born. Through two lives. Apathy toward your existence is the natural reaction to that kind of thing.”

“I disagree,” Zeke said. “Giving up is…I don’t know. I just…I just don’t know how that could ever happen to someone.”

“Because you have the privilege never to have had to confront the pointlessness of your own existence. But think of your younger brother, the life he led before your death. Now, imagine that he’d died despite your efforts. Then, upon being reborn into the Mortal Realm, he experienced a similar illness. Or he was just weak. What if that was all he’d ever known, with other people taking advantage of him and making his life more difficult? Now imagine that going on for his entire second life? No matter what he did, he’d always be behind. Weak and sick. Do you think he’d be driven to excel? Or do you think he might give up?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“That’s because you’ve never had to deal with it. But remember after you hurt your arm? Because you couldn’t play a silly sport, you fell into a deep depression that persisted until your death. So, before you judge people for not being strong enough of mind, remember that was how your first life ended. You had given up. Maybe it was temporary. Certainly, you had your reasons. But you were not – and still aren’t – immune to that sort of thinking.”

Zeke wanted to respond, but he brought himself up short. He saw what she meant, but he still felt disgusted – in his heart and soul – by the notion of giving up, even in the face of eternal hardship.

“Sisyphus and his rock. Eternal struggle with no end is a punishment befitting those who anger the gods. Remember that,” Eveline pointed out.

He was well aware of that particular myth, but he wasn’t certain that the story applied to their current conversation. In any event, Zeke wasn’t willing to continue the discussion. Instead, he pushed himself away and focused on the scene stretching out before them.

It wasn’t pretty, but there was nothing he could do about the consequences of his actions. The people had died, and there was nothing to do about it but to keep going and hope that he made better – or at least more informed – choices in the future. Despite the results, Zeke couldn’t think of any other way he might’ve ended the threat.

It was simple math.

A few million people was a small price to pay when held up to the price of doing nothing. Tens of millions – perhaps hundreds – would have been slain if he hadn’t destroyed the undead army.

And Micayne was still out there, likely rebuilding. But at least he wouldn’t have an entire nation of undead to fuel his rise.

“You don’t need to dwell on this,” Adara said.

“I kind of do,” he countered. “At least for a little while. They deserve that much, at the very least.”

“They do,” she agreed.

Like that, they remained for half an hour, both lost in their thoughts until they were interrupted by a juvenile kobold who informed them – or more accurately, Zeke – that they were needed within the tower. So, after paying their inadequate respects for everyone who’d fallen, they returned to the gate that had been reestablished in El’kireth, which whisked them away to the tower.

It was so easy to take that for granted, crossing hundreds of miles in an instant. It just reminded Zeke of the harrowing journey undertaken by Talia, who’d trekked across the breadth of two kingdoms to return him to the tower so he could recuperate.

After heading to the Pillar, Zeke endured reports of the ongoing battle with the Radiant Host. Things were still going well, though the pace of their losses had increased as the more traditional army adjusted their tactics. Soon, they would be on equal footing. That was when Zeke would step in and hopefully end the conflict in one fell swoop. But until that time came, he had a few more things to which he needed to attend.

So, once he’d received the reports, he parted ways with Adara. She went to drill with her former Knights, while he headed to the Lord’s Manor. Once there, he sealed himself in his meditation chamber so he could put the finishing touches on his latest skill.

To that end, he settled in to work, embracing his Will to ensure that he could manipulate the skill to the best of his ability. He only had two more chances to build skills before he reached the peak, and he suspected that he wouldn’t receive any such opportunities in the next realm. He didn’t have much information on it, but from Eveline – as well as a few other knowledgeable people like Eta, the dryad gardener with which he’d been enslaved beneath Min Ferilik – ascension into the Ethereal Realm represented the finalization of his skillset. He would still have chances to evolve, but he wouldn’t receive any new abilities, except under very specific circumstances.

So he needed to make the next two skill constructions count. Moreover, he had two chances to choose Framework skills. One was still pending, but the other wouldn’t come until he reached level one-hundred.

In any case, he’d spent the past couple of months slowly building the foundations of the two skills, and now, one was on the verge of completion. So, he focused on that, checking and double-checking every glyph that comprised the runes associated with the skill.

For two days, he remained in seclusion, pushing himself to the limits of his abilities as he built the skill. Finally, when he’d reached the ends of his mental endurance, he received a notification:

Congratulations! You have constructed a skill [Flames of Reprisal].

“Moment of truth,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He could only hope that his efforts had resulted in what he’d intended. The name seemed appropriate, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He looked at the description:

[Flames of Reprisal] (C) - You are a creature of vengeance and conviction. Judge your attackers with hellfire and destruction. Upgradeable.

“That seems vague,” he said. It sounded like it could have the effects he’d intended, but it was difficult to know for certain. But at least it hadn’t backfired. That had been a distinct possibility, considering the sheer volume of glyphs he’d had to force into the rune. It was not an exaggeration to say that the skill had millions of moving parts, each one comprised of thousands of symbols infused with his mana as well as his Will. The power he could bring to bear worked with him and against him, meaning that it would make the skill all the stronger, but at the cost of potential stability. As a result, he’d had to use every ounce of his expertise just to keep it from collapsing.

“I think it’s exactly what you wanted,” Eveline said. Knowing that any distraction could result in the skill’s collapse, she’d remained silent the entire time. But he’d felt her watching. “It has all the right key words.”

“I think so too,” he admitted. “But I won’t know until I test it out.”

“Good. Now that this is finished, I think you need to do something you’ve been putting off.”

“My skill choice,” he said.

“Indeed.”

He hadn’t chosen yet because he wanted to see how his constructed skill turned out. Now that he knew, he felt confident in giving the Framework’s choices the attention they deserved.