Elysium's Multiverse

Chapter 245

Chapter 245

Chapter 245

The other Non-Cultists had quickly left, setting out from the tower towards their own destinations where their own quest markers were taking them. No one wanted to talk to Riven’s group with the one exception of the asian woman who’d helped him up the pyramid in the very first day of integration, no doubt due to the terrible reputation he had on the forums and the power he had to back it up. Riven, to them, was an absolute monster. He was a genocidal maniac. He was a mass murderer in every sense of the word - and they did everything in their power to even avoid eye contact when he caught them staring in the early seconds of having transitioned into this new Apocalypse Beasts event.

“My name is Sara. It’s nice to finally greet you like this.” Sara, the asian woman stated with a smile underneath the headdress and hood she now wore.

He took her hand when she extended it, and they shook firmly before releasing.

“It’s nice to see a familiar face here, one that I don’t want to kill.” Riven stated with a laugh while the last people left filed down the central staircase of the altar’s insides. “I’d introduce myself, but it appears you know my name already!”

“Hard to miss with everything you’ve done.” Sara said wryly in response. “You’re one of the most hated and feared people on the planet, and you have one of the largest cult followings too.”

“Cult followings? Are you being serious or is it a figure of speech? Like with Chalgathi?”

“No, not literally, but people on the forums are either die-hard against you or die-hard for you. There isn’t much of an inbetween. Hey, what’s your first quest? I think we may have the same one.”

Riven chuckled. “That’s rather confident… What makes you say that?”

He pulled up his quest notification and showed it to her, only causing her to pooch her lips while reading.

[Riven’s Quest #1 of The Altars of Despair and Hope: Other F-grade participants have been either voluntarily or involuntarily dragged into this event from across the multiverse. Unlike the chosen of this trial, they do not respawn 24 hours after death. You have been given the task of defending one of these populations. Your first quest is to travel to the marked quest location and save as many people as you can. Each person that dies counts towards a -1 Event Point. Successfully defending the town from the monster wave will result in +30 Event Points.

>>> Time until monster wave: 15 hours.]

Sara then pulled up her own quest notification, and a wide grin spread across her face. “So… What do you think? Partners for now? We can walk and talk to catch up on just what happened to us, and how we got here.”

[Sara’s Quest #1 of The Altars of Despair and Hope: Tag along with any other Non-Cultist to defend their town for the upcoming monster waves. Your job is to successfully assassinate the enemy leader, as well as any enemy cultists that may appear with the monster wave. +30 Event Points for assassinating the enemy leader. Extra Event Points (+3 total) for any enemy cultist slain.]

This time, Riven’s eyebrows both rose -and he looked off into the distance where his own quest marker in the form of a bright light continued pinging him with flashing signals. Then he laughed. “There’ll be enemy cultists!? That sounds absolutely great. It appears we’re already being pitted against the other side, and yes I’d love to have you along. Let’s get a move on shall we?”

***

Gragle the gnome stared absentmindedly at the reflection looking back at him, little waves rippling in the cold amber liquid in his mug while people in the bar walked by. Two long scars across his upper right face only narrowly missed his right eye, but left ugly gashes of cursed energy that even to this day still hurt at random times. The once lively and joyous features he’d had were long gone after having lost so many friends over the years to disease and system-spawned monsters here on the barren planet of Mesini, and not a day went by that he didn’t curse the decision to come to this hellhole.

The corporation he’d worked for had gone under when the lead on ancient artifacts had been a bust. His way off the planet had been barred, given he hadn’t found some other way to pay back the people who’d given him a lift - and interstellar travel was not cheap. Not only that, but he was more of a magical artificer at heart and his skills had very quickly been deemed a need - rather than a want - for one very violent group of thugs called the Scrags Mafia. He had a very unique class, one that he’d never heard of anyone else having before. One that let him see the most basic concepts of how skills worked. A way to cast abilities as something called: Graphics.

Graphics were, simply put, a way to formulate the magic of thought into physical concepts by utilizing the base code of the system. They were how Elysium itself performed feats, they were how Elysium itself created all the rules, and were what some called the ‘skeleton’ of all other magics because they could be used to combine and alter spells to interact with one another in odd, and sometimes otherwise unheard of ways. They were most often found in high grade crafts, such as the applications he used for totem-crafting, but they could theoretically be used for combat as well. Gragle hadn’t ever mastered the latter part as he was something of a coward, because graphics were generally a well kept secret amongst most of the multiverse factions who had even a hint of knowledge about them, and the amount of magic it’d take to effectively use graphics in combat would have to be astronomical; but his skill in utilizing these graphics in his inventions had eventually led to his capture and pseudo-slavery here on Mesini.

He let out a long and high-pitched sigh, given his small size, and the human barkeeper snorted in derision at the depressed gnome before heading off to get more drink for another of the scavengers who frequented this pub.

The only joy Gragle found nowadays was deep in a glass of cold, amber ale like the one in front of him. Even the love he’d once had for the crafting of totems, trinkets, magical weapons and armor were long gone. He’d attempted to find something else to sway his wandering mind, something that he could grasp and find a love and passion for again - but he’d been stumped on what exactly that could be. Not that he could stop working for the Scrags, they’d kill him if he didn’t produce for their outfit and had already tortured him brutally twice since knowing him. However he otherwise had the freedom of choice, as long as he kept up with the demands of Ronnie - the Scrags Mafia leader.

He took another sip of the amber liquid, his short black beard dripping the liquid onto gray pants stained with charcoal and ash. There was a bit of blood there too, after having needed to sacrifice a few farm animals in order to properly create the two blood-attuned graphics that were now hovering as 3-dimensional objects over the scratched wooden counter. The graphics would occasionally shift shape, changing from one polygon form into another or sprouting branches here or there to retract them upon the next shift - but they each meant the same thing:

Power in Blood.

A man’s grunt sounded out and the chair next to Gragle was pulled back, with a thickly built man in full silver plate armor - trimmed in gold - sitting down in it with a loud thud.

Gragle didn’t even bother looking up, ignoring the silent stare from underneath the visor. He gestured to the two graphics over the bar. “There you go Ronnie. As you requested.”

The armored man looked down at the two floating polygons, then to Gragle, then back to the polygons before taking them and putting them into a spatial sack. “I told you not to bring these things out in public. You could be killed for the knowledge you possess, gnome - and I don’t want you dead quite yet.”

“Feigning worry, are we?” Gragle laughed, this time chugging the entire mug of ale in five large gulps before slamming the metal cup back down onto the old wood and pushing it away with a belch. “I would welcome death at this point. The life of a slave is no life at all.”

“If that were true, you’d stop trying to find a way off this planet.” Ronnie observed casually. “You’d just kill yourself.”

Stolen story; please report.

Gragle stiffened in his seat, and for the first time since the armored man had arrived - the gnome looked back up at him through squinted lids. “Maybe, maybe not.”

*WHAM*

Gragle felt his skull crack onto the wooden boards of the countertop, and many of the pub’s patrons came to a standstill while watching Ronnie grind Gragle’s skin against the rough wood.

“Remember your place, halfling.” Ronnie stated coolly as a group of men behind him chuckled with folded arms, all of them bearing the sigil of the Scrags on their armor or vests. “Or I’ll bring you down to the ringer and we’ll go for a round three - hot irons included. Wouldn’t want to shit those finely made pants of yours yet again, now would we?”

The malice in Ronnie’s words caused Gragle to flinch almost as much as the pain, and the halfling grunted when Ronnie’s large, human hand removed itself with another violent shove.

Gragle spit blood, and then a tooth as some of the Scrags’ members laughed - only for a system notification to appear in front of everyone present.

[Criteria met: Insignificant, lacking in Fate, high potential for re-route of Fate, and all below E-grade. Your Town, Mesini Outpost #84, has been taken by Elysium for an integration event on the frontier of the newly born Universe 62.]

*CRASH*

The sky rumbled and the entire building shook. People and animals from outside began to scream and yell, with many of the scavengers dropping their drinks to hide under desks - while the more practical ones took their drinks with them until the earthquake stopped a few minutes later.

Ronnie, who’d been holding on hard with both gauntleted hands to the bar, looked around at his four men and whispered something to them before shouts from outside caused him to bolt for the door. When the gang leader got there - he immediately froze and gawked at the sky above them.

Gragle could already tell why, because he was looking out one of the dirty glass windows himself. Orange skies had turned into a pristine blue, and in the distance there were trees growing on hills surrounding their position on the outskirts of town.

Trees?

Gragle hadn’t seen trees in over a decade!

“Wha… What just happened?” One of the men further down the bar called out, his getup that of a typical scavenger with a gray cloak, various small weapons and a few packs strapped to his hip.

The barkeep was the first to blink. “I think we were just pulled into an integration event… Read the text bloke. Elysium is at its games again.”

“Integration events are fucking dangerous!” The man hissed back, a little bit of fear in his words while walking out to stand next to the still-gawking Ronnie. “I didn’t ask for this! SEND ME BACK!”

[Outpost #84 Quest 1: Survive the monster wave. Time remaining: 9 hours.]

There was deadpan silence for a couple second safer than, and then an uproar took hold of the small town as hundreds of people began to panic simultaneously. Gragle on the other hand was a little less enthusiastic, remaining interested but less concerned about his own bodily safety. This was the most interesting thing he’d had happen to him almost… ever?

“This is bad…” Ronnie stated, sitting back down at the bar as another of his men in rat-skin furs sat down next to him. “Shit! Shit-shit-shit-shit-SHIT! I cannot BELIEVE we were taken off Mesini for a life and death INTEGRATION event of all things! What are the chances!?”

“That’s what your sister kept saying when - OW!”

Ronnie smacked the man as the others of his gang laughed.

And then the door to swing open and all the room to go abruptly silent. The laughter stopped, Ronnie’s head swiveled left and froze in place, and people all over the pub stopped drinking just to stare.

“That’s an odd kind of magic you have there. Or… is it even really magic? I’m quite curious.”

The man’s voice was calm and confident, and when Gragle looked up - still clutching his bruised face from where Ronnie had smashed it - he saw an armored, hooded man in the doorway surrounded by a variety of other figures.

The stranger gave off an aura of dread, not subtle at all given what was likely a very low or even negative Charisma stat, with two humanoid eyes and a vertical one along the forehead - all of them with deep black sclera and bright crimson centers. Spiked knuckle gauntlets of ivory metal, possibly even bone, covered his hands and led up to large, horned, vampiric skulls for pauldrons that also glowed a bright red in the eye sockets. The chestplate had a long vertical maw of shifting teeth, with red silk of some kind covering the neck up to where a thick helmet created from interlocking teeth at the front were also present around the head - along with the three eye sockets that allowed the man to see forward. Red feathers down the central ridge created something like a mohawk, while a black hood with green trimmings and a circular dragon sigil along the top covered much of his helmet - allowing the feathers to pierce through the central row through numerous small holes.

[Chalgathi Cowl (Non-Cultist): This is a soulbound item only you can wear for the remainder of this event, it gives you no stats or bonuses, but it marks you as a Chalgathi Non-Cultist to friend and enemy alike.]

Strange - the notification appeared immediately upon looking at the cowl without even attempting to identify it. What was Chalgathi? Gragle couldn’t help but wonder.

Was this man one of the participants for the integration trial?

He had to be. Right? No one here had that high quality kind of gear otherwise.

A dog created from shadows sat at his side, with a black and red arachnid on his opposite shoulder. A huge, hulking, four-armed behemoth of a demon stood behind the man - no doubt a very powerful summon by the looks of it. Especially in this area of the multiverse - Er, on Mesini, where only low-quality scavengers scrounging for scraps on the ruins of dead civilizations could be found.

Another woman in a black leather outfit with spiked leather gloves, a dragon amulet, and a headdress with a similar cowl stood beside the man who’d originally spoken - daggers strapped all over her body. Meanwhile, an old elf with red eyes and thin linens had one hand on a mace strapped to a basic-looking belt.

Even with this odd mix-and-mash of strangers, it was the last figure that had made everyone in the room freeze the most:

She was also a beautiful elf, but Gragle could only barely tell considering one of her ears was hidden under the locks of blonde hair she had. More than that, she was a thrall if his identification read wasn’t being tampered with. She wore a very form-fitting black silk robe that almost looked like a long dress, with red fingerless gloves that came up her forearms and golden lettering on her ribcage. Two red half moons and a central full moon were sewn into the front of the fabric, with shimmering crimson tattoos obvious in the dull light of the grungy pub. She wore a very recognizable red headdress made from metal over the black silk hood of her robes, and Gragle could see people even outside on the street had stopped to stare at her in particular with a mixture of both awe and fear.

What in the hells and heavens was a Priestess of the Blood God doing here in an integration event?

Things were getting stranger and stranger by the minute.

Gragle openly gaped, just like many of the others did, and then blinked rapidly when the armored man at the forefront took a step inside. Gragle’s eyes shifted to him, watching the stranger casually and slowly walk up to him, before sitting down on the opposite side from Ronnie.

Again, Gragle’s eyes glanced back at the Blood Priestess, a cold sweat forming over his skin as his eyes darted around the room to settle on the man who’d just taken a seat nearby - and his blood ran cold when the priestess followed in to take a submissive position behind the man in ivory armor.

It didn’t take much longer for the pieces to click together, even if Gragle’s identification information couldn’t piece much from the man’s equipment or status information. It only gave him question marks when attempting, aside from that blasted hood, and the creepy three eyes the man had were certainly off-putting.

“M-master vampire… B-blood Priestess…” Gragle said with a stutter, bowing his head low in respect to both of them and catching his breath while the sweat continued to accumulate on his forehead and palms. “W-What an honor it is that a p-priestess and her charge wish to s-speak with me! What c-can this humble gn-gnome do for y-you?”

His small body was literally shaking. And Ronnie - who’d previously had his hand on Gragle’s head, now had a firm, tight grip on the longsword at his waist. But from the rattling of his weapon in its sheath, and the wide-eyed stare at the priestess, it was obvious that even he was terrified.

That didn’t even account for the huge hulking demon in the background.

[Genua, Level ??? Priestess of the Blood God, High Elf Thrall, ???.]

The man in front of him seemed confused, and his central eye closed entirely as the helmet shut the vertical slit with ivory metal.

A living suit of armor?!

Gragle had tried creating one before, but it’d ended in absolute failure. If he could get some time to spend with this newcomer so he could study it…

“As I said…” The armored man stated before leaning right onto the bar’s dirty, old, wooden ledge. “You have an odd ability to craft… whatever those polygon energy constructs were. Would you mind showing me again?”

The barkeeper, a scrawny human man in his late 40’s who was already showing signs of balding, adjusted his glasses and nervously shuffled back to grasp something from underneath the bar. “Vampire… We don’t wish to have any bloodshed here. There is no need to-”

“I don’t intend to kill anyone here unless they attack me first.” The armored man stated, continuing to stare Gragle down with a curious intent. He then held out a hand, and deposited a small fortune of Elysium coins on the counter - immediately shifting much of the attention off the priestess and onto the pile of coins.

That kind of money could feed any man here and his family for months…

“Drinks and food for my friends and I.” The stranger stated, looking up to where Ronnie was clutching his sword and hesitating on what to do. “If you’re going to take that sword out and attack, then get it over with. I’m tired of waiting.”

The modified hellscape brutalisk was already looming over four other men who’d accompanied Ronnie, and each of them had backed up a bit from the ring leader with wavering breaths and magic flaring in one’s hands.

Ronnie shuddered, stood up, and took his hand off his weapon. He took one last look at the blood priestess, and left out the doors without a word - all of his crew in tow.

Leaving Gragle all by himself, with a bruised face - and the attention of a blood sucker scion of some coven. A scion that, by some massive stroke of misfortune, had chosen to single out Gragle for the graphics he’d had on display.