Interconnected: Spliced Souls

Nyxaris the Darkmagus continued to soar, bypassing gritty dried grounds full of deep ravines and unmapped caverns. The herald of death—the one who wielded the bell that tolled an ominous sound…was perplexed. No—it was more than that.   

A lich—even a lesser lich—was a master of magic. Nyxaris knew a few dozen spells, a paltry number compared to their kind’s more powerful evolutions, but they all wielded death magic. The bell sitting atop their staff always foreshadowed death.   

But the lesser lich knew its sound wouldn’t affect their creator because death—a natural law governing all aspects of the world— did not apply to her.   

To Nyxaris, Servi was an anomaly—an ideological impossibility—and someone they felt conflicted about. Was it not the right of the Darkmagus to correct such an obvious lapse in natural order? Was it not their lawful duty as heralds of death to ensure dying would never become the exception and not the rule?  

The undead were strong-heartedly loyal to their creator. Their personality might put them at odds. For example, an assassin with a perchance for betrayal may joke about slitting their creator’s neck while they slept, but they would never turncoat unless someone dominated their minds.    

Nyxaris didn’t harbor that personality. Personally, they detested those who did. But the lesser lich’s conflicting thoughts rattled their brain as they accepted their creator’s status as a goddess. But surely even a goddess could die, right? Creators weren’t all-powerful. Nyxaris refused to believe they could be above the rules the rest of the world had to follow. Everything had to die.   

Everything.   

Even stone would erode to time’s unforgiving embrace. The lakes and the world’s oceans would evaporate in due time.   

And time…  

Time was the ultimate toll. Even this great and powerful planet would one day end when the universe ran out of nourishment. And without anything…the world would go out with a bang.   

Suddenly, Nyxaris received a telepathic message from Itarr. The witch responsible for the anti-undead safeguard had died. The blessing she had prepared perished with her.   

What better opportunity could Nyxaris ask for? The lesser lich flew without stopping and keenly eyed their staff—waiting for the bell to toll while preparing a teleportation spell. Nyxaris hadn’t used it because the witch’s blessing could’ve tampered with the coordinates. Such a trap was commonplace—and Nyxaris wouldn’t let overconfidence lead them to an early death. Their time would come when it came, and the bell wouldn’t ring until then.  

But then it did.   

It rang like a mad animal—eliciting its piercing cry ten thousand times in ten seconds.   

The standard knowledge uploaded into the Darkmagus’s personality did not have information about this event. Nyxaris was clueless, but they weren't without a hypothesis.   

But not even the wildest theories could prepare them for that thin pillar of light. It shot high into the sky and exploded high above the dark clouds.   

And fear… An emotion a lesser lich—no, all undead—were said to be immune to…  

It told Nyxaris…that they were witnessing something incredible. Their pure instinct forced them to retreat away from the light. Nyxaris was thirty miles out, but they still didn’t feel safe.    

Dazzling shooting stars landed around the Arcton Mountain Range’s perimeter before solidifying, forming a gigantic barrier. The edge was about 2,500 feet from Nyxaris, so the lich barely escaped with their life.     

And then…?   

From the epicenter came an explosion with so much force the lands cried. A deafening roar echoed through the mountain range, resonating across the landscape like the gods' fury. The sheer intensity created a colossal crater—obliterating the Arcton Mountain Range. Due to the barrier’s curvature, the most destructive forces went downward towards the planet’s core, creating a staggeringly deep crater.

No.   

It was more of a stark announcement to all who knew what the destruction symbolized.    

Nyxaris saw that the planet was trembling—quivering from fear. It wasn’t so much an earthquake as a prelude of things to come. This shaking was felt everywhere—there wasn’t an inch of space that wasn’t feeling the effects. It wouldn’t be enough to create swarming tsunamis, and the wind produced after the barrier fell wouldn’t birth ferocious hurricanes—no, the world wouldn’t be punished anymore.   

Any further destruction was limited to the immediate area. Nothing would remain.    

How fortunate that it happened away from a populated city, but was it lucky? Could someone call it luck when Arcton had lost over 18,000 residents from an undead siege?  

A few seconds later, the barrier vanished as Nyxaris’s staff stopped ringing. And then the lesser lich laughed. They laughed, laughed, and laughed—an emotion remarkably unusual for them to exhibit, but the lesser lich was afflicted by a sudden madness.    

They flew with renewed vigor, flying over a deep, gaping darkness that would never see the sunlight again. It was like staring into the void that led to the underworld.  The beautiful sight tickled their unfettered—the emotion was strange, for sure, until their teleportation spell had finished. Its target was the epicenter—right where Nyxaris felt their creator’s skill energy.   

The lesser lich appeared and saw a narrow, circular pillar. It was the only ground left untouched for thirty miles. 

But then a thought manifested in the lesser lich’s head.   

Why hadn’t the revenant sent them a message? Why hadn’t the other undead done something? The lesser lich turned to Arcton and stared. Of course, it was too far away, but Nyxaris didn’t sense their allies. They turned around and saw a flickering light above the pillar. It transformed into a crimson orb, then vanished. Nyxaris discovered their creator’s skill energy originated from it and readied another teleport, appearing about fifty feet past the large crater.   

Nyxaris landed and approached the orb. They tried to touch it, but their bony fingers phased through. Telepathically communicating didn’t work, although the lesser lich held a link with the skeleton priest, who was wholly devoted to their task.    

And so, the powerful undead waited. They stood guard over this orb and vowed to protect it and the ones inside until the bell tolled for their death. Yet while Nyxaris thought that, the lesser lich knew there were no other survivors. At least—other than a handful of presences dwelling in it.   

So many lives were foreshadowed by the tolling bell, and as many lives completed their final journey and returned to which all had started from.   

 

---

Vexor Blackscale was a mercenary—through and through. He had lived for 400 years and had seen and experienced it all. He was the kobold the guild called upon when they were in trouble.    

He was a Bahamut—only a handful of other people had reached that rank.  

But Vexor didn’t do it for fame. He didn’t care about the money. The experience and prowess didn’t do much for him either. The kobold had no use for any more SP.     

No.    

He did it because he wanted to die. He thought himself to be the apex predator of the land, but he found it passionless to stand alone at the top. There was no more challenge. What monster could pose a threat? The dragons he had killed were strong enough to tear apart kingdoms. He could fight for weeks without food or water—far longer than any other species.  

Kobolds rarely lived past fifty. Most died from war or battle injuries. But Vexor had lived long enough for eight of his kin while achieving what most had only dreamed of.  

And he didn’t know why he continued to draw breath within his lungs.  

Vexor honestly hated it, but it was the epitome of foolishness for him to take his own life. It was a sin of the highest order for those who followed the Great Scaled Serpent.   

He had done many things to find someone worthy to kill him, and now? He believed he had located the one he wanted to die by.  

It had happened about two months ago—maybe longer. News about an assault on some underground slave market reached Vexor’s ears through his underworld connections while he was away from Inith. Usually, news of that nature didn’t spread far and wide since it was just one illegal market trying to shy away from paying the proper tax, but the one who ran the market was certainly interesting.  

Viridian Keywater—a foreign prince overseeing the Canary Duchy as its duke... 

That was something the mighty kobold didn’t know. Vexor also didn’t care. But someone did. Someone who had financial ties to the market—someone who lost their money from the raid had grievances against the ones responsible. This person sent a letter requesting Vexor to investigate this mysterious Servi—a woman who had shown out of nowhere. The same note also believed this Servi to be a lich disguised as a human—a wielder and product of the [Forbidden Skill System].   

After he had read the letter, Vexor destroyed it. Tasks of that nature were beneath someone like him, but then again, he had very little else to do. In his mind, he wondered if this Servi would grant him his dream. Sure-- Vexor could fight against Fisher Jin, a supposed master of physical combat, with severe handicaps and restrictions. He could’ve done the same against the fabled Puppet Master, an expert manipulator of golems, without any weapons, armor, or spells, with one hand tied behind his back. But it wasn't them. The world had many warriors who matched those two, and it had many who surpassed them. But Vexor couldn't go to them. Handicaps would go against his life's codes. To him, it’d be tantamount to suicide, and he couldn’t have that.   

No, whoever killed him needed to do it when he fought without any restraint. But could this Servi really do it? Lich or not, she was still a mere baby in his aged eyes, but he was bored. Vexor began his preparations and quickly returned to Adenaford, unaware of what he was getting into.   

He obeyed and carefully watched the black-haired, crimson-eyed lich from the shadows—beginning from when Servi waved goodbye to the Queen of Night and that Goatkin. And his interest was raised when he saw that skeleton emerge from her ring. That proved she was a wielder of the undead. A practitioner of the [Forbidden Skill System], if not a product of it. This ‘Itarr,’ however, was foreign. The name didn’t make sense. If Servi was a lich modeled to be more human than any he had seen, then perhaps this Itarr could give him his desired battle.   

The mighty kobold wasn’t some paragon of justice that dropped everything to save a crying child. But he wasn’t some slaughterous devil whose soul was empty of morality. Yes, he saw those weaker than him as lesser beings, but he was not the only kobold who thought that way. He’d stand up if he saw something that bothered him, but Vexor wouldn’t fight a warrior’s battle for them.   

If they died?  

Then they died. It was as simple as that. Vexor believed all warriors should strive to die valiantly and honorably—which was why he carried an innate distaste towards the undead—because liches were often difficult to kill and could die a few dozen times. Revenants shared the same property—yet their limit was their soul’s flames.   

But the days passed, and Vexor was present in Waveret when Servi attacked Dock 77. He scried when she took out the ship that carried monotonia. He wouldn’t have to do it later, so she saved him a minute or two from going out of his way.   

And... Vexor used his magic to subtly break past Dineria’s seals on that faithful night...when Servi told her the ultimate truth in the basement of that abandoned house.  

Servi...wasn’t a lich... 

Servi shared a soul with a goddess. She grew more powerful every time she killed something.  

And Vexor?  

He had slaughtered many things, but he wasn’t a god slayer.   

The thought of becoming one—or dying in the attempt—excited him. It made this once otherwise trivial, meandering timewaster of a task worth the attention he gave it out of boredom.   

Vexor felt his heart thump erratically in his chest, and his scales tingled with excitement. He had fought necromancers before. Greater liches and abyssal lords, too, but they eventually died from his merciless onslaught. Chronomancers had a drastic weakness, and elemental manipulators needed a source of their element to properly fight.

What vulnerabilities did a goddess possess?!  

Just how could you kill the unkillable?  

And could he let this information be revealed so freely?  

Vexor had much to deliberate on—something that was so much unlike him that he felt a shred of...something unfamiliar warming his cold heart. Nevertheless, he continued his research—shattering the Dreadwood Shadow’s seal when Servi told the truth to the Queen of Night. However, Vexor wasn’t the only one listening in. The mystics he used to entrap his skill energy to his person also made him unable to sense the skill energy of a bodyguard to a certain duchess, who was also peering in from nearby.  

The two never knew each other was there—they each had their own way of peeking into what should’ve been a private, quiet, secluded conversation, and the night ended soon after without incident as they went their separate ways.   

Vexor had returned to his secret home in Adenaford and pondered his ancient notes and books about this mysterious Itarr. All the while, he kept a scrying window open and observed every detail. Before long, he was obsessed with her—he focused solely on Servi without giving a second or third thought to the witch, her friends, that elf, her dog, or the aged apothecary.   

No. Vexor only wanted to learn more about the goddess...and this mysterious lookalike inside Momo’s soul.   

Dying to a goddess—perishing in valiant battle with two goddesses—if Momo’s lookalike was one... If that wouldn’t summon the Great Scaled Serpent to descend and fly his soul to the heavens... Then nothing would...  

However, things would change. Vexor was suddenly summoned via messenger spirit to handle a growing threat to the far north. A necromancer had foolishly created an undead dragon and instilled it with madness, believing they could still control it afterwards. But no. The fool died. And the dragon was going out of control. It wasn’t near villages, but a danger like that couldn’t be left alone.   

He took care of it, spending a few hours traveling there since he didn’t have teleportation coordinates saved in the area. The fight was pathetic and not worth talking about. Honestly? Vexor didn’t think any forthcoming fight would excite him because he now knew about a goddess. Falling to Servi's scythe was all he thought about.   

But Vexor wouldn’t rest. Another letter was waiting when he teleported home--this time, it was from someone who knew Vexor personally—one of the few genuine friends the aged kobold could count on with one hand. They had received an encoded message from the person responsible for their wealth about caring for an elf and her dog—ensuring they wouldn’t suffer from hunger or poverty again.   

But the woman who sent it... It wasn’t like her to act like this. Vexor’s friend feared something was about to happen to the city—a premonition of disaster—churning an uncomfortable feeling inside their stomach. Vexor saw it as a sign because his target was there. Disguising himself and getting close wouldn’t be the worst thing, so he teleported to the city outskirts...only to find Arcton on the brink of ruin. Instantly, he investigated after taking measures to hide himself.  

Vexor learned bits and pieces from overhearing Albert talk to a disguised golem, discovering they had repelled an attack by two necromancers and their army. And Momo—the girl who possibly harbored the soul of a goddess as well—was kidnapped.   

Some army was lying in wait near the Arcton Mountain Range. A lesser lich named Nyxaris the Darkmagus was on their way to reunite with their summoner as she staged an assault on the underground base. Vexor had a choice.   

Leave and follow or remain behind and help with the recovery efforts.   

His presence was still unknown. That heavily cloaked skeleton priest was doing a fine job dispelling the toxins that had paralyzed the town. And yes, his efforts would help. It wouldn’t be a problem. But before he could decide...  

He... He felt it... It was an instant, but the world felt like it blinked. His instinct told him Servi was responsible, so he used [Greater Teleportation] and arrived at the mountain range.  

Not a moment later...after delving into the base’s heart and seeing Servi stand over Momo’s wounded body...  

That pink glow... That mysterious glimmer...it frightened him. Every atom in his body demanded him to leave. It was a primal fear unlike any he had ever felt in all his years, so he whisked himself miles away on pure instinct he thought he no longer had.   

But that wasn’t far enough. It should’ve been, but it wasn’t-- Vexor's instincts told him he wasn’t out of range of whatever was about to happen.  Two more uses later, he hovered on platforms of nothingness while watching destruction in its purest form absolutely ravage the Arcton Mountain Range. Vexor teleported to the ground and realized the planet was trembling. It was crying out...  

The powerful kobold knew he had first-hand witnessed something beyond the category of extraordinary. Only the gods and goddesses know how far away this event could be seen. An emergency session was about to be called Adenaford—he was sure of that more than ever when the barrier descended, revealing an unobscured look into the aftermath of a goddess manifesting on the mortal plane.   

Canary was probably in an uproar. Word was probably already spreading to the king, and spies from Westera and Keywater would send unverifiable information to their handler since they wouldn’t have time to verify anything.   

This was a dangerous time.  

War could potentially follow. Politics were a fickle game that not everyone could play. When people became afraid of the unknown, they acted without reasonable doubt and did things they wouldn’t.  Emotions made it hard to think objectively about an event surrounded by undisclosed divine truths.   

But backroom deals were aplenty. Lando could clandestinely forge an agreement with Westera and Keywater to dispatch researchers into the aftermath of the devastation.  

Vexor would probably be involved in keeping the peace by acting as a neutral third party.  

His face slowly twisted into an aged, genuine smile that hadn’t been seen in eight decades. 

This…   

This force…   

This power…   

It was what he had been waiting for!   

He gleefully laughed for the first time in a century and felt his blood boil. Not even Vexor knew if he would’ve survived had he not teleported away.  He was almost ashamed his instincts had denied him the chance to test it.   

A sudden gusty wind blew his cloak away, revealing a loose, unbuttoned tunic that barely fit his hulking body. His scales—each etched with tribal-like markings from a clan that no longer existed—were like midnight that absorbed the moonlight, casting him in an otherworldly glow. He stood eight feet tall—and those amber eyes gleamed intensely with a deep hue. Jagged scars adorned his reptilian face, testimony to the countless battles he had fought. The tip of his tail looked like a mace’s head, but it was as menacing and intimidating as the rest of him.  

This... This reignited a flaming desire in his heart.  It was one thing to ‘know’ that he had decided on this goddess as his future killer, but to see that divine power in action?! To see it absolutely destroy the mountain range?!  

But Vexor’s excitement was short-lived. He carried a beeper crystal connected to a few guild masters. It held different noises and vibration patterns to denote emergencies that needed to be taken care of, and it went off, crying like a siren at a pitch only he could hear. He was being summoned by Adenaford’s guildmaster, but before he departed, he wanted to check something.   

Vexor cast one more scrying spell. Hazy mist flowed from his palms and formed a rectangular viewing window, showing the epicenter of that explosion. He only noticed the narrow remains until he saw a crimson light.   

And it vanished, but the spell Vexor used ‘locked’ onto a target’s skill energy and automatically followed wherever they went—within reason, of course. There. A few seconds later, he saw a lesser lich with red tattered robes descend and kneel near it.   

A mystic of this level had very few limitations, if any. This high-level magic had a tremendous range. 

Vexor soon left—he teleported to Adenaford to answer the emergency summons—but the kobold kept the spell active. He refused to cancel it and risked missing what he wanted the most in his heart of hearts.    

And his prayers were answered days later under the frigid moonlight… It had happened during a secret mission to escort researchers to the missing mountains. Vexor didn’t want to disturb the still-standing lesser lich or the orb they guarded, so he lied about detecting hostile energies and led the group away on the false premise of safety. However, the scrying window he had stubbornly refused to close was only attuned to his skill energy. And he watched the orb shatter—it had been cracking every hour thus far—until it finally splintered like glass. And four people slowly descended. 

One was the immortal girl with black hair and red eyes. Her unconscious form gently lowered to the rocky ground, where a brown-skinned woman with black and red streaked hair and multicolored, pinkish eyes gracefully touched the ground. She held a girl in her arms, but those ears and tail didn’t match the singi known as Momo. No, they accurately resembled what he thought Momo's lookalike resembled. But she wasn't empty-handed. Momo held a fragile, malnourished child close to her chest.

But the revenant was nowhere to be found. That golem was absent. But this was all he needed to know.    

Servi was alive. And that woman matched the features of the one known as Itarr...  

A goddess...  

A real...genuine goddess...  

No—Servi and Itarr shared a soul, so both were divine. And that mysterious singi didn’t look like a singi. If the doppelgänger inside Momo’s soul was a goddess, and she had taken control over the young singi’s body...  

Then three goddesses...  

Who could’ve asked for a better group of opponents?  

Vexor ended the spell because he didn’t need to see anymore. The mighty, undying kobold felt relieved and free of anxiousness. He salivated at the thought of dying in the most glorious battle the world would ever have the great honor of witnessing! 

 

---

In Elviria, nestled in the westernmost reaches of the continent of Valerium, Sister Carrie devoted her days to the children of the orphanage. This quaint, pleasant riverside village was the definition of peace. Amongst the other nuns, she stood out as the only singi—let alone one with crimson hair and vibrant, ruby-red eyes. That was enough to attract attention, but her caring nature and dedication endeared her to the young ones she nurtured.    

Sister Carrie had lived here for a few weeks. During one peaceful morning, it was a day like any other. She woke at the crack of dawn to clean her body and wash her hair, then it was time to get dressed in her habit before preparing breakfast.   

This chore was her favorite. She never had that much experience with cooking, but it was fun seeing the tired children walk into the dining hall and become starry-eyed at what she made.   

Sister Carrie then cleaned up with the help of the Mother Superior before tending to the chickens and checking the plants. She didn't have a set schedule, but she often repaired what needed fixing before assisting the children with their studies.  

But today was different…  

She felt it in her bones as she rolled out of bed.   

Sister Carrie was outside when it happened, kneeling in the flower patch as she gently removed the pesky weeds from her tulips.   

A sharp sensation gripped her heart as the ground gently murmured like a child with a hungry belly. Instinctively, she turned her gaze westward. Something significant was happening beyond the horizon, and she couldn't shake an aw-dropping feeling. Something… destructive…and powerful… Something cataclysmic in origin… 

Sister Carrie touched her heart and focused intently. She closed her eyes.   

Upon opening them, her surroundings had changed from a mere tulip patch to a lush garden filled with vibrant flowers of every color imaginable. Sister Carrie headed for the only house within this land. It was flanked on all sides by calming rivers, and each had a small, adorable bridge one needed to cross over to reach.    

“Verta! Verta!” passionately cried Sister Carrie. “Was that…” 

“It was, my sweet child,” said a woman with long, flowing golden hair. Her irises were like rainbows, and they slowly leaked salty water. Even her crown of flowers wept, and the lovely piece of nature rained petals that stuck to her pastel-colored elegant garments. “Mother… She’s awake… She’s descended upon the land… Mother… I’ve missed you so much…” Her emotions even affected the quaint little cottage behind her. 

Sister Carrie immediately embraced the Goddess of Family and Love and rubbed her back—just like she had done for her when she was a mere kitten living a life she wouldn’t have forced upon her worst enemy.   

Sister Carrie had heard tales of a Primordial Goddess—the very being whose influence could be found in everything in the discernible and indiscernible universe. All life that has ever existed, had existed, or would exist could thank the Primordial Goddess.   

Without her…  

There would be nothing.   

“It’s time for you to go, isn’t it?” Sister Carrie asked.   

“I’m sorry…”  

“No. Don’t say that. I’ve done what I can to help the children here. We’ve left before, haven’t we? From orphanage to orphanage, town to town, and city to city… We’ve been traveling like this for a decade… Come, Verta… Let’s go meet your mother.” 

Verta was always an emotional goddess. She found comfort in her child's arms.  

Not her biological child, of course.   

But as the Goddess of Family and Love, the world was her children. Everything in the world was loved by her.   

Sister Carrie left the soul world a few minutes later and decided her trip would be delayed because she still had objectives to accomplish   

Verta wasn’t sure she knew what she wanted to say to her mother.  

In all the previous attempts, she had only been so lucky to have been placed in the same world a handful of times. 

But now? Verta was met with a mix of anxiousness and fear. She knew her mother had lost her memory—no, it was taken from her. It was always stripped from her mind since that was a curse placed on her by the orchestrators behind this game.   

On the fifth morning since the Primordial Goddess had materialized…  

Sister Carrie stood on the deck of a boat bound towards Waveret. News about the disappearance of the Arcton Mountain Range and a mysterious crater that seemingly had no bottom had already spread across the sea.   

The leaders of Lando, Keywater, and Westera were neck-deep in fear, speculation, and uncomfortable dread at the crater’s appearance being a disastrous omen for the future.    

It wouldn’t be long until word spread to as far as the Enkami Shogunate and the Divine Principality of Tobris.   

Sister Carrie didn’t have to imagine how the world would react because Verta told her how it played out in the previous attempts.   

It wasn’t good most of the time.    

The nun wore her habit, but her traveling armor and backpack were under it. An obsidian spear that belonged to her namesake rested on her back as she looked at the bountiful waves.   

She thought back to the previous nights.  

The children didn’t want her to leave.   

Especially Clyde, a Drow Elf. He was but fifteen years old, but he was something of her personal helper. And his fondness had grown into something like puppy love.   

The kids had tried every trick in the book to get her to stay, but the nun was on a mission—one she couldn’t tell anyone about.    

Sister Carrie’s heart snapped in two when she took those first steps away from the orphanage that morning. She walked away, leaving another source of happiness behind while the children waved her off with tearful smiles.   

And all at once…  

They sang a song she had taught them, which she had learned from a goddess Carrie had wanted to be her mother.   

Her tears continued for dozens of minutes, only stopping when she reached the nearest port and purchased a ticket.   

“It seems…so long ago, does it?”  

It does, my sweet child. Thank you.  

“No, I should thank you.” Carrie turned around and leaned against the railing. “You’ve been there for me. No, for us. You’ve endured our worst nightmares… And not just me, but for the other Priestesses of Verta. And… I’ll do anything for you, Verta. It won’t be long until you find your mother.”  

My child… I…  

“Let it all out, Verta. It’s not good to keep it strained in your heart.” Sister Carrie turned around once more and wondered what was awaiting her.   

She couldn’t deny her excitement, however. Sister Carrie smiled and continued to gaze at the wide blue yonder.