The Fool's Freedom

It seemed almost futile after the initial surge of adrenaline.

Alan’s enemy was fast and undiscoverable. Mana was flowing around them in a chaotic dance that made it hard to trace anything and while his new mind attribute allowed for better cognition and better information flow, it was getting overwhelming. There was simply too much to keep track of. Alan was pretty sure the spatial skill of the person was broken, or there was more than one active at once.

[First Pathfinder] was enough to sense the shifts and the changes, but they came almost constantly and from all directions. It was not a simple swap of places or a blink, it was something else. Xil had grown silent after saying he would try and find the enemy but if even the perceptive demon was struggling then things were truly weird.

Alan had already left a few anchors of darkness resting around their small battlefield, waiting for the right moment. This was his shot.

The attacks rained mercilessly and he dodged, relying on [Mortal Peril] to warn him of any truly dangerous attacks, the shadows for anything lesser, while at the same time almost preemptively moving out of the way of any spatial anomalies he sensed approaching him. It was an awkward pattern only he could understand and it was fatiguing, to say the least. He felt like he was trying to rip his mind into four or five separate pieces which resulted in quite the strange sight. Thankfully there was no one to see. Apart from the shadows. And Xil. And his annoying enemy.

“You’re no [Assassin],” the voice came from the left but seemed to move in a semi-circle to the right in an instant. “I was warned of the Shadow’s Hand possibly trying to reap some bounties… who are you,” the person said again. They were growing chatty. Was it a trick to distract him?

Shadow’s Hand? Bounties?

“Why don’t you come out so you can tell me more, rather than fight?” Alan called out, annoyed.

“Sure.”

A blade unlike any until now appeared centimeters away from Alan’s abdomen. It was like a spinning wasp stinger. He hadn’t sensed it at all, having poured all his attention into perceiving the changes in the space around. It struck the shadow armor and penetrated his shirt, drawing blood. Alan moved fast led by some strange instinct. He was almost as fast as the blade as he twisted his body to the side and let it leave only a shallow bloody trail across his stomach.

“This is ridiculous. I can’t find him.” Xil said.

There was silence as the regular weak attacks resumed their prodding toward Alan. He was not having as much fun anymore. The wound was nothing, and the pain was only a sweet caress compared to what he had just gone through with the fucked bone-obsessed bastards. However, he didn’t like feeling helpless.

He was reminded of his fight against the rotting bastards that kept screaming, adapting, and learning. He had to be like that constantly. Each hole in his skills and each deficiency of character had to be fixed. He needed time for that. For growth. He remembered how Ashlyn had stood above him, ready to protect him while she kept him in her sight. He had help here too, but Zirida couldn’t drop everything for him. She was out there, fighting dangerous enemies. Many were dying around him, and no one had the luxury of being his babysitter.

Back then, against the Wailers he had discovered how to charge [Shadow Slash]. And he did just that once again. Rediscovering the wheel, so to speak.

It was a fierce movement that drove him dizzy. He spun on his heel holding his two daggers to the side. Once, then twice. On the third, he released the charged blades he had poured an obscene amount of mana into and two crescents of darkness shot out making the surroundings tremble. There was no sound as they passed through illusory bodies and shimmering air.

Alan noticed that. He saw the air twist as if there was a thin curtain around it, and one of his blades seemed to have used up quite a bit of its charge. It was thinner and weaker when it hit the ground. Did I hit something? Or did it go somewhere? Alan let his lips stretch into a small smile. It was something.

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” the short person was in front of him again. Just half a meter away, gazing up with a smirk in his eyes. “Those shadow bastards will be quite annoyed someone else is using their style though. And not even an assassin. Tch.”

Alan frowned. What were they talking about? What shadow bastards? Was it the Shadow’s Hand? He hoped it was not some shady organization that had trademarked shadows. That would suck.

Again, a blade reminiscent of a stinger came from the side without warning and the [Monochrome Armor] once again wrapped around it. It penetrated slowly and left another bloody gash on Alan’s abdomen. Was that bastard trying to gut him right there and then? Alan shook his head. Dumb. We’re fighting to the death, after all. This is not a game. But why is it so fun even if I’m losing?

Tendrils of darkness left the anchors Alan had left about the battlefield and swung in futility, trying to catch a limb or a body. There was nothing. Just shimmering air and the sensation that things were wrong.

“It’s time to do what a demon would do when met with an annoying enemy.” Xil suddenly said.

“Run?”

“No, kill the others. Ignore the annoying one. Make chaos happen.”

“Won’t I be leaving myself open for attacks?”

“You’re pretty open now. Plus, you will force him to move away from this place. Notice how no one else is approaching? It’s like they’ve got wool over their eyes.”

That was true. The battle was raging around them but they seemed… oddly removed from it. As if it was a movie playing in the background. Even the guards that Alan had saved seconds before running into his current enemy had just moved on. No one was paying them any attention.

“Listen,” Xil said.

“The sounds…” They were coming as if they were in another room. Something was disrupting them.

“Yes. And even I didn’t notice immediately. Talk about fucked skills.”

“I wanted to win fairly.” As soon as Alan said it, he knew he had fucked up.

“Ha! Fair?! Are you talking to me about fair?! You little shit. You imbecile. If I ever get out of here I’ll—”

Alan tuned the demon’s whining out and kept dodging half-assed attacks while trying to predict the next dangerous one. The shadows combined with [Mortal Peril] gave him quite a good chance at surviving, but he saw no way of winning.

Ah, fuck it. This is a battlefield, not a duel.

He pushed from the ground and became a streak of darkness. He heard yelling and something shattered. As if he passed through a thin film that had separated him from the world. The sounds of the battles washed over him like a tidal wave.

Next thing he knew he was dodging fireballs and icicles as his shadow blades flew toward a group of hooded figures locked in a fight with some of the guards.

He felt the spatial bastard’s attack come from behind then, and turned instantly sending another blade of shadows flying.

The air shimmered again, and someone cursed.

Alan paid no heed to that. He saw Byrr’s form not far from him. The large man seemed even larger now, bathed in green and an armor of growing roots crawling over his regular one. He was like a new type of void monster, and no skills left damage for long on the twisting roots.

Feyrith was not far too even if he stood further back. His summons were reigning terror as they crawled over the giant parasites and dismantled them piece by piece like worker ants would their food. Only way more violently.

Alan briefly remembered how the elf had made him angry, and considered asking for the same if only to see how his new sense of self would react. The shadows around him were easily influenced by emotions.

The stinger came for his head this time but he easily dodged it even without having to rely on [Monochrome Armor] as he sent another blade of shadows toward one of those Byrr and company were pressuring. It took the man’s hand making him scream. He was silenced not long after.

“Bastard! Cheating bastard!” a voice screamed behind him. Again, the stinger tried to take an eye, but Alan was prepared. He was growing used to the rhythm of attacks and without the proper time to build up confusion or get Alan stuck into a predictable pattern of movement, the spatial bastard was not that dangerous.

He could simply ignore them.

He was a shadow of death passing through the battlefield, accompanied by the screams of the one chasing him. Alan stabbed, cut, sent shadowy tendrils to trip or bind the hands of the robed figures, and laughed all the way. Death was secondary. Its weight was no more than a feather’s as he experienced joy and freedom unlike any. It was a strange type of mentality in which troubles and fears became the fuel that drove him to enjoy the silliness of it all.

He saw Zirida locked in a battle with someone who looked dangerous. It was difficult to call it a man. While the warrior was humanoid in shape, his skin was like molten rubber and his four hands were sending shockwaves that kept Zirida at bay and made her weapons of blood splatter into drops.

The [Red Cleric’s] scars were crying blood that formed more and more attacks from each conceivable angle, and her aura was like a small sun that kept everyone away. Alan briefly wondered if it was her version of [Monochrome Armor]. It was sharp, and dangerous, and made Zirida a mesmerizing sight promising of death.

Her opponent was no less impressive, but he was being slowly overwhelmed by the sheer speed and strength of the rampaging cleric.

Alan stopped moving and instantly dodged another stinger.

I’m such a fool sometimes.

He forced his will to stir. He had relied on sheer attributes and skills until now, growing more used to the boost he had received. His destructiveness, mana pool, and his mind’s ability to pay attention to all the senses and things around him had grown a lot.

And so had his Will.

Uncaring of the danger he was in Alan closed his eyes, only to open them seconds later. He didn’t know what the aura his new titles mentioned was, but he was a [Scion] and an [Inheritor] and that came with a bit more than the fancy titles alone.

Slowly the shadowy wisps around him started thinning, becoming almost like dark smoke. Then, they exploded outwards much like his first attempt at creating something with [Mana Zap] had. No one noticed, apart from a figure that shimmered and appeared to his side, before again switching places. It was not teleporting, but it was fast as if following a path only it could see.

Alan sensed it all now, as his mind took in all the whispers, all the warnings from his titles and skills, and all of the intrusions in the domain of his newly manifested will, and made them one.

He was a blur as his hand wrapped in shadows and the will of the broken reached into a pocket of space – a tunnel that surrounded him and broke through its wall. [First Pathfinder] made it quite easy.

His arm wrapped around a thin hand.

“Gotcha.”

[Curse of Buried Shadows] went off for the second time without hesitation and at full strength, before the figure shimmered and melted away from between his fingers. It reappeared further from him, but he sensed it as only another illusion. A projection of the real one.

“What did you d—”

***

Umfiz was an outlier. A twisted perversion of nature, something like a goblin, but born out of the union of gnomes. Ostracized and chased by his society, and by those who were supposed to love him, he had spent years fighting for survival until he had gotten his class. An underutilized class. A lucky class. It was not much as [Tricksters] were seen often as weaker [Illusionists] and [Assassins] but through some choices he had made it work.

Killing had never been an issue. He had killed a lot, and he had paid back thrice for all the hurt he had been caused. Revenge had brought him peace, and it helped him find himself and understand that he needed a higher purpose. And he had found it. His actions had let him down dark paths and he had joined the Changebringers – an organization made mostly of skinwalkers and other mistreated species devoted to using whatever means necessary to shake the foundations of the set order.

They were only one of many branches under someone much stronger, and they worked mostly for hire, but at least it made him feel important. Like he was doing something. He had risen high through the ranks and they had even allowed him to accompany the one overseeing all of this. That featureless mask was the most terrifying thing he had seen for some reason. Until this moment that is.

It was supposed to be an easy mission. A slaughter. He loved slaughters. Even when things went wrong and they were about to lose he could always find safety with his particular skill set.

However now, he was staring at the eyes of his dead mother and father. They lay bleeding on the floor before him, but no matter how much he cut, they kept rising and blaming him. Telling him he was wrong. Telling him he was an abomination. Reminding him of all of his mistakes.

No. He was different now. He was strong and he would only grow stronger. He was close to tier two and a whole new world would open before him.

Yet, their voices brought out all that he had thought was gone.

And their claws gutted him again and again.

It was supposed to be simple.

He begged for someone to save him.