Path of Dragons

The smell of rot pervaded Benedict’s nostrils, cloaking him in a blanket of death from which there was no escape. It was difficult to remember a time when that smell didn’t cling to everything he touched. Even before the world had transformed, he was familiar with it, and he’d become even more so since everything had changed. However, there was a part of him that tired of that cloying, sickly sweet smell, making him regret the class he’d chosen.

It gave him power, and it had allowed him to steadily progress, especially since that lunatic king had locked him in the dungeon that had been his home for more than a year. It may have been even longer; time was difficult to gauge when one never saw the sun, after all.

Benedict could have escaped. His minions were strong enough to rip his shackles from their anchors on the wall. But then what? The men who routinely slaughtered his minions were strong enough to give him trouble, which was an untenable risk that he refused to take. After all, why would he, aside from the ability to live somewhere more comfortable? He had everything he needed in the labyrinthine dungeon, and he’d reaped the benefits of his situation, progressing to level fifty-nine, which had put him into the top ten.

It was during his most recent inspection of the power rankings that he’d discovered something incredibly interesting, though:

In a raspy voice, he croaked, “It seems our dear king has run afoul of something he couldn’t handle.”

His chains clinked as he reached out to stroke the cheek of his latest creation – a mostly intact woman whose only real flaw was a deeply bruised throat. “What do you think, my beauty?” he asked. “Is it time?”

Predictably, she didn’t answer. But then again, she never did. Even though she had a body, there was nothing in her mind. He controlled her every movement. Not down to the last twitch, but rather the general shape of her actions. It was the same with all his other minions, and he had the ability to either micro- or macro-manage them.

Even as he considered it, two things happened.

First, he achieved level sixty, but before he could check his new ability, another notification shifted before his inner eye:

“What?” rasped Benedict, his voice still unused to speaking.

Then, something flickered into being a second later. Before the image coalesced into anything recognizable, a silky voice echoed in Benedict’s ears. “Apologies,” it said. “Normally, there is an order to these sorts of things, but your world is so weak that my projection was delayed. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

By the time the voice finished, the shimmering flicker had resolved itself into a tall, slim man. He wore a simple, black toga that had been clasped into place by a golden pin in the shape of a fist. On his feet were delicate sandals that laced up to his knees, but there was nothing else to his outfit.

Not that he needed clothing to be impressive.

The man was nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, with glistening black curls and a pale complexion unmarred by a single blemish. The only oddity – aside from his striking beauty – was a pair of glittering green horns standing out from his forehead. And despite the incongruity they represented, Benedict couldn’t help but feel that they only added to the man – no, the creature’s – perfect appearance.

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“You are a demon?” Benedict asked, marshalling his composure.

“Archdemon. But yes, I am a member of the demonic race. As you can become, as well,” the demon said, turning and giving Benedict a view of the leathery wings folded against his back. “Your low birth need not hold you back. All elder races can induct worthy candidates.”

“And you wish to…induct me? Why?” asked Benedict.

“Why else? War.”

“With whom?”

“The angels, of course,” said Thakon Kilzean as he circled the room. He reached out, running a finger along the shoulder of one of Benedict’s minions. And to the Warlock’s surprise, he felt it. That meant that the demon was no mere illusion. Nor was he a figment of Benedict’s imagination. It had been some time since he’d experienced hallucinations, but even in the depths of his…delusions, he’d never once felt their touch.

“May I ask why?” he asked.

“They are self-righteous hypocrites who deserve to be wiped from memory,” Thakon said with a note of amusement. “More importantly, they have chosen to meddle in this world. As have the dragons. Even the mechaniques have their eyes on this unremarkable place. So, of course we demons must have our piece of the pie as well.” He cocked his head to the side. “That is an expression here, correct? Piece of the pie.”

Benedict had no idea what the archdemon was talking about, though he could infer that angels, dragons, and mechaniques were powerful races of people. Demons, as well.

“What does…becoming a demon entail?”

“Do you accept the quest?”

“Not until I get an explanation.”

“Smart. Very demonic of you. Cunning and unfettered self-reliance. That is why I chose you,” Thakon stated. “And ruthlessness, of course. That is a trait held in high esteem by all of the elder races, though. Even those self-righteous hypocrites, the angels. They may pretend otherwise. The dragons go on and on about the balance, while the mechaniques only care for their self-mutilation. And the angels pretend they are driven by morality. It’s all a smokescreen, though. A disguise for their true motivations. They are no better than us, even if they pretend otherwise.”

“That does not answer my question,” Benedict stated evenly. His voice was still raspy, but even that small amount of speaking had loosened his vocal cords. “What does becoming a demon entail?”

“Nothing, as of now. You get a fancy new core that’s better than anything you could achieve on your own. There are only a handful of people on this world who could rival its power,” said Thakon. “Other than increasing your power, you will see no real transformation until you reach the fourth stage.”

“And after that?”

“You will grow closer to the ideal form until you attain perfection in the seventh stage.”

“By perfection, you mean…”

“Wings, tail, horns – I believe your legends are quite clear on what to expect,” the archdemon stated. “Of course, you can suppress those features if you wish, though I can’t fathom why anyone would.”

“What are the detriments?”

“Why would those exist?”

“Nothing is free. If something seems too good to be true, then it is likely a lie.”

Thakon rolled his eyes, then let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m trying to pull you up from the mud, and you keep slapping my hand away. Do you want to play with corpses for the rest of your life? If so, refuse. If not, then I offer you the means to change your circumstances. Make no mistake – I will not beg. I have other candidates. Do not test my patience, mortal.”

“So there are detriments.”

“I did not say that!” Thakon rumbled. The dungeon shook, albeit barely noticeably and for only an instant. In addition, Thakon’s form flickered until he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Apologies. It has been an eternity since I’ve had to control my power so firmly. The only detriment is that you will make an enemy of the angels. Traveling to their worlds will prove deadly for anyone with a Demon Core. But you don’t want to go there, anyway. So boring. Sure, it’s technically paradise, but at what cost? They have plenty of skeletons in their closets as well. Oh, that’s a delightful turn of phrase. It loses a bit of impact when translated to my native tongue, but it’s still quite colorful.”

The archdemon pointedly looked Benedict up and down, then said, “It will also do wonders for your complexion.”

Benedict frowned. He tried not to think about it, but because his Regeneration had been so terribly affected by maintaining such a large horde of minions, he had struggled to maintain his health. Most of the damage was cosmetic, but he currently had seeping sores all over his body. At times, he could ignore it, but at others, he thought that he had begun to look like his unliving minions.

He was not a particularly vain man. Indeed, he’d rarely given much thought to his appearance, other than to make certain that he was at least presentable. However, he couldn’t ignore his plague-stricken skin.

That, as well as the promise of power, made his choice an easy one. To date, he’d not seen any information on how to increase his Core cultivation, so the value of the demon’s offer was undeniable.

With that in mind, Benedict mentally gave his confirmation of the quest. Then, without further discussion, he directed his strongest minions to break his chains free. The moment they succeeded, he received a notification that he’d completed the quest:

He tapped his foot impatiently, which elicited another dramatic roll of Thakon’s eyes. A moment later, he received another notification:

“Pick the core advancement,” Thakon stated. “The other options are powerful. They had to be to be included as a reward for completing the task. However, as strong as they are, none will bear the continued power of advancing your core.”

Benedict was of a mind to agree, though he was intrigued by the other two options. Any item that could rival core advancement in power would surely be useful. By that same logic, the spell would surely be formidable as well.

Still, not only would core advancement impact every other facet of his power, but it also had the potential to continue growing stronger. So, he followed the archdemon’s advice and chose the first option without any regret.

The moment he made the choice, power erupted inside him. He was used to pain – after all, he felt every blow leveled against his minions – but even he couldn’t stand before the onslaught of agony that came with his core advancement.

“It actually isn’t the advancement that you’re feeling. Everyone receives a rudimentary core when they choose an archetype, but it is a tiny, pitiful thing,” said Thakon, suddenly looming over Benedict. “This is a proper core. But forming such a thing does not come without pain. Normally, that would be spread across years. We don’t have time for that, though. The only solace I can offer you is to grant you unconsciousness until the process completes.”

“No…”

“What?”

“Leave me be,” Benedict growled, having fallen to his knees. His fingers dug into the dirty floor as power raged through him. He could feel his core shattering, then reforming, then shattering once again. At the center of it burned an everlasting flame that constantly pulsed, over and over. Pain didn’t begin to describe it. Not adequately, at least. But Benedict was set on enduring the process without succumbing to unconsciousness.

He wanted to feel it.

He wanted to know what was happening.

All so, when the time came, he could replicate it.

So, he held on through the agony until, what felt like an eternity later, it settled. A notification soon followed:

As sweat dripped from his forehead to puddle beneath him, he let out a sigh of relief. Another notification followed the last:

Then, Thakon’s silky voice echoed in his ears, “Rise, brother. Welcome to the Legion.”

Benedict felt a smile spread across his face as he looked up to see the archdemon’s extended hand. He took it, once again surprised to feel that Thakon was not an illusion, and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. Already, he could feel the power coursing through him. However, he was disturbed to note that his minions – every last one – had fallen. He could no longer feel them, either.

“My minions…”

Thakon said, “Your class remains the same, but the expression of it has now been altered. Warlock, you remain, but you no longer need to muck about with corpses. Let me show you…”

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