All Pathbearers dream of reaching Legendary-Tier. To most, it is the pinnacle of power. Yet, this power is rarely understood so well. Let us put this into perspective—did you know that sixty percent of the energy generated by the Twilight Republic comes from two Aeromancy Legends? The other forty are provided by countless Heroes, Masters, Adepts, and Initiates.

This disparity should demonstrate the sheer gulf of capability between a Legend and the cultures they hail from. And this also demonstrates the sheer importance of a Legend. It goes beyond just power and threat potential. A Legendary Pathbearer is a major portion of a nation's economy, a major source of its arts and technology. Indeed, the Yellowstone Republic is blessed not only by the thirteen Ascendants that protect and guide us, but also by the sheer wealth of Legends that makes our land the greatest place to live in on Integrated Earth.

It is because of these Legends that you live in relative comfort and security. Consider the desperate struggles assailing our cousins in Lone Star. For all their temerity and defiance, they are at a deadlock against the orcish menace. For all the sheer quantity of Heroes and Masters they possess, they desperately lack Legends. And such a deficit has cost them immensely.

But understand that Legends are rare for a reason. For to become a Legend requires something beyond determination, beyond genius, beyond experience. We have Heroes who have served for three centuries on, and they stand bottlenecked at the precipice, struggling for decades to gain singular levels in their strongest skills.

No. To become a Legend requires you to survive. Survive the impossible. To be part of Legendary clashes—moments that scar the pages of the world's history and ignite the fires fueling the System. Legends are forged through conflicts above all other conflicts, and more often than not, the rising of a new Legend has come at the price of them slaying an older one. This, statistically, is the most common way Legends cement themselves.

Yet, the numbers are against you. Against you with the ambition to reach Legendary-Tier, as you must cast yourself in the flames of desperation and bloodshed. And against those of you who simply wish to live gentler lives.

You do not have forever. Understand that the average life expectancy of a person in the Yellowstone Republic remains at 112 years for a reason as well—with only Adepts and below perishing most often from natural causes.

The System demands that we struggle and fight, and though we live in prosperous, gentle times, war is the constant—peace is the anomaly. Without power, your end will come by blade, disease, spell, or disaster. And they are coming. They are always coming.

Nothing is promised, Pathbearer. So, our suggestion is that you burn. Rage. Rise. Do not wait. The System will seek your life in one fashion or another. Force it to take it from you.

-The Paths of Ascension, Essential Reading at Phoenix Academy of The Yellowstone Republic

158 (I)

Grievance [I]

A sudden rush of air flooded Roland Arrow's lungs. Light splashed into his eyes. The world came into shape. First, he saw dappled blurs, but then they solidified. Colors peeled apart, and soon he began to recognize shapes hovering over him. The shapes of people—of faces he still couldn't fully see. He could hear his name chanted on desperate lips.

He tried to move. He tried to say something, but all that escaped him was a long groan. His cells were suffused with agony. Every part of him hurt, and every fiber of his being was exhausted.

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But he was alive. At least he hoped he was. If this was the afterlife, then Roland would be supremely displeased. He had already suffered immensely while he was alive, and he had no desire to continue that process in death.

"Back away, back away; his brain still needs more blood flow," a deep, rumbling voice chided. Roland followed the sound and craned his head upward. A series of cracks sounded through his neck, and the Town Lord whimpered. As he blinked, his vision cleared ever so slightly, and he found himself staring up at an ugly, gray face sporting a pair of spectacles. Roland beheld his savior: an orc of all things. An orc currently weaving a strange series of biomantic helices. Crimson mana spilled out from the orc's hand, washing over the Town Lord's body.

A bead of confusion and disbelief spread through Roland. What happened?

And then a pair of warm hands were pawing at his cheeks, and another face came into view. This one he recognized. This one he saw in a picture frame beside his bed every time he woke up, but also in the depths of his dreams. She had been dead for almost two decades now, but here she was in the flesh before him, her teardrop-shaped face feeding a building ache in his heart, her violet eyes glowing ever so faintly even in the light. Her hair flowed like rivers of silken blood, cascading along her collarbone.

Roland swallowed, and once more he contemplated whether he was truly dead. He wouldn't mind now, not even if he had to suffer this pain for the rest of eternity. He had yearned for this moment. Roland had prayed not only to the Starhawk, but to any god who would listen to grant him a reunion with the one he lost.

And here she was. Roland couldn't believe it. He almost didn't want to accept it, and ultimately, he uttered a slurred prayer, blessing whoever delivered Rose back into his life, swearing a vow of fealty and honor to his yet-unknown benefactor.

"Rose," Roland whispered. "You… Is this a dream?"

"Do I feel like a dream, you damned fool?" Rose asked as she ran her thumbs along his cheeks. Her voice was on the verge of a sob as well. She pressed her hands tighter against his face, and then she slid her arms around his neck and held him, just held him.

Roland tried to lift his own limbs, but they felt heavy, like he was trying to budge mountains. Even so, Roland Arrow managed. It didn't matter if his arms felt like they were trapped under rubble. There was no force in existence that would stop him from holding his wife once more. She shook slightly, and so did he.

For a moment, peace and joy prevailed over pain.

As he clung to her, he saw his son staring at him. Adam's eyes were wide, his face was white, and there were faint trails on his cheeks.

"Adam," Roland wheezed. There were so many questions the Town Lord wanted to ask, but he decided against voicing any of them. Instead, he held out a shaking hand, and his boy walked over and grasped it. In that moment, despite suffering from unspeakable pain, despite the unexplained orc Biomancer doing everything he could just to keep Roland alive, the Town Lord was a very happy man indeed.

But then he saw the rest of his chamber. It was utterly devastated. Glass shards rained down from above. The walls and windows were all shattered. A long piece of structural rebar jutted out from the corner of the room, and a body hung limply from its jagged tip. A body that Roland recognized. A pang of sorrow pulsed through the Town Lord. That had been one of his Biomancers, Master Kareva. He was unmoving.

Starhawk… Can I truly protect no one…

As Rose finally pulled away from him, Roland surveyed the rest of the room. Yet even moving his neck was a struggle. The destruction inflicted upon Starhawk's Perch was severe. It seemed like a colossal impact had struck the building. A faint aura of star-bright fire fizzled out from the cracks that lined the ground and the walls.

There were several people piled together, moaning in pain as Roland's remaining Biomancer did what she could. But she did so lying down as well. One of her legs was rigged in a makeshift metal splint, and she had a stump for a left arm.

Nearby, Roland's captain of the guard, along with the remainder of his personal retinue, stood watch. Their hands were on their weapons, and their postures were tense. One of them was glaring at the orc healing Roland. The others were focused on another group of orcs not far away.

There were three of them. One of the gray-skinned bruisers was dressed in midnight robes that glistened with Dimensionality mana. Another was an extremely large orc, wearing what seemed to be melted automata. That orc also lacked actual humanoid legs. Rather, he had mechanical appendages jutting out from the bottom, a sort of tetrapod-like build. And finally, there was an orc who was actively smoking and absentmindedly twirling two wands in his hands as he eyed Roland's personal guard as if they were easy prey.

And behind the orcs was another figure. No, two other figures. One Roland recognized. That was Georges. A feeling of gratitude swelled through Roland as he laid eyes on the chef. Georges had done everything he could with his Heroic-Tier cooking. He turned crumbs into feasts, and he magnified the caloric density of every bite and morsel of food held within the Perch's pantry. It had been the only place unaffected by Sullain's vile Biomancy. And without Georges' aid, many more people would have died.

Beside Georges was a tall figure Roland hadn't expected to see. He didn't know who she was, but after a brief moment of observation, Roland was certain of two things. The first was that she was an Umbral, and the second, more chilling fact, was that she was a Seeker. He knew the colors leaking from her eyes. He knew the touch of the Outside; he had faced it more than once in his life. Yet, she didn't seem mad or malicious. Instead, she was looking beyond the broken windows, casting her gaze over the ruins of Blackedge and at something else beyond.

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Suddenly, the red mana pulsating from the Biomancer orc's hand faded. He adjusted his spectacles and looked Roland up and down. "You should be able to stand under your own power now, but I would recommend against any strenuous activities if you value your life. But if you are going to kill yourself overchanneling a god's power through your soul, do make it explosive. It's always the most theatrical way to die."

Rose snarled at the orc. "Go fuck yourself. He's not going to die."

"Statistically, everyone inevitably dies," the orc Biomancer grinned. "Some of us just come back."

Orcs weren't known to save people's lives, not unless there was something to be gained from it. "Why?" Roland thus asked, curious to know what the orc desired of him.

"Why what?" the orc replied haughtily. "Why are you still alive? Well, that surprised me as well. When I got to you, your body was in a dire state. Your organs were all withered. Your skin was practically peeling off your bones. Your muscles were so over-flooded with acid that they were practically melting. And your brain was damaged from ischemia, of all things. Your oxygen and blood flow were so blunted by your prolonged combat strain that it's a miracle you didn't die weeks ago." And then the orc chuckled. "But it was magnificent learning about how you sustained that damage. Constant combat against an entire enemy army, including a rival Legend."

The Biomancer started clapping, and the other orcs joined in. Their pride and respect for him were genuine, as was the predatory gleam glistening in their eyes. "The Starhawk chooses his servants well," the midnight-robed orc commented.

Roland breathed in and out. The situation was odd. Things were bad, but he was still alive, which was better than he'd expected. He gave himself a moment to acclimate, and then he grunted as he tried to stand.

"Roland, stop. Fucking stop!" Rose shook him. Her expression was slightly frustrated. "Look at me. You are in no condition to do anything."

And despite everything Roland wanted to say, he just smirked at his love, as he had in his youth. "Well, I don't think it's up to me anymore. I'd rather lie here. But I suppose someone must save the world."

"And right now that someone isn't going to be you," Rose chided.

"Help me up," Roland said.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him, and a faint shiver of slight fear mixed with extreme pleasure danced down his spine.

"Please," he breathed.

Rose sighed, and she began to pull. But though she let out a growl of effort, she couldn't quite lift him. Roland's eyes widened slightly. Rose had achieved Adept-Tier Physicality. It wasn't her specialty, but she was quite strong for a mage, certainly more than strong enough to lift him. Her Toughness, meanwhile, had reached Master-Tier, which made her far more durable than most mages. It had even made her more durable than Roland for a time.

Then, the Starhawk had commanded him to descend into the Abyss, and everything—

Where Rose flagged, Adam stepped forth and pulled his father up without any effort at all. Roland rose to his feet, but as he tried to bear his own weight, he nearly collapsed. He nearly did, but Adam grasped him and kept him steady. Wings extended from Adam's back, manifesting like inverted pyramids. Roland counted and realized he knew the skill.

"The Vectors of the Eternal Ascent," Roland murmured. The fires of pride combusted inside the Town Lord. "My boy is a Hero," he choked out.

Adam coughed and looked away. "Well. Yes—I—yes, it's—I—yes."

And that was when Roland noticed it: an azure sphere hovering just behind the top of Adam's head. "And what's this?"

"A Unique Skill. A lot has happened, Father." Adam coughed again, trying to keep his voice clear of emotion. "A great deal."

"I know," Roland replied. Even so, he reached out with a hand and squeezed his son's shoulder. "I know, and I am beyond proud of you. You came back. You did everything you could to come back. I saw you. I saw what you were doing. And I saw… and I saw…" Roland trailed off as he remembered the Omenborn. Shiv. Tanner Lowe. He had been with Adam. They were fighting side by side as comrades, as…

Roland didn't want to think of the Omenborn as Adam's friend. As Vera and Harlon's shadow. The thought was physically painful, and so he avoided it.

But Adam didn't. "Yes, Shiv is here too."

"Was here," The large, automata-wearing orc corrected. "The giant surfacer woman flicked him away like he was a gnat, directly at the Tarrasque. That was the last we saw of the Insul before the dimensional veil closed fully."

"He'll be fine," the cigarette-smoking orc said lazily. "It's going to take more than a world-ending beast to kill…" The orc paused. "To make him stay dead. I'm pretty sure he's getting killed right now. Probably getting killed more than he's ever been killed before."

All the orcs chuckled.

"We are getting favored after this." The automata-wearing orc laughed as he rubbed his large hands together.

Roland was speechless. He thought about all of Shiv's bodies. Thought about how he obliterated Shiv at Old Santabar, only for the Omenborn to return.

"As I said, Father," Adam repeated, "a lot has happened."

The Town Lord wanted to ask more, but for the first time he caught sight of Blackedge, or what remained of it, and the sorrow within him grew a thousand-fold. There were no buildings left intact. The few structures that were still standing had been stripped to their very foundations. There were people out in the streets, but many screams echoed from all corners of the town.

Children were crying out for their parents. Parents howled for their children. Mechanical voices joined organic ones, and Roland could hear his name on their lips as well. They were begging him, asking him where he was. Some were shrieking for him. Others could only muster whispers, for they were trapped beneath tons of rubble.

Worse yet, entire sections of the town were missing. Vast chasms carved chunks and residential clusters out of the town. If Blackedge was a plate, it was shattered and missing at least a fourth of its pieces.

Nausea flooded Roland. He didn't want to know how many of his people were dead, how many he lost, but there was no avoiding the nightmare present before his eyes. He had pledged to protect them.

He had done everything he could, and he had failed. He had failed so many of them. Beyond the borders of Blackedge, he also noticed another problem. There was no sky, no sun, no signs of battle, or even clouds sailing over a canvas of faint blue. Instead, he beheld a sea of static blackness.

A pocket dimension had caged the remains of his town.

"Where are we?" Roland asked. "What has happened to us?"

"Titansbane trapped us in her blade before she sent the Insul flying," the orc Biomancer sneered.

And that name hit Roland like a cannonball to the stomach. Jessica. A woman who had promised Roland that the next time they met, she would rip the upper half of his skull off and use it as a mug.

Roland had tried to explain things to her, had written to her numerous times over the years, but she never responded. And what was once a dear friend became a bitter enemy. She didn't know what her daughter had been involved in, what the Inquisition had dispatched her to do in the Abyss, down near the Umbral Wilderness. And when Hawgrave joined the Inquisition herself thereafter, Roland had accepted that he was going to have to kill another of his old friends in the future, if she didn't kill him first.

And Roland knew where he was now. He looked up into the air, and he drew in a weary breath.

"Rusty?" he called out. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion and injury. "Rusty, can you hear me?"

He noticed a slight quiver along a certain spot of Dimensionality. It was like something was trying to burst through the mana. But then it calmed.

"I can," the sword finally answered. Its voice was heavy and thick, but it made no attempt to hide its loathing for Roland. "I was hoping that you had perished, Town Lord. I was hoping that you had died blissfully in ignorance, and spared my wielder the heartache. But as with all things, you are an offense and a disappointment, Roland Arrow."

"And you're a cunt sword that can't tell the difference between an asshole and a sheath," Rose snarled on Roland's behalf. She pointed a finger up at the sky, at the Dimensionality engulfing Blackedge. "Listen, Rusty, I don't know what in the Broken fucking Moon happened while I was gone, but you will not keep us here. We are citizens of the Republic. I am a lady of a noble line. Roland has served as the Starhawk's enforcer and as a hero to our nation. So I wish to know: by what right are we being held?"

The sword hesitated before responding. "You are dead," it said flatly, dully, but also with a faint hint of surprise. "Then you must be an illusion. How low of you, Roland Arrow, to summon a mirage of your late wife to attack my virtuous heart."

"I'm not a cock-sucking illusion!" Rose almost shrieked. "I came back to life recently because…" She made a series of frustrated hand gestures, and for an absurd moment, Roland couldn't help but smile at her warmly. He'd missed her anger. He'd missed how her desire to express herself exceeded the limits of her verbalization.

"It's complicated!" Rose finally shouted. "It's very complicated, but I was resurrected. Now, you can continue doubting me, or you can let us out and have Jessica see for herself. In fact, I want to talk to her. I want to see her eye to eye." Rose paused. "Well, she could stare at my chest while I look down at her forehead. That short, stunted wench. And she could tell me why she has participated in the destruction of my home and the wounding of my beloved."

Adam stared, slack-jawed at his mother's outburst, and Roland realized that Young Lord Arrow had not gotten to know this side of his mother very well. Rose Van Erren was a fantastic Diviner, an excellent Jump Mage, a masterful overall mage, and a crass woman with a volcanic temper.

Rusty hesitated for another moment before it finally responded. "I will inform her of what is happening. Should we survive."

"Should you survive?" Rose narrowed her eyes and looked about. Her expression was one of utter incredulity. "What do you mean, should you survive? Jessica's a Legend. You're both Legends." Rose adjusted herself. "My congratulations, aside from other matters."

"Thank you," Rusty replied. "It happened some ten years ago. Jessica wished you could have been there."

"Well," Rose said awkwardly, "I wish I could have been at the ceremony too, but the rest of this…"

"We are being attacked by a Tarrasque," Rusty explained, interrupting Rose. "And right now, we are…"

And just as Rusty was about to respond, the veil of Dimensionality surrounding them shuddered violently, and then a gap was torn into the mana. A gap that shuddered, ripped, and expanded wider and wider until a colossal shape wriggled its way in. A loud cry of pain sounded from all around them, and Rusty trembled as its internal composition was torn asunder.

But that was second to the fact that a Tarrasque, sporting a multitude of injuries, missing several limbs, and with an obsidian shield lodged in its skull, was swimming through the static mana, coming right for them.

"Holy fuck," Rose breathed.

But then, a titanic Inertium gauntlet reached in and grabbed the Tarrasque by the neck like a kitten. The giant beast let out a primal roar as it was flung out from the inside of the pocket Dimension. A moment later, the rip sealed shut.

"Rusty?" Rose called out.

A low, metallic groan shook the world. "We… must focus."

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