Three hours later, Jonathan stumbled away from a large wooden table one of the guards had brought in, his mind whirling. A twenty foot long scroll rested on the table, its end dragging on the ground. Its entire length was covered in text, the body of the largest contract Jonathan had ever seen. Both the Merchant Queen, whose real name was Andrava, according to the contract, and Sir Alonak, were laughing at his reaction.
“You might be a famed warrior, but you seem to know nothing about the business end of the world,” Andrava said, still chuckling. “You could probably beat me in a fight, even with me at the peak of Tier 4, but a few hours of negotiations exasperated you.”
Indeed, much of it hadn’t even been carried out by Jonathan. Edgar took the role of legal advisor, as he had learned about contracts and System oaths during his childhood as a noble. Even then, diluted by separation, Jonathan had no patience for the minutiae of contracts. Not that he didn’t understand it, he wasn’t a dimwitted brute, but he had no patience at all for the underhandedness of it all. Stats meant nothing in the face of cunning, and for all his strength, he couldn’t hammer home a single line in his favor, while a punch from him could have hammered home a mountain.
“Damn…” Jonathan muttered to himself as he rejoined the others, leaving Edgar to finalize everything. “That was almost as painful as fighting two circle lords…”
“This is why I don’t trust these merchants,” Arkanon said with disdain. “Victory should come in battle, not from behind a desk.”
“Battle is all well and good,” Andrava called out, “but what happens after that battle? Peacetime can be a war of its own. The field of war is not solely limited to the physical world.”
“And in this war, she takes no prisoners…” Jonathan muttered. Everything had been included in the contract, which had originally begun as a simple non aggression treaty, with the possibility of trade. It had quickly ballooned into a Kafkaesque construction of layered clauses and conditions, a labyrinth of paper and ink. One line in particular resonated with Jonathan.
In the event of either signing party’s demise or incapacitation, the responsibilities will fall upon their ally with the closest authority to their own. That ally then, in turn, will have their own heir for the contract.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
It felt like a contract with a demon, which, in all honesty, it basically was. The Uthraki were quite similar to the demons of Earth’s mythologies, and fulfilled a similar role in the Hells, confined away from everyone else.
In any case, Jonathan didn’t really care about most of it. If he died, the rest of his allies would likely be next. There was no way out of the Hells, at least at this stage, without him. Perhaps eventually, some of his more powerful allies could rise to a level of strength matching a circle lord, but for now, it was down to him alone.
“Now that this is all done,” Andrava said, “perhaps you would like to see a little display of my realm’s might? Especially for you, Arkanon.”
“In what way?” Jonathan asked. “The Trading Hub? War? What is there to fight here? You seem to have the realm straightened out in that regard.”
The Queen laughed. “You’ll see.” Then she pulled a small orb of crystal from her pocket, tossing it at the ground. A large rift in space expanded out from both sides, enveloping the floor. Everyone fell down into it, appearing in the middle of the wilds of Tartarus a moment later.
They stood upon a mountaintop, looking down upon a host of millions of the undead, racing across the ashy plains towards a large city. The city was suspended over an immense gorge, a river of lava rushing by underneath it. A great bridge connected it to the outside world, which the undead intended to take advantage of.
Before Jonathan could say or do anything, Alonak launched himself into the air, bringing his greatsword above his head. A brilliant light shone from the blade, and above it, a titanic copy of the weapon, almost a mile in length, formed. It was crafted from fiery light, shimmering and shifting like a volcano. He brought it down, and thousands of smaller swords broke off it, racing after their progenitor.
The sword sped off into the sky, further and further from Alonak, whose physical sword had become a control rod for the almighty blow.
The sky screamed before the technique, low hanging clouds cleaved in half, and a shockwave rippling across the heavens. Below, the undead looked up, but it was too late.
The ground shook as a canyon was carved into the earth for a dozen miles, an ear splitting boom shaking the air as a hundred thousand undead died in a single blow. A wave of ruddy light shot out from the impact zone, atomizing the rest in less than a second. The smaller swords each sank deep into the world, before exploding in turn, spelling an end to the survivors.
A scar remained, etched into the realm for good, stretching a mile down into the recesses of Tartarus. Of the undead, nothing was left, save for dust.
