Kaden quickly followed the priest back toward the spiral stair that had lead to Ghastos’s philosophers. Sara had rigged several belts of ghastos, priming them to explode and then tucking them in Inventory. Ghastos would gain power but he stood to lose more—if the plan worked.

  Halfway up the stair, the priest stopped and studied the wall. “You are seeing an illusion. Just beyond this wall is the path to the soul-focuses. It was meant to be a gauntlet to rip the strength from an attacking force.”

  “It feels like a wall.” Kaden tapped on it.

  “It’s not. It’s a door that doesn’t look like a door. I’ve seen all manner of things hidden this way. Once, an entire train station. You know what’s really fun is to change the signs and watch them run into solid pillars of stone. Unconscious [mages] everywhere.” The Priest pointed to the wall. “Open it.”

  Kaden only knew one way to do that. He swung Remembrance and followed through on the swing. The hammer shattered stone that didn’t leave fragments. Instead the chips of stone unraveled like spun yarn and then floated upward and around the staircase. What remained was a gash in the wall that did its best to rearrange itself into cracked stones and gaping holes. Music and sunlight streamed out of the gap, and the sounds of men and women celebrating.

  “Stay back. You’re fragile.” Kaden stepped through the gap under [Stealth Aura]. Under his feet, bright, warm grass grew vibrant green, with tiny blue flowers poking up in clusters. In the distance stood a tent the size of which made Kaden think of a castle. Vibrant purple with glittering purple mana globes decorated the peak of the tent and the music and laughter came from inside.

  Concentrating on light footfalls and smooth movement, Kaden approached the tent, which cast a shadow that swallowed the ground around it. This didn’t match any of Kaden’s expecations. For a god who expected eternal battle to host what sounded like a party made no sense. It could be an illusion, and that made all the sense in the world.

  Two steps from the entrance, Kaden made a decision. Everyone inside would die if they opposed his advance. These might be a different kind of follower, but that didn’t earn them mercy. He drew Remembrance and rushed through the tent flap. Inside, torches spun in the air, lighting the world in flickering light. A beam of light lit a performer in the center of a dirt ring two hundred paces across. Then he realized who—or what—the performer was, a [Bearzerker] with burgandy fur who juggled plates while balancing atop a wagon with one wheel. Behind him stood a quartet of muscians in battle paint that made their faces into gruesome smiles, their eyes ringed in red, and their noses swollen like a disease had taken root and festered. And their laughs were not true laughs but chuckles that made Kaden’s skin crawl. They played instruments like wheezing bags that screamed through pipes that hooked over their shoulders.

  Every note drove the [Bearzerker] to juggle or spin or dance, even though it glowed red with rage. Silver chains had burned through its fur and embedded in the skin on its back and limbs, and when the notes played, the the chains moved of their own accord forcing the beast to dance.

  [Beast Soul] wasn’t needed to kindle a rage in Kaden’s soul, but caution stayed his hammer. The audience was hidden by the shadows. There was no way to avoid violence—or was there? Kaden dropped [Stealth Aura] and drew Remembrance, striding straight into the ring.

  The blazing light that had lit the [Bearserker] wavered—then snapped to Kaden as he drew on [Advanced Leadership]. “Where is the soul-focus? Show me and I will pass on.”

  “Oh, For Ghastos’s sake, another one interrupting our rest,” a weary voice answered.

  The blinding beam of light cut out, and Kaden looked on the audience. They were not young, in this place without time, but old age hadn’t claimed them either. What they were was scarred and crippled. They bore the life-changing wounds, and there couldn’t have been more than two dozen.

  The man speaking stood with the aid of a crutch and pointed at Kaden. Perhaps once he’d had deep black hair but now it was peppered gray among the black, but his gaze remained focused. “You did it. You fought your way to Ghastos’s rest. Sit. Eat. Drink. All your battles are done. Your armor is heavy, set it down.”

  That wouldn’t be happening. Kaden shifted his grip on Remembrance. “The soul-focus. Show me how to reach it.”

  “We are, you gormless idiot,” a woman said. “You think you’re the first battle addict to try and pit your soul against Ghastos? The Feast is the passage to the focus. You can’t enter it—or even see it—unless you’ve partaken in the feast. It was our reward for battles so fierce the god of war himself saw fit to end our fighting.”

  Another man spat. “Half of us came here to do battle with Ghastos and found something better. If you’re so determined to splatter your soul and flesh across eternity, you must first endure a meal. If you can’t do that, the soul-focus isn’t even a possibility.”

  Kaden left the tent.

  Back near where he’d entered, the four echos waited. Kaden explained what he’d seen. “Shouldn’t this be a gauntlet? Some kind of endless battle to prove my worth?”

  Zurok’s Priest considered his question, wringing his hands. “There are many kinds of battle. I don’t think we prepared for this kind. Yes, it’s possible this is the challenge to access the first soul-focus. Expect illusions. The battle will be to reject them.”

  “How do we get you through?” Kaden asked.

  The [Paladin] shook his head. “We do not see a ‘temple’ as you do. We see nodes of power. I see souls gathered about it, but the node shields something. Betting was forbidden by my god, but were I betting, I’d say that your actions will open the node—if you can manage it.”

  There were beasts with [Idominatable,] if only Kaden had access to them. [Fortress of Stone] wasn’t meant to increase will. “I’ll do it. Be ready. I don’t have a vision to share but my gut says this is only going to be friendly as long as we’re losing. Will it be safe for you to enter?”

  The four conferred, and the priest spoke. “Everything here is sustained by the will of Ghastos. We are empty echos in the bright pattern of his power. To those who joined their will and power with Ghastos, we are not just invisible, we don’t exist. The temple structures, however, do not see. They are not fooled.”

  The [Beast Master] echo looked Kaden over. “You should have [Crystal Mind] equipped from a [Crystal Cavern Whale] at all times. Status effects and will control are for other classes. Death is for other classes. Needing healing is for other classes. Pity, remorse, parties, all of those are for the weak and the worthless. For now, know that your class alone makes you superior to everyone else, and a match to anything a god could prepare.”

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  Kaden didn’t argue, but as the soul echo turned to converse with the others, he considered a truth—that this [Beast Master] had wound up a trophy of Ghastos, and perhaps it had been his pride that made it happen. That said, battles of will had been rare enough that he had few tools. Planes Cutter made his will a weapon, but the challenge of a god couldn’t be easy. Kaden headed back to the tent, where the performers had returned to the ring. The [Beaserker] hurled knives at the clowns—and the clowns did their best to catch them in amusing ways, usually by pusing another clown into their path. “I’m ready. Set the feast.”

  He no more than spoke, and trumpets rang out. The bear dropped to the ground, groaning in anger, while the clowns drew knives from their bodies and laughed in a way that echoed darkly as they rushed about the ring. One drew a over-large table from inventory, smashing two others as he set it down, and others rushed to help the guests to the table.

  Even the [Bearserker] stood and crawled, each step punctuated by rage-groans, until it slumped at the table, shaking with anger. Scars in its fur laid out the pattern the silver chain links had burned into its skin, and the chain clicked as the bear gave him a salute, and small silver chains pulled back its lips, forcing a smile.

  [Beast Soul] made Kaden sick with pity and fear and sorrow, but he had to focus. Had to face Ghastos’s challenge to reach the first soul-focus. “What must I do?”

  The old man who had spoken gave another heavy sigh. “For the love of Ghastos, can’t you listen? Sit at the table. Eat of the feast. The door won’t open until you’ve truly tasted of it, but once you do, it won’t matter.”

  Kaden surveyed the round table and the gap where Ghastos’s disgusting [Clowns] had pulled up a chair and waited, beckoning. Instead, he paced toward the [Bearserker], and slipped into a gap on the stone bench next to it. “Do it.”

  Groans of frustration, mocking comments, and the deep growl of a [Bearserker] echoed in the tent. And magic began to roll from the center of the table out in waves. It transformed the bare stone, covering it with a table cloth made of woven golden thread. The darkness of the tent gave way to rich lighting in wine purple colors, and the muttering changed to the clink of silverware and the slow, quiet discussion of a good meal.

  Speaking of meals, before the [Bearserker] the table lay bare of cloth and a squirming rabbit the size of a deer lay bound, eyes wide, panting in panic.

  The Bearserker sniffed deeply—then turned its head away and roared, a roar that cut off as the silver chain embedded in it grew rigid, forcing it to reach out with both claws and drag the rabbit-deer closer. Forcing it to feed.

  “Pardon me, sir.” The voice was Ghastos’s head clown, who now wore an odd suit, bright yellow, with buttons down the front, a tight fit coat and a top hat. “I am Horatio, master of the feast and your eternal servant now. You are truly a warrior, but the battle here is different. How will you partake?”

  “Scorpion steak with garlic mustard sauce—no, roast giant spider. Both?” Kaden said. As he did, the memories flashed before him, the taste and the smell pouring out to become silver smoke in the air, smoke that Horatio breathed in deeply, savoring it.

  When the [Clown] opened his eyes, they had the same silver. “A heavenly choice, Master Birch. Do not fear the bear. Your feast-mate is no more dangerous here than any others. Chuckles, Slappy, serve Master Birch. Let him taste of the reward. Set the feast.”

  The other muscicans had pulled pots and pans and a heatstone from Inventory and now they worked at an inhuman speed, cutting, chopping, mixing and roasting. The smell wasn’t just scorpion steak, it was the smell of a steak in the heart of the Jungle Hell dungeon, hope that he could survive against all odds.

  One of the clowns rode a three-wheeled wagon over to set a covered silver platter down before Kaden, and with a flourish and a honk of his bulbous nose, pulled it back. It was nothing more than Kaden had asked. Nothing more than he’d ordered, and yet every detail was perfect.

  Every eye in the Feast lay on Kaden as he cut a slice and stabbed it, letting juice run out on the plate. And then there was nothing to do but eat. The first bite exploded with flavor as Kaden forced himself to chew and swallow. He couldn’t help closing his eyes in pleasure.

  When he opened them, the circus tent was gone. The clowns were gone. The crippled feasters were gone. They dined in the rich halls of a king—and in knowing this, another fact settled into Kaden’s brain. He had a palace here, too. Every diner was no longer old, scarred, or weak and crippled. Each was health and strong and happy as they devoured their meal.

  The terrifying clowns were gone, in their place, tuxedo’d servants rushed to refill wine. And in the center of the table stood a tornado of light, the faintest echo of which Kaden knew in his soul to be the focus. He took another bite. The tornado grew brighter, more real.

  “This is an amazing illusion,” Kaden said. “It feels perfect. It smells perfect. It is perfect. But the [Priest] of Zurok warned me about illusions.”

  Across from him, a woman with golden hair that reached all the way to the grass burst out laughing. She stood and pointed to him with a roast leg of bird. “I was a [Priest] of Zurok. I came here to endure the soul-focus and show my dedication. I’d trained, you see. I’d obtained skills and chosen talents, but I was wrong. Soon you’ll understand why we detest being forced to see through the ragged illusion you saw. That was fake. This is real.”

  Could it be? That everything he’d observed in the tent was the falsehood?

  He slammed his right fist down on the table—and winced. It hadn’t hurt like that since Kaden obtained the first dragon scale. Since the mana burn had destroyed the skin and muscles of his right hand. He didn’t open his eyes, instead choosing to flex the fingers and tap them together.

  Gentle laughter drew his attention, as Horatio bowed to Kaden’s right. “Sir is beginning to understand. I swear before the system, I speak the truth.”

  Heard and acknowledged, the Master of Clowns Horatio Verucha must speak only the truth.

  “You have no concept the power of an old god. By his will, a world is made for you. Illusions? We do not need them. Yes, your hand is healed. And you have yet to discover the true power of this world.” Horation dipped his head to the plate. “Sir wants to move on to the soul focus of course. You should eat. But what is a meal without company?”

  On his left sat a slumbering [Bearserker], still glowing red, still shaking as the silver chains embedded in it held it still. To Kaden’s right, the table had elongated to make space for a new visitor.

  Kaden waited. And waited. He glanced to Horatio. “Is there…”

  Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and his eyes had a distant look. “Hold please. Your exalted experience is important to us. All servants are currently busy assisting other exalted individuals—” Horatio gave a short scream. “Apologies, sir. Please accept this substitution.”

  Kaden tensed as a translucent figure strode out of the mist, drawing an arrow on his bow and glancing about with a crazed gleam in his eyes. There was an actual battle coming, he could tell.

  The man was easily six and a half feet tall, with a slim build and long arms and legs. His hair was graying and twisted in tanbles that hung down over the ragged green cloak he wore. His nose reminded Kaden of a gryphon’s beak, his eyes narrow as he swung to aim at the feasters—then Horatio.

  “Sir will have a seat,” the Clown said. “Mortis must keep his end of the pact and ensure your compliance. And of course, you want to be here to ease Kaden’s transition to his new existence. To show him the treasure in his grasp.”

  Kaden’s stomach did a flip without waiting for him. His newly healed hand spasmed as he made a fist. “Not real. Not real. And I’ll kill you for this.”

  But the summoned figure held up a hand. “This isn’t right. That much I’m certain of. But real? That’s a harder answer. What did I tell you, about following a trail?”

  The answer was already on his lips. “Sometimes you can’t trust what you see, but you can almost always trust what you feel.” He’d imagined that practicing it would lead to [Tracking,] and set him on the path to being a [Ranger]. “I know what I feel. But you’re dead and I tried to speak to you in Omnor. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my dad.”